It was not often we permitted ourselves such luxuries, but as we left
the theatre I caught a glimpse of Isobel's white face, more clearly
visible now than in the dimly lit box, and I knew that, bravely though
she had carried herself through the whole of that trying evening, she
was not far from breaking down. So I called a hansom, and she sank back
in a corner with a little sigh of relief. I lit a cigarette, and
suddenly I felt a cold little hand steal into mine. I set my teeth and
held it firmly.
"Arnold," she whispered, and her voice was none too steady, "I hate that
woman. I do not care if she is my aunt; and--Arnold----"
"Yes."
"I believe that she hates me too. She looks at me as though I were
something unpleasant, as though she wished me dead. I will not go to
her, Arnold. Say that I shall not."
For a moment I was silent. Her little womanish airs of the last few
months, the quaint effort of dignity with which it seemed to have
pleased her to add all that was possible to her years, had wholly
departed. She was a child again, with frightened eyes and quivering
lips, the child who had walked so easily into our hearts in those first
days of her terror. To think of her as such again was almost a relief.
"Dear Isobel," I said, "the Archduchess has told me now two different
stories concerning you. She appears to be very anxious to have you in
her care, but her methods up to the present have been very strange. We
shall not give you up to her unless we are obliged. But----"
"Please what, Arnold?" she interrupted anxiously.
"If the Archduchess is indeed your aunt, as she says she is, you must
have hundreds of other relations, many of whom you would without doubt
find very different people. Besides, in that case, you see, Isobel, you
ought to be living altogether differently. It is absurd for you to be
grubbing along with us in an attic when you ought to be living in a
palace, with plenty of money and servants and beautiful frocks, and all
that sort of thing. You understand me, don't you?" I concluded a little
lamely, for the steady gaze of those deep blue frightened eyes was a
little disconcerting.
"No, I do not," she answered. "If I am a Waldenburg and the niece of the
Archduchess, why was I left alone at that convent for all those years,
and who was responsible for sending that man to fetch me away--that
terrible man? How are they going to explain that, these wonderful
relations of mine? Oh, Arnold, Arnold!" she cried, suddenly swaying over
towards me in the cab, "I don't want to leave you--all. Do not send me
away. Promise that you will not!"
A child, I told myself fiercely, a mere child this! Nevertheless I was
thankful for the darkness of the silent street into which we had turned,
the darkness which hid my face from her. Her soft breath was upon my
cheek, her beautiful head very near my shoulder. Oh, I had need of all
my strength, of all my common-sense.
"Dear Isobel," I said, looking straight ahead of me out of the cab, "I
cannot make you any promise. All must depend upon what Monsieur
Feurgéres tells us to-night. Nothing would make me--all of us--happier
than to keep you with us always. But it may not be our duty to keep you,
or yours to stay. Until we have heard Feurgéres' story we are in the
dark."
She shrank, as it seemed, into herself. Her eyes followed mine
hauntingly.
"Arnold," she said, with a little tremor in her tone, "you are not very
kind to me to-night, and I feel--that I want--people to be kind to me
just now."
I bent down, and I raised her hands to my lips and kissed them.
"My dear child," I said, "don't forget that I am your guardian, and I
have to think for you--a long way ahead. As for the rest, I have not a
single thought or hope in life which is not concerned for your
happiness."
"I like that better," she murmured; "but--you are very fond of my
hands."
Fortunately the cab pulled up with a jerk. I paid the man, and we
commenced to climb up the stone steps towards our rooms. Isobel, who was
generally a couple of flights ahead, slipped her hand through my arm and
leaned heavily upon me.
"Arnold," she whispered, "why would you not read your story to me. Tell
me, please!"
"My dear child!" I exclaimed, "what made you think of that just now?"
She leaned forward. I think that she was trying to look into my face.
"Never mind! Please tell me," she begged.
"I will read it some day," I answered. "It is so incomplete. I think I
shall have to rewrite it."
She shook her head.
"You have always read to me before just as you have written it. I think
that you are not quite so nice to me, Arnold, as you were. I haven't
done anything that you do not like, have I? Because I am sure that you
are different!"
"You absurd child," I answered, smiling at her as cheerfully as I could.
"You are in an imaginative frame of mind to-night."
"It is not that! You look at me differently, you do not seem to want to
have me with you so much, and----"
I stopped her. We had reached the fourth floor, where our apartments
were. With the key in the lock I turned and faced her for a moment. She
was as tall as I, and a certain grace of carriage which she had always
possessed, and which had grown with her years, redeemed her completely
from the _gaucherie_ of her uncomfortable age. Her features had gained
in strength, and lost nothing in delicacy. She wore even her simple
clothes with the nameless grace which must surely have come to her from
inheritance. I spoke to her then seriously. Yet if I had tried I could
not have kept the kindness from my tone.
"Dear Isobel," I said, "if there is any difference--think! A year ago
you were a child. To-day you are a woman. You must understand that, side
by side with the pleasure of having you with us--the greatest pleasure
that has ever come into our lives, Isobel--has come a certain amount of
responsibility."
"I am becoming a trouble to you, then!" she exclaimed breathlessly.
"A trouble, Isobel!"
I suppose I weakened for a moment. Some trick of tone or expression must
have let in the daylight, for she suddenly held out her hands with a
soft little cry. And then as she stood there, her eyes shining, the old
delightful smile curving her lips, the door before which she stood was
thrown open, and Arthur stood there. He had on his hat and coat, and I
saw at once that he was not himself. His cheeks were flushed with anger,
and he looked at us with a black frown.
"So you've come back, then!" he exclaimed. "Allan and I got tired of
waiting. Just in time to say good-bye, Isobel. I'm off!"
"Off? But where?" she asked, looking at him in surprise.
I left them, and passed on into our studio sitting-room, where Mabane
was filling his pipe.
"What's the matter with Arthur?" I asked.
"Off his chump," Allan answered gravely. "Don't take any notice of him."
Isobel and he were still talking together. Arthur's voice was a little
raised--then it suddenly dropped.
"I think," Allan said, "that you had better interfere. Arthur has lost
his temper. I am afraid----"
"He will break the compact?" I exclaimed.
"I am afraid so!"
I stepped back into the little hall. They were talking together
earnestly. Arthur looked up and glared at me.
"Arthur," I said, "Allan and I want a few words with you before you
go--if you are going out to-night."
"In a moment," he answered. "I have something to say to Isobel."
But Isobel had gone. He looked for a moment at the door of her room
through which she had vanished, and then he turned on his heel and
followed me. He threw his hat upon the table and faced us both
defiantly.
"It is I," he said, "who have something to say to you, and I'd like to
get it over quick. D--n your hypocritical compact, Arnold Greatson!
There! You're in love with Isobel! Any fool can see it, and you want to
keep the child all to yourself."
Allan took a quick step forward, but I held out my hand.
"Don't interfere, Allan," I said. "Let him say all that he has to say."
"I mean to!" Arthur continued, "and I hope you'll like it. The compact
was a fraud from beginning to end, and I'll have no more to do with it.
Isobel's too old to live here with you fellows, and I'm going to ask her
to marry me. I'm going to advise her to go and stay with Lady Delahaye,
who wants her, and I'm going to marry her from there if she'll have me."
"Lady Delahaye," I repeated thoughtfully. "You have been in
communication with her, have you?"
"Yes, I have! And I think she's right. Isobel ought to have some women
friends. She may have enemies, but I'm not so sure about that. Lady
Delahaye isn't one of them, at any rate. The people who want to get her
away from here may be her best friends, after all."
"Is that all, Arthur?"
"It's enough, isn't it?" he answered doggedly.
"Quite! Now listen," I said. "To-night we are going to hear Isobel's
history. We are going to know who she is, and all about her. Stay with
us, and you shall share the knowledge. As for the rest, you have been
talking like a fool. We do not wish to take you seriously. We took up
the charge of Isobel jointly. If the time has come now for us to give
her up, I should like us all to be in agreement. It is very likely that
the time has come. I, too, think that in many ways it would be for her
benefit. We are prepared to give her up when we know the proper people
to undertake the care of her--but never, Arthur, to Lady Delahaye."
Arthur smiled slowly, but it was not a pleasant smile.
"Ah!" he said, "I forgot. Lady Delahaye is an old friend of yours, isn't
she?"
"Your insinuations are childish, Arthur," I answered. "Lady Delahaye is
an old friend of the Archduchess's, and their interest in Isobel is
identical. For many reasons I am going to know Isobel's history before I
give her up to either of them."
"And who is going to tell it to you?" he asked.
"Feurgéres," I answered. "He sent for us at the theatre to-night. He is
coming on here."
There was a sharp tapping at the door. I moved across the room to open
it. Arthur threw his hat upon the table.
"I will wait!" he declared.