"No. I mean the girl in black. The one leading the pom."
"By jove! Yes. She's uncommonly smart, isn't she?"
"Her friend isn't half bad-looking, either?"
"I don't think so very much of her, Raife. But Southport at this time
of year is always full of pretty girls."
"Not one of them can compare with the girl in black--she's ripping!"
declared Raife Remington, a tall, well-set up, dark-haired, hatless
undergraduate, who, in grey flannels, was walking beside his college
chum, Edward Mutimer, at whose father's house he was staying during the
vac. Both were at Trinity, Cambridge, and both, being in their last
year, were reading hard for their degrees.
Each morning in those warm August days by the summer sea they came out
for a stroll on the seafront; bright with movement and gaiety, taking an
airing before settling down to their studies for the day.
On this particular morning, about ten o'clock, the seafront was already
full of men in flannels and lounge-suits, and women in garments of
muslin and other such flimsy materials usually affected at the seaside,
for stifled and jaded Londoners had flocked down there, as usual, to
enjoy the sea air and all the varied attractions which Southport never
fails to offer.
Raife Remington and his friend were strolling along, chatting about
their old college days, idly smoking cigarettes, when they came up
behind two well yet neatly-dressed girls, one about twenty, in a white
pique coat and skirt with large pearl buttons, cut smartly; the other,
about a couple of years her junior, who was fair-haired, very beautiful,
and led a little black pom by a silver chain, was in dead black with a
neat, close-fitting hat, with a turquoise blue band. Her skirt was
short and well adapted for walking, displaying neat ankles encased in
black silk stockings, and she wore white kid gloves; yet the only touch
of colour was the hat band and the bow of bright cherry ribbon upon the
collar of the little black pom.
In every movement, in her gait, in the swing of her carriage and the way
she carried her well-poised head, there was ineffable, unaffected grace.
Narrow-waisted, slim, delicate, she was the very incarnation of
exquisite daintiness and high refinement. Little wonder, therefore,
that Raife Remington should have singled her out as the prettiest girl
he had ever seen.
He and his friend took several hasty strides forward, in order to glance
at her countenance, and in it he was not disappointed. Her soft fair
hair was dressed with that smart neatness which characterised her whole
attire, and her big, innocent eyes were of that deep child-like blue so
seldom seen in a girl after she has reached her teens.
"By jove! What a ripping girl!" Raife again exclaimed in a low whisper
of admiration. "I wonder who she can be, Teddy?"
"Ah, I wonder!" echoed his companion, and the two smart, athletic young
undergraduates followed the girls unnoticed, for they were chatting
together, and laughing merrily, entirely absorbed in their conversation.
Many persons were passing to and fro, as there always are on Southport
seafront upon a summer's morning, and so many smart motor-cars whirling
up and down, even though the month of August is not the smartest season.
Raife Remington, eldest son of Sir Henry Remington, Baronet, was not
usually impressionable where the fair sex were concerned. Yet from the
moment his eyes had first fallen upon this pretty, fair-haired girl in
black, he appeared to fall beneath the spell of her remarkable beauty.
Within himself he was longing for an introduction to her, while Mutimer,
because they were smart and stylish, had inwardly set them both down as
members of some theatrical company. Yet their clothes and shoes were of
palpably better quality than those worn by members of musical companies
which visited Cambridge. Therefore he, like Raife, was much puzzled.
Most girls are aware, by natural feminine intuition, when they are
admired, but the pair walking before them were utterly unconscious of
having attracted the attention of any one. Mutimer noticed this, and
argued that they certainly could not be actresses.
"I wonder where they're going?" remarked Raife in a whisper, but
scarcely had the words left his mouth when a black and tan fox-terrier
suddenly darted out from behind a man and, without provocation, attacked
the dainty little pom and rolled it over ere any one was aware of it.
The tiny dog's mistress screamed, and, bending, cried in alarm and
appeal:
"Snookie! Oh, my poor little Snooks!"
In an instant Raife was on the spot, and with his cane beat off the
savage terrier; then, picking up the little pom, which lay on the ground
more frightened than hurt, he restored it to the arms of its frantic
mistress.
"He's not injured I think," Raife exclaimed.
For the first time the fair-haired girl raised her blue eyes to his,
startled and confused.
"I--I'm so very much obliged to you," she stammered. "That man really
ought to keep his horrid dog under control."
"He ought--the brute!" chimed in Teddy Mutimer. "What a darling little
dog," he added admiringly, stroking the fluffy little animal admiringly.
"Poor little Snookie!" exclaimed his mistress, stroking her pet's head,
while the little animal wagged his bushy tail and turned up the whites
of his big round eyes with an expression so pitiful as to cause all four
to laugh.
The owner of the terrier, an over-dressed, caddish-looking man, had
strolled on in utter unconcern, though well aware of what had happened.
"That fellow must be a fearful outsider," declared Raife, "or he would
apologise. He looks like a ratcatcher--or perhaps a dog-stealer. All
dog-stealers wear straw hats and yellow boots, like his!"
Whereat the three others laughed.
Snookie, duly examined by his dainty little mistress, was declared to
have suffered no damage, therefore after Raife had asked permission to
walk with them--as they were going in the same direction--they all four
found themselves chatting merrily as they strolled along, Raife at the
side of the pom's mistress, and his chum with her foreign-looking
companion.
Already Raife and his fair unknown, to whom his introduction had come
about so suddenly and unusually, were chatting without reserve, for, as
an undergraduate, he had the habit of contracting quick friendships, and
his careless, easy-going manner she found attractive.
In the pleasant morning sunshine they sat for about half an hour, when
at last Mutimer and the other girl rose from their chairs to walk
together, leaving Raife, to his evident satisfaction, alone with his
divinity in black.
"Do you live here?" Raife inquired, after they had been gossiping for
some time.
"Oh dear, no," was his companion's reply, in that voice he found so
refined and musical. "We're staying at the Queen's. Do you live here?"
she inquired in turn.
"No; I'm staying with my friend. He's up at Cambridge with me, so I'm
spending part of the vac. with his people."
"Oh, you're at Cambridge!" she exclaimed, "I was at the `University
Arms' with my uncle, about two months ago. We went round and saw the
colleges. I was delighted with them."
"Where do you generally live?" he asked, after she had told him that her
name was Gilda Tempest.
"My uncle and I live a great deal abroad," was her reply; "indeed, more
than I care to--to be frank. I love England. But my uncle travels so
much that we have no home nowadays, and live nearly all the year round
in hotels. I get horribly tired of the eternal table d'hote, the music
and the chatter."
"Rather pleasant, I should fancy. I love travelling," remarked the
young man.
"I grow sick to death of it," she declared, with a sigh. "We wander all
over Europe. My uncle is a wanderer, ever on the move and most
erratic."
"Are you staying in Southport long?" he enquired eagerly.
"I really don't know. We may stay for a day--or for a month. I never
know where we're going. I have not been home for nearly two years now."
"Home? Where do you live?"
"Father has a house in France--in a quaint little village called By--on
the edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau. Do you know Fontainebleau?"
"Oh, yes," he replied. "I went there from Paris once, with the guv'nor.
We stayed at the Hotel de France--I think it was--at Fontainebleau. We
went over the old palace and drove out to Barbison, and to Marlotte.
Awfully charming places."
"Ah! Barbison. That is the colony of artists. I know, I love it, and
have often cycled over there, where I have friends. Father is a bit of
a recluse, so I travel and look after my uncle."
"And Marlotte--by the river. Do you know the picturesque little hotel
there, and its al-fresco cafe--the garden with all the little
summer-houses?"
"Oh, yes," she laughed. "Do you know it, too? How gay it is on Sundays
in summer. All the artists come out from Paris for the day."
"It reminds me of Monkey Island, on the Thames. We used to go up there
when I was at Eton."
She looked at him suddenly with a fixed expression, and then said:
"You haven't told me your name. I only know you as Snookie's rescuer--
you know," and she laughed.
"My name's Remington--Raife Remington," he replied. "The guv'nor lives
at Aldborough Park, not far from Tunbridge Wells."
Her face changed in an instant. She seemed to suddenly hold her breath,
though quite imperceptibly. For a moment all the colour left her soft
cheeks, but as quickly she recovered all her self-possession, and
exclaimed, in a changed tone:
"Is your father Sir Henry Remington?"
"Yes. Why? Do you happen to know him?"
"I--er--oh, no, I don't!" she replied, endeavouring to conceal her
consternation at the discovery. "Only--well--I--of course, had no idea
that you were the son of a gentleman so well-known as Sir Henry."
"My misfortune, perhaps," he laughed, airily. "The guv'nor has brains--
has been a member of Parliament for twenty years, and all that--I
haven't any."
"You have."
"They say I haven't, at Cambridge."
She was silent for some moments. What strange freak of Fate had thrown
them together--he, the very last man on earth she desired to meet. And
yet, she had found him such a bright, cheerful companion!
Her eyes were turned to where Mutimer and her friend, Maud Wilson, were
strolling along the seafront.
The young fellow at her side was actually the son of Sir Henry
Remington! The baronet's name burned into her brain--it was branded
there, as though seared by a red-hot iron.
The amazing revelation staggered her. That man seated so idly in the
chair, his legs stretched out, displaying the latest make in 'Varsity
socks, was actually the son of Sir Henry!
She could not believe it.
Raife, on his part, was not exactly blind to the fact that mention of
his father's name had unduly surprised her.
"I fancy you know the guv'nor--eh?" he exclaimed, chaffing her. "Do
you? Tell me. Perhaps you've met him somewhere? He's at Upper Brook
Street in the season, and at Mentone in winter. We have a villa there."
"No, Mr Remington, I have never had the pleasure of meeting your
father," was her rather strained response. "But all the world has heard
of him. One sees his picture in the papers very often. I only read
yesterday his scathing criticism in the House of Commons on the Navy
estimates, and his serious warning regarding the new super-dreadnought--
which is building on the Clyde--the vessel which is to be the most
powerful battleship afloat."
"You know more than I do, Miss Tempest," he laughed. "I never read the
guv'nor's speeches. I heard too much about ships at home, before I went
up to Cambridge."
"I suppose so," she laughed, and then, as though uneasy and anxious to
get away, she added: "Look! Your friend is coming back with Maud. We
must go," and she rose, a tall, graceful figure in neat black.
"No. Don't go yet," he urged, still remaining seated. "You surely
aren't in such a great hurry! It's only just past ten."
"I have to go back to the hotel," she declared.
"Have you so very much to do--and is my society so terribly boring?" the
young fellow asked, with a mischievous laugh.
"Certainly not," was her reproachful reply, and, as though against her
will, she re-seated herself. "You really ought not to say that," she
added.
"But you seem very anxious to get away. Why?" The girl held her
breath, and her great blue eyes were downcast. No. She dare not raise
her gaze to his lest he should suspect the terrible truth--he, the son
of Sir Henry Remington!
"Well," she replied at last. "Because I have some letters to write,
and--and to tell the truth, I have a dressmaker coming at half-past
ten."
"I suppose in a woman's life one's dressmaker is set upon a very high
pedestal. All women must bow to the Goddess of Fashion."
"You are horribly philosophic."
"My philosophy is induced by your attitude towards me, Miss Tempest," he
declared. "You are a mystery. You were bright and merry until you knew
my name, and then--well, then you suddenly curled into your shell.
Really, I confess I can't make you out!"
One more experienced than he would probably have discerned that a great
and staggering blow had fallen upon his newly-found little friend. She
was at a loss how to act--or what to say.
Her heart was thumping hard within her. What if he should discover the
terrible secret which she alone knew! Fearing lest he should grow
suspicious, she was all anxiety to get away--to place him and his memory
behind her for ever.
Yet, somehow, he had fascinated her, and she sat there quite unable to
leave him. Though the sunshine, the life and gaiety about her were
brilliant, the whole earth had, for her, grown dark in one single
instant. She hardly knew what she did--or what she said.
"I really must go," she declared, at last, hitching up her pom from
beneath her arm.
"Well, if you must, you must, I suppose, Miss Tempest," he responded at
last, with great reluctance. "I fear you don't care for my society," he
added, with a sigh.
"How very foolish!" she cried. "Of course, I do--only, as I have
explained, I have an engagement which I can't possibly break. My
dinner-dress is a positive rag."
"Then let us meet later to-day," he suggested. "This evening--at any
time you like," he urged. "Will you see me again? Do," he implored.
For some time she made no reply. She was reflecting deeply. At last,
with pale face, and striving to preserve a bold front, she replied
rather frigidly: "No, really, Mr Remington, I am sorry, very sorry, but
I cannot meet you again. I thank you ever so much for saving my little
Snookie, but, in our mutual interests, it is far the best that we should
not meet again."
"Why? I really don't understand you!" he exclaimed, much mystified.
"I am sorry, I repeat, Mr Remington--very sorry indeed--but I can't
meet you again," she said, in a hard, determined tone. "I do not dare
to."
"Engaged, I suppose--and fear tittle-tattle--eh?" he sniffed.
"No, I'm not engaged," was her rather haughty response, her cheeks
colouring slightly.
"Then why cannot we meet? What prevents it?"
She looked at him with a strange, almost weird expression in her big
luminous eyes.
"A barrier lies between us, Mr Remington," she said, in a low, very
earnest voice. "We must never meet again after to-day--never?"
"But, Miss Tempest--you--"
"I have told you the truth," she said, firmly, rising with little
Snookie tucked beneath her arm. "Please do not ask me the reason.
Come, let us rejoin Maud and your friend."
She started off, and he, being helpless in the face of her
determination, was compelled to follow her.
What, he wondered, was the mysterious motive of her refusal to see him
again?