_A Face From the Past._
Maida Crescent was little more than half a mile beyond the park.
Philip thought it due to the lady he had beguiled that she should know
exactly how he came to interfere in her behalf. She listened in silence,
and when she spoke, there was a suggestion of shy nervousness oddly at
variance with her spirited action of a few minutes earlier.
"I cannot understand it at all," she said. "I am seldom out so late. My
professional engagements are few and far between, I am sorry to say."
"Were you attending a rehearsal at the Regent's Hall?"
"Yes."
"A rehearsal for Monsieur Jowkacsy's concert?"
"Yes."
She volunteered no further information, but Philip was a persistent
person.
"I do not remember another day in my life previously," he said, "when so
many fortuitous events grouped themselves together in such a curious
relationship. Even this adventure is a sequel to a prior incident. Just
before I joined in the chase after you I had purchased some tickets for
Jowkacsy's musicale. The strangest item of all is that I was practically
walking away from the direction in which I live when my attention was
drawn to the cabman's behavior."
"Good gracious!" she protested, "am I taking you out of your way? I
thought you merely happened to be driving after us through the park."
She invited no confidences. She adhered strictly to the affair of the
moment, and he had no option but to follow her cue.
"I do not think I have ever been in Regent's Park before."
"What an amazing circumstance--that you should gallop off in such
fashion to the rescue of an unknown woman, I mean."
"That, again, is original, or nearly so."
"Are you a Londoner?"
"To some extent--a little while each year. I live mostly on the sea."
"Oh, that accounts for your gallantry. You are a sailor."
"A yachtsman," corrected Philip.
"How delightful. I have not even seen the sea for ages. One has to work
so hard nowadays to obtain recognition. I do not object to the work, for
I love music, but the bread-and-butter aspect is disagreeable,
and--and--you have learned to-night how even the small amount of
publicity I have achieved brings with it the risk of insult."
"By the way," he said, quietly, striving not to add to the excitement
under which she was certainly laboring, "one of those men is named
Victor Grenier. You ought to know."
"Thank you. How did you ascertain it?"
"The cabman told me. He knew me."
"The cabman knew you?"
"Yes. I fly about town in hansoms. I am too lazy to walk."
He regretted the slip. He was known to the tribe of Jehus on account of
his generosity to their charities; moreover, was not one of the order
his horse-master?
The girl laughed, with a delightful merriment that relieved the tension.
"You acted like an indolent person," she cried. "Do you know, I felt
that you would have banged the heads of those men together in another
instant."
Their vehicle slackened pace, and curved toward the pavement in a quiet
street.
"Here I am at home," she said, and Philip assisted her to alight.
"Oh, my music!" she wailed, suddenly. "I left it in that horrid cab."
Philip repressed a smile.
"Tell me your name," he said, "and I will recover it for you early in
the morning."
"Are you sure? Oh, what a trouble I have been. How good you are."
"It is not the least trouble. I took the cabman's number."
"Indeed, indeed, I am grateful to you. My name is Evelyn Atherley. I
would ask you to call some day and see my mother, but--but----"
"You do not wish her to hear of your adventure to-night? It would
frighten her."
"She would be terrified each time I went out alone. Believe me, I can
ill afford a hansom, but I take one late at night to please her, as the
walk from the nearest 'bus route is lonely."
"You are singing at the Regent's Hall. I will be there. By the way, my
name is Philip Anson."
The girl's big eyes--he fancied they were blue, but in the dim light he
could not be sure--looked into his. There was a sparkle of merriment in
them, he thought--a quick perception of a hint delicately conveyed. But
she said, quite pleasantly:
"My last song is at ten-fifteen. I will leave the hall at ten-thirty. I
hope my mother will be with me. I will be most pleased to see you there,
and thank you more coherently than is possible now, especially if you
recover my music."
The quick trot of a fast-driven horse came round the corner.
Philip was assuring her that they would certainly meet next evening,
when a hansom pulled up behind the waiting vehicle, and the driver said:
"Beg pawdon, miss, you left this," and he held forth the lost portfolio.
The cabman was anxious to atone for his share in the night's
proceedings.
Philip tipped him in a manner that caused the man to murmur his renewed
regret, but he was sternly told to go. Philip's own reward from Miss
Atherley was a warm handshake, and a grateful smile.
He drove homeward, wondering how he could best help her in her career.
And she, after kissing her mother "Good-night," went to her room to
wonder also, but her wonderment was mixed with regret. For such a nice
young man as Philip Anson must have troops of friends, he must be rich,
he must be far removed from the orbit of a girl who, whatever her birth
and breeding, was driven in the flower of her youth to earn her living
on the concert platform.
Jowkacsy won his laurels with superb ease. Philip, listening to the
Polish genius, found himself hoping that the fair English girl might
achieve some measure of the rapturous applause bestowed on the
long-haired enthusiast. He murmured the thought, in guarded commonplace,
to his musical friend.
"Impossible, my dear fellow," was the instant verdict. "She is mediocre;
just an average singer, and no more. Music is divine, but its exploiters
suffer from the petty jealousies of housemaids. Jowkacsy can have no
rivals to-night. Eckstein is a master, of course, but a necessary evil
as an accompanist. The other artists are mere fill-ups--good, or they
would not be here, but not in the front rank. Listen. I am connected
with a choral society in my county, and we once engaged a leading tenor
and a second-rate baritone. The tenor had a name with fourteen letters,
and the baritone only owned four. The unfortunate local printer selected
his type to fill the lines on the bills by size and not by merit. The
moment the tenor saw the four-letter man looming large across the poster
he absolutely refused to sing a note unless fresh bills were printed
with his fourteen letters in larger type. And we were compelled to humor
him. That is music from the agent's point of view."
When Miss Evelyn Atherley advanced to the front of the platform Philip
thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful. She had the grace of a
perfect figure and the style of an aristocrat. She was dressed in light
blue chiffon, with a spray of forget-me-nots, the color of her eyes,
arranged across the front of her bodice. Anson experienced a thrill of
pleasure when he saw that the bouquet he caused to be forwarded to her
contained flowers of a kindred hue. The skill of the florist had
correctly interpreted his description, which, indeed, was largely
guesswork on his part.
A high forehead and a mouth and chin of patrician mold gave an air of
caste to an otherwise sweetly pretty face.
"By Jove!" whispered the critic, "if she sings as well as she looks I
may be mistaken."
Her first song was Goring Thomas' "A Summer Night." Instantly it was
perceptible that her voice was true, the outpouring of a soul. In volume
it was in no way remarkable, but its melodious cadence was fresh,
innocent, virginal. The notes were those of a joyous bird.
Anson, biassed by other sentiments, thought he had never heard her
equal, but his friend, after joining in his vigorous applause, gave him
a douche of accurate judgment.
"The old story," he growled; "a fine artist retarded, perhaps spoiled,
by the need to make too early an appearance. She wants a year in Milan,
another year with Randegger or Leoni, and she might, if all went well,
be a star."
His hearer chafed inwardly, but only hazarded the opinion that she was
already a singer of rare intensity, while, as for appearance----
"Ah, there you are right," was the ready rejoinder. "The Gaiety is her
right place. She would be admirable in light opera."
The conversation languished. The suggestion that Miss Atherley was best
fitted for the stage was displeasing to Philip, he scarce knew why.
The girl was given a hearty encore, and her next song was a simple,
humorous little ballad about a miller and a maid. It was charmingly sung
and acted. The critic leaned back in his chair, and smiled at Philip
with the indulgent air of the man who says:
"I told you so."
Soon Philip rose to go.
"Good heavens, man, you do not intend to leave before Jowkacsy plays the
suite in F minor?" queried his amazed acquaintance.
"Sorry. I have an engagement."
He quitted the hall, his tall figure riveting a good many eyes as he
made his way toward an exit. One man, watching from the gallery, smiled
cynically, and rose at the same time.
Philip found the foyer to be practically deserted. He asked a policeman
on duty to call Mr. Anson's carriage from the ranks, and a footman came,
quickly running lest he had incurred a reprimand for not being on the
lookout for his master at the entrance.
In a very little time Miss Atherley appeared, and with her a handsome,
elderly lady, who was quite obviously her mother. The girl was radiant.
She never expected a cordial reception from a high-class audience, such
as gathered to worship the violinist.
"Mother dear," she cried, "this is Mr. Anson, who very kindly came to my
assistance when a cabman gave me some trouble last night."
Mrs. Atherley gave him a pleasant greeting, but turned to her daughter.
"Why didn't you tell me of any dispute when you returned home? You know
how nervous I am when you are out at night."
The girl laughed merrily.
"You have answered your own question, _carissima_. That is precisely why
I did not tell you."
"Miss Atherley was good enough to permit me to meet you here after the
concert," put in Philip, "so that I might add my assurances to her own
that the affair was of no consequence. It is early yet. Will you come
with me for some supper, and thus give me a chance of telling you how
much I enjoyed your daughter's singing?"
Wise Philip, to pay court to the mother.
Mrs. Atherley, in no way deceived, yet gratified by the deference shown
to her, gave the girl a questioning glance.
"Oh, do let us go, mamma! I am famished, I candidly admit it. Mr. Anson,
I have subsisted since luncheon without a morsel."
"We will be delighted----" began the older lady, but her attention was
attracted by the footman holding open the door of the carriage.
"Is that carriage yours?" she said to Philip.
"Yes."
"Where do we sup?"
"At the Savoy."
She flushed slightly.
"Not the Savoy," she faltered.
"Why not, mother?" cried the girl, spiritedly. "Mr. Anson, my mother
does not care to meet associates of--of other days. I tell her she
thinks far too much of these considerations. Why should she fear to face
them simply because we are poor?"
"I think, Mrs. Atherley," he said, quietly, "that you are very rich, far
richer than many a _mère de famille_ we shall meet at the restaurant."
This neat compliment turned the scale of the mother's hesitation.
Indeed, she might well be proud of her beautiful daughter.
The two ladies seated themselves in the luxurious landau with an ease
that showed familiarity, but Mrs. Atherley, being a woman, could not
help being troubled in the matter of dress.
"The Savoy!" she murmured, as the rubber-tired vehicle glided away
noiselessly. "I have not been there for years. And people at supper are
always attired so fashionably. Could we not----"
The girl put her arm around her waist.
"Just for once, mamma, you shall not care a little bit, and none may be
the wiser. Here is Mr. Anson--quite an _élégant_ himself--he would never
guess that our gowns were homemade."
"The women, dear one. They will know."
"Oh, you deceiver! You said my toilet was perfect, and I am quite sure
yours is."
This logic was incontrovertible. Mrs. Atherley sighed, and asked what
took place the previous night.
Philip imagined that the girl hung back, so he boldly undertook an
explanation. By describing the cabman as apparently intoxicated, and
certainly impudent, he covered a good deal of ground, and the rest was
easy.
When they reached the Savoy, the anxious mother had relegated the
incident to the limbo of unimportant things. Only one other matter
troubled her--the somewhat unconventional origin of her daughter's
acquaintance with this pleasant-mannered young gentleman.
She was far too tactful to hint at such a point just then. It should be
reserved for home discussion.
Meanwhile, they were early arrivals. The head waiter marshaled them to a
window table. Mrs. Atherley smiled; she knew her London.
"You were sure we would accompany you?" she cried.
"Not at all sure; only hopeful," said Philip.
"Ah, well. It is good occasionally to revisit the old scenes. No, Elf, I
will sit here; I will not be _en face_ to that row of tables. Half a
dozen people would certainly recognize me, and I do not wish it."
Elf! The name drove Philip's thoughts backward with a bound--back to a
torrential night in a London square, and the tearing open of a carriage
door in time to save a sweet little girl all robed in white, who, but
for him, would have fallen with an overturned vehicle.
Elf! It was an unusual pet name. The child of ten years ago would be
about the age of the lively and spirituelle girl by his side. The child
had faced her enraged uncle on that memorable night; the woman had
refused to leave him when she thought danger threatened in the park.
Could it be possible! He was startled, bewildered, utterly dumfounded by
even the remote possibility that another figure from the past should
come before him in such wise.
"Mr. Anson! What have you found in the menu to perplex you so terribly?
Does danger lurk in the _agneau du printemps_? Is there a secret horror
in the _salmi_?"
Evelyn's raillery restored his scattered wits.
"May I say something personal?" he inquired.
"About the lamb?"
"About you? Mrs. Atherley called you 'Elf' just now."
"Yes. I regret that I earned the title in ages past. The habits have
ceased, but the name remains."
"I once met a little girl named Elf. It was ten years ago, on a March
evening, in a West End square. There had been a carriage accident. A
pair of horses were frightened by a terrific thunderstorm. The girl was
accompanied by a somewhat selfish gentleman. He jumped out and left her
to her own devices; indeed, slammed the door in her face. A ragged
boy----"
"A boy with newspapers--a boy who spoke quite nicely--saved her by
running into the road. The carriage overturned in front of Lord
Vanstone's house. I was the girl!"
Both ladies were amazed at the expression on Philip's face. He betrayed
such eagerness, such intense longing, such keen anxiety to establish her
identity with the child who figured in an accident of no very remarkable
nature, that they could not help being vastly surprised.
Their astonishment was not lessened when Philip exclaimed:
"And I was the boy!"
"But I said 'a boy with newspapers.'"
"Yes, a very urchin, a waif of the streets."
"My uncle struck you."
"And you defended me, saved me from being locked up, in fact."
"Oh, this is too marvelous. Mother, you must remember----"
"My dear one, I remember the event as if it had taken place yesterday.
Your uncle would not have cared were you killed that night. All he
wanted was your money. Now he has that, and mine. He was, indeed, a
wicked man."
"Mother dear, he is unhappy. Are we? But, Mr. Anson, what wonderful
change in your fortunes has taken place since our first meeting? Is the
newspaper trade so thriving that a carriage and pair, a supper at the
Savoy, stalls at the Regent's Hall, and a bouquet from Rosalind's, are
mere trimmings, so to speak, to a busy day?"
"Evelyn!" protested Mrs. Atherley.
But the girl was too buoyant, too utterly oblivious of all that this
meeting meant to Philip, to cease from chaffing him.
"Please, Mr. Anson, do tell us the secret. I will sell any paper you
name. I get five guineas for singing two songs, I admit, but I may only
sing them once a month. I have loads of time to run about crying,
'Extrey speshul! 'Orrible disawster.' Or does the magic spring from
writing those thrilling stories one sees placarded on the hoardings? I
believe I could do it. I once won a prize in a lady's magazine for a set
of verses, the genuine and unaided production of a girl aged under
fourteen."
Philip compelled himself to respond to her mood. He promised to reveal
his specific for money-making at some future period, when she was
sufficiently dazzled to accept his words as those of a prophet.
With the tact of a woman of the world, Mrs. Atherley led the
conversation back to less personal channels. The great restaurant was
rapidly filling now. The occupants of neighboring tables cast occasional
glances at the merry trio which discussed the foibles of the musical
world, the ways of agents, the little meannesses and petty spites of the
greatest artists, and, incidentally, did ample justice to an excellent
meal.
Philip thought he had never before met such a delightful girl. Evelyn
was quite certain that some unknown good fairy had given her this
pleasant acquaintance, and Mrs. Atherley, after a silent spasm of regret
that her daughter should be denied the position in the greater world for
which she was so admirably fitted, abandoned herself to the infectious
gayety of the younger people.
Both she and Evelyn confessed to a feeling of renewed surprise when
Philip happened to mention his London address.
Whatever faults the denizens of Park Lane may possess, that of being
unknown cannot be reckoned among them, and Mrs. Atherley, in a period
not very remote, knew the occupants of every house in that remarkable
thoroughfare. She could not, however, recall the name of Anson.
At last a most enjoyable meal came to an end. Philip, supported most
ably by a skilled head waiter, spun it out to the utmost possible limit,
but the inexorable clock would not be denied.
He thought the two ladies might prefer to drive home alone, so he sent
them away in his carriage, and made an excuse that he had an appointment
at his club. In truth, he wished to be free to walk far and fast, while
his excited brain demanded a solution of the strange congeries of
events which had so crowded into his life during forty-eight hours.
About the time that Philip's coachman safely deposited Evelyn and her
mother at their residence, Victor Grenier, again attired in evening
dress and accompanied by Jocky Mason, whose huge frame was encased in a
suit of gray tweed, entered a fashionable West End bar, and found an
elegant young person leaning against the marble-topped counter, engaged
in a war of wits with a barmaid.
The arrival of the two men, however, put a quick stop to the badinage.
The youth quitted the counter with a careless discourtesy that annoyed
the girl to whom he was talking.
"Well," he demanded from Grenier, "did anything happen?"
"Jimmie," was the cool reply, "I told you that your stupid ruse last
night would result in failure. Far worse, it has supplied you with a
rival against whom you may as well give up the game at once."
"Rot!" cried the other, fiercely, with an oath. "Don't irritate me. Tell
me plainly what has gone wrong now."
"She was there, and sang delightfully. 'Pon my honor, she is a pretty
girl. But the man was there, too, and he managed to improve so well on
the opportunity you were kind enough to provide for him, Jimmie, that
after her show was over she and her mother met him at the main entrance,
and they drove off together to the Savoy in a carriage and pair."
"Then who the deuce is he?" demanded the angry youth.
"I tell you, Jimmie, you have no earthly chance. Last night's intruder
was none other than Mr. Philip Anson, the millionaire."
"Philip Anson. Great Scott! He--of all men in the world."
The younger man became very pale, and his eyes rolled in a species of
delirious agitation. But Jocky Mason had caught the name, though he did
not comprehend the exact subject of their discourse.
"Philip Anson!" he said. "If there's anything on foot where Philip Anson
is concerned, count me as his enemy. Curse him! Curse him to all
eternity!"
And he struck a table with his great fist until other men began to
stare, and Grenier was forced earnestly to counsel his associates to
control themselves in such a public place.