Mrs. Vanderstein and Barbara hurried over their dinner and were early in
their places in Covent Garden. Mrs. Vanderstein always arrived before
the orchestra had tuned up. She had, like many of her race, a great
appreciation of music and did not like to miss a bar of the overture,
even though she had already heard the opera that was being given so
often that she knew it by heart.
She felt very much in a mood to enjoy herself that evening, and till the
first act was over leant back in her chair with half-closed eyes, hardly
moving at all, and absolutely absorbed in listening to the wonderful
singers who were that night interpreting Puccini's melodious work. Even
the Royal box opposite barely distracted her attention for more than a
few moments.
Barbara Turner was not musical, but she, too, was always pleased to
go to the opera. She liked the sensation of luxury, which enveloped
her there even more than elsewhere; she liked the feeling that the
entertainment offered them was costing a huge amount of money, and
therefore could only be witnessed by a privileged few. Although she
laughed at Mrs. Vanderstein's passion for Royalty, she shared her
simple satisfaction in the knowledge that the box in which they were
now sitting was sandwiched between that occupied by the Duke of
Mellinborough on their left, and the one tenanted by Sir Ian Fyves, the
sporting Scotch millionaire.
Barbara rejoiced in the exclusiveness obtainable by the rich, therein
differing from some other people who depreciate the advantages of wealth
on the grounds that the largest fortunes may be made and handled by
the most vulgar, and that banking accounts are not in these days the
exclusive property of the refined, or even of the intellectual.
Mrs. Vanderstein made no secret of the benefit to her health derived
from hours spent in the closest proximity to the aristocracy, the air
inhaled by a duchess being separated from that which filled her own
lungs merely by the thinnest of partitions. She invariably occupied the
chair on the left-hand side of the box, so that the space between her
and her unseen neighbours might be thought of in terms of inches; and
it cannot be denied that Barbara herself relished the thought of the
company of the great who surrounded her, heedless though they might be
of the pleasure they were providing. It was not really to be expected,
besides, that the nearness of Sir Ian Fyves, whose horse had already
so easily won the Derby the year before, and who was again the lucky
owner of the favourite for the coming contest, should leave unmoved the
daughter of Bill Turner, the trainer.
All Barbara's childhood had been passed at Newmarket, and the talk of
the racing men with whom her father associated had been the first to
fall on her infantile ears. The horses in his charge had grown to be
her chief interest in life, as they were that of every one she was
brought in contact with; and at the age of ten she knew as much about
them--their points, prowess, value, and chances--as any stable boy on
the place. On a small but truculent pony she followed her father and
his friends to the heath in the early mornings and watched the morning
gallops with a critical eye; with the same edifying companions she
pottered about the stableyard during most of the rest of the day, and
only when bed-time came--and it came at eight o'clock, for on that one
point her father was firm--was she reluctantly torn away.
All Mr. Vanderstein's horses were trained by her father, and many a time
the childish eyes followed them to victory.
In earlier days, before Barbara had made her bow upon the scene, Turner
had been associated in various affairs of business with Mr. Vanderstein,
then plain Mr. Moses Stein, familiarly known to his intimates of those
days by the endearing nickname of Nosey Stein; sometimes in moments of
rare affection, when some particularly brilliant _coup_ had just been
brought off, he was alluded to as Nosey Posey.
Mrs. Vanderstein, then Miss Ruth Hengersohn, had changed all this. The
name of Stein was repugnant to her, though it seems a good enough sort
of appellation in its way; Nosey or Nosey Posey she could only think
of with a shudder; while the idea of being herself known as Mrs. Nosey
filled her with a burning determination, which, as it cooled, hardened
to the inflexible consistency of chilled steel.
Before their marriage took place, Mr. Stein, who always admiringly
recognised, when he met it, a will more adamant than his own, had at
great trouble, inconvenience, and expense changed his name for that of
Vanderstein, by which he was afterwards known.
The enterprises, chiefly connected with the promotion of companies,
in which this gentleman had, in his early, forgotten--and best
forgotten--youth, the assistance and co-operation of Mr. William Turner,
were in their nature precarious and not a source, unfortunately, of the
profit foreseen by those who set out upon them.
At the conclusion of one of them, indeed, things took on a very
unexpected complexion, assuming in the twinkling of an eye so
disagreeable a hue, that the directors of the company, whose management
was suddenly the centre of attraction and which was in danger of
receiving a most unwelcome, if flattering, attention from the
public prosecutor, thought it best to disappear with a rapidity and
unobtrusiveness highly creditable to a modest desire for self-effacement
at a moment when free advertisement was within the grasp of each of
them.
Luckily for Mr. Stein, his name did not appear among those who sat on
the board of this particular company and he was able to pursue his way
in a retiring and profitable manner; but it was otherwise with his less
fortunate friend, Bill Turner.
It was to the search for this worthy though too incautious person
that the efforts of the authorities were principally directed; and it
was only by returning once more, under an assumed name, to the racing
circles which he had during a short interval forsaken for the city,
and still further owing to the absence of the chief witness for the
prosecution, whose whereabouts could not for a long time be ascertained,
that Turner was able to escape the fate which ought assuredly to have
been his.
He settled finally at Newmarket, and married the daughter of a
neighbouring squire, who never spoke again to a child who could so far
forget her father's position and ignore his commands as to unite herself
to the more than questionable William.
The poor lady, however, took her revenge on her relations, and her leave
of a world in which she had found time to suffer some disillusions, on
the day that saw Barbara ushered into the light; so that the little girl
was left to grow up entirely in that odour of the stables which her
father preferred, in his heart, to any more delicate perfume.
It was not until she was ten years old that Turner began to suffer
from the attentions of blackmailers, but these, having once discovered
him, saw in him a mine of gold which they fondly expected to prove
inexhaustible. Such, however, was not the case. After a year's
persecution the wretched man found himself penniless, and on the advice
of Vanderstein, the only one of his old pals who did not ignore him in
his trouble, he left the country with precipitation and secrecy.
So little was his intention suspected that he eluded all further
detection and bolted successfully to South America, where he remained
untraced by undesirable acquaintances and finally drank himself to death
after several years of the most gratifying obscurity.
Turner's only regret at leaving England was that he could not take with
him his little girl; but hampered by the company of a child escape would
have been impossible, and he sorrowfully yielded to the representations
of Vanderstein on that point.
The Jew promised to take charge of Barbara in the future, and assured
Turner with every mark of solemnity that as long as he or his wife lived
the girl should not lack a home. Turner, who knew that Vanderstein never
ceased to chafe under a sense of obligations incurred in the early days
of their struggles, placed every confidence in the words, and had no
doubt that his friend would live up to his promises.
And Vanderstein did not fail to do so.
Barbara, whose grief at parting from her father was intense and
pathetic, was comforted as best might be and sent to school at the
select academy of the Misses Yorke Brown at Brighton. Here she received
the best of educations in the company of about thirty other young
ladies, the daughters of well-to-do middle class people. In their
society she obtained a nodding acquaintance with algebra, history,
science, and literature; with them she attended dancing classes, learnt
a little French and German, and disported herself on the tennis court
and hockey field. She roller-skated and played golf, became proficient
in the art of swimming, and with a chosen and fortunate few rode daily
on the downs.
At the end of six or seven years she had grown into a self-possessed,
capable young woman, a little old for her years perhaps, as was obvious
to those who knew her well, but to outward appearance still a mere
child, easily amused at trifles, and with a rare capacity for enjoying
life, which made her a delightful companion.
Her face had an innocent and helpless expression at variance with her
real nature, which was eminently self-reliant and independent. She would
never forgive her mother's relations who had despised her father, and at
any mention of them her large blue eyes would always flash resentfully.
Her relatives for their part made no effort to seek her out and were
quite content to leave her to the Vandersteins' tender mercies.
Before Barbara left school Mr. Vanderstein died, leaving in his will a
provision to the effect that his widow was to continue the care of his
friend's daughter, either making her an annual allowance of £500 a year
or taking her to live with her as friend and companion. There was a
further bequest of £30,000 to Barbara, which was to become hers on Mrs.
Vanderstein's death.
This was not the only thing in the will which filled Mrs. Vanderstein
with indignation.
She found to her disgust that half the fortune, which she had formed
the habit of considering hers, was left to young Joe Sidney, the son
of her husband's sister. This lady had committed the horrid offence of
marrying a Christian, and to her, during her lifetime, the orthodox and
scandalised Moses never alluded. Her death occurred a year or two before
his own, and after it Mr. Vanderstein had displayed a certain interest
in his nephew, but not enough to prepare his wife for his preposterous
action in regard to the division of his money. Indeed, he expressed in
the will his wish that after her death it should all go to Joe, though
he left the final decision on this point to her judgment.
Old Vanderstein had amassed considerably over half a million sterling
during the latter and most prosperous portion of his career, so that his
widow was not altogether the pauper she was fond of declaring herself;
but in the first shock of seeing her income divide itself by two she
decided to save the £500 provided for Barbara and to submit instead to
the infliction of her presence.
She had never seen the girl, who had, indeed, been a subject of
disagreement between her husband and herself, but she was so easy-going
and good-natured at heart that a very short period of Barbara's
society had sufficed to change her prejudices and distrust into a warm
affection, and she soon looked on her as she might have done on a
younger sister.
There were occasions certainly when, if anything annoyed her, she would
not refrain from pointing out to Barbara how much had been done for her
and how exaggerated had been Mr. Vanderstein's views in this direction.
"My dear husband," she would exclaim, "would have ruined himself,
if he had lived longer, by his own unbounded philanthropy. He was
constitutionally unable to say 'no' to anyone, and goodness knows in
what difficulties he would have landed himself if time had only been
afforded him. How often he would admit to me that certain people had
tried to borrow from him and that he had let them have what they
wanted. In vain I begged him to be more firm. He would make me promises,
but I would soon discover that he had been doing the same thing again.
'My dear,' he would reply to my reproaches, 'I have really not the heart
to refuse to help these poor young men.'"
Mr. Vanderstein did not bother his wife with details of his private
affairs, holding that women have no concern with business; and he
decidedly never thought it necessary to mention that he used a
certain discretion in his benevolence, steeling himself against more
supplications than she suspected.
It was true, however, that he never refused to lend money to such
poor young men as were heirs to entailed estates or could offer other
satisfactory security for the repayment of his kindness, and it was by
these unobtrusive charities that his fortune was collected.
Mrs. Vanderstein's prejudices against Joe Sidney had also decreased
very rapidly when she became acquainted with that young man, as she
did shortly after his mother's death, and by the time this story
begins--that is to say, three years after she herself had been left a
widow--he had become a great favourite of hers, although there were
still moments when she thought a little bitterly of the large sums he
had deprived her of by the fact of his existence. However, she liked him
well enough to let him know that it was her intention to comply with Mr.
Vanderstein's wishes in regard to the ultimate disposal of his fortune,
and that her will constituted Sidney her sole legatee.
As she was only a few years older than himself and of a robust health,
there was every likelihood that this provision would not affect his
fortunes for many years to come, or even that she might survive him.