Small and informal dinner-parties can be either very lively or very
dull, depending, no doubt, upon the careful selection of the guests,
also on the personality of the host and hostess, who can sometimes
exercise magnetic influence.
Nina was, as a rule, a very vivacious hostess. Her father was
uncertain. If he were in a congenial atmosphere, amongst his old
friends and comrades, he would radiate geniality. But if there was one
guest who did not quite hit it off with him, between whom and himself
there was an undefined spirit of personal antagonism, he dried up at
once, and became gloomy and morose.
To-night, as his guest of honour, sitting at his right hand, he had the
niece-in-law whose entrance into the family he had so bitterly resented.
During the long courses he hardly spoke a word. He was rude almost to
boorishness.
But although Stella was fully conscious that she was there on
sufferance, her admirable self-control enabled her to comport herself
with unruffled demeanour. If this spiteful old man hoped that he was
annoying her with his churlish behaviour, she would not give him the
satisfaction of knowing that she was hurt. She ignored him, as he
purposely ignored her.
Miss Crichton, a cheerful, chatty young woman, whose flow of good
spirits made her welcome at many houses, sat on the other side of the
host. Finding Lord Southleigh disinclined to conversation, and guessing
the reason of it, she divided her remarks between Stella Spencer and
Murchison, who sat next her.
A good-hearted girl, she felt just a little bit sorry for Stella. Lord
Southleigh was not playing the game. His attitude was altogether
illogical. It was open to him to refuse to receive his unwelcome niece
at all, that would have been perfectly comprehensible. But having
admitted her to his house, it was in the worst possible taste to so
openly proclaim his dislike and detestation.
Lady Nina talked brightly to her cousin Guy, in the random flashes of
her conversation, taking in the others, with the solitary exception of
her father, who sat there glum and silent, in one of his blackest and
most unapproachable moods. And Miss Crichton did her best, really
working very hard to counteract the sombre influence of the taciturn
host.
But in spite of the brave efforts of the two young women there was no
exhilaration in the air, only a sort of well-defined depression, such as
is felt in the atmosphere before the faint rumblings of a thunderstorm.
Nobody really felt comfortable, not a single guest would feel anything
but relief when the tedious evening drew to a close.
Guy Spencer was relieved, in a way, that his uncle had ostensibly buried
the hatchet, but still he never felt happy in that uncle's house. The
strong disapproval was there, if suppressed for the sake of politeness.
These little informal dinners, given at long intervals to impress upon
him that he was still a recognised member of the family, bored him
extremely. They were always strictly limited as to numbers, and the
other guests were generally people of no importance, on the outer fringe
of that society in which the Southleighs moved.
It was difficult to know what Stella was feeling, for she had such
admirable self-control. But if she was a sensitive woman she must have
been cut to the heart by the behaviour of her elderly relative. And her
suffering must have been more poignant from the fact that this
contemptuous behaviour must be apparent to every other member of the
party.
While the two young women were chattering away, battling, as it were,
against the general depression, Hugh Murchison was trying to collect his
thoughts.
Strange that his recollections had harked back to that tragedy at
Blankfield while Nina was speaking of the young Mrs Spencer. And, if
his memory and his eyesight were not playing him false, he was sitting
opposite to the unhappy Pomfret's widow.
Six years make a considerable difference in the personal appearance of
any man or woman, and they had made a difference in her. If he had met
her in the street, he would not have known her. Perhaps he would not
have known her to-night, but for that sudden accidental throwing back of
the memory of old times. In other words, if his mind had not been
accidentally diverted to Jack Pomfret, he would have failed to recognise
the woman whom he once knew under the name of Norah Burton.
And yet could he be sure? Let him think a little. Six years ago Norah
Burton looked twenty, and Davidson the detective assured him she was at
least four years older than she looked--the appearance of youth, he had
added, was one of her assets.
This young woman did not look a day older than twenty-six, and taking
the computation of the years, she must be at least thirty. But if she
were Norah Burton, and had retained that priceless asset of youth, she
would still have that four years' advantage.
Then Norah Burton's hair was fair and wavy, Stella Spencer's was dark.
Still it is easy for a woman to alter the colour or the appearance of
her hair. If Stella Keane had arisen, like the phoenix, from Norah
Burton, she would alter herself in every detail, so far as Nature
permitted her.
Still, it is said that everybody in the world has a double. Often in
his own experience he had claimed acquaintance with somebody whom he had
mistaken for an old friend, and smilingly apologised for his error.
Norah's good looks had been of a rather uncommon kind, but there must be
dozens of women in the world more or less like her.
Then, as Miss Crichton's harmless chatter flowed on, he thought of other
things. Norah had an obscure past, on which such guarded confidences as
she permitted herself to indulge in threw little or no light. It would
appear that Stella Keane's history moved much on the same lines. There
were only vague intimations, nothing definite, nothing satisfactory.
There was another point of resemblance. Norah had one male relative who
came out into the open for inspection, in her case a brother, afterwards
discovered to be a criminal. Stella Keane had one male relative also,
in her case a cousin, of whom nothing was known, except that he was an
undesirable person who had not visited his relative's house since her
marriage, no doubt for reasons well-known to himself and Stella.
_Ergo_ the undesirable cousin was lying low, as George Burton would have
lain low, when Jack Pomfret had openly acknowledged Norah as his wife.
And yet--and yet--was there anything in these suspicions? Was he not
allowing himself to be misled by a chance resemblance, by random
coincidences?
He stole a look at Guy Spencer chatting amiably with his cousin, the
cousin whom rumour had persistently designed as the future Countess of
Southleigh. He seemed the happy contented young married man; there was
no hint of trouble or regret in his assured, placid demeanour.
Evidently he was suffering from no self-reproach, no suspicion of the
beautiful young woman he had made his wife. The calmness of his aspect
gave the lie to any such disquieting suggestions.
And the current of Murchison's thoughts ran swiftly along. They had
been married some time now. If Stella Keane was the impostor Hugh
suspected her to be, from that striking resemblance to Norah Burton the
heroine of that tragic Blankfield episode, surely in the close intimacy
of wedded life something would have escaped her that would have aroused
her husband's suspicions, have set him inquiring more closely into the
past.
Granting that she was a clever actress, still the most accomplished
performer in the world could not wear the mask all day. There must come
one moment, if not several moments, when that mask would be
inadvertently dropped.
No, he must be mistaken. The resemblance must be accidental. The
brother in the one case, the cousin in the other, were equally
accidental coincidences.
He had got to this frame of mind when the men joined the ladies after
dinner. In the spacious drawing-room, the atmosphere seemed to have
cleared, the tension to be relaxed, with the change of scene.
This was readily comprehensible. During dinner, Lord Southleigh,
frowning and morose, in close juxtaposition with his guests, had in a
very real sense dominated the scene, and communicated a sense of his
hostility and displeasure to all round him, not least to the unhappy
young woman who had inspired those wrathful feelings.
Upstairs he was less in evidence. He retreated to the far end of the
room, flung himself in a deep armchair, and, in a way, removed himself
from the proceedings. There was nobody to whom he felt himself
constrained to be civil. Murchison he had known from a boy; he could
afford to be uncivil, to play the role of churlish host. Miss Crichton
was more or less a social hanger-on, grateful for invitations to good
houses; she did not count. Guy had forfeited all claim to
consideration. His wife ought to be made to feel her position every
moment of her life.
Murchison gravitated to Miss Crichton. Well-born, she was very poor,
and by no means proud. She accepted in a meek spirit the social crumbs
that were thrown at her by her wealthy superiors. She was always
obliging and amiable. She never grumbled at being asked to join a
dinner-party at the eleventh hour, when some other guest had failed.
She never resented being put in a small bedroom at a country
house-party, while a rich girl with no ancestry was given a luxurious
apartment.
On account of this excessive amiability, this indifference to studied
and unstudied slights, she was immensely popular. All her friends
declared her not only to be amiable, but "so sensible?"
Hugh had known her for years, and in a way he pitied her, much more
really than she pitied herself, for she had long since grown accustomed
to her lot. But what he did know was, that she was as shrewd as she was
amiable, that under that gay and smiling exterior she concealed a very
acute intelligence.
He wanted particularly to know her opinion of Mrs Spencer, if she were
frank enough to give it, for she had especially developed the bump of
caution. She heard a great deal, but what she heard she generally kept
to herself. It would have been fatal to her somewhat insecure position
if it could have been said of her, with regard to any particular
scandal, "Of course, you will never give me away, but Laura Crichton was
my informant."
He replied in a general way, "I was very interested, to-night, in my old
friend Guy Spencer's wife. She is a little bit on the quiet side, but
she is very beautiful, and there is certainly a wonderful charm about
her. Of course, Lord Southleigh behaved abominably. I rather wonder
she did not fling herself out of the room. One can understand his
feelings, in a certain way. But why does he not take one attitude or
the other? If he elects to receive her, for the sake of avoiding an
open breach, he ought to put his hostility in his pocket."
Miss Crichton smiled her worldly and diplomatic smile: "Dear Lord
Southleigh is never very successful at hiding his real feelings."
"Do you see much of her?" asked Hugh presently.
"Oh, very little. I have met her a few times here, at these little
informal gatherings. Lord Southleigh won't have her at their big
parties, as I daresay you know. I have called on her a few times, and
she has called back. That is all."
"Well, you have seen enough to form some opinion of her. I should
dearly like to know what that is."
Miss Crichton looked at him quizzically. "Oh, the artfulness of you
men! Do you think I don't see that you are trying to draw me? Well, I
have formed the same conclusion that you have--she is very beautiful,
and, from a man's point of view, has a subtle charm. Will that content
you?"
Hugh regarded her with a smile as quizzical as her own. "No, I'm afraid
it won't. Now, look here, we are very old friends," he said
persuasively, "and I am pretty near as discreet as you are, I never
repeat what is told me in confidence. I should like to put a plain
question to you."
"Put it: I don't promise to answer it, you know."
"Of course not. But I am very much interested in this strange marriage
of Guy's. And, please don't think I am laying it on with a trowel, but
I have very great faith in your judgment, I would trust it more than I
would that of nine-tenths of the women I know."
Of course she knew he was flattering her to obtain his purpose; but
then--was the most sensible woman absolutely impervious to flattery?
"Ask me your question," she answered briefly.
Hugh sank his voice to a whisper. "We hear a great deal about her
reticence as to the past. Do you think, in a few words, that Stella
Spencer is a good and straight woman in the general sense in which we
understand the expression?"
For a moment Miss Crichton hesitated, then she looked him straight in
the face. He had compelled her to a most unusual frankness.
"You will, of course, never breathe a word of this to anybody. Suppose
I say I refuse to reply to your question. Will you take that refusal as
the answer you really want?"
"I will--a thousand thanks. The subject is closed between us," was
Hugh's grateful reply.
A diversion was caused by the approach of Guy Spencer.
"Hugh, old man, I am aching for a long crack with you. Come and dine
quietly with us next week. I suggest Tuesday if that will suit you?"
"Perfectly; I am free on Tuesday, Guy."
"Right, then. But to make sure, if Miss Crichton will excuse us, we
will go over to Stella and see if I have forgotten something, if we are
free that night. I can't always carry these things in my head."
They crossed over to the beautiful young woman, who was sustaining a
somewhat listless conversation with her young hostess.
"Stella," cried her husband, "I have asked Hugh to dine with us on
Tuesday. My recollection is that we have nothing on for that night.
But I thought you had better confirm it. You carry these things in your
head so much better than I do."
Young Mrs Spencer smiled at Hugh her sweet smile, and as she did so her
likeness to Norah Burton was overwhelming, the Norah Burton who had
smiled at him in just the same way six years ago, in the tea-shop at
Blankfield.
"We are quite free, Major Murchison, and shall be delighted to see you."
For a few moments he sat down beside her; and very shortly another
coincidence happened.
Mrs Spencer made use of a certain word which is always pronounced in a
certain way by educated people, and in another way by people who are
only partially educated. Norah Burton had pronounced this particular
word in the same way as Stella.
Hugh had commented upon the fact to Pomfret, and that easy-going young
man had remarked to him that he failed to see it much mattered, that she
was at liberty to pronounce the word as she thought fit.
When he got home, he passed a very restless night. When he had gone up
into the drawing-room after dinner, he had been half prepared to dismiss
the matter from his mind as a mere fantasy. And then had come his brief
interview with Laura Crichton, in which she gave him plainly to
understand that, in her opinion, Stella Spencer was not a good or a
straight woman.
And then had come that corroborative little piece of evidence of the
mispronunciation of a certain word, establishing another link in the
chain of evidence that Stella Keane and Norah Burton were one and the
same person.
And if it were so, what was his duty? If he could prove her to be Norah
Burton, and her undesirable relative, George Burton, now freed from
jail, could he permit such an adventuress to pass another day in the
house of this honest gentleman whom she had so skilfully entrapped, as
six years ago she had entrapped the guileless and trusting Jack Pomfret?
The morning dawned and found him still in the throes of anxious thought.