THE DOWNWARD STEP
The Myrtles at Cookham was, after all, a dull, damp place in March,
with the mists hanging all day over the Thames, the trees leafless,
the garden pretty in summer of course, but leaf-strewn, with rough
lawn and weedy paths, in winter. After the gaiety of Cannes it was to
Sibell terribly depressing.
With her Aunt Etta supposed to be away in America with her husband,
and Brinsley back at his practice in Golder’s Green, she led a life of
daily boredom, listening to old Gordon Routh’s many complaints, as to
both depleted finance and his failing health.
Worn-out gamester that he was, he sat every evening over the wood-fire
in the cottage sitting-room asking questions about the Rooms at Monte,
the play, and the nightly sensation of high stakes and great losses,
for the Administration of the Society of Sea-baths always take their
lion’s share.
“Yes,” he said one stormy evening while the wind howled round the old
house, and the rain beat heavily about the windows, “Monte Carlo can’t
be the same as when Prince Albert ruled it. Nowadays Monaco has fallen
into the hands of the big speculators. First Zaharoff and his friends,
and now speculating friends of theirs. No! It can’t be the same. The
rich Russians who lived on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, and who
were the real players, are no longer there. They get no big coups as I
knew them in the ’nineties, when Saturday nights were nights indeed.”
“You had your fling there, according to all accounts!” the girl
laughed, looking up from the evening paper, warming her shapely feet
upon the fender.
“I did. Then I got something for my money, in any case. To-day they
seem in the public rooms to play what, in the old days, we might class
as shove-ha’penny in any of our village pubs. Of course, I suppose
stakes run a bit higher in the Cercle Privé!”
“They do,” said the girl, and for the next half-hour she described to
him the Monte Carlo as it is to-day.
Every evening it was the same terrible boredom. By day the girl took
long tramps alone over those wet, dismal roads up and down the
lonesome hills, or else sat and wrote long letters to Brinsley. Then
at evening she sat over the fire to gossip with the old hunchback, who
always deplored his own bad luck at _trente-et-quarante_.
So bored did she become that one day, with old Routh’s permission, she
wrote to Moyna Lascelles, who lived near Birmingham, to come and spend
the week-end with her.
Since that day at Cannes the two girls had become firm friends, and
since Sibell’s return, they had met twice in town and lunched
together. So, in order to further cement their friendship, Sibell sent
the invitation, which was at once accepted, old Gordon Routh
expressing delight that Sibell should have found such a congenial
companion.
The Guest House had meanwhile been cleared of its contents, and the
decorators were hard at work cleaning, repainting, and papering the
interior, planing and polishing the oaken floors, putting in fittings
for electric cooking and light, new baths, central heating, and every
modern labor-saving contrivance; while outside, the builders were at
work removing the overgrowth of ivy from the red bricks, which they
scraped and repointed. They reconditioned both lead-work and tiles on
the roof, and the woodwork of window-sashes and doors.
Ten thousand pounds had already been placed to Sibell’s credit at the
bank by the lawyers, therefore all went merrily, and, thanks to the
girl’s generosity, old Gordon Routh found himself free from household
expenses and certain little debts he had contracted in that pretty
riparian village.
Brinsley’s habit was to ring her up each night at nine o’clock, after
he came in from his heavy day’s work, before he sat down to his lonely
evening meal. One night the bell went at half-past seven, just as they
were sitting down to dinner.
Sibell rushed to the ’phone, only to hear bad news. Brinsley’s widowed
mother, who lived outside Carlisle, had been taken suddenly ill, and
he had been telegraphed for.
“I’ve managed to arrange for my absence with a chap I know named
Lancaster, who is coming here to-night,” he said. “He was with me at
the hospital, and it’s awfully fortunate that I could get hold of him.
So I’m leaving Euston late to-night, darling. I’ll let you know by
wire to-morrow.”
“But, my darling Brin, how sudden! I expected you would meet Moyna
with me at the Trocadero for lunch to-morrow. We’re both horribly
disappointed. But, of course, I realize how very worried you must be,
dearest. I do hope you’ll find your mother better. Wire me in the
morning, won’t you?”
“Of course, darling. I’m so sorry I cannot lunch with you, for I, too,
was so looking forward to seeing you. But there you are! It can’t be
helped,” he said.
And then, after some comforting words, her fiancé wished her
good-night, and the conversation ended.
On returning to the little dining-room, she related what Otway had
told her, but, in her ignorance, she never realized the strange look
which overspread Moyna’s countenance.
“How very unfortunate!” she exclaimed. “We’ll postpone our trip to
town till he’s back.”
And in that way the question was settled.
“What a glorious ring yours is!” remarked Moyna, when the two girls
were seated beside the fire after dinner. “By Jove! it must have cost
an awful lot,” she added, taking her friend’s hand and admiring it. “I
wish I had one like it!”
“I expect it cost a good sum,” Sibell replied. “It’s a real good
birthday gift, isn’t it?”
At breakfast next morning old Gordon Routh received a business letter
which necessitated his presence for a couple of days in London, and at
his suggestion, the two girls accompanied him, arriving at the Hotel
Cecil just after tea.
Gordon Routh’s habit had been to stay there through many years;
indeed, ever since that colossal hotel on the Embankment had been
opened. Routh took his own favorite room on the fourth floor, while
the girls had two rooms on the floor beneath.
After taking tea together in the great palm court, the old man rose,
expressing regret that he would have to leave for his appointment.
“I don’t expect I’ll see you again to-night, girls, for no doubt I’ll
be late. I’m not dressing for dinner. You’ll be able to amuse
yourselves--go to a cinema or something, eh?”
And then he left them seated to watch the dancing.
“What shall we do?” asked Sibell of her friend. “How about a theatre?
We can dine as early as we like, and so on. What would you like to
see?”
After some discussion, they decided to go to the Haymarket, and Sibell
obtained tickets at the box-office agency in the hotel. Afterwards
they went upstairs, dressed leisurely, and about seven o’clock
descended to the great grill-room for dinner. Sibell looked extremely
charming--as, indeed, she always did--in a dainty frock of one of the
new shades of green which she had had made for Gurnigel, while her
rather saucy-faced girl friend was in black.
At table their conversation turned upon women’s charm. Sibell declared
that, while the cult of beauty through the media of face-powders,
lip-sticks, and massage has attracted notice, the effect of emotions
and temperament as a connecting-link in its development had been
entirely overlooked.
They were sitting at one of the side-tables in the long windows which
by day overlook the busy Embankment and the Thames, but, now that the
blinds were drawn, the spot was warm and cozy, being out of the
hearing of the many other diners.
“I agree with you, my dear, to a certain extent,” replied her
new-found friend. “Of course the first asset of good looks is good
health. I’ve a pretty fair constitution, but I certainly haven’t any
good looks. So I can’t help it”; and she laughed.
“But don’t you think that everyone’s character is reflected in one’s
face, both in men and women?” Sibell asked. “However good a face may
be in form or feature, it is chiefly the expression of it that
attracts or repels. One’s face is surely the mirror of one’s mind,
hence no beautiful character can be ugly in expression.”
“And yet one must not forget that old adage that beauty is but skin
deep,” Moyna remarked, as she finished her filleted sole and raised
her glass of Chablis.
“I hardly agree with that,” Sibell declared. “Gloomy faces always
reflect gloomy minds, and disappointment shows its indelible mark in
our wrinkles, which are an indication of a despondent outlook.”
“You seem uncommonly philosophical to-night,” laughed her friend,
toying with her glass.
“Well, perhaps I am. Only I’ve been thinking over it all to-day.”
“Depressed because Brinsley is not with us, eh, Sibell?”
“Not exactly. I’m only thinking that fear, grief, and worry are
depressing and must impair the digestion and deplete the vitality.”
“Well, my dear, you’ve nothing to worry about, lucky girl that you
are!” exclaimed the other. “Your happy outlook should help all your
mental and physical ills. For indeed joy is the greatest tonic and
beautifier, and you should surely have enough of it--with a big
fortune at your disposal and a handsome lover into the bargain!”
Scarcely had she uttered those words, than both girls, at the same
moment, became conscious of a tall man in evening dress standing
smiling before them.
“Well, Sibell!” he exclaimed cheerily. “I can hardly believe my eyes!
Is it really you?”
The girl addressed looked up in surprise, and instantly recognized the
broad-shouldered, good-humored man who held out his hand so frankly.
“How are you?” she asked in amazement, taking his proffered hand.
“Quite all right, my dear Sibell. I was sitting over yonder, and
chanced to see you here. I thought you were on the Riviera with your
aunt.”
“I’ve been there, but, as you see, I’m back again.” Then, glancing
towards her companion, she asked: “May I introduce you to an old
friend of mine, Mr. Gretton?”
The girl smiled as the man bowed, and then he asked if he might have a
chair at their table, adding: “I’ve finished, and I’m just off. What
are you doing?”
“Going to the Haymarket,” Sibell replied.
“I’m at a loose end. Can’t I come with you?” he asked. “As a matter of
fact, I’m staying here.”
“So are we,” said Moyna. “I’ve never been here before, but it seems to
be Mr. Routh’s pet haunt.”
“I’m often here,” he laughed. “I’ve let my rooms in St. James’s
because I’ve been across to New York on business, so I’m pushed out
here till next week-end.”
“Auntie is over in America. Lord Wyndcliffe is ill, and she’s joined
him,” Sibell said.
“So you’re back at Cookham again, I suppose,” laughed the middle-aged,
rather good-looking man, who was so well known about town as an
eligible bachelor. “I saw your aunt at Lady Deepdene’s a few weeks
ago, but she told me nothing about Wyndcliffe’s illness.”
“You really don’t want to go to the Haymarket, do you?” asked Sibell,
wishing in her heart to get rid of him.
“I do. Really I do! I’ve wanted to see the piece. If I may come, I’ll
be delighted. I’ll run up and get a seat before it’s too late.”
Then, hardly ere the girl had given her permission, he was on his
feet, striding out of the restaurant.
“An awfully nice man!” Moyna remarked.
“Yes,” replied Sibell. “But he’s a bit of an ass--one of those who
think that every woman is in love with him.”
“H’m. That’s the conclusion I’ve already formed. But, after all, he’ll
be company for us to-night, won’t he?”
And she produced her long tortoise-shell cigarette-tube and began to
smoke.
Gussie Gretton soon returned, his face wreathed in smiles. He had
secured a stall in the same row as theirs, and, after he had given
them coffee and liqueurs in the lounge, he took them in a taxi to the
theatre. He was, of course, compelled to sit apart from them, but when
he rejoined them at the fall of the curtain, he suggested:
“Now what about a spot of supper and a dance, Sibell? That is, of
course, if you don’t think Otway would object. I’ve never met him, but
I hear he’s a real good sort.”
The girls looked at each other in indecision, which he saw at once.
“Come to the Florida. It’s always cheery there. There’s a glass floor,
and good food. Come along, girls.”
“Shall we?” asked Moyna. “I’d love it! Do come, Sibell.”
And so, having got their wraps, they drove round to Bruton Mews to
taste the delights of one of the most exclusive dance clubs in London.
Gussie Gretton, being one of the club’s chief supporters, was at once
received by a dapper little _sous-maître d’hôtel_, who was none
other than Giovanni Savini, the friend of Albert Ashe. He piloted the
trio to a cozy walled-off corner, where a table was set for four, with
softly shaded lights, spotless napery, and a big central bowl of
Emperor daffodils.
Already a few couples were dancing upon the glass floor to one of the
best orchestras in London.
The evergreen and dandified Gussie, having nodded acquaintance with a
bald-headed old earl who was supping with one of the principal and
most daring dancers in a Parisian revue, at once ordered cocktails,
and then examined the menu with the eye of the gourmet.
He ordered a delicious little meal with the inner knowledge of one
well versed in London life, a meal which he knew would well suit the
palates of his two charming guests. And hardly had he ordered it than
he invited Sibell to dance.
She could scarcely refuse, because they were old friends. Gussie was
one of her Aunt Etta’s pets, who went to and fro at her bidding. Yet,
be it said, he had never known of her trans-Atlantic past, nor did
Sibell, innocent girl that she was.
Her only thought that night was of her lover Brinsley and his terrible
worry beside his mother’s bed. She had waited, but heard nothing from
him, yet she still hoped that on her return to the Cecil she would
receive a wire.
All three ate a merry supper together. Gussie was in his best form,
telling them risqué stories of scandals in London Society and of the
world of New York from which he had just returned.
“But, I say, Sibell,” he said suddenly, “what is that all concerning
the house that you and Otway are to be doomed to live in? There’s been
an awful lot about it in the papers.” And he placed another strong
cocktail before her.
“I know nothing except what I hear. As far as I can ascertain, it
seems to be all bunkum!” was her honest reply.
“Of course it is, my dear Sibell!” he laughed, raising his glass to
her. “Here’s the best of luck to you.”
Clean-living and abstemious girl that she was, the cocktails she had
taken were sadly muddling her, though she did not realize it.
Insidious drinks did not affect Moyna, for she was used to them, but
in the ordinary way a single glass of port always caused Sibell’s head
to reel.
Suddenly, just as he had invited her to dance a foxtrot, he
ejaculated:
“Oh, what a lovely ring you have there! A present from Otway, I’ll
wager, eh? Do let me see it! I love gems--and especially emeralds. Do
take it off.”
She did as he suggested, and under the shaded light he ran it to and
fro before his eyes, admiring its multicolored flashes, for the three
gems were certainly perfect specimens.
“I’d love to examine it again after the dance. May I?” he asked. “I’m
mad on emeralds, as you know,” and, so saying, he slipped the ring
into his waistcoat pocket and they both passed out upon the glass
floor to dance, Sibell’s brain being awhirl because of the potent
cocktails.