It was late when Graham let himself into his father's house that night.
He had done many things that day. He had also been through much anxiety.
He felt that he deserved the right to turn in at once and sleep the
sleep of the just. But Kenyon had said that Belle had been alone in his
rooms the night before and the queer expression that had come into his
eyes as he made the remark lived most uneasily in Graham's memory. He
now knew Nicholas Kenyon to be a skunk--an unscrupulous individualist
devoid of loyalty, incapable of feeling true friendship and in every way
unfit to have any dealings, unwatched, with a girl unless she was in his
own set or belonged to the same class as the two chorus girls for whom
he had waited outside the stage door of the Oxford Theatre.
He was well aware of the fact that Belle had been something more than
merely attracted by Kenyon. He had even hoped that she might be engaged
to be married to him, being very proud to believe that some day soon she
might become the wife of the man under whose spell he, like all the rest
of the family, had fallen. Now, however, in the light of Kenyon's
hideous treatment of Peter, he saw his one-time hero with eyes from
which all the glamour of his appearance had disappeared and he was
filled with an overwhelming desire to see Belle at once and make it
clear to her, bluntly and finally, that she must clear Kenyon out of her
mind as a house is rid of vermin. Belle was, as he well knew, a
high-spirited, amazingly imperious, independent girl, with strong
emotions. She was not one who would be turned lightly, or even driven,
out of a line of thought. She was, on the contrary, as difficult to
treat as an unbroken filly and could only be managed with the lightest
of hands. If she really and truly loved Kenyon and still believed in
him, he knew that he could not say anything that would prejudice him in
her estimation, even by telling her what he had done to Peter. She would
be able to produce reasons, however far-fetched, to make that incident
seem less ugly. There was, however, the chance--just the chance--that
she would be open to conviction. After much inward argument and
hesitation he decided to go up to Belle's room, and if she were not
asleep, to have a little talk with her and find out how the land lay,
and if he could see any possibility of adding to his punishment of
Kenyon to do so by putting him in his true colour before Belle.
It took him some time to come to this decision and screw up his courage
to face Belle. For nearly an hour he paced up and down the quiet
library, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Belle was likely to tell him
to go and hang himself if she considered that he was butting into her
private affairs. He knew this,--no one better. He had often done so
before. He decided, however, to run this risk and, in the hope that she
might still be up, went upstairs and stood for a moment listening
outside her door. He could hear no sound in her room, no movement, no
creak of a drawer being opened or shut. He knocked softly and
waited,--was just going to knock again when the door was opened.
With her beautiful black hair done for the night and a pink kimono over
her night-dress, Belle stood in the doorway with an expression of
surprised inquiry in her eyes. These two had not taken the trouble to be
very good friends for some years.
"Oh, it's you, Graham," she said, but made no move.
"It's awfully late, I know; but, if you're not too tired, may I come
in?" Graham hated himself for being self-conscious. It seemed absurd
with his own sister. He wished then that he had not been quite so
selfish and self-contained since he had considered himself to be a man,
and had gone out of his way to keep up his old boyish relations with
Belle.
He was a little surprised when she said, "Come in, dear," and made way
for him. He noticed quickly as soon as she stood under the light that
her eyes were red and swollen, and that there was a most unusual air
about her of gentleness and dejection. He noticed, too, with immense
relief, that a large photograph of Kenyon in hunting-kit which he had
seen standing on her dressing-table had been taken away. A good sign!
The room was very different from Ethel's. It had nothing of that rather
anaemic ultra-modern air so carefully cultivated by the younger girl. On
the contrary, everything in it was characteristic of Belle. It was full
of ripe colours and solid comfort. A mass of silver things jostled each
other untidily on the dressing-table. A collection of monthly fashion
papers with vivid decorative covers lay on a heap on a chair, and a
novel, open in the middle, had been flung, face down, on the sofa. There
was no attempt at carefully shaded lights. They were all turned on and
were reflected from the long glasses in a large mahogany wardrobe. The
carpet all round the dressing-table was bespattered with white powder.
"I was reading when I heard your knock," she said,--"at least I was
pretending to read. Sleep was miles away."
Graham sat down, hanging a pair of stockings over the arm of the chair.
"Why?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know, I've been thinking,--for a change. It's such a new
thing for me that it knocked sleep out of my head. Not nice thoughts,
either."
She seemed glad to talk, Graham thought. "Anything the matter, Bee?" he
asked.
"I guess it's nearly a century since you called me Bee," she said with a
queer little laugh. "Would you say that anything was the matter if you
had just picked yourself out of the ruins of a house that had fallen
about your ears?"
Graham got up suddenly, sat on the sofa at Belle's side and put his arms
round her shoulder. "Don't dodge behind phrases, old girl," he said.
"Just tell me in plain English. Let me help you if I can."
But Belle shook him off,--not angry with him so much as with herself.
She detested weakness. This unexpected kindness on Graham's part made
her feel like crying again. In her heart she longed for some one to whom
she could pour out her soul, and Graham's affection almost caught her
before she could stop herself. Not to him, she told herself, nor to any
member of her family, was she going to confess the sort of thoughts that
had choked her brain ever since that hour alone with Kenyon. Not even to
Betty, to whom she told most things, was she going to lay bare the fact
that, in the cold light of day, she found herself deeply hurt and
deeply humiliated at Kenyon's treatment of her. In fact, she had herself
only that night begun to realize the state of her feelings and was still
suffering under the discovery.
Graham, whose nature and character were as much like those of Belle as
though they were twins, caught her mental attitude as she stood
struggling between pride and a desire to tell the truth. It was as plain
to him as though she had already confessed that Kenyon had done
something which had shaken her belief in him. His photograph, which had
dominated her room, had been put away. Her eyes were red and swollen.
All his sympathy was stirred. At the same time he rejoiced in the eager
thought that he had it in his power to clear Kenyon finally out of her
mind.
He set to work quietly. "I'm going to tell you about Peter," he said.