THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER
After all, the garden party was not so bad. The weather was perfect, and
the grounds of Shirley House were large enough to find amusement for all
the guests. Wrayson, who had made great friends with the Colonel's
younger daughter, enjoyed himself immensely. After a particularly
strenuous set of tennis, she led him through the wide-open French windows
into a small morning-room.
"We can rest for a few minutes in here," she remarked. "You can consider
it a special mark of favour, for this is my own den."
"You are spoiling me," Wrayson declared, laughing. "May I see those
photographs?"
"If you like," she answered, "only you mustn't be too critical, for I'm
only a beginner, you know. Here's a bookful of them you can look through,
while I go and start the next set."
She placed a volume in his hand and swung out of the room, tall, fresh,
and graceful. Wrayson watched her admiringly. In her perfect naturalness
and unaffected good-humour, she reminded him a good deal of her father,
but curiously enough there was some other likeness which appealed to him
even more powerfully, and yet which he was unable to identify. It puzzled
him so that for a moment or two after her departure he sat watching the
door through which she had disappeared, with a slight frown upon his
forehead. She was undoubtedly charming, and yet something in connection
with her seemed to impress him with an impending sense of trouble.
Everything about her person and manners was frank and girlish, and yet
she was certainly recalling to his mind things that he had been
struggling all the afternoon to forget. Already he began to feel the
clouds of nervousness and depression stealing down upon him. He struck
the table with his clenched fist. He would have none of it. Outside was
the delicious sunshine, through the open window stole in the perfume of
the roses which covered the wall, and mignonette from the trim borders,
and stocks from the bed fringing the lawn. The murmur of pleasant
conversation was incessant and musical. For a time Wrayson had escaped.
He swore to himself that he would go back no more into bondage; that he
would dwell no more upon the horrors through which he had lived. He would
take hold of the pleasant things of life with both hands, and grip them
tightly. A man should be master of his thoughts, not the slave of
unwilling memories. He would choose for himself whither they should lead
him; he would fight with all his nerve and will against the unholy
fascination of those few thrilling hours. He looked impatiently towards
the door, and longed for the return of his late companion that he might
continue his half-laughing flirtation. Then he remembered the album still
upon his knee, and opened it quickly. He had dabbled a little in
photography; he would find something here to keep his thoughts from the
forbidden place. And he did indeed find something--something which set
his heart thumping, and drew all the colour, which the sun and vigorous
exercise had brought, from his cheeks; something at which he stared with
wide-open eyes, which he held before him with trembling, nerveless
fingers. The picture of a woman! The picture of her!
It had lain loose in the book, with its back towards him. Only chance
made him turn it over. As he looked he understood. There was the
likeness, such likeness as there may be between a beautiful woman, a
little sad, a little scornful, with the faint lines of mockery about her
curving lips, the world-weary light in her distant eyes, and the fresh,
ingenuous girl with whom he had been bandying pleasantries during the
last few hours. He had felt it unknowingly. He realized it now, and the
thought of what it might mean made him catch at his breath like a
drowning man. Then she came in.
He heard her gay laughter outside, a backward word flung to one of the
tennis players, as she stepped in through the window, her cheeks still
flushed, and her eyes aglow.
"We really ought to watch this set," she declared. "That is, if you are
not too much absorbed in my handiwork. What have you got there?"
He held it out to her with a valiant attempt at unconcern.
"Do you mind telling me who this is?" he asked.
She glanced at it carelessly enough, but at once her whole expression
changed. The smile left her lips, her eyes filled with trouble.
"Where did you find it?" she asked, in a low tone.
"In the album," he answered. "It was loose between the pages."
She took it gently from his fingers, and crossing the room locked it
in her desk.
"I had no idea that it was here," she said. "It is a picture of my
eldest sister, or rather my step-sister."
The change in her manner was so apparent that, under ordinary
circumstances, Wrayson would not have dreamed of pursuing the subject.
But the conventions of life seemed to him small things just then.
"Your step-sister!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea--shall I meet her this
afternoon?"
"No!" she answered, gravely. "What do you say--shall we go out now?"
She took up her racket, but he lingered.
"Please don't think me hopelessly inquisitive, Miss Fitzmaurice," he
said, "but I have really a reason for being very interested in the
original of that picture. I should like to meet your step-sister."
"You will never do so here, I am afraid," she answered. "My father and
she disagreed years ago. He does not allow us to see or hear from her. We
may not even mention her name."
"Your father," Wrayson remarked thoughtfully, "is not a stern parent by
any means."
"I should think not," she answered, smiling. "Dear old dad! I have never
heard him say an unkind word to any one in my life."
"And yet--" Wrayson began, hesitatingly.
"Do you mind if we don't talk any more about it?" she interrupted simply.
"I think you can understand that it is not a very pleasant subject. Do
you feel like another set, or would you rather do something else?"
"Tennis, by all means, if you are rested," he answered. "We will find our
old opponents and challenge them again."
Wrayson made a supreme effort, and his spirits for the rest of the
afternoon were almost boisterous. Yet all the time the nightmare was
there behind. It crept out whenever he caught sight of his host moving
about amongst his guests, beaming and kindly. His daughter! The Colonel's
daughter! What was he to do? The problem haunted him continually. All the
time he had to be pushing it back.
The guests began to depart at last. By seven o'clock the last carriage
was rolling down the avenue. The Colonel, with a huge smile of relief,
and a large cigar, came and took Wrayson's arm.
"Good man!" he exclaimed. "You've worked like a Trojan. We'll have one
whisky and soda, eh? and then I'll show you your room. Say when!"
"I've enjoyed myself immensely," Wrayson declared. "Miss Edith has been
very kind to me."
"I'm glad you've made friends with her," the Colonel said. "She's a
harum-scarum lot, I'm afraid, and a sad chatterbox, but she's the right
sort of a person for a man with nerves like you! You're looking a bit
white still, I see!"
Wrayson would have spoken then, but his tongue seemed to cling to the
roof of his mouth. He had been asked to bring his clothes and dine, and
in the minutes' solitude while he changed, he made a resolute effort to
face this new problem. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that
the girl whom he had surprised in his rooms, ransacking his desk, and
whom subsequently he had assisted to escape from the Mansions, was
identical with the original of this portrait. She was the Colonel's
daughter. With a flash of horror, he remembered that it had been the
Colonel himself who had pointed out the possibility of a woman's hands
having drawn that silken cord together! Half dressed he sat down in a
chair and buried his face in his hands.
The dinner gong disturbed him. He sprang up, tied his tie with trembling
fingers, and hastily completed his toilet. Once more, with a great
effort, and an almost reckless resort to his host's champagne, he
triumphed over the demons of memory which racked his brain. At dinner his
gayety was almost feverish. Edith Fitzmaurice, who was his neighbour,
found him a delightful companion. Only the Colonel glanced towards him
now and then anxiously. He recognized the signs of high-pressure, and the
light in Wrayson's eyes puzzled him.
There were no other men dining, and in course of time the two were left
alone. The Colonel passed the cigars and touched the port wine decanter,
which, however, he only offered in a half-hearted way.
"If you don't care about any more wine," he said, "we might have a smoke
in the garden."
Wrayson rose at once.
"I should like it," he said abruptly. "I don't know how it is, but I seem
half-stifled to-day."
They passed out into the soft, cool night. A nightingale was singing
somewhere in the elm trees which bordered the garden. The air was sweet
with the perfume of early summer flowers. Wrayson drew a long, deep
breath of content.
"Let us sit down, Colonel," he said; "I have something to tell you."
The Colonel led the way to a rustic seat. A few stars were out, but no
moon. In the dusky twilight, the shrubs and trees beyond stood out with
black and almost startling distinctness against the clear sky.
"You remember the girl--I told you about, whom I found in my flat, and
afterwards?" Wrayson asked hoarsely.
The Colonel nodded.
"Certainly! What about her? To tell you the truth, I am afraid I--"
Wrayson stopped him with a quick, fierce exclamation.
"Don't, Colonel!" he said. "Wait until you have heard what I have to say.
I have seen her picture--to-day."
The Colonel removed his cigar from his mouth.
"Her picture!" he exclaimed. "To-day! Where? My dear fellow, this is very
interesting! You know my opinion as to that young--"
Again Wrayson stopped him, this time with an oath.
"In your house, Colonel," he said. "Your daughter showed it to me--in
an album!"
The Colonel sat like a man turned to stone. The hand which held his cigar
shook so that the ash fell upon his waistcoat.
"Go on!" he faltered.
"I asked who it was. I was told that it was your daughter! Miss Edith's
step-sister! Forgive me, Colonel! I had to tell you!"
The Colonel seemed to have shrunk in his place. The cigar slipped from
his fingers and fell unheeded on to the grass. His mouth trembled and
twitched pitifully.
"My--my daughter Louise!" he faltered. "Wrayson, you are not serious!"
"It is God's truth," Wrayson answered. "I would stake my soul upon it
that the girl--I told you about--was the original of that picture! When I
look at your daughter Edith I can see the likeness."
The Colonel's head was buried in his hands. His exclamation sounded
like a sob.
"My God!" he murmured.
Then there was silence. Only the nightingale went on with his song.