The girl paused and steadied herself for a moment against a field
gate. Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. Her dainty shoes
were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt. Very
slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. Her cheeks were the
colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. If a cart were
coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was
impossible.
The terror faded from her eyes. A faint gleam of returning colour gave
her at once a more natural appearance. So far as the eye could reach,
the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. Away
off in the fields the blue-smocked peasants bent still at their toil.
They had heard nothing, seen nothing. A few more minutes, and she was
safe.
Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled
herself with an effort to look where it had happened. A dark mass of
wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the
ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of
which the bark had been torn and stripped. A few yards further off
something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity
twisted into a strange unnatural shape. Again the chalky pallor spread
even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror. She
withdrew her head with a little moan, and resumed her flight. Away up
on the hillside was the little country railway station. She fixed her
eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow
of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the
valley for the white smoke of the train.
She reached the station, and mingling with a crowd of excursionists
who had come from the river on the other side, took her place in the
train unnoticed. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.
Until the last moment she was afraid.
Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a
_fiacre_. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she
made her way as far as the Champs Elysees, and sank down upon an empty
seat.
She had not at first the power for concealment. Her nerves were
shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. She sat there, a
mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering
glances. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which
she had found. Yet she never once thought of changing it. A person of
somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her
life perfectly natural. Terror had laid a paralyzing hand upon her,
fear kept her almost unconscious of the curious glances which she was
continually attracting.
Then there came briskly along the path towards her, an Englishman. He
was perhaps forty-five years of age. He was dressed with the utmost
care, and he set his feet upon the broad walk as though the action
were in some way a condescension. He was alert, well-groomed, and
yet--perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type--there was
a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. He too looked
at the girl, slackened his pace and looked at her again through his
eye-glasses, looked over his shoulder after he had passed, and finally
came to a dead stop. He scratched his upper lip reflectively.
It was a habit of his to talk to himself. In the present case it did
not matter, as there was no one else within earshot.
"Dear me!" he said. "Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. She is
English! I am sure of that. She is English, and apparently in some
distress. I wonder----"
He turned slowly round. He was inclined to be a good-natured person,
and he had no nervous fears of receiving a snub. The girl was pretty,
and apparently a lady.
"She cannot be aware," he continued, "that she is making herself
conspicuous. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a
hint--a fellow countrywoman too. I trust that she will not
misunderstand me. I believe--I believe that I must risk it."
He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice
lowered to a convenient pitch.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but you appear to be a
fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. Can I be of any
assistance? I can assure you that it would give me very much
pleasure."
Her first upward glance was one of terrified apprehension. When she
saw however that this man was a stranger, and obviously harmless, her
expression changed as though by magic. A delicate flush of colour
streamed into her cheeks. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again
with timid interest. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. She
began to act.
"You are very kind," she said hesitatingly, "but I don't remember--I
don't think that I know you, do I?"
"I am afraid that you do not," he admitted, with a smile which he
meant to be encouraging. "You remind me of the story which they tell
against us over here, you know--of the Englishman who refused to be
saved from drowning because he was unacquainted with his rescuer.
Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Ferringhall--Sir John
Ferringhall."
There was genuine interest in her eyes now. Sir John saw it, and was
flattered.
"You are Sir John Ferringhall," she repeated. "Yes, I remember you
now. You were pointed out to me at--a few nights ago."
He was not in the least surprised. A millionaire and a knight, even
though his money has been made in carpets, is used to being a person
of interest.
"Very likely," he answered. "I am fairly well known here. I must
apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance
certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you
were becoming--pardon me--an object of comment to the passers-by."
The girl sat up and looked at him with a curious twist at the corners
of her mouth--humorous or pathetic, he could not tell which. As though
accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own.
Sir John hesitated. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite
sure--yet--that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public
a place. His inclinations prompted him most decidedly to take the
vacant chair. Prudence reminded him that he was a county magistrate,
and parliamentary candidate for a somewhat difficult borough, where
his principal supporters were dissenters of strict principles who took
a zealous interest in his moral character. He temporized, and the girl
raised her eyes once more to his.
"You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate,
are you not?" she remarked. "My father's sisters used once to live in
the old manor house. I believe you have had it pulled down, have you
not?"
"The Misses Pellissier!" he exclaimed. "Then your name----"
"My name is Pellissier. My father was Colonel Pellissier. He had an
appointment in Jersey, you know, after he left the army."
Sir John did not hesitate any longer. He sat down.
"Upon my word," he exclaimed, "this is most extraordinary. I----"
Then he stopped short, for he began to remember things. He was not
quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. He would have risen
again, but for the significance of the action.
"Dear me!" he said. "Then some of your family history is known to me.
One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London."
The girl nodded.
"She is living there now," she remarked.
"Your father is dead too, I believe," he continued, "and your mother."
"Two years ago," she answered. "They died within a few months of one
another."
"Very sad--very sad indeed," he remarked uneasily. "I remember hearing
something about it. I believe that the common report was that you and
your sister had come to Paris to study painting."
She assented gently.
"We have a small studio," she murmured, "in the Rue de St. Pierre."
Sir John looked at her sideways. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground,
the pink colour coming and going in her cheeks was very delicate and
girlish. After all, this could never be the black sheep. He had been
quite right to sit down. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his
instincts betrayed him. He breathed a little sigh of satisfaction.
"Come," he continued, "the world after all is a very small place. We
are not altogether strangers, are we? I feel that under the
circumstances I have the right to offer you my advice, and if
necessary my help. I beg that you will consider me your friend."
She looked at him with fluttering eyelids--sweetly grateful. It was
such an unexpected stroke of fortune. Sir John was not used to such
glances, and he liked them.
"It is so difficult," she murmured, "so impossible to explain. Even to
my own brother--if I had one--I could not tell everything, and you,
although you are so kind, you are almost a stranger, aren't you?"
"No, no!" he protested. "You must not think of me as one. Try and
consider me your elder brother, or an old family friend, whichever you
like best."
She thanked him with one of her shy little glances. More than ever Sir
John was glad that he had sat down.
"It is very, very difficult," she continued, looking steadfastly at
the ground. "Only--I have come face to face--with something terrible,
and wholly unexpected trouble. I want to leave Paris to-day--this very
day. I want to leave it for ever."
He looked at her very gravely.
"But your sister?" he asked. "What of her? Have you quarrelled with
her?"
The girl shook her head.
"No," she answered. "I have not quarrelled with her. It is simply our
point of view which is altogether different. I want to get away--to go
to London. I cannot explain beyond that."
"Then I am sure," Sir John declared, "that I shall not ask you. I know
nothing about the matter, but I feel convinced that you are right. You
ought to have had better advice two years ago. Paris is not the place
for two young girls. I presume that you have been living alone?"
She sighed gently.
"My sister," she murmured, "is so independent. She is Bohemian to the
finger-tips. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned."
Sir John smiled and congratulated himself upon his insight. He was so
seldom wrong.
"The next question, Miss Anna," he said, "is how am I to help you? I
am wholly at your disposal."
She looked up at him quickly. Her expression was a little changed,
less innocent, more discerning.
"Anna!" she repeated. "How do you know--why do you think that my name
is Anna?" He smiled in a quietly superior way.
"I think," he said, "that I am right. I am very good at guessing
names."
"I am really curious," she persisted. "You must have heard--have
you--oh, tell me, won't you?" she begged. "Have you heard things?"
The tears stood in her eyes. She leaned a little towards him. Nothing
but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible
constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but
unmistakable evidence of his sympathy.
"I am afraid," he said gravely, "that your sister has been a little
indiscreet. It is nothing at all for you to worry about."
She looked away from him.
"I knew," she said, in a low despairing tone, "that people would
talk."
He coughed gently.
"It was inevitable," he declared. "It is not, of course, a pleasant
subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture
to suggest to you that your sister's--er--indiscretions--have reached
a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity."
She covered her face with her hands.
"It--it--must come," she faltered.
"I do not lay claim," he continued, "to any remarkable amount of
insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your
present cause of distress."
"You are wonderful!" she murmured.
He smiled complacently.
"Not at all. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. Now what I want
you to feel is this. I want you to feel that you have found a friend
who has a strong desire to be of service to you. Treat me as an elder
brother, if you like. He is here by your side. How can he help you?"
She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall,
carpet-merchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous,
deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Perhaps the Parisian
atmosphere had affected him. He leaned towards her, laid his hand
tenderly upon hers.
"I hope you realize," he went on, in a lower and less assured tone,
"that I am in earnest--very much in earnest. You must let me do
whatever I can for you. I shall count it a privilege."
"I believe you," she murmured. "I trust you altogether. I am going to
take you entirely at your word. I want to leave Paris to-day. Will you
lend me the money for my ticket to London?"
"With all the pleasure in the world," he answered heartily. "Let me
add too that I am thankful for your decision. You have somewhere to go
to in London, I hope."
She nodded.
"There is my aunt," she said. "The one who used to live at Lyndmore.
She will take me in until I can make some plans. It will be horribly
dull, and she is a very trying person. But anything is better than
this."
He took out his watch.
"Let me see," he said. "Your best route will be via Boulogne and
Folkestone at nine o'clock from the Gare du Nord. What about your
luggage?"
"I could get a few of my things, at any rate," she said. "My sister is
sure to be out."
"Very well," he said. "It is just six o'clock now. Supposing you fetch
what you can, and if you will allow me, I will see you off. It would
give me great pleasure if you would dine with me somewhere first."
She looked at him wistfully, but with some unwilling doubt in her
wrinkled forehead. It was excellently done, especially as she loved
good dinners.
"You are very kind to think of it," she said, "but--don't you think
perhaps--that I had better not?"
He smiled indulgently.
"My dear child," he said, "with me you need have no apprehension. I am
almost old enough to be your father."
She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows--a look of whimsical
incredulity. Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very
old.
"That sounds quite absurd," she answered. "Yet it is my last evening,
and I think--if you are sure that you would like to have me--that I
will risk it."
"We will go to a very quiet place," he assured her, "a place where I
have often taken my own sisters. You will be wearing your travelling
dress, and no doubt you would prefer it. Shall we say at half-past
seven?"
She rose from her chair.
"I will take a carriage," she said, "and fetch my things."
"Let us say that Cafe Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at
half-past seven then," he decided. "I shall be waiting for you there,
and in the meantime, if you will help yourself--pray don't look like
that. It is a very small affair, after all, and you can pay me back if
you will."
She took the pocket-book and looked up at him with a little impulsive
movement. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting.
"I cannot thank you, Sir John," she said. "I shall never be able to
thank you."
"Won't you postpone the attempt, then?" he said gallantly, "until I
have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not
forget--seven-thirty, Cafe Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes."
She drove off in a little _fiacre_, nodding and smiling at Sir John,
who remained upon the Avenue. He too, when she had disappeared, called
a carriage.
"Hotel Ritz," he said mechanically to the coachman. "If only her
sister is half as pretty, no wonder that she has set the Parisians
talking."
_Chapter II_