Produced by Al Haines
ENTER BRIDGET
BY
THOMAS COBB
AUTHOR OF "PHILLIDA," "THE CHOICE OF THEODORA,"
"THE ANGER OF OLIVIA," ETC.
SECOND EDITION
MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
49 RUPERT STREET
LONDON, W.
Published 1912.
INSCRIBED TO
E. C.
MY BEST OF FRIENDS.
CONTENTS
I LATE FOR DINNER
II MARK EXPLAINS
III BRIDGET
IV BRIDGET AT GRANDISON SQUARE
V COLONEL FAVERSHAM
VI CONCERNING BIRTHDAYS
VII THE EXCURSION
VIII A PROPOSAL
IX MARK RETURNS
X CONFIDENCES
XI MARK REPORTS PROGRESS
XII SYBIL
XIII A WALK ABROAD
XIV THE WOOING O'T
XV MARK MAKES A BEGINNING
XVI BUYING A CARPET--AND AFTER
XVII HASTY WORDS
XVIII HOW IT HAPPENED
XIX AN APPOINTMENT
XX IN SIGHT OF PORT
XXI JIMMY SETS TO WORK
XXII INCRIMINATING HIMSELF
XXIII HAVING IT OUT
XXIV A HOT SCENT
XXV OPEN CONFESSION
XXVI LAWRENCE SUMS IT UP
XXVII "MRS. JIMMY"
XXVIII EXEUNT OMNES
ENTER BRIDGET
CHAPTER I
LATE FOR DINNER
Concerning Bridget there was from the outset considerable difference of
opinion. Mark Driver, for instance, always showed a tendency to
something more than tolerance, and even Carrissima Faversham, in spite
of a manifestly unfavourable bias, strove to hold the balance even. It
was her brother Lawrence who took the most adverse view; insisting that
Miss Rosser was neither more nor less than an adventuress--"a pretty
woman on the make" was his expression, uttered, it is true, before he
had an opportunity of seeing her face.
Her entrance on the scene was heralded by Mark Driver one evening
towards the end of March, when he had accepted an invitation to dine
with his sister and Lawrence in Charteris Street, S.W.
Carrissima's maid found her so exacting that evening, that she might
have been going to an important party, instead of merely to a quiet
dinner with her brother and his wife; but then, expecting Mark to make
a fourth, she wished to look her very best, and flattered herself she
had succeeded.
Although she sometimes longed for the power to add a few inches to her
stature, she realized that she had already much to be thankful for.
Suppose, for example, that her eyebrows had been as fair as her hair,
or even worse, her eyelashes, which as it happened were satisfactorily
black.
Mr. Lawrence Faversham, barrister-at-law, was thirty-two years of age,
and rather short, although he always held his head in the air as if he
were doing his best to appear taller. Hearing the street door bell
ring, Mrs. Lawrence Faversham waylaid Carrissima on the stairs and
insisted on taking her to gaze at little Victor, aged two, peacefully
sleeping in the nursery.
"Mark's late as usual," exclaimed Lawrence, as his sister presently
sailed into the drawing-room. "Ten minutes past eight," he added,
taking her hand.
He had fair hair, a long narrow face and sloping shoulders. Whether he
was sitting down or standing up, there always seemed to be something
stiff, self-important and formal about him.
"Mark wasn't due at King's Cross until tea-time," said Phoebe, a pretty
brunette, several inches taller than her husband and seven years
younger. "I wanted him to sleep here to-night, and really I cannot
imagine why he refused."
"Not very complimentary to us," answered Lawrence, "to prefer to go to
an hotel!"
"And," Phoebe explained, "he is off to Paris to-morrow morning."
"Well, I wish to goodness he would come soon if he's coming at all,"
grumbled Lawrence.
"Oh, of course, he's certain to be here," urged Phoebe, not liking to
begin dinner without her brother, who might provokingly arrive as soon
as they sat down; while on the other hand, her three years' experience
of married life had taught her that it was undesirable to keep Lawrence
waiting. When half-past eight struck, however, she could restrain his
impatience no longer; the three went to the dining-room, and
Carrissima, with a sense of profound disappointment, sat down at the
round table opposite the empty chair.
Although Phoebe did her utmost to spin out the meal by eating with
tantalizing and hygienic slowness, it ended without any sign of the
absentee, and at last she felt bound to return to the drawing-room,
where she was followed ten minutes later by Lawrence, who had stayed to
smoke a cigarette.
"The worst of it is," he said, standing before the fire, "you never
know quite where you are with Mark."
"I suppose," suggested Carrissima, "the simple fact of the matter is
that he missed his train."
"In that case," returned her brother, "surely he might have run to
sixpence for a telegram. For a steady-going fellow Mark is about as
erratic as they're made."
"How extremely inconsistent!" exclaimed Carrissima.
"Not at all!" said Lawrence, frowning, as he took a chair. "A man may
drive crookedly without exceeding the limit. Although there are things
you can swear Mark would never dream of doing, you never know what
folly he will be up to next."
As Lawrence was speaking in his rather pompous manner, the door opened
and Mark Driver entered the room: tall, broad-shouldered, with a
handsome, alert, shaven face and an obvious appearance of haste.
On leaving Cambridge he had gone to Saint Bartholomew's, and having
completed his course there, taken a post as House Surgeon at Saint
Josephine's, a small hospital in a southeastern suburb. Mark remained
there two years and left at Christmas; after spending a few weeks idly
in London he went to take charge of Doctor Bunbury's practice in
Yorkshire, principally for the sake of being near to his own people,
and having passed two months, more occupied by sport than patients,
returned this afternoon.
"Why didn't you come in time for dinner?" demanded Phoebe, as he kissed
her cheek.
"Upon my word, I am most awfully sorry," he replied, and turned at once
to Carrissima, who was striving to hide her satisfaction on seeing his
face again. Never, perhaps, during their long acquaintance, had they
been so many months apart; but while Mark was in London between
Christmas and his departure for the North of England, Carrissima had
been on a long visit to Devonshire.
"I didn't expect to meet you this evening," said Mark. "Phoebe told me
in her letter last week that you were staying in Shropshire with
Colonel Faversham."
"So I was," returned Carrissima. "But I never had the least intention
to live there for the remainder of my life."
"She took us all completely by surprise," explained Phoebe, "by coming
home the day before yesterday."
"I really cannot understand even now," said Lawrence, "why in the world
you couldn't stay to return with father!"
"Oh well, it's an ill-wind that blows no one any good," cried Mark,
while Carrissima sat with her eyes averted, hoping that nobody would
suspect her actual object.
But she had known of his intention to depart for Paris the next
morning, to spend a month with his old friend Wentworth before finally
settling down in London. If she had waited for Colonel Faversham's
return to Grandison Square she must, obviously, have missed Mark Driver
again. One of the chief purposes of Carrissima's life seemed to be the
disguise of motives, concerning which she scarcely knew whether she
ought to feel ashamed or not.
"Well," suggested Lawrence, "we haven't heard why you didn't turn up in
time."
"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," said Mark, at last shaking hands
with his brother-in-law.
"Only half-an-hour!"
"You see," Mark explained, "I dined at Belloni's."
"Good gracious!" answered Lawrence, with evident annoyance, "if you
could go to Belloni's, why in the world couldn't you come here as you
promised?"
"I meant to come," said Mark, looking somewhat embarrassed, as he
glanced at Carrissima. "You see, I went to Duffield's Hotel in Craven
Street direct from the station. I thought I would just potter about
and smoke a pipe or so till it was time to change."
"But you haven't changed!" exclaimed Lawrence, with a disapproving
frown at Mark's blue serge jacket. It no doubt suited his long,
athletic figure admirably; but, nevertheless, was very much out of
place in present circumstances.
"No, of course not," said Mark. "The fact is I altered my mind.
Instead of hanging about at Duffield's, I thought I would go to Golfney
Place."
"What on earth for?"
"Oh well, to see Bridget, you know," answered Mark, and once more he
glanced at Carrissima, whose eyes met his own.