Chapter Nine
They found shelter in one of the big cellars of the Restaurant, and Miss Keane by degrees got back some of her courage. There were about twenty other persons in the same refuge, and she probably derived fortitude from their temporary companionship, and common danger. Tommy Esmond recovered himself very quickly, and hastened to observe the conventions.
“It is a queer time and place in which to make introductions,” he remarked genially. “But even in times of peril, one should preserve the usages of good society. I don’t suppose you know the name of your gallant rescuer. Let me make you known, in a formal fashion. Mr Spencer – Miss Keane.”
The beautiful Stella bowed her dark head, and the ghost of a smile flitted over her still pale face.
“I know Mr Spencer very well by sight. When I have recovered my wits, I will thank him properly and prettily. Perhaps he will come and see us at my cousin’s flat.”
“I was bringing him on there to-night, as a matter of fact,” explained Esmond. “But I presume all that is knocked on the head, even supposing we get out of this disgusting hole in reasonable time. Mrs L’Estrange won’t be in a mood to receive visitors, after this disquieting experience, I am sure.”
“I am afraid you don’t know Mrs L’Estrange,” replied the girl, with a little mocking laugh. Her tones were not yet quite steady, but she was rapidly recovering herself. “The card-tables were laid before we started, and we intended to be back early. If we get out safely from this disgusting hole, as you call it, my cousin will resume her ordinary pursuits, as if nothing had occurred to disturb them.”
Desultory conversation, the irresponsible chatter of the drawing-room kind, was almost impossible under the circumstances. And although Miss Keane did her best to assume a brave front, it was easy to see that she was inwardly quivering. At every roar of the guns, she shivered all over, and her cheek alternately flushed and then grew deadly pale with her inward terror.
“Poor child,” whispered Spencer to his companion; “she must be a bundle of nerves. Every second, she is experiencing the pangs of death in anticipation. By the way, the gallant Desmond doesn’t seem to have troubled himself much about her. If I hadn’t taken her forcibly away, I believe she would be rooted to that chair now.”
Esmond shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, a chap like Desmond doesn’t know the meaning of fear, and he can’t understand the sensation in others. The other woman took possession of him, and dragged him away. No doubt, he thought she was following. Mrs L’Estrange, so far as I can judge, would never think of anything but number one.”
And as Spencer’s glance stole to the fair face, he felt a strange feeling of pity for her. The poignant happenings of the last few moments had revealed to him her loneliness, the tragedy of her dependence upon others. In a supreme moment of peril, she, who ought to have lovers and friends by the score, was left by herself, and thrown upon the compassion of a stranger.
An anxious half-hour passed, and then messengers came down with tidings of a reassuring nature. The raiders had been driven off, after inflicting considerable damage. Gay London was free to pursue its natural course of pleasure.
At once the tension was relaxed. Drooping forms resumed an erect carriage, the roses bloomed again in the pale cheeks of the women. There was a flutter, a stir. They all moved away from the refuge which had been so welcome, and now had become unbearable.
In the hall they encountered the Colonel, cool and collected, as if he were on parade, Mrs L’Estrange fluttering and full of protestations.
“Oh, my poor Stella! I have been distracted about you. Why did you not follow us? I thought you were close behind us all the time, till we got to one of these abominable cellars, and looked back to find you were missing.”
The Colonel pulled at his moustache a little nervously.
“I shall never forgive myself, Miss Keane, not to have assured myself you were with us at the start. I would have come back to search for you, but Mrs L’Estrange was in such a nervous state I could not leave her.” Miss Keane answered him very coldly, and to her cousin she did not vouchsafe any reply.
“Please do not apologise. It was a question of sauve qui peut. Fortunately, I found some kind friends who took compassion on a forlorn damsel, shaking and terror-stricken.” She turned to Mrs L’Estrange. “Mr Esmond is, of course, an old friend. But you do not know Mr Spencer who got to me first.”
Mrs L’Estrange was quite equal to the occasion; she extended her perfectly-gloved hand with an air of effusive cordiality.
“A thousand thanks to you both. My darling Stella was fortunate in finding such protectors. We are both terrible cowards, I don’t know which is the greater.”
“I, without question,” flashed out Miss Keane. “Otherwise I should have had the sense to scurry away like yourself. We were both frightened rabbits, but you could run to a place of safety while I stood paralysed.”
Mrs L’Estrange turned away the awkward thrust with a charming smile. “I have made up my mind to one thing,” she remarked with an air of conviction. “Never, so long as the War lasts, will I dine out of my own home. This night’s experience has taught me a lesson. I don’t want a second one.”
At this juncture, Tommy Esmond interposed. “I was going to bring my friend Spencer round to you to-night. But I suppose you feel a bit too shattered, eh? You would like to get home and rest.”
“Oh dear, no!” replied the lady vivaciously. “I never alter my habits for anything or anybody. Let us all go along at once. I will go with Colonel Desmond. You and Mr Spencer can continue your charge of Stella.” But Guy had a small duty to perform. “I think if you will excuse me, I will join you a little later. I want to go round to inquire after my uncle and cousin. He is a very old man, and I should like to know he is quite safe.”
So it was arranged. The others drove off to Mrs L’Estrange’s flat, and Spencer, finding he would have some time to wait for a taxi, walked to Carlton House Terrace, where Lord Southleigh had his town house.
The footman who opened the door informed him that his lordship and Lady Nina were still in the dining-room with a small party. The earl had taken it all very calmly, and his daughter, who, unlike poor Stella Keane, was a young woman of remarkable courage, had not been disturbed at all.
“Are they alone, Robert?”
“No, sir, two old friends of his lordship’s came to dinner to-night and are still with them. But, of course, they will be glad to see you.”
However, his duty being performed, and learning that all was satisfactory, Spencer thought he might, as well get along to the flat. He had been strangely attracted by the beautiful girl, whom even her obvious terror and lack of self-control could not deprive of her charm.
“No, I won’t come in. Tell them I called round to make sure they were all safe. And say to her ladyship I will look in to-morrow afternoon about tea-time.”
He went into his club for a few moments to see if there were any letters, and half an hour later was at Mrs L’Estrange’s door.
She occupied the first floor of an imposing block of flats, recently erected in one of the semi-fashionable quarters of London. She might not be in very affluent circumstances, as Esmond had hinted, but she would have to pay a very handsome rent for her abode.
The door was opened by a decorous-looking butler, with the air of one who had served in good families. A man passed out as Spencer entered. He was a good-looking young fellow of about twenty-five, in khaki. Spencer knew him well by sight as the eldest son and heir of a rich brewer.
His face did not wear a very happy expression. It did not require a Sherlock Holmes to surmise that his visit had been an expensive one, and that he was hurrying away to avoid further temptation.
In the centre of a rather spacious hall, Stella Keane and Tommy Esmond stood chatting.
She greeted the newcomer with a bright and friendly smile. She no longer looked pale, in fact he thought there was a slight suspicion of rouge on the fair cheeks. She was too good-looking to need the aid of art, but perhaps she wanted to conceal the ravages inflicted on her beauty by that terrible time at the “Excelsior.”
“You are not very long after us. I conclude you found your friends were quite safe.”
She had gathered from the garrulous Tommy what she had not known before, that Spencer was next in succession to the earldom, also that Lord Southleigh had a very pretty daughter, who was an accomplished young sportswoman, a daring rider to hounds, an adept at golf, fishing, and other pastimes of a strenuous nature.
She had pricked up her ears at mention of the cousin. Artfully she pumped Tommy as to whether there was any tender feeling between the relatives.
But Tommy could give no information on this point. Spencer was a very reticent man about his private affairs, he explained. Personally, he should not consider him particularly susceptible to female influence. But he had heard that the old earl, who had a shockingly weak heart, and was likely to go off at any moment, would have viewed a marriage between the cousins with favour.
She mused over his words. He did not think him particularly susceptible to female influence. And yet she was sure there was admiration, open, undisguised admiration, in the glances he had bestowed upon her to-night. He was evidently not deeply in love with his pretty sporting cousin, or she would have been Mrs Guy Spencer before now, assuming, of course, that she was ready to obey her father’s wishes.
It was after a short silence that Miss Keane put a somewhat abrupt question to him: “Are you fond of play, Mr Spencer? Everybody is who comes here.”
“Not really. I am a very lukewarm gambler. I don’t mind a little flutter now and then, as a diversion. I always enjoy a small gamble at Monte Carlo, for example, but I never get carried away. When I have lost enough, I stop. Nothing could induce me to stake another sou.”
“Can you stop as easily when you are winning? That, I fancy, is where the self-control comes in. But I think I am rather glad you are not one of the infatuated ones. I was brought up in an atmosphere of gambling.”
There was a pathetic shadow in the beautiful brown eyes as she spoke. Spencer’s interest in her, a girl he had only known for a couple of hours, quickened. The glance he turned on her was full of sympathy, although he did not utter a word. It said as plainly as if he had spoken: “Tell me more about yourself, you will find an attentive listener.”
“My father and mother were both desperate gamblers. They staked and lost everything they had at cards, on the race-course, at Monte Carlo. My poor cousin, Mrs L’Estrange, has the same fever in her veins.”
Now that he had invited her confidence, he was a little embarrassed by it. He did not know her well enough to condole with her. By way of relieving the tension, he uttered a few trite remarks on the subject of gambling generally.
“Very sad when people are bitten by it to that extent. In my small experience, and I am only speaking of cards, I have found that, at the end of twelve months, you leave off pretty well where you started, good players or bad. You lose a hundred this week, you win a hundred the next, and so on, and so forth. If you are a good player, you get bad cards; if a duffer, you get good cards. And so the bad player has a pretty even chance with his more skilful opponent.”
Miss Keane threw aside her momentary sadness, and laughed at his scientific exposition.
“You have evidently thought it all out,” she said brightly. “But please don’t inflict these cheerful theories on my cousin. She is a most tragic being when she loses. She thinks herself, and I believe is, one of the most scientific bridge-players in England, and she cannot be brought to understand why the duffers should have a look in.”
At this juncture Tommy Esmond interposed. It may have occurred to him that they were wasting precious time. They had come here for the special purpose of gambling.
“What do you say to joining the others? We are in the very temple of gambling, and I know my young friend would like a little flutter.”
“Certainly. When I last peeped in, Amy looked the spirit of despair. I think she must have been losing heavily.”
She turned to lead the way, but at that instant the door bell rang, and she halted, in readiness to greet the visitor, whoever it might be; and there entered a florid-looking, stout man, who advanced towards her with effusion, and both hands outstretched.
“My dear Stella, I have been thinking of you ever since the raid began; I know how terribly you suffer when they are on. And I knew you were dining out to-night. I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound. I came round here the moment I could get away.” Miss Keane flushed slightly as he took her hands and wrung them impressively to show his gratitude at her escape from peril. Tommy Esmond had given him a cool nod. But she felt Spencer’s calm, critical gaze upon this ebullient expression of young English manhood.
It was not so much what he said, as his manner of saying it. Bounder was written all over him, in his appearance, his manners, his gestures.
She answered him very briefly, almost curtly, as if she were administering a cold douche. Then the flush deepened as she turned to Spencer.
“May I introduce my cousin, Mr Dutton?” The florid man bowed with an exaggerated air of cordiality. Spencer, who had taken a violent dislike to him from the first second he saw him, acknowledged the salutation with chilling gravity; and Stella Keane could almost read his thoughts, as his gaze travelled from one to the other.
How could this imperial-looking girl have such an unmitigated bounder for a relative? What was the mystery about her that could make a creature like this claim kinship with her?
Chapter Ten
Mrs L’Estrange was evidently a great believer in light: the electric bulbs glowed softly, but brilliantly, over the two rooms devoted to the service of the card-players.
On the sideboards were arranged decanters of whisky, and soda-water in bottles and syphons. Whether he lost or won, the gambler, triumphant or despairing, could quaff to his success, or solace his despair.
The elderly, youthfully-dressed woman advanced towards the new visitors, with a beaming expression of countenance.
“Mr Spencer, you will join us. What is your favourite game?”
“Bridge,” said Spencer, shortly. He was already a bit in love with Stella Keane, but he was by no means favourably inclined to her gushing, elderly cousin.
He soon formed a party of four, and became absorbed, for the moment, in the game. Tommy Esmond was playing the same game, at a table some distance from him. Tommy was not supposed to be wealthy, but he evidently had money enough to indulge in a quiet gamble now and then.
He remembered every incident of that night. His partner was a subordinate member of the Government, and a good sound player, lacking a little perhaps in the qualities of initiative and rapid decision. His opponents were a young man in the Foreign Office, and a slender, hawk-nosed young woman of about thirty.
All through he held abominable cards, but, truth to tell, he was not very interested in the game. Whether he won or lost a hundred pounds did not interest him very greatly.
But what did interest him, to every fibre of his being, was that Stella Keane hovered about his table. His eyes continually sought hers, and she did not seem to avoid his glance. At times he was sure he could detect a slight smile of intimacy. After all, had he not rescued her, half dead with fright, in the dining-room of the “Excelsior?”
Once she bent over him and whispered, her cool, fragrant breath fanning his cheek: “You are having shocking bad luck. You haven’t held a single decent card.”
He whispered back: “What did I tell you a little time ago? I flatter myself I am a fairly good bridge-player, but what could one do with those cards of mine?”
She fluttered away, with still the shadow of that intimate smile upon her beautiful mouth, the smile that seemed to say they had only known each other for a few hours, under romantic and dramatic circumstances, but there was between them an affinity of spirit.
He played on steadily for over an hour, and then a halt was cried. The young gentleman from the Foreign Office and the hawk-nosed young woman had scored. Guy Spencer rose from the table, the poorer by a hundred and fifty pounds. He wrote his cheque with a light heart. A hundred and fifty pounds was not a great price to pay for the introduction to Stella Keane.
Mrs L’Estrange came impressively towards him.
“Oh, Mr Spencer, I hope you have not lost. If so, I fear you will never come near me again.” His glance roved in the direction of Stella, talking, as it appeared earnestly, to that bounder of a cousin. There came a steely look into his clear, resolute eyes.
“If you will allow me, I shall be delighted to come here often to see you and Miss Keane. I suppose I had better pick up my old friend Tommy Esmond, if he is not too engrossed.” But when he approached Esmond, that little rotund gentleman waved him away, in most genial fashion.
“Run away, dear boy. It is Eclipse first, and the rest nowhere. I am winning hands down.” Certainly he bore the mien of a conqueror. And there, behind his chair, stood Stella Keane.
She welcomed Spencer with that faint, intimate smile which had already stirred his pulses.
“I fear I brought you bad luck,” she said, in her low, caressing voice. “But to Mr Esmond I have been the harbinger of good fortune. Are you really going?”
“I always go when I have won enough, or lost enough. You remember I gave you a little homily on gambling generally, not so long ago.”
She took her hand off Esmond’s chair. “Well, I will leave my good influence behind, and look after the parting guest.”
She walked leisurely with him in the direction of the hall. It was deserted, but the light was brilliant, as it was in every other corner of the flat.
She held out her hand impulsively. “Mr Spencer, I have not thanked you properly for your kindness to me to-night. Terror-stricken, paralysed with fear, I should have been clinging to that chair now, if you had not rescued me in time. How can I thank you?”
Spencer laughed lightly. “One would think from your excessive gratitude that you had not experienced a great deal of kindness in your life. And yet that would be impossible.” She flushed a little; his gaze was perhaps more full of admiration, of frank and open compliment than could be justified by the briefness of their acquaintance. And yet it only expressed what he was inwardly thinking.
Here was a girl who had only to look at her mirror to learn she was endowed with singular beauty. She must also know that she combined with her more than ordinary fairness an unusual charm of manner.
How had it come about that one with such striking qualifications should exhibit a certain underlying sadness, as if the world had already proved a very disappointing place? Youth and good looks usually secure for their owner a good time. Girls with half her attractions could find plenty of admirers. What evil fate dogged her that she had to regard a perfectly common act of kindness as something to be exceptionally grateful for?
“I have never been petted nor spoiled, even as a child,” she answered gravely. “My father and mother were ignorant of the duties, as they were of the instincts, of parenthood. And since my poor pretence of a home was broken up, I have been a derelict and a wanderer, sometimes a tolerated guest, rarely, I fear, a very welcome one in the houses of other people.”
“But you are happy here, surely?” he suggested. After saying so much, she could hardly regard the question as an impertinent one. He longed to hear her history. Well, if he came and cultivated her, and let her see how sympathetic he could be, one day she would tell him.
She shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference.
“My cousin is peculiar in many ways, and her devotion to play is an obsession. We have very little in common; still, it would not be fair to say she was difficult to get on with. I have been with her now for more than eighteen months, and although we have often held totally different opinions, I cannot remember that we have ever had a real quarrel. And, anyway, it is a home and a shelter, and that is something.”
Not much enthusiasm here, certainly. Mrs L’Estrange had been dismissed with a very negative kind of faint praise. Her excellence seemed to lie rather in the absence of bad qualities than the possession of good ones.
And yet, he could not bring himself to believe that Miss Keane was an ill-natured girl, or of an unresponsive temperament. He had to admit that his impressions of his hostess were not too favourable.
She was outwardly genial, and at times gushing. Yet he fancied he could read behind this plausible exterior the signs of a hard, worldly nature. There was no softness in her glance, no tenderness in her rather hard, staccato tones.
A girl with those glorious eyes, and mobile face, with the delicate complexion that flushed and paled by turns, must surely be sweet and sympathetic, and responsive to affection. How her voice had thrilled with emotion when she thanked him. If she was disappointed in her cousin, it must be the fault of the elder woman, who could not give what was demanded by the younger and more ardent temperament.
He would have lingered longer, trying to pierce the riddle from these disjointed remarks, but they were interrupted by Tommy Esmond, who came bustling into the hall, flushed with victory.
“Never had such luck in my life. Just wiped the floor with them,” he explained excitedly. “You left your good influence behind, Miss Keane. A few minutes sufficed for victory.”
“I am very glad, but I think my powers for good must be very limited, for I brought bad luck to your friend,” was her smiling rejoinder.
He turned briskly to the young man. “It is a perfect night, Spencer. Shall we walk down to the Club to get a breath of fresh air, and turn in there for a quiet smoke?”
Spencer nodded assent, and held out his hand to Miss Keane.
“Well, good-bye for the present.”
“And I hope you will come and see us again soon. Don’t wait for Mr Esmond to bring you: after our thrilling experiences of to-night, we are more than ordinary acquaintances. We are at home nearly every night, if you want to gamble. And, if you would like a little rational chat instead, come in one afternoon to tea.”
“Thanks, I will. My card-playing fit has passed for a little time. Once again, good-bye.”
And, as soon as they were in the street, Esmond burst in with the question he was longing to ask.
“Well, what do you think of her? Did I exaggerate?”
“Not in the least,” answered Spencer, speaking less seriously than he felt, he did not quite know for what reason, unless it was that with a man of his friend’s calibre, he always had a tendency to discuss things lightly. “No, I don’t think you have exaggerated a bit this time; so many of your swans have been geese, but this is a real swan, at last. She is very lovely; even in her terror she looked beautiful, and she has a peculiar, elusive charm. She makes you want to know more of her, and penetrate the mystery which seems to hover around her.”
“I can’t say I see any mystery, myself.” Esmond spoke rather sharply, for such a good-natured little man.
“Perhaps it is too strong a word. But I take it, you know something of the ménage, and can enlighten me on one point. What is her position there: paid companion, a passing guest, or does she share the flat with her cousin on some sort of terms?”
It was a little time before Esmond answered. “I have never rightly got at that myself. Sometimes I have thought one thing, sometimes another. But I am pretty sure she is poor: in fact, she has admitted as much.”
“Poverty is relative after all, and it depends on how she was brought up. She seems to dress well, and that cannot be done without money.”
Yes, Esmond admitted that she was turned out well. But he either could not, or would not express any positive opinion upon the delicate subject of Miss Keane’s finances.
“Does she ever play? She didn’t touch a card while we were there, only flitted about from table to table.”
No, Esmond had never seen her play since he had frequented the house. It was clear, therefore, she did not make any pocket-money out of gambling. He had to admit that she seemed to act as deputy hostess, and, he believed, wrote most of her cousin’s notes; in other words, made herself useful.
All this information, such as it was, he imparted, as it seemed to Spencer, with some reluctance. Perhaps his keen admiration prompted him to hide anything that served to show her in a dependent position. And Spencer desisted from any further cross-examination on this head.
On one point, however, he was determined to elicit a positive expression of opinion from the cautious little man.
“What is the mystery of the bounder cousin? You must admit he has cad stamped all over him, his speech, his person, his gestures.”
Tommy could establish no defence for the gentleman in question. “No, he is past criticism, I allow. The result of some mésalliance, I suppose; his mother a very common person doubtless. But then, many highly respectable people have skeletons like that in their cupboards.”
“The mystery is that he finds his way, cousin as he may be, into any decent house. Mrs L’Estrange we know to be a woman of good family. You would think she would lock and bolt the door against a creature like that. What is he supposed to be, if he has any profession beyond that of his intense bounderism?”
“Something in the City, I am told,” replied Esmond shortly. “Something connected with finance; stockbroker or something.”
“It must be a shady kind of finance, if he has anything to do with it,” growled the young man. “To think of his claiming relationship with that exquisite girl.”