It was not so easy, after this second interview with the mysterious
lady of Mary Street, for George Lauriston to keep the image of the
little black-eyed enchantress out of his mind. Her prompt and
passionate advances to himself raised strong doubts as to the result
of the education which Mrs. Ellis declared to have been so careful,
while on the other hand, against his better judgment, he would fain
have believed that it was the romantic circumstances of their
strangely made acquaintance which had broken down, for the first time,
the maidenly reserve of the passionate and wayward girl. In spite of
himself, a small, slim, supple form, dark sun-warm complexion, April
changing moods, kisses from fresh young lips that clung to your own
with frank, passionate enjoyment, had all become attributes of his
ideal of womanhood. It came upon him with a shock therefore, when, a
few days later, he suddenly discovered that he was expected to find
his ideal in a lady who was destitute of any one of them.
It came about in this way. Chief among the houses where George
Lauriston was always sure of a welcome was the town establishment of
Sir Henry Millard, Lady Florencecourt’s brother, an uninteresting and
rather incapable gentleman who had raised himself from poverty and
obscurity by marrying, or rather letting himself be married by, an
American heiress who was the possessor of a quite incalculable number
of dollars. They had three daughters, Cicely, Charlotte, and Ella, all
of whom would be well dowered, and who were therefore surfeited with
attentions which custom had taught them to rate at their proper value.
Lady Millard was a lean, restless, bright-eyed little woman, who had
acquired some repose of manner only by putting the strongest
constraint upon herself, and who was consumed by an ardent ambition to
be the mother-in-law of an English duke. Sir Henry’s whole soul was
bound up in a model farm in Norfolk, which his wife’s fortune enabled
him to mismanage with impunity. He had never got over his intense
disgust with his daughters for not being sons, and he left them and
the disposal of them entirely in the hands of his wife and of their
uncle Lord Florencecourt, who, having no daughters of his own, took an
almost paternal interest in his nieces.
Lord Florencecourt had made up his mind that a marriage between his
favourite, George Lauriston, and one of his nieces would be an
admirable arrangement, giving to the young officer the money which
would do so much to forward his advancement in the world, and to one
of the girls an honourable, manly husband, who might some day do great
things. The match would, besides, strengthen the bonds of mutual
friendship and liking between himself and the young man.
It was one evening when the two men were driving in a hansom to dine
at Sir Henry’s, that the elder broached the subject in his usual
harsh, abrupt tone, but with a generous fire in his eyes, which showed
the depth and the quality of his interest in the matter.
Lauriston, taken by surprise, betrayed a reluctance, almost a
repugnance, to the idea which filled the elder man with anger and
disappointment.
“I see,” said he, with a short dry laugh. “You have picked up with
some pretty chorus-girl, and are not ready for matrimony.”
“You are mistaken, Colonel, I assure you. I have picked up nobody. But
it is hardly surprising if your constant jibes at love and matrimony
should have taken root in me, who honour your opinions so much.”
He spoke somewhat stiffly, because he had to choose his words, feeling
rather guilty. Lord Florencecourt broke in brusquely:
“All d----d nonsense! Jibes at love only take root in a young man to
grow into intrigues. There’s an end of the matter; don’t refer to it
again.”
They were at their destination. Lord Florencecourt sprang from the
hansom first, out of temper for the evening; Lauriston followed very
soberly.
Sir Henry’s town house was one of the big mansions of Grosvenor
Square. It had a large dome-like arch over the entrance, and was
painted a violent staring white, which made the smoke-begrimed houses
on either side, with their rusty iron lamp-frames and antiquated
extinguishers, quite a refreshing sight. The interior was furnished
handsomely, in the prevailing upholsterer’s taste, without any
distinguishing features; for Lady Millard, though she still cherished
certain luxurious and unconventional notions which in her native
country she would have indulged, was too much bound down by the
prejudices of her present rank, to dare to infringe ever so little on
the rules which governed the rest of her order. So that while she
inwardly knew an indiarubber plant by itself in a bilious or livid
earthenware vase to be an abomination, she had an indiarubber plant in
a bilious yellow vase in front of her middle dining-room window,
because the Countess of Redscar had one in a livid blue vase in hers.
And in spite of her feeling that to strew a litter of natural flowers
over a dinner-table, to fade and wither before one’s eyes in the
heated air, is stupid, inconvenient, and ugly, she yielded to that, as
she did to every passing fashion set by her higher-born neighbours.
She followed a more sensible English fashion in having two most
beautiful girls among her children. Cicely and Charlotte, the two
eldest, were tall, fair as lilies, limpid-eyed, small-mouthed,
innocent, sweet and rather silly. Dressed as they were on this evening
in white muslin dresses, which looked to masculine eyes as if they
might have been made by the wearers themselves, though they were in
reality a triumph of a Bond Street milliner, they made the dull
minutes before dinner interesting by their mere physical loveliness.
Unfortunately for her, fortunately perhaps for them, the youngest of
the three girls was a foil, not an addition to the family beauty.
Small, sallow, and plain, Ella Millard did not attempt to make up for
her deficiency in good looks by any special attraction of manner. To
most people she seemed shy, abrupt, and almost repellent; such a
contrast, as everybody said, to her charming and amiable sisters. But
with the minority for whom fools, however beautiful, have no charm,
Ella was the favourite; and George Lauriston, an _habitué_ of the
house, had got into the habit of making straight for the chair by her
side at every opportunity, with the distinct conviction that she was
an awfully nice girl.
On this occasion he took in to dinner the second sister, Charlotte,
and he found that her placid, amiable face and wearisome gabble about
the Opera, the Academy, and Marion Crawford’s new novel--(Charlotte
prided herself on having plenty to say)--irritated him to a degree he
had never before thought himself capable of reaching.
When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room after dinner, George
Lauriston, seeing Ella in a corner by herself, made at once for the
seat by her side. She made way for him almost without looking up, as
if she had expected him.
“How cross you looked at dinner,” she said; “I was glad you took
Charlotte in and not me.”
“No, you were not. If I had taken you I should not have been cross.”
“That is quite true. Charlotte is sweet-tempered and will put up with
a man’s moods; I should have turned my back upon you and let you
sulk.”
“Yes; you are a hard, disagreeable creature.”
“But such a relief after my poor Charlotte. Now tell me what is the
matter with you.”
“Nothing except ill-temper. At least--to say the truth, I hardly can
tell you.”
“Nonsense. You can tell me anything, after the stream of nonsense I
have heard at different times from you.”
“But this isn’t nonsense. Lord Florencecourt wants me to marry one of
your sisters.”
“Well, I dare say you could get one of them to have you, if I backed
you up. You see I am so out of the running that they think a good deal
of my advice.”
“Don’t tease. He really has set his heart upon it.”
“And pray, my lord commander-in-chief, don’t you think you might do
much worse? They are both as pretty as peaches, perfectly sweet and
good, and either would worship you meekly and mildly as a god and a
hero; besides which they have other and more substantial advantages,
and you would have the satisfaction of cutting out many better men.”
“You are very cheeky this evening.”
“Do you know I used to think you rather admired Charlotte?”
“Admired her! How can one help admiring them both? Only they are such
a perfect match that one couldn’t love, honour, and obey--that’s it,
isn’t it?--the one without loving, honouring, and obeying the other.”
“That’s an evasion,” said Ella, piercing him with her brown, bead-like
eyes. She continued to look at him fixedly while she counted slowly on
her fingers. “One--two--three--three weeks ago you were not in the
same mind.”
Lauriston started and grew red, and the brown eyes twinkled.
“Three weeks ago, if my uncle had made you this suggestion, you would
have taken it differently.”
“What do you mean?”
“That something has happened in the meantime to divert your admiration
into another channel. Oh, I know. I am not a ‘silent member’ for
nothing; when I am called upon to give my vote, my mind is a good deal
clearer on the subject in hand than those of the active debaters.”
“Well, supposing I told you I wanted to marry you?”
“You would not dare to come to _me_ with such a story.”
“Why not? You like me; you have always shown it. You are nicer to me
than you are to almost anybody.”
“I like you certainly, though I think at present you’re rather a prig;
but perhaps that is only because it is a case of sour grapes.”
“Sour grapes!”
“Yes. For if I had been handsome I would have married you; I like you
enough for that.”
“Then why in heaven’s name won’t you marry me?” asked Lauriston, much
excited.
“Simply because you would take me to avoid something worse; and that I
have no attractions strong enough to keep you if the ‘something worse’
should try to get hold of you again.”
Lauriston was amazed and shocked at this penetration on the part of a
young girl. He gave her a shy look out of the corners of his eyes, and
leaned forward on his knees, his handsome brown head bent, playing
with his moustache with moist, nervous fingers. She laughed as she
looked at him, with a sound in her voice which struck him, though he
could not quite make up his mind whether it was tender or bitter.
“I have some astonishing notions for a girl, haven’t I?” she said
quietly. “But after all it is not so very surprising if you will
consider the facts a little. Here am I, a girl too plain, too
unattractive to be worshipped like my sisters, too proud to be married
for the only attraction I share with them, and not at all inclined to
do homage to a sex that prefers a beautiful wax dolly to--well, to a
faithful and intelligent dog.” There was no mistaking the bitterness
of her tone now, while the half resentful, half plaintive expression
of her eyes made her face at least interesting. “So I have had to
carve out a life for myself, with peculiar pleasures and peculiar
interests. I read and I study to an extent which would almost disgust
you perhaps; and I watch, and listen, and think until I know as much
of life and of the people I meet as Charlotte and Cicely know of their
‘points’ and the colours which suit their complexions.”
“I shall begin to be afraid of you,” said George.
“Why?” asked Ella, folding her hands and sitting up stiff and straight
as a school-teacher. There was a _jardinière_ full of pretty
flowering plants near the ottoman on which they were sitting.
Charlotte or Cicely would have taken the opportunity to lean forward
and play with or gather some of the blossoms, to show off their figure
and the pretty curves of their wrists. But Ella, when she chose to
talk, always became too much interested in her subject to have thought
for petty coquetries, and so she sat, with the calm intent face of a
judge, prepared to give an impartial, yet kindly, hearing to George’s
answer.
“Because you are so clever.”
“And so are you. But even if you were not, you would have no need to
be afraid of me. It would be as reasonable of me to be afraid of you,
because I know that if you liked you are strong enough to kill me with
one blow of your fist, as for you to think I would use my wits to do
you harm. One does not turn one’s strength against one’s friends.”
“That is true,” said George, touched by the girl’s tone. “Ella, why
won’t you marry me? Only two women in all my life have ever woke any
strong feeling in me: until this evening I could have said ‘only
one’--a little wild girl whose influence I dread, though I have only
met her twice. You will think me a weak fool, perhaps, but a woman,
however clever she may be, cannot in such a case judge a man. There
are influences at work in a man’s coarser nature that no sweet and
innocent girl could understand. To-night you have given me the first
glimpse I have ever been able to catch into the depths of your warm
heart and your noble mind; I see in you the type of all that is best
in women; and I know that if you would have me all that is best in me
would grow and expand until I might in time be worthy of the affection
of a good woman. Ella, will you try me?”
The girl was looking away from him, still sitting very upright, and
drinking in his words with an intent expression on her face. At last
she turned her head slowly, and her eyes, mournful and earnest, gazed
full into those of the young man, who had poured out his appeal with
passionate excitement, and now sat, flushed and eager, awaiting her
answer.
“Can you wait for my reply till to-morrow?” she asked, with a
curiously searching expression.
“Why to-morrow? What would you know to-morrow that you don’t know
to-night?”
“You are going to see the girl to-night!” said Ella, with a sudden
inspiration.
“If you will not have me--yes. It is a promise. If you, now that you
know everything, will take me, I hold myself absolved from a promise
to another woman, and before Heaven I swear that you will have nothing
more to fear; I will never see her again. Only a woman can drive
another woman out of a man’s head. Ella, no one has ever crept so near
to my heart as you. Will you come right in?”
If she had not cared for him so much, she would have said yes. But the
tenderness she had long secretly felt, without owning it to herself,
for the handsome young officer, made her timid. If she were to marry
him, she, with the fierce depths of unsuspected passion she felt
stirring at her heart, would adore him, would be at his mercy, bereft
of the shield of sarcasm and reserve with which she could hide her
weakness now. She knew that the feeling which brought him to her was
not so strong as, though it was probably better than, that which
impelled him away. She dared not risk so much on a single stroke.
Yearning, doubt, fear, resolution, all passed so quickly through her
mind that she had kept him waiting for his reply very few moments when
she rose, and with a face as still and set as if she had not for a
moment wavered, she said:
“I can give you no answer now. If you are in the same mind a month
hence, ask me again.”
George gave a hard laugh as he too rose.
“It will be too late,” he said coldly. “But I thank you for hearing
me. Good-night.”
He shook hands with her in a mechanical manner, not even noticing in
his agitation the nervous pressure of her fingers. If he had looked
again in her face he would have seen that she relented; as it was, he
was at the other end of the room taking leave of her father and mother
before she had time to realise the decisiveness of the step she had
taken. Scourging herself with reproaches, remorseful, miserable, Ella
Millard got little sleep that night.
George Lauriston had hardly got half-a-dozen yards from the house when
he heard Lord Florencecourt’s short, youthful step behind him, and a
moment later the Colonel had slipped his arm through his, with a
friendliness he showed to no one but his favourite.
“Well, George, which of the two is it?” he asked in a much more genial
tone than usual.
“Which of the two!” repeated Lauriston vaguely.
“Yes, yes, you were talking to the sister all the evening; now there
is only one subject which makes a young man so utterly oblivious of
everything else. Come, you can confess to me; which of her two sisters
were you trying to get her influence with?”
“I was trying to get her influence with Ella Millard.”
The Colonel stopped, pulled the young man face to face with him by a
sharp wrench of the arm, and looked up into his face with his most
steely expression.
“Are you serious?” he asked in a grating voice.
“Most serious, I assure you, sir.”
“You asked that yellow-skinned, swarthy little girl to marry you?”
“I think, Colonel, the most important thing about a wife is not the
colour of her skin.”
“There you’re wrong, entirely wrong. Your fair white woman may be
cold, may be irritating, she may henpeck you by day, she may nag at
you at night. But for treachery, for unfaithfulness, for every quality
which leads a man to ruin, despair and dishonour, go to your
dark-complexioned woman. Ella is my niece, and as she is plain, she
may go through life without doing much harm. But I would rather see a
hump grow on her shoulders, and flames come from her mouth as she
talked, than see her marry a man in whom I take an interest, as I do
in you, George.”
“You need have no fear in this case, Colonel, for she won’t have me,”
said Lauriston, not attempting to combat the Colonel’s superstitious
prejudices, which were as strong as those of any old woman.
And as, in his relief on finding that his fears were groundless, Lord
Florencecourt let his hand drop from the young man’s arm, the latter
took the opportunity to bid him good-night and walk off with the
excuse of an appointment.
If even Ella’s skin was too dark to please him, what would the Colonel
find to say of Nouna’s, he thought, wondering how the old soldier had
picked up his strong prejudice. Could he really have been once under
the sway of a woman compared to whom even the present Lady
Florencecourt, with all her tyranny, ill-humour and caprices, was as
light after darkness? Lauriston had no means of telling, and the
question did not trouble him long. For to-night was the last night of
the week in the course of which Nouna had made him swear that he would
return, and he knew that the girl was even now anxiously on the watch
for him. He felt that he would have done better to have made his call
that morning, to have seen her under the prosaic influences of
daylight and Mrs. Ellis, as he had intended to do. But a friend had
called unexpectedly to carry him off to Hurlingham, and had left him
no chance of keeping his oath except by slipping a note into the
letter-box of 36, Mary Street, in the darkness of the evening. This
would satisfy his conscience and save him from the danger of the
girl’s alluring eyes.
Yet as he walked quickly through the quiet West-End streets, past
brightly-lighted houses, where a strip of carpet was thrown across the
pavement, and a seedy, silent old man or a couple of lads waited to
see the ladies come out, Lauriston felt his heart beating faster as
the image of the little Indian girl came to his mind with a
thousandfold additional charm after his evening spent in the
commonplace _ennui_ of a London dinner-party. He honestly tried to
think of Ella--good, clever little Ella--whose kindness and sweetness
had touched him so much only half-an-hour ago. But then had she not
herself rejected his offered homage, thrown him back on the charm that
was now drawing him with an attraction which grew stronger with his
resistance to it?
He reached Mary Street at last. By this time it had grown so dark that
it was reasonable to think he might drop his note in the letter-box
and walk away without being seen. But he knew all the same that he
should not be allowed to do so. The lights were burning both on the
first-floor and the ground-floor of No. 36 when he slipped his little
missive into the box; as he did so the blind of one of the
ground-floor windows was raised, and a woman looked out and instantly
disappeared. He thought he would not ring, but was lingering for one
moment on the doorstep almost as if he knew that his presence must be
known, when he heard the chain drawn and the door opened. He felt that
his whole body was throbbing with fierce excitement.
But it was not Nouna. It was the dark-complexioned Rahas whom he had
treated so unceremoniously on his first visit, and who now stood in
the same handsome Eastern dress he had worn on that occasion, but with
a very different demeanour, holding the door wide open, and with
dignified and courteous words inviting the young Englishman to enter.
Lauriston, after a moment’s hesitation, accepted the invitation, and
passing in stood in the hall while his host closed the door, wondering
what were to be his adventures that night. The shutting of the door
was accomplished very slowly, with infinite precautions against noise,
while Lauriston glanced up the staircase, listened intently for a
light footfall, and felt all the enervating rapture which the near
neighbourhood of his first passionate love gives to a very young man.
Turning rather suddenly again towards his companion, he found the eyes
of the Oriental fixed upon him in what struck him as a peculiar
manner. As their eyes met, the merchant, with a low bow and a gesture
of courteous invitation, held open the door on the left and ushered
his visitor in. Lauriston entered with a glance at the doors and a
glance at the windows to decide upon the best way of escape should the
conduct of the gentleman in the fez be consistent with the sinister
expression of his face.