OUR SINISTER WORLD
Soon after ten o’clock that night Mr. Ashe called at the Grosvenor
Hotel, and, inquiring for Mrs. Wilcox, was at once shown up to Etta’s
sitting-room.
The handsome woman, in a pale-mauve and silver dinner-frock, was
reclining upon a couch near the fire reading the evening paper.
“I’ve seen some of the prices fetched at the sale,” were her first
words as her ex-butler entered.
“Yes, fairly high, eh?” he said. “But how did you get on with Rupert?”
“Rotten,” she replied, suddenly raising herself and taking a cigarette
from the onyx box beside her.
“What do you mean?” asked the man, who did not take off his overcoat,
but cast himself into a chair after helping himself to a drink from
the decanter on the sideboard. “Why rotten?”
“I really can’t tell you, my dear Albert, but I’ve one of my psychic
feelings that all is not running as we expected it. There’s some grit
in the wheels of the machine somewhere.”
“H’m! You’re nervy! That’s evident! You women are so damned
unreliable, and you rat when it comes to a real pinch,” he growled,
lighting a cigarette which he took from her box.
“I’m not nervy at all, you fool! Only I have an intuition that things
don’t go as they should, and they won’t.”
“Funnily enough, as a matter of fact, I’ve the same notion, my dear
girl.”
Then he told her of the incident of the telegraph boy’s sudden seizure
at the Guest House and the sensation it had caused.
“The paper says nothing about it.”
“I suppose a mere boy who has a fit doesn’t matter to the papers. But
there you are--another remarkable and inexplicable circumstance. I’m
getting the wind up, I don’t mind telling you!”
“What! that you’ll also be stricken down?” laughed Etta, flicking her
cigarette-ash into the fire and glancing up at him with those magnetic
eyes of hers. “You’re a bit of a coward, my dear Albert, after all!”
“I’m not. But how are we going to put these turtledoves apart? That’s
what I want to know, and that’s what concerns us both,” said the
adventurer who had played so many parts successfully on both sides of
the Atlantic. “If we don’t act very soon, and with a strong and
relentless hand, then the wedding-bells at St. Margaret’s will be
playing a requiem to all our hopes and happy aspirations. Oh, it is
all too fearful for words! What does old Gordon Routh say?”
“Gordon! He’s a complete wash-out! A fine old sportsman across the
tables, I admit, but a white-livered old fossil when there is anything
really serious doing,” replied the adventuress, with whom so many
men--and girls, too--had had bitter reason to regret acquaintanceship.
Bearing the name of one of England’s oldest earldoms, she had not so
long ago been a bedecked decoy of the supergang of trans-Atlantic
card-sharpers, blackmailers, and confidence tricksters, and yet only a
year before in London she had presented two girls at Court and held
three big balls at Claridge’s. How strange our everyday world has now
become--our world where honest folk of both sexes are elbowed out by
food profiteers, _escrocs_, and adventuresses.
Truly our octopus London is increasingly amazing. Its greedy struggle
for Press notoriety at so much a paragraph is astounding, while its
open immorality is fast approaching that of the ancient orgies of
Rome. Yet nobody cares.
The seasons come and go, “Little” and “High,” in which innocent girls
of all classes, from the highest to the lowest, are ever sacrificed
upon the altar of Mammon--with perhaps a big car thrown in. The
invention of the motor-car introduced a new medium for immorality, for
the young man’s car is usually a bird-cage, while the rich old man
cages his young bird in its beautifully upholstered interior.
The schemers sat silent, smoking, and looking into the glowing fire.
It was upon the tip of Ashe’s tongue to mention having seen that
mysterious man of execrations who had given the name of Bettinson.
Being a wise person, he resolved to keep his knowledge to himself.
From without, in the rainy night came the noise of taxis and throbbing
motor-buses in the station square, that racket and shouting which is
always consequent upon railway arrivals and departures.
The comfortable Grosvenor, the jumping-off place for the Continent,
patronized by worldly London and the provinces, is a place where, in
the hall, everyone of note meets everyone else of note going to and
fro to the ends of the earth. The square hall, in which laughter is
rife all day and hot tears are shed morning and evening, is the common
meeting-ground for those journeying eastward, whether to Paris, India,
or Japan.
Ashe glanced at the green marble timepiece and rose. He was uneasy and
did not concentrate.
“Going so soon?” Etta asked. “Why? I’m alone. Do remain and keep me
company.”
“No, my dear Etta. I’m awfully sorry, but I have a special
appointment,” replied the man. “When you’ve seen Rupert again let me
know at once. Have you heard from Wyndcliffe?”
“I had a letter last night from Boston. He’s on some wild-goose
financial scheme, as usual. It seems that somebody named Schendel is
buying up all the candy stores in the States, and wants Wyndcliffe to
be chairman of the company. A big swindle, I expect, like that Stream
Line Motors, of Detroit. Personally, I don’t trust any of those
financial propositions. I like to see cash down on the table,” she
said.
Then, tapping her cigarette, in its long tortoise-shell holder, she
looked up at him with half-closed, alluring eyes, and laughed.
“I agree, Etta, dollar bills or treasury notes are far better than
being left by these share-pushers to nurse the baby.”
“Oh! Let’s discuss the future,” she said impatiently.
“Well, what about it?” Ashe asked.
The pretty woman shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“You haven’t rid yourself of your incubus yet,” he said, regarding
her.
“Oh, that ass, Rupert! I don’t know really what to do.”
“You surely do. I’ve told you what to do a hundred times, my dear
girl.”
“No! Not that!” she cried frantically, with a look of horror on her
face. “Not that!”
“Well, you want to discuss the future,” the broad-shouldered man went
on. “As far as I can see, we are both completely in the cart with our
assets each hour slipping away from us. Think of to-day’s
sale--thousands of pounds profit which ought to be ours. And they
haven’t yet touched the really good things--tapestries or pictures.”
“I agree, my dear Albert. It’s all rotten and very disappointing.”
“You’ve only yourself to blame, Etta. You haven’t yet got rid of
Rupert, and also you’ve let the turtledoves coo too long.”
The woman stirred uneasily from her couch, and, tearing her
cigarette-end out of its holder, flung it viciously into the fire.
“Give me a drink,” she said, and obediently he crossed and mixed one,
afterwards watching her as she drank it.
“We must have money, Albert,” she said, after taking a good gulp of
her brandy-and-soda.
“Certainly we must,” replied the man. “You’ve never been squeamish in
the old days, eh?” And he laughed lightly. “You’re a really wonderful
woman, Etta, when you put your fine wits to work.”
“Bah! Don’t flatter me,” she replied in a hard, determined voice. “Let
us both face the music and just discern a way out,” she went on. “If
Sibell died, then all the estate would go to Gordon Routh and----”
“And old Gordon would chuck it all away at Monte in a single season,”
Ashe interrupted.
“Agreed. But supposing nothing happened to Sibell--except what might
possibly occur in that accursed old house of hers, and there one never
knows what might take place--and she married Gussie Gretton? What
then?”
“Easy as melting ice,” laughed Ashe. “Gussie is the biggest rotter I
know, immensely rich, for his father made hundreds of thousands with
his chain of cheap tailors’ shops--reach-me-down, ready-for-service
shoddy suits sold at big profits. His headquarters was a
brilliantly-lit shop in the Whitechapel Road, where he began life in a
back room, a Pole whose name was Grabov. His son, who has washed his
hands of all sartorial dealings, is a wealthy and eligible bachelor, a
member of the Bachelors’ and White’s, with a flat in Park Lane.”
“I only wish I could see them marry,” exclaimed Etta wholeheartedly.
“We’d have twenty thousand to divide at the very least. Perhaps more.
I’d try and push up a bit more of course. Gussie is awfully keen on
her, as we both know.”
“Then let’s make another effort, and try to do it,” said the woman.
“You can, my dear Etta, but I can’t. Use all your woman’s wits and
your influence to get Otway back to his beloved practice once and for
all. Get old Gordon into our swim, as there’s certainly something for
him out of it, My great, God-fearing aunt! Fancy letting a cool ten
thousand slip through one’s fingers. It’s really criminal!”
“Quite so. But I want to put a serious question to you, Albert,” said
the woman, rising to her feet and facing him earnestly. “Have you any
idea--or even any suspicion--of the basis of that extraordinary evil
which asserts itself at the Guest House? To what can it be due? Now,
tell me the truth, for we are both afloat on the same tide, and I
admit I’m mystified.”
“I tell you the honest truth,” replied the man who was her associate.
“I am just as mystified as you are. I can’t see any solution of the
problem. Why should that poor telegraph boy fall down in a fit to-day,
for example? The whole affair is most amazing, astounding, and
uncanny. You see, even Otway was taken ill, yet no woman has ever been
affected! That to me is the most puzzling point in the whole weird
affair.”
“If women were affected, then perhaps Sibell might--well, feel its
sinister influence,” the woman said after a pause. “The caretaker died
after the incantations of that mysterious old stranger, who is
apparently the unknown evil genius of the place.”
“I confess that it’s all beyond me,” Ashe declared. “I’m not usually
nervy, as you well know. But I admit that I shouldn’t like to enter
that accursed house. I’m a bit too sinful perhaps”; and he grinned.
“Nor should I,” laughed Etta grimly, while the man drained his glass
and announced that he really must go.
“Look here, Etta,” he added, taking up his hat and buttoning his black
evening overcoat. “At all hazards get rid of Rupert. Send him back,
bury him, do whatever you like with him. But while he’s here a danger
exists every moment--the danger of him finding out that you’re
Wyndcliffe’s wife. It isn’t a savory theme, is it?”
“And you’re going to leave me to face everything, eh?” she cried
suddenly, her eyes flashing.
“Not at all, my dear girl. I’m going to work at once in our mutual
interests as I’ve always done. You are an English peeress, and I’m
only your abusive butler. Funny, isn’t it? How the people in the
States would laugh if they knew how you and I have pulled the legs of
exclusive London Society, and you at Court too!” And he added: “Well,
good-night, Etta, dear. We’ve always been pals, and we always will
remain so”; and then, suddenly taking her slim, white hand, he bent
over it with a studied courtesy and kissed it.
“Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox,” he said, laughing. “But do get a move on
and in the direction we are agreed. Get the lovers back and play chess
with them--as you’ve done before”; and he went out.
Otway and Sibell had delayed their return to London for a week, for he
had arranged with his locumtenens to carry on until the date of his
arrival back at Golder’s Green. To both it was a great disappointment
that Lord Wyndcliffe’s beautiful villa was not to be reopened that
season. On several occasions they had been up to it, and had taken tea
upon the great, broad terrace, with its climbing flowers and gorgeous
views of the green Estrelles and the ever-changing Mediterranean,
sometimes sapphire-colored, sometimes grey, or at other times the deep
color of lapis lazuli. The two old French servants, husband and wife,
had served them with tea, and in the gardens they had picked the
orange-blossoms--emblem of marriage--and the violets, daffodils, and
yellow mimosa to carry back to the hotel. Life for them was certainly
one of exquisite bliss, their hearts beating ever in unison, and their
own little world confined to their own whims and pleasures of the
moment.
One day, having been over to the Municipal Casino at Nice to an
afternoon dance, Sibell, on her return in the evening, suddenly
discovered that she had lost a little chain-bracelet set with
turquoises, a birthday present from her mother in her school-days.
Next morning Brinsley left to go back to Nice to try and recover it
from the lost-property office at the Casino; when, on descending into
the lounge, Sibell met a girl she instantly recognised, Marigold
Ibbetson, one of her old schoolfellows at Cheltenham College, whom she
had not seen for three years.
Their meeting was cordial, and they took their _petit déjeuner_
together.
“I’ve been here over a week,” laughed the auburn-haired, rather
good-looking girl. “Auntie is not very well to-day, and she’s not
coming down till luncheon. I thought it was you, but only last night I
asked the concierge your name, and he told me. Well, and how has the
world been treating you, old girl?”
“Oh, not so badly. I’ve been travelling a lot,” Sibell replied. “My
aunt, Lady Wyndcliffe, who has a villa here, was to meet me, but she
hasn’t turned up--gone to America instead.”
“Meet you, eh?” laughed the slim, well-dressed girl. “You mean both of
you--you and your fiancé?”
“How did you know?” inquired the girl quickly.
They had just left the hotel and were out in the flower-garden.
“Because I’ve watched you, and it is obvious. I congratulate you,
Sibell. Who is he?”
Her friend told her, speaking enthusiastically as may be well
imagined. And as they walked down the gravelled drive to the road,
they were joined by a tall, long-limbed, plain girl, to whom Sibell
was introduced. Her name was Moyna Lascelles, who had been at
Cheltenham after Sibell had left.
As they took a pleasant stroll along the Croisette together, Moyna
suddenly turned to Sibell and congratulated her upon her engagement to
Brinsley Otway.
“As a matter of fact, I know Brinsley quite well,” the girl said.
“When he was at the Hospital School he was an intimate friend of my
brother Fred, and very often he spent week-ends with us at Thames
Ditton. But please don’t say a word, because of a very tragic
circumstance. Promise me you won’t, eh?”
“Yes, I’ll promise of course,” Sibell said.
“Well, one evening he took out to a dance at a riverside hotel a girl
named Peterson, who lived opposite in a house-boat with her parents,
who were music-hall artistes. On the way back the boat capsized, and
the poor girl was drowned. He swam to save her, but the current proved
too strong, and he narrowly escaped with his own life.”
“He has never told me that,” Sibell said.
“Perhaps not,” laughed the girl. “That’s why Brinsley is such a good
fellow. My pal Jack Cranston, the cross-channel air-pilot, who is here
with my mother, is his friend, and he tells me what a fine fellow he
is. I hear he’s a good dancer too.”
Sibell only smiled at hearing such laudation of her fiancé. It
comforted and gratified her, as it certainly would any girl whose
lover was her ideal. And what girl of any class exists who has no
ideal of a gallant and strong lover who will hold her in his arms and
fight for her until death?
Men may be deceivers ever, but a woman’s heart, once won, is the great
and incomparable gem which crowns human life, true and unbending in
adversity or prosperity until the parting by death.
Alas! that men are so egotistical, so self-confident, that they so
frequently leave women to weep over the burden of their overbearance,
and their illogical misunderstanding of woman’s heart.