“Well, old man, you have made a hash of your life at the very beginning of it. As I say, that can’t be undone. You’ve got to make the best of it. I suppose you have entered into some financial arrangements with her.”
“Seven hundred a year till I come into my aunt’s money. After that, of course, our marriage was to be acknowledged, and we would live together.”
“I see,” said Hugh, assuming a cheerfulness he did not quite feel. “Well, I should not say she would try for more than her seven hundred a year at present. When your aunt dies she will of course fight for a bit more. I take it, after to-night’s work, you will never want to live with her, cajoling and attractive as she is.”
Pomfret shuddered. “After what that fellow said, my love for her died. But, by Heaven, Hugh, I did love her while I believed in her.”
“Of course, of course. Have you signed any document about that seven hundred, by the way?”
“Not yet. My solicitor is sending me the document to-day, it will reach me to-morrow morning.”
“It will make it a little easier to deal with her, then. Are you going to leave yourself in my hands? I don’t think she will be very full of fight for the next few days.”
“Certainly I will, Hugh. Do your best for me. I never want to see her again, of that you may be sure.”
Murchison reflected deeply before he spoke again. “I doubt if she will trouble you very much. It won’t be very difficult to compromise with her, she has too much to hide. And now for yourself.”
“Yes,” groaned the unhappy Pomfret, in a hollow voice. “And now for myself. What do you suggest?”
“There’s only one thing to do, and that is to put the past behind you. As long as this woman lives, you can never marry. But many men go through life and remain bachelors, and are not altogether unhappy. You must make up your mind to be one of the bachelors, Jack.”
But Jack looked very despairing. The shock had been a terrible one. In spite of the stiff peg he had taken, his face was still livid, and his hands were shaking.
Hugh looked at him anxiously. He was very weak; had the occurrences of this terrible night driven him over the border-line that separates sanity from insanity?
Presently he muttered, almost as if to himself, certain disjointed phrases. Hugh caught a few of them, repeated again and again.
“Tied to her for life, she will outlive me, tied to her for life. She will never let me go. My poor family! I have always been a fool, but up to now have never brought disgrace to them. And God forgive me, I was reckoning on the death of my poor old generous aunt, it is idle to say I did not speculate on it. And for what, for what? – the pretended affection, the bought kisses of this adventuress, a card-sharper’s decoy, who told me lying tales about the way in which her criminal associate had inherited his money.”
He rambled on like this for some quarter of an hour, and Murchison judged it was better to let him ease his mind in such a fashion.
In a way, the poor foolish boy’s brain had cleared up to a point; he was able to look the facts squarely in the face. His infatuation might have been so deep that he might, under these damning circumstances, have fallen a victim to her wiles a second time. She would no doubt have been prepared, if he had given her the opportunity, to have sworn her innocence, to have protested that she was the victim of circumstantial evidence, that she had believed what her brother had told her, that she had never been a partner in, or a confidant of, his criminal schemes.
No, so far the rude shock had cleared his brain, made him see and think more clearly. But Murchison very much feared that the agonising remorse for his folly was obscuring it in another direction.
He seemed to look upon himself as something unclean in having allowed himself to be contaminated by association with such a wretched adventuress. He was also acutely conscious that, at the best, he would have to take this horrible secret with him to the grave, unless it sprang suddenly to light, as such secrets have a knack of doing. Above all, he keenly felt the disgrace he had inflicted on his family.
There was a great deal more desultory talk, and Hugh gave him the best advice he could under the unhappy circumstances – a reiteration of the “put it behind you and live it down” philosophy. This would have come easy to a man of the rocky and stolid type to which Murchison belonged by temperament. But Jack was highly-strung and impulsive. There was no ballast in him.
Hugh almost had to push him out of the room. But, before doing so, he mixed the boy another stiff peg, with the hope that it would induce sleep and purchase him the oblivion of a few hours.
“Now then, old man, toddle off. Get a good night’s rest, and when you wake to-morrow, you will find things look pretty black, but not quite so black as now. If this young woman contemplates a deep game, and wants to insist overmuch on her rights as your wife, I will deal with her on your behalf. I’ll warrant I bring her to reason.”
The poor distraught boy clasped his friend’s hand convulsively. “Hugh, old chap, you are the best friend a man could ever have, true as steel.”
“Don’t say that,” replied Hugh with a little break in his voice. “I am bound to do the best for you. It was owing to my infernal folly that you ever set foot in that cursed house. I am older and stronger than you, I ought to have known better. Well, good old Jack, good-night! I tell you, things won’t look quite as black to-morrow.”
But to Hugh’s intense grief and remorse, there was no morrow for the unhappy boy, whose mind had been quite unhinged by the events of that terrible night. One could only surmise that he had found sleep impossible, and in a fit of frenzy had taken his life to escape from a future so black and discouraging.
When his servant went to call him in the morning, he found his master lying on the floor, with a bullet-hole in the middle of his forehead. Everybody in the barracks had been fast asleep when the poor boy had fired the shot that was to take him out of his troubles, and nobody had heard the report.
At the inquest, the whole miserable story came out. Of course it came through Hugh, the only person who was in possession of it. He narrated the details of his acquaintance with the Burtons, the introduction of Jack Pomfret to the house, the scene at Rosemount when the two detectives had taken the man, Jack’s confession that he had made the girl his wife a few hours previously.
Hugh never forgot that interview with the Colonel, in which “Old Fireworks” poured out his wrath in no measured terms. He roundly called him an infernal fool for mixing himself up with people of whom he knew nothing, and whom Blankfield in its ignorance of their antecedents had declined to visit – and very wisely.
“If it had been poor Jack, a dear lad but a foolish, I could have found it in my heart to forgive him,” he ended. “But you are a man of another sort, you have got your wits about you, if you choose to exercise them. I will never pardon you that day’s work. You can play with fire and not be scorched, but he couldn’t. That poor boy’s death lies at your door, sir. I hope you realise it.”
Yes, Hugh did realise it. He stood with bowed head, and could not utter a word in self-defence.
The news, of course, was all over the town the next morning, or rather the double news – that George Burton had been arrested by two detectives from Scotland Yard, and that in the early morning of the following day Jack Pomfret had blown out his brains. The evidence at the inquest explained the double event.
The news of her young husband’s suicide reached Norah early in the morning. She had gambled and lost. The old adventurous life was in front of her again.
She took the buffets of fate with the stoicism of her kind and class. She had a comfortable little nest-egg put by which stood between her and present want. If only Jack had been less emotional, she would not have troubled him much, been content with quite a little. It is to be feared that, in her bitter disappointment, she felt a little sore against Jack for his moral cowardice in getting comfortably out of it himself, and leaving her in the lurch.
Anyway, she faced the situation with a courage that one could not refuse to admire. By two o’clock that same day the servants had been paid their wages, the keys of the furnished house handed over to the agent, and Mrs Pomfret had departed for London.
Murchison could never forget that terrible time till something came that seemed to dwarf all other things. In August, nineteen hundred and fourteen, there burst the first storm of the war which shook the world to its centre. In the blood-soaked plains of France he forgot everything except his country.
Jack Pomfret and Norah Burton seemed dim memories in those strenuous times of the world’s upheaval. And yet, when he had a moment’s leisure to think of the past, he felt a savage longing to be even with that fair-faced, smiling adventuress who had driven his poor young friend to a suicide’s grave.
Chapter Eight
“It’s a good proposition, old man. You couldn’t employ a couple of hours better. I have been in London Society of all sorts for the best part of my life, and I tell you that Stella Keane is the most charming girl I have ever met.”
The speaker was little Tommy Esmond, short, genial, and rotund of person. Tommy knew everybody who was anybody, and everybody knew the mercurial Tommy.
Guy Spencer puffed leisurely at his cigar, and regarded his rotund little friend with an amused smile. Spencer was about thirty, Tommy was old enough to be his father. But he wore well.
“Most excellent Tommy, how many times have I heard you say the same thing? Every girl you come across is the most charming you have ever met – until one sees you the next week. And then, the last girl has the super-charm – like the young lady you just mentioned, Miss Stella Keane.”
But Esmond was not to be rebuffed by a clumsy attempt at humour on the part of a young man so much his junior. Besides, Tommy was impervious to humour. It fell off him, like water from a duck’s back. In his way he was a very strenuous little man, he had no time to frivol.
“Don’t try to be funny, old man: it doesn’t suit you. Be sensible, and come round with me to Mrs L’Estrange’s flat and be introduced to Miss Keane.”
“It’s an interesting suggestion, Tommy, but before I decide tell me first – who is Mrs L’Estrange, and secondly, who and what is Miss Keane?”
And Tommy Esmond launched forth on a full flow of narrative. Mrs L’Estrange was the first cousin of a well-known Irish earl, and was – well, in somewhat reduced circumstances, and had a snug little flat in the Cadogan district.
“Mrs L’Estrange is quite satisfactorily explained,” remarked Guy, interrupting his rather voluble friend. “Now what do you really know about Miss Keane?”
Here, Esmond was a little less precise. Mrs L’Estrange he knew quite well, had known her ever since he had been in London; her ancestry and connections were unimpeachable.
Miss Keane, it would appear, had been suddenly projected into the L’Estrange household, as it were, from space. He understood that she was a distant connection, a far-off cousin, but he could give no particulars.
Tommy, with the born instinct of the true diplomatist, was always ready to present everything in its best light, but he lacked the one essential quality of the born diplomatist – he was not very successful when he came to camouflaging facts.
Spencer’s smile was more amused than ever, as he regarded his genial friend. Spencer was only thirty, and Tommy was at least old enough to be his father. But there were times when the younger man thought he saw more clearly than the elder.
“Let us put it at this, Tommy. Mrs L’Estrange, being in somewhat straitened circumstances, supplements her meagre income by card-playing, at which I have no doubt she is an adept.”
And here, the usually placid Tommy interposed hotly: “You may say of Mrs L’Estrange what you like. But, if you propose to offer any derogatory remarks about Miss Keane, I would rather not listen to them.”
And Spencer kept a curb on his tongue. Was this fat, comical-looking little man, a most unromantic figure, violently in love with Miss Stella Keane, and her sworn champion? Far be it from him to disturb his faith in this seductive siren, if it were so.
“It’s all right, old chap,” he said quietly. “I am not going to make any remarks, derogatory or otherwise, about Miss Keane. I think I will adopt your suggestion. Let us adjourn to Mrs L’Estrange’s flat. If one loses fifty or a hundred one may have a good time.”
“You will see the most charming girl in London,” cried Esmond in enthusiastic tones. It struck Spencer, as a peculiar phase of his friend’s detachment, that, being in love with the girl himself, he should be so anxious to introduce her to a younger man, who might, presumably, be his rival.
For there could be no question of rivalry between the two men, apart from their ages. Spencer was tall, athletic, handsome: Tommy Esmond was – just Tommy Esmond – rotund, comical in appearance, and insignificant.
Moreover, Spencer had other qualifications which are not without their influence on the fair sex. He had a considerable fortune, and he was the next in succession to an ancient earldom. If the Earl of Southleigh, a widower, did not marry again, he would succeed to the title and estates. He was, in every sense of the term, an eligible parti.
The long, weary War was drawing to its close. The two men were dining at the fashionable “Excelsior” and were now about half-way through their dinner.
Spencer had the bearing of a soldier, and he would have been at the Front long ago, but no doctor could be found who would pass him. To all appearance, he possessed the thews and sinews of an athlete, but the stalwart, manly frame covered an incurably weak heart, which played him strange tricks at times. He was serving his country in the best way open to him, and doing good, sound clerical work in a Government Office.
“When do you suggest we should put in an appearance at Mrs L’Estrange’s?” he asked presently.
“It will take us another half-hour to get through this abundant meal. You will then have your coffee, and you will want a good and long cigar. We began rather late, you will remember. By the time you have got through your smoke, we will make a move. We shall then find them in full swing.”
Guy nodded, and went on with his dinner. He was quite willing to go to the L’Estrange flat: he had no other engagement this evening, and it would be something to do. But he was not greatly interested about meeting the most beautiful girl in London. In spite of his friend’s almost lyrical outbursts, he expected that Miss Stella Keane would prove a very ordinary young woman.
Suddenly Tommy Esmond uttered an exclamation. “Look, there they are,” he whispered excitedly across the table. “Mrs L’Estrange and her cousin. The man with them is Colonel Desmond, the man who won the Victoria Cross in the Boer War.”
Tommy’s round face was red with pleasurable emotion. Was there any doubt, thought Spencer, that the little man was tremendously smitten by the beautiful Miss Keane? Would it result in a marriage, he wondered? Tommy was well-off, and a person of some importance in his little social world. And if Miss Keane was as lovely as his fond imagination painted her, it was quite evident that she was poor. Penniless young girls have before now accepted the shelter of a safe home, even when offered by comical-looking little elderly men.
The three newcomers moved to a vacant table; Mrs L’Estrange, a woman of middle age, dressed rather more youthfully than was quite in good taste, their escort, a tall figure in khaki, very upright and soldierly in his bearing, in spite of his sixty years, and last, but by no means least, the beautiful Miss Keane.
Yes, at the first glance, the young man decided that she fully deserved his friend’s somewhat extravagant praise. If everybody in London was not raving over her, it was simply due to the fact that her cousin’s circle was not important, and that she had found nobody of sufficient social influence to launch her with the necessary cachet.
If she had made her début at one of the great houses, stamped with the approval of any one of London’s distinguished hostesses, Society journals would have gone into rhapsodies over her, and she would have been one of the reigning beauties of the hour, far, far beyond the aspirations of little Tommy Esmond.
His own special taste rather inclined towards fair women, his cousin, Lady Nina, of whom he was very fond, being a charming specimen of that type. But he was no bigot in the matter of feminine beauty, and he was prepared to admit that there were some dark women who could compare favourably with their blonde sisters.
But Stella Keane was not very dark. She had soft brown eyes, glossy dark hair, and a beautiful creamy complexion, a mouth like Cupid’s bow, revealing when she smiled, teeth of a dazzling ivory. Her figure would have been pronounced perfect by the most critical and fastidious artist.
“What do you think of her?” asked the delighted Tommy, after he had given his friend a decent time for his inspection.
Tommy was a man whose friends had got into the habit of smiling at him, even when they agreed with him. Spencer smiled at him quite as often as any of his acquaintance, but at this moment he was perfectly grave.
“You are quite right, old man, this time,” he said quietly. “She is really beautiful, and her carriage is splendid. She looks like a young Empress – or, rather, she fulfils one’s idea of what a young Empress should be.”
Tommy beamed. He drank in the words of unstinted praise like wine. The little blue eyes, usually devoid of expression, seemed suffused with a soft emotion. There was something pathetic in his devotion to this radiant young woman who looked like a youthful Empress.
“And she is as good and sweet as she looks,” he murmured in a voice that he could not keep steady. “When she talks to you seriously and lets you know what she really thinks and feels, by gad, Spencer, it makes a battered old worldling like myself feel unworthy to be in her presence. For she has a beautiful soul and mind as well as a beautiful body.”
Spencer could only look sympathetic. Poor little Tommy, he certainly seemed to talk like a lover. And what did Miss Keane think of it all? She must have more than a mere tolerance for him, or she would not have allowed him those peeps into her mind and soul to which he alluded with such unrestrained rapture.
It was some time before Esmond’s intense gaze attracted the attention of the party, and when it did, he was rewarded with a most affable smile from Mrs L’Estrange, and one of quite pronounced friendliness from Miss Keane. The Colonel also bestowed a genial nod.
After a pause, Tommy spoke somewhat ruefully. “I’m afraid this rather upsets our little plans. Mrs L’Estrange is a most conscientious diner: she will be here, at the lowest calculation, for an hour and a half, counting the coffee and cigarettes. They won’t be back at the flat under a couple. You wouldn’t care to wait so long.”
He looked rather wistfully at his companion. He, for his own part, would have waited half the night.
“Don’t let us commit ourselves, old man, but await events. We haven’t finished our dinner yet, and the service is deucedly slow. We can put in a lot more time. You can pay your respects at a fitting moment, and perhaps they will ask us to their table. I must confess I should like to see Miss Keane at closer quarters, and talk to her. Although I don’t expect she will reveal as much to me as she does to you.”
Tommy looked pleased again; he was very bent upon introducing Spencer to his beautiful young friend. It would come about presently: if not here, in the lounge. Already, Mrs L’Estrange had sent a few covert glances in the direction of their table. There was little doubt she knew who his companion was, and would be quite pleased to number him amongst her acquaintance.
“Has Miss Keane many admirers? She should have,” remarked Spencer presently. He noticed that Esmond’s eyes were always turned in the direction of that particular table.
“Not any serious ones, I fancy. A few young fellows send her flowers, but nothing more. It is quite an unsuitable ménage for a girl of her attractions. The majority of the habitués are middle-aged men who go there simply to gamble. The few young ones come for a flutter, and disappear when they have had enough.”
“Does the young lady play?”
“I have never seen her. She has told me scores of times that she loathes gambling. Her father ruined himself by it. I believe she is really very unhappy there. And I gather Mrs L’Estrange has not the best of tempers, particularly when she has had bad luck.”
“Hobson’s choice, I expect,” suggested Spencer sympathetically. Miss Keane was facing him, giving him ample opportunity to examine the beautiful countenance, and it struck him that there was an underlying expression of sadness on the perfect features, especially when in repose.
“I fear so,” was Esmond’s answer. “She is very reticent about her own affairs, as any gentlewoman would be. But from certain things she has let drop, I make out her own means are very slender, and her cousin’s hospitality is a boon to her.”
Half an hour passed, and Spencer lit a big cigar. The two men chatted on various topics. Mrs L’Estrange and the Colonel were still doing full justice to the excellent dishes offered them. Miss Keane was apparently satisfied, and sat quietly watching her companions, and throwing in an occasional remark.
And suddenly came the loud sound of maroons. Everybody started. A few seconds later the clamour and roaring of our own guns burst forth. There was no doubt as to what was happening. The Germans were making one of their unwelcome visits.
“By heavens, it’s a raid, and we are in the thick of it,” cried Tommy Esmond, rising excitedly. He was a nervous little man, and his face had grown a shade pale at the sound of the first boom.
In a few moments there was a stampede from the dining-room. The guests hurried as fast as they could to the basement and cellars.
Tommy, in his progress, was impeded by two burly men who were making their way leisurely. Spencer was a few feet in front of him, making for the crowd that surged round the doors. As he looked around the deserted tables, he saw Miss Keane standing alone, her eyes almost rigid with terror, her hands clutching convulsively at the back of the chair on which she had been sitting. It was evident that the Colonel had quickly removed Mrs L’Estrange from the scene of danger, and she had been too panic-stricken to follow them.
He crossed over to her. “Excuse me,” he said gently – “I am a friend of Mr Esmond’s. How is it you are alone? Did your companions desert you?”
“Colonel Desmond took my cousin, and told me to keep close behind them. When I got up, my limbs seemed unable to move. I feel as if I were paralysed.”
He took her arm and put it through his. It was evident she had been rendered immobile by terror.
“I will take care of you,” he said soothingly. “Downstairs you will be quite safe. But we will let this crowd get through first.”
Tommy Esmond came bustling up, all anxiety. Truth to tell, he did not feel over brave, but his anxiety for himself was lost in the contemplation of her white face and stricken eyes.
Slowly, cheered by the presence of the two men, a little colour flowed back into her cheeks, and she smiled wanly.
“I am a fearful coward,” she explained. “I go all to pieces in even the mildest thunderstorm.”
And it was in this wise, amid the crash of falling bombs, and the roar and clamour of our own guns, that Guy Spencer made the acquaintance of Stella Keane.