MAN AND WOMAN
Etta Wyndcliffe, the incomparable chaperon, of dainty frock and
exquisite etiquette, entered Sibell’s room just after finishing her
coffee and rolls, as she was in the act of taking up her strong,
well-oiled ski-boots. To get into ski-ing kit is always a troublesome
operation for a girl; the heavy socks, the “turn-overs,” the Norwegian
bindings at the ankles, all go to irritate the wearer in the early
morning.
“Drat this infernal lace!” Sibell exploded aloud just as her aunt
opened the door.
“Do you know, dear, I’ve just had a wire, and I must go to London this
afternoon!” exclaimed her ladyship fussily. “Isn’t this the limit,
just when I was enjoying myself so very much here? Yet I’m ever so
glad we came to Gurnigel. I shall come again.”
“Is it very urgent, auntie? Can’t you wait till Friday week? We’re due
to go down to the Riviera then, aren’t we?”
“No. I must go to-day. I’ve some urgent business with my bank, my
dear. You and Brinsley can remain here, and I’ll meet you on the
Riviera. There is no need whatever for you to return to London.”
“But it’ll be so horribly dull here without you, auntie,” the girl
said.
“Well, dear, I’m afraid I must go. It’s imperative,” she said. “I’m
just going to pack. I’ll get the concierge to ’phone down to Berne for
a sleeper to-night. The motor-car to Berne goes at half-past three, I
hear.”
“Yes, auntie. But all this is very disappointing!” declared the pretty
girl, in ignorance of the real reason of her aunt’s sudden desire to
return to London.
“I know, dear. But those horrible bankers have a nasty habit of
calling your immediate attention to any little overdraft you may
happen to have. And one can’t afford to neglect to call upon the
good-looking manager and cajole him into straightening things out.”
And she smiled at the many recollections of how she had borrowed money
upon all sorts of frail security.
“Well, we’re going out for an hour’s run with John,” said her niece,
“so we’ll be back before noon. Can I help you to pack?”
“Not at all. Bevan is seeing to everything,” her ladyship replied, and
then left the room to go down to the concierge.
That gay little snow-bound world of winter sports, notwithstanding all
the petty jealousies and bickerings of little, unknown people, was a
world of its own, a happy coterie of devotees of winter sports.
The one man in the whole hotel who laughed at it all was Mr. Gordon
Mitchell. He was a stout, smiling, hail-fellow-well-met man, to whose
initiative was due the opening of Gurnigel in winter. He was a popular
artist whose work adorned one of the best London illustrated papers,
an irresponsible Bohemian bachelor who had not a single care in the
world, and who moved up and down Europe as Society went from pillar to
post throughout the four seasons.
He always dubbed himself “the looker-on,” for he sketched assiduously
and saw most of the games, whether it be at Deauville, Le Touquet,
Dinard, or Biarritz in summer, the Riviera in spring, Scotland in the
autumn, or winter in the Engadine or the Bernese Oberland. It was he
who, one spring day, had passed Gurnigel in his car and, looking up at
the huge white façade of the colossal hotel, wondered why it had
never been opened in winter.
His chauffeur told him that it was a summer resort only.
“Well,” he said, “it must be opened in winter. I will see that it is
opened.”
And he saw to it, with the result that at that moment all the four
hundred odd rooms were occupied, while the servants’ quarters were
also invaded by visitors.
The other Swiss _hôteliers_ had stood aghast at Gurnigel’s brilliant
success. Some resorts had not been half full that season. Indeed, two
winter-sports centres had not opened at all. And yet Gurnigel was
overflowing.
But it was due, they all knew, to Mr. Gordon Mitchell, the lover of
Switzerland, and they knew that, being a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan,
he was open to do his best to advertise and attract visitors to every
place in turn in the glorious Bernese Oberland.
In that spirit Mr. Gordon Mitchell watched the course of events. He
was one of those old-young travellers, wanderers to and fro across
Europe, who loved to see young folk enjoy themselves, and, though
something of an old fogey and stickler for etiquette, could perform to
perfection the duties of a floor-manager of any ballroom. Indeed, his
performances upon the drum in an amateur band were well known in every
resort in Switzerland.
At half-past three that afternoon, as Lady Wyndcliffe descended the
snowy steps to enter the big, yellow automobile of the Swiss Federal
Post--one of those long, powerful motor-cars of the mountains--Mr.
Mitchell, bare-headed, bowed over her hand and wished her _bon
voyage_.
“You have my address,” her ladyship said with a merry smile. “Now if
you don’t call on me, I’ll never forgive you, Mr. Mitchell! As I’ve
told you, I know lots of artistic friends of yours of the Savage and
the Ham Bone. You’ll call? Promise me. And do look after Sibell and
Brinsley for me, won’t you?” she added mischievously.
The others heard it, and were much impressed.
“We’ll look after Mr. Mitchell for you, auntie!” cried Sibell in
defiance, waving her hand merrily as Etta, in her magnificent sable
coat, climbed into the big autobus.
Shouts, hand-waves, and a low bow from the black frock-coated
concierge with keys upon his shoulders, and the post automobile, with
heavy chains on all four wheels, started down the steep, slippery hill
on the long, winding highroad to the Swiss capital.
Then, when Lady Wyndcliffe had gone, Sibell and her lover took a luge
and, seated together upon it, started down the steep run at an
exhilarating pace, both yelling “_Achtung!_” as warning to any
pedestrians in their path.
Yet all day Sibell could not put from herself the remembrance of that
dark man of mystery who, dressed as a cavalier, had told her such a
strange, remarkable story. A hundred times she wondered why he had
made that queer inquiry regarding the identity of Albert Ashe. What
could he know of her aunt’s butler?
At luncheon she had scrutinized every table, but had failed to
identify her masked informant. Some visitors had left by the early
morning autobus at eight o’clock, so she concluded that he must have
been among them.
She longed to be able to tell Brinsley of what the stranger had said,
but she saw that she would be compelled to await the cryptic message
in the personal column of _The Times_.
So the days passed--bright, sunlit days, with cloudless skies and
perfect snow, and frosty nights, brilliant and starlit, most perfect
weather for winter sports. At last one afternoon the post came in. She
saw the page carry _The Times_ to the reading-room, and pounced
eagerly upon it. Yes, the message was there at the top of the second
column, addressed to her. But it was in the negative.
Brinsley Otway was to be kept in ignorance of the plot against them!
That same afternoon was dark and rainy in London, as Lady Wyndcliffe
climbed the stairs of some bachelor chambers in Duke Street, St.
James’s, and rapped upon a door, which was quickly opened by her
ex-butler, Ashe.
“Well, Etta?” he asked, and, having ushered her into a cosy little
sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning, and placed a chair for
her, he said, “How did you get on?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the pretty woman wearily, throwing her
furs carelessly upon the couch. “The fact is, I haven’t screwed up
enough courage to face it.”
“What?” cried the man, glaring at her. “Don’t be a fool! Why, don’t
you see that every day brings us nearer disaster? Every hour! Suppose
he goes to the police? They’ll soon find you, and it will then be too
late for him to withdraw. You must see him to-night--at once.”
“I can’t! I--I really can’t,” cried the white-faced woman in
desperation. “Suppose he turns hostile, and gives me into custody?”
“He won’t do that if you are clever and don’t lose your head, Etta.
You know he was in love with you, and may still be for all we know,”
he said.
“Not after what has passed,” she replied, shaking her head. “I ruined
him!”
“He’s not the only man ruined by a woman, my dear girl,” replied Ashe
lightly. “Put on your best smile and a little sob-stuff, and he’ll
soon forgive. Tell him you have come to him to make amends.”
“How can I possibly make amends for it all?” she asked bitterly.
“Pretend penitence and make all sorts of promises,” he urged. “Get on
the right side of him, and he won’t harm you. But you must see him.
Don’t let him hunt you out. You are not at West Halkin Street, are
you?”
“No, I’m at the Grosvenor, under another name--Mrs. Wilcox.”
“As I’ve told you, he is at the Carlton,” said Ashe.
“No. He’s left there--gone to Manchester, and staying at the Midland.
I was told so this morning when I rang them up.”
“Then you must go to Manchester to-night. Stay at the Midland, and see
him in the morning. That’s my advice,” said the man, who was standing
with arms akimbo on the hearthrug before her.
“But what am I to say?” she cried in despair. “What can I say?”
“Say that you heard he was back in England, and that you travelled at
once from Switzerland to see him and to ask his forgiveness, and beg
him to allow bygones to be bygones. He’ll do so, no doubt, if you play
your cards cleverly. Once he becomes friendly, then we shall be able
to deal with him and settle accounts.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that, Albert. It horrifies me,” she cried,
covering her face with her hands, a habit of hers whenever she heard
anything unpleasant.
“Well, my dear girl, we’ve got to face the music, haven’t we? It’s no
use trying to evade the issue,” he said. “The first step is for you to
appease him. And in order to do so, you must follow him to Manchester.
Send a page to his room with a message that Mrs. Wilcox wishes to see
him on a private matter. When a strange woman calls upon a man, he
always becomes intrigued. Don’t announce yourself, as he might resent
it.”
“But he might refuse to see me,” she protested.
“He won’t. He’s essentially a lady’s man, as you know.”
“But is there no other way?” she asked. “I feel so terrified lest he
should call in the police and give me into custody. Think of the
scandal of it all!”
“He won’t do that, provided you give him the real sob-stuff. And you
know how to do that all right. I recollect one or two encounters you
had with Wyndcliffe. You’re a damned fine actress, Etta, when you
think it worth your while. And it is well worth it in this case, I
assure you. Upon your trip to Manchester depends the liberty of us
both, so the sooner you screw up courage the better.”
“Couldn’t you go and face him for me?”
“I!” cried the man, staring at her. “Why, I’d be bundled into the
police-station within five minutes. Dear Rupert doesn’t love me--and
never will!”
The woman paused for some minutes, her dark, apprehensive eyes gazing
thoughtfully into the fire.
“But how can I make it up with him?” she faltered at last in a dull,
broken voice quite unusual to her. “Think how I have treated him; of
the sacrifice he made for me!”
“Oh, don’t wax romantic, my dear Etta,” he laughed. “Simply ask his
forgiveness, say you still love him and all that, and----”
“And suppose he has discovered that I’ve married Wyndcliffe. What
then, eh?” she interrupted.
The man pulled a wry face, but, after a moment’s silence, replied:
“I don’t see how he can know. You did not use your own name when you
became Lady Wyndcliffe. Besides, you are Mrs. Wilcox, a widow, now.”
“But suppose he has discovered it, how am I to act?” she demanded.
“What excuse can I make?”
“He won’t have found it out--not yet, at least. Therefore if you act
at once and boldly you’ll hold all the honors in your hands. Take my
advice and leave by the diner to Manchester this evening, sleep calmly
at the Midland to-night, and look your prettiest and brace yourself up
for to-morrow morning.”
“I dread the ordeal, Albert,” declared the unhappy woman.
“I have no doubt you do, my dear girl. But, as I have already said, we
must call the music and Rupert must dance to our tune--if we are to
get out of this unholy tangle.”
“He may have seen my portrait in the illustrated papers,” she
remarked.
“No. He’s been in America all the time, in a place where he didn’t see
papers”--and he grinned.
The woman drew a long breath, and he noticed that her jaw was
twitching. Her nerves were unstrung. So he poured her out some brandy,
which she swallowed at a gulp.
“It all remains with you, Etta,” he said very seriously, putting his
hand upon her shoulder and bending over her. “Get him out of his
present hostile mood. Promise him everything--to return to America
with him if he wants you to do so; anything. Because once he resumes
his friendship--and he will do so if you play the game properly--then
all will be plain sailing for us in the future.”
“You mean--I know what you mean!” she whispered hoarsely, staring at
him with horrified eyes. “You mean that I am to--to lure him to his
death!”