The fainting of Carol in the gallery of the church and her being carried
out just before the commencement of the ceremony, was looked upon by
some of the more superstitious of the immediate spectators as a sign of
evil omen to the happiness of those who, in the phrase which is so often
only the echo of devils' laughter, were about "to be joined together in
holy matrimony."
Still, only a few had heard the broken words which the horror-stricken
girl had uttered before she fell down insensible, and those only thought
what the good lady behind her had said. To the rest of the congregation
it was merely an incident, due to the crowd and the heat. The little
flutter of excitement which it caused soon passed away, and the ceremony
began and went on without any of the bridal party even knowing what had
happened.
She was carried to the gallery stairs, and there Dora sat her down,
supporting her with her arm, while one sympathetic young lady held a
bottle of salts to her nostrils, and an older lady emptied a
scent-bottle on to her handkerchief and held it to her forehead.
In a very few minutes she came round. She looked about her, and,
recognising Dora, said:
"Oh, dear, what's happened? Where am I? Yes, I remember--at a
wedding--and he----"
Then she checked herself, and Dora said:
"Do you think you're well enough to come down and get into a cab, and
then we'll get home? It was the heat and the crush that did it, I
suppose."
"Yes, I think I can," said Carol. "I'm all right now. Thank you very
much for being so kind," she went on to the other two with a faint smile
of gratitude.
"Oh, don't mention it," they said almost together, and then the younger
one put her hand under her arm and helped her up. "Let me help you
down," she said. "I daresay you'll be all right when you get into the
open air."
Carol looked round at her and saw that, without being exactly pretty,
she had a very sweet and sympathetic expression, and big, soft brown
eyes which looked out very kindly under dark level brows. It was a face
which women perhaps admire more than men; but her voice was one which
would have gone just as quickly to a man's heart as to a woman's. At any
rate, it went straight to Carol's, and when they had got into the cab
and she leant back against the cushions she said to Dora:
"I wonder who that girl was? Did you notice what a sweet face and what a
lovely voice she had? I'm not very loving towards my own sex, but as
soon as I got round I felt that I wanted to hug her--and I suppose if
she knew the sort of person I am she wouldn't have touched me. What a
difference clothes make, don't they? Now, if I'd been dressed as some of
the girls are----"
"I think you're quite wrong there, Carol," said Dora, interrupting her.
"I don't believe she's that sort at all, she was much too nice, I'm
certain. She had the face of a really good woman, and you know good
women don't think that of us. It's only the goody-goody ones who do
that, and there's a lot of difference between good and goody-goody."
"Well, yes," said Miss Carol, "I daresay you're right, after all. She
had a sweet face, hadn't she? But look here, Dora," she went on with a
sudden change of tone, "did you ever know anything so awful? No--I can't
talk about it yet. Tell him to pull up at the Monico, and we'll have a
brandy and soda. I never wanted a drink so badly in my life."
The cab had meanwhile been rolling down Regent Street, and had almost
reached the Circus. Dora put her hand up through the trap and told the
cabman--whose opinion of his fares underwent an instantaneous change. He
nodded and said, "Yes, miss," and the next minute pulled up in front of
the square entrance to the cafe. Dora got out first and helped Carol
out; then she gave the cabman a shilling and they went in.
"Goes to a wedding, does a faint, comes out, and stops 'ere when they
ought to have been driven 'ome. Not much class there!" the cabman
soliloquised as he flicked his whip over his horse's ears and turned
across towards Piccadilly. He was, perhaps, naturally disgusted at the
meagre results of a job for which he had expected three or four
shillings at the very least.
The big cafe was almost deserted, as it usually is in the morning, and
the two girls found a secluded seat at one of the corner tables.
"Dora, you must pay for these," said Carol when they had given their
order, "and what's more you'll have to lend me some money to go on with,
for if I was starving I wouldn't spend another shilling of that man's
money."
"But, my dear child, I don't suppose he knew it," said Dora. "Of course
you can have anything I've got if you want it, and I quite understand
how you feel. It's very dreadful, horrible, in fact, but you couldn't
help it. You're not to blame, and I don't see that he is, after all's
said and done."
"No, I don't say that he is," said Carol, "and of course I couldn't
know, for he isn't a bit like his father. He was dark once, so I suppose
the--the other one takes after his mother. At least, he would do if she
was a fair woman. But just fancy me having that feeling about Vane that
night--feeling that I couldn't--and yet this one is just as near. God
forgive me, Dora, isn't it awful?"
"Well, never mind, dear," said Dora, as the waiter brought the drinks.
"I don't see that that matters one way or the other now. What's done
_is_ done, and there's an end of it. Well, here's fun, and better luck
next time!"
"Hope so!" said Carol somewhat bitterly, as she took a rather long pull
at her brandy and soda. "Ah, that's better," she went on, as she put her
glass down. "At any rate, it couldn't be much worse luck, could it?"
"But are you perfectly certain," said Dora, "that he really was the man?
You know, after all, you only saw him for quite a moment or so."
"I'm as certain as I am that I'm sitting here," said Carol, "that that
was the man who lived with my mother in Paris and Vienna and Nice and a
lot of other places ever since I can remember. It isn't likely that I'm
going to forget when I have such good reason as I have for remembering.
He's the man, right enough, and if I was face to face with him for five
minutes I'd prove it. The question is whether I ought to prove it or
not."
"That's a thing that wants thinking about," said Dora. "But how can you
prove it?"
"Easy enough," replied Carol, "if he'd just take his coat off and turn
his shirt-sleeve up. He's got two marks just above his right elbow, two
white marks, and the one on the front is bigger than the one behind.
I've seen them many a time when he's been sculling or playing tennis. He
told me he got them from a spear thrust when he was fighting in the Zulu
war. The spear went right in in front and the point came out behind, and
if I had a thousand pounds I'd bet it that that man has got those marks
on his arm.
"Besides, I know lots of other things about him. You know I'm not a bad
mimic, for one thing, and I could imitate his voice and his way of
talking before I heard him speak, and I know a photographer in Paris
where I could get his photograph--one taken while he was with us. We
went with him to have it taken; and, besides, I don't care whether that
unfortunate mother of mine's mad or not, she'd recognise him. I'd bet
any money he daren't go to the place where she is and face her. Well,
now I'm better. Let's go home to lunch and think it over. It certainly
isn't a thing to do anything hastily about."
"That's just what I think, dear," said Dora, finishing her brandy and
soda.
"All right; we won't take another cab just yet. Let's walk along the
'Dilly for a bit; it'll do me good, I think; and besides, I may as well
get familiar with the old place again," said Carol, rising from her
seat.
"What nonsense!" said Dora. "The very idea of _you_ having to go in for
that sort of thing, when there are half a dozen fellows a good deal more
than ready to take this man Garthorne's place."
"Well, well," said Carol, with a light laugh and a toss of her pretty
head, "I don't suppose the change would be for the worse. But there's
one thing certain, I shall have to snare the oof bird very shortly, for
the first thing I'm going to do when we get to the flat is to send back
every penny of the money that Reginald gave me when we said good-bye. Of
course I didn't know anything about it, but it seems worse a good deal
than if I had stolen it. Then to-night we'll go to the Empire, and you,
being rather more married than I am, can chaperone me."
"All right," said Dora. "I'll send a wire to Bernard, and perhaps he'll
come too and escort us."
Reginald Garthorne had behaved, as both the world and the half-world
would have said, very honourably to Carol when they had said the usual
good-bye before his marriage. He had paid his share of the rent of the
flat for her for six months ahead, and had given her a couple of hundred
pounds to go on with. Of this considerably over a hundred pounds
remained. She changed the gold into notes, and even the silver into
postal orders, and put the whole sum into a packet, which she registered
and posted to his town address.
She gave no explanation or reason for what she was doing. In the first
place she could not bring herself to tell him the dreadful truth that
she had discovered; and then, again, it would only after all be a piece
of needless cruelty. During her connection with him he had always
treated her with kindness and courtesy, and often with generosity. She
had nothing whatever against him, so why should she wreck the happiness
of his honeymoon, and perhaps of his whole married life, by disclosing
the secret that had been so strangely revealed to her? So she simply
wrote:
"DEAR MR. GARTHORNE,
"You have been very kind to me, and I thoroughly appreciate your
kindness. But something has happened to-day--I daresay you can
guess what it is--which makes it unnecessary to me, and, as you
know I have rather curious ideas about money matters, I hope you
will understand my reasons, and not be offended by my returning it
to you with many thanks.
"Yours very sincerely,
"CAROL VANE."
Under the circumstances the white lie was one which the Recording Angel
might well have blotted out. Probably he did. But, as the Fates would
have it, the words proved prophetic.
They went to the Empire that night under the escort of Mr. Bernard
Falcon, and while they were having a stroll round the promenade during
the interval he nodded and smiled a little awkwardly to a tall,
good-looking young fellow in evening dress, whose bronzed skin, square
shoulders and easy stride gave one the idea that he was a good deal more
accustomed to the free and easy costume of the Bush or the Veld or the
Mining Camp than to the swallow-tails and starched linen of after-dinner
Civilisation.
"What a splendid-looking fellow!" said Dora, turning her head slightly
as he passed; "the sort of man, I should say, who really _is_ a man. Who
is he, Bernard? You seem to know him!"
"That man?" said Mr. Falcon. "Well, come down into the lower bar, and
we'll have a drink, and I'll tell you."
"That looks a little bit as if you didn't want to meet him again!" said
Dora, a trifle maliciously. "Does he happen to be one of your clients,
or someone who only knows you as a perfectly respectable person?"
Mr. Falcon did not reply immediately, but he frowned a little, as if he
didn't find the remark very palatable. But when they reached the
seclusion of the bar and sat down at one of the tables he said:
"Well, yes, it is something like that. The fact is we have done a little
business for him, and we hope to do more. Lucky beggar, he's one of
Fortune's darlings."
"That sounds interesting," said Carol. "May I ask what the good lady has
done for him?"
"Well," said Mr. Falcon, folding his hands on the table and dropping his
voice to a discreet monotone, "in the first place she made him the
younger son of a very good family. Nothing much to begin with, of
course, but then she also gave him a maiden aunt who left him five
thousand pounds just after he left Cambridge in disgust after failing
three times to get a pass degree. He had no special turn for anything in
particular except riding and shooting and athletics of all sorts. So,
like a sensible fellow, instead of stopping in England and fooling his
money away, as too many younger sons do, he put four thousand pounds
into my partner's hands--Lambe, I should tell you, was his aunt's
solicitor--to be invested in good securities, put the other thousand
into his pocket, and started out to seek his fortune.
"That's a little over five years ago, which makes him about thirty now.
Of course, I suppose he went everywhere and did everything, as such
fellows do, but we heard very little of him, and he never drew a penny
of the four thousand pounds, and he turned up in London a week or two
ago something more than a millionaire. It seems that he was one of the
first to hear of the West Australian goldfields--he was out there
prospecting in the desert, and a few months later he was one of the
pioneers of Kalgoorlie, and pegged out a lot of the most valuable
claims. He put in nearly three years there, and now he's come back to
enjoy himself. He's a very fine fellow, but I must say I'd rather not
have met him here to-night."
"Oh, nonsense," laughed Dora, "he'll understand. Being a man he knows
perfectly well that scarcely any of you respectable married men are half
as respectable as you'd like to be thought. However, why not compromise
him too? Go and fetch him and introduce him."
Mr. Falcon knew Dora well enough to take this request as something like
an order. So he rose, saying:
"Well, that's not a bad idea, after all, and I daresay he won't have the
slightest objection to make the acquaintance of two such entirely
charming young ladies."
Mr. Falcon rather prided himself upon his way of turning a compliment,
albeit his action, as they say in stable parlance, was a trifle heavy.
When he had gone Dora nodded to Carol and said:
"There, dear. If I'm not very much mistaken this is the reward of
virtue."
"Which is its own reward, and generally doesn't get it," laughed Carol,
colouring slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Dora, "that only to-day you made yourself penniless from
the most laudable of motives, and here, this very night, comes Prince
Charming from the Fortunate Isles, with all his pockets and both hands
full of money, and a splendid-looking fellow as well. I think that's a
bit mixed, but still it's somewhere about the fact. Ah, here they come."
"Mr. Cecil Rayburn, Miss Dora Murray; Mr. Rayburn, Miss Carol Vane. Now
we know each other," said Mr. Falcon. "Rayburn, what will you have?"
Rayburn had a brandy and soda, and before it was finished the
conversation was running easily and even merrily. With the quick
perception of the travelled man he speedily discovered that Dora was
Falconer's particular friend; she always addressed him as "Bernie,"
while Carol always said "Mr. Falcon" or "Mr. F."
When they got up, all thoroughly well pleased with each other, Falcon
said:
"Are you alone, Rayburn?"
"Yes," he replied. "I hadn't anything particular to do to-night, and as
I was sick of playing billiards and swopping lies with the other fellows
at the Carlton, I just put on a hard-boiled shirt and the other things
and came over here to seek my fortune."
As he said this he looked straight at Carol, their eyes met for a
moment, and then she coloured up swiftly and looked away.
The four wound up the evening with a sumptuous supper at Prince's, at
which Rayburn played host to perfection, and within a week Carol and he
had left Charing Cross by the eleven o'clock boat-train on a trip which
had no particular objective, but which, as a matter of fact, extended
round the world before Carol again saw her beloved London. In addition
to her other rings she wore a new thick wedding ring, a compromise with
conventionality which the etiquette of hotels and steamer saloons had
rendered imperative, and thus it came to pass that Miss Carol,
travelling as Mrs. Charles Redfern, vanished utterly for more than a
year, and this, too, was why all the efforts of Vane and Ernshaw and Sir
Arthur to find her had proved for the present unavailing.