Avenger — Chapters 7 & 8
THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER
After all, the garden party was not so bad.
The weather was perfect, and the grounds of Shirley House were large enough to find amusement for all the guests.
Wrayson, who had made great friends with the Colonel's younger daughter, enjoyed himself immensely.
After a particularly strenuous set of tennis, she led him through the wide-open French windows into a small morning-room.
"We can rest for a few minutes in here," she remarked.
"You can consider it a special mark of favour, for this is my own den."
"You are spoiling me," Wrayson declared, laughing.
"May I see those photographs?"
"If you like," she answered, "only you mustn't be too critical, for I'm only a beginner, you know.
Here's a bookful of them you can look through, while I go and start the next set."
She placed a volume in his hand and swung out of the room, tall, fresh, and graceful.
Wrayson watched her admiringly.
In her perfect naturalness and unaffected good-humour, she reminded him a good deal of her father, but curiously enough there was some other likeness which appealed to him even more powerfully, and yet which he was unable to identify.
It puzzled him so that for a moment or two after her departure he sat watching the door through which she had disappeared, with a slight frown upon his forehead.
She was undoubtedly charming, and yet something in connection with her seemed to impress him with an impending sense of trouble.
Everything about her person and manners was frank and girlish, and yet she was certainly recalling to his mind things that he had been struggling all the afternoon to forget.
Already he began to feel the clouds of nervousness and depression stealing down upon him.
He struck the table with his clenched fist.
He would have none of it.
Outside was the delicious sunshine, through the open window stole in the perfume of the roses which covered the wall, and mignonette from the trim borders, and stocks from the bed fringing the lawn.
The murmur of pleasant conversation was incessant and musical.
For a time Wrayson had escaped.
He swore to himself that he would go back no more into bondage; that he would dwell no more upon the horrors through which he had lived.
He would take hold of the pleasant things of life with both hands, and grip them tightly.
A man should be master of his thoughts, not the slave of unwilling memories.
He would choose for himself whither they should lead him; he would fight with all his nerve and will against the unholy fascination of those few thrilling hours.
He looked impatiently towards the door, and longed for the return of his late companion that he might continue his half-laughing flirtation.
Then he remembered the album still upon his knee, and opened it quickly.
He had dabbled a little in photography; he would find something here to keep his thoughts from the forbidden place.
And he did indeed find something--something which set his heart thumping, and drew all the colour, which the sun and vigorous exercise had brought, from his cheeks; something at which he stared with wide-open eyes, which he held before him with trembling, nerveless fingers.
The picture of a woman!
The picture of her!
It had lain loose in the book, with its back towards him.
Only chance made him turn it over.
As he looked he understood.
There was the likeness, such likeness as there may be between a beautiful woman, a little sad, a little scornful, with the faint lines of mockery about her curving lips, the world-weary light in her distant eyes, and the fresh, ingenuous girl with whom he had been bandying pleasantries during the last few hours.
He had felt it unknowingly.
He realized it now, and the thought of what it might mean made him catch at his breath like a drowning man.
Then she came in.
He heard her gay laughter outside, a backward word flung to one of the tennis players, as she stepped in through the window, her cheeks still flushed, and her eyes aglow.
"We really ought to watch this set," she declared.
"That is, if you are not too much absorbed in my handiwork.
What have you got there?"
He held it out to her with a valiant attempt at unconcern.
"Do you mind telling me who this is?"
he asked.
She glanced at it carelessly enough, but at once her whole expression changed.
The smile left her lips, her eyes filled with trouble.
"Where did you find it?"
she asked, in a low tone.
"In the album," he answered.
"It was loose between the pages."
She took it gently from his fingers, and crossing the room locked it in her desk.
"I had no idea that it was here," she said.
"It is a picture of my eldest sister, or rather my step-sister."
The change in her manner was so apparent that, under ordinary circumstances, Wrayson would not have dreamed of pursuing the subject.
But the conventions of life seemed to him small things just then.
"Your step-sister!"
he exclaimed.
"I had no idea--shall I meet her this afternoon?"
"No!"
she answered, gravely.
"What do you say--shall we go out now?"
She took up her racket, but he lingered.
"Please don't think me hopelessly inquisitive, Miss Fitzmaurice," he said, "but I have really a reason for being very interested in the original of that picture.
I should like to meet your step-sister."
"You will never do so here, I am afraid," she answered.
"My father and she disagreed years ago.
He does not allow us to see or hear from her.
We may not even mention her name."
"Your father," Wrayson remarked thoughtfully, "is not a stern parent by any means."
"I should think not," she answered, smiling.
"Dear old dad!
I have never heard him say an unkind word to any one in my life."
"And yet--" Wrayson began, hesitatingly.
"Do you mind if we don't talk any more about it?"
she interrupted simply.
"I think you can understand that it is not a very pleasant subject.
Do you feel like another set, or would you rather do something else?"
"Tennis, by all means, if you are rested," he answered.
"We will find our old opponents and challenge them again."
Wrayson made a supreme effort, and his spirits for the rest of the afternoon were almost boisterous.
Yet all the time the nightmare was there behind.
It crept out whenever he caught sight of his host moving about amongst his guests, beaming and kindly.
His daughter!
The Colonel's daughter!
What was he to do?
The problem haunted him continually.
All the time he had to be pushing it back.
The guests began to depart at last.
By seven o'clock the last carriage was rolling down the avenue.
The Colonel, with a huge smile of relief, and a large cigar, came and took Wrayson's arm.
"Good man!"
he exclaimed.
"You've worked like a Trojan.
We'll have one whisky and soda, eh?
and then I'll show you your room.
Say when!"
"I've enjoyed myself immensely," Wrayson declared.
"Miss Edith has been very kind to me."
"I'm glad you've made friends with her," the Colonel said.
"She's a harum-scarum lot, I'm afraid, and a sad chatterbox, but she's the right sort of a person for a man with nerves like you!
You're looking a bit white still, I see!"
Wrayson would have spoken then, but his tongue seemed to cling to the roof of his mouth.
He had been asked to bring his clothes and dine, and in the minutes' solitude while he changed, he made a resolute effort to face this new problem.
There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that the girl whom he had surprised in his rooms, ransacking his desk, and whom subsequently he had assisted to escape from the Mansions, was identical with the original of this portrait.
She was the Colonel's daughter.
With a flash of horror, he remembered that it had been the Colonel himself who had pointed out the possibility of a woman's hands having drawn that silken cord together!
Half dressed he sat down in a chair and buried his face in his hands.
The dinner gong disturbed him.
He sprang up, tied his tie with trembling fingers, and hastily completed his toilet.
Once more, with a great effort, and an almost reckless resort to his host's champagne, he triumphed over the demons of memory which racked his brain.
At dinner his gayety was almost feverish.
Edith Fitzmaurice, who was his neighbour, found him a delightful companion.
Only the Colonel glanced towards him now and then anxiously.
He recognized the signs of high-pressure, and the light in Wrayson's eyes puzzled him.
There were no other men dining, and in course of time the two were left alone.
The Colonel passed the cigars and touched the port wine decanter, which, however, he only offered in a half-hearted way.
"If you don't care about any more wine," he said, "we might have a smoke in the garden."
Wrayson rose at once.
"I should like it," he said abruptly.
"I don't know how it is, but I seem half-stifled to-day."
They passed out into the soft, cool night.
A nightingale was singing somewhere in the elm trees which bordered the garden.
The air was sweet with the perfume of early summer flowers.
Wrayson drew a long, deep breath of content.
"Let us sit down, Colonel," he said; "I have something to tell you."
The Colonel led the way to a rustic seat.
A few stars were out, but no moon.
In the dusky twilight, the shrubs and trees beyond stood out with black and almost startling distinctness against the clear sky.
"You remember the girl--I told you about, whom I found in my flat, and afterwards?"
Wrayson asked hoarsely.
The Colonel nodded.
"Certainly!
What about her?
To tell you the truth, I am afraid I--" Wrayson stopped him with a quick, fierce exclamation.
"Don't, Colonel!"
he said.
"Wait until you have heard what I have to say.
I have seen her picture--to-day."
The Colonel removed his cigar from his mouth.
"Her picture!"
he exclaimed.
"To-day!
Where?
My dear fellow, this is very interesting!
You know my opinion as to that young--" Again Wrayson stopped him, this time with an oath.
"In your house, Colonel," he said.
"Your daughter showed it to me--in an album!"
The Colonel sat like a man turned to stone.
The hand which held his cigar shook so that the ash fell upon his waistcoat.
"Go on!"
he faltered.
"I asked who it was.
I was told that it was your daughter!
Miss Edith's step-sister!
Forgive me, Colonel!
I had to tell you!"
The Colonel seemed to have shrunk in his place.
The cigar slipped from his fingers and fell unheeded on to the grass.
His mouth trembled and twitched pitifully.
"My--my daughter Louise!"
he faltered.
"Wrayson, you are not serious!"
"It is God's truth," Wrayson answered.
"I would stake my soul upon it that the girl--I told you about--was the original of that picture!
When I look at your daughter Edith I can see the likeness."
The Colonel's head was buried in his hands.
His exclamation sounded like a sob.
"My God!"
he murmured.
Then there was silence.
Only the nightingale went on with his song.
CHAPTER VIII THE BARONESS INTERVENES
The Baroness trifled with some grapes and looked languidly round the room.
"My dear Louise," she declared, "it is the truth what every one tells me of your country.
You are a dull people.
I weary myself here."
The girl whom she had addressed as Louise shrugged her shoulders.
"So do I, so do all of us," she answered, a little wearily.
"What would you have?
One must live somewhere."
The Baroness sighed, and from a chatelaine hung with elegant trifles selected a gold cigarette case.
An attentive waiter rushed for a match and presented it.
The Baroness gave a little sigh of content as she leaned back in her chair.
She smoked as one to the manner born.
"One must live somewhere, it is true," she agreed, "but why London?
I
think that of all great cities it is the most provincial.
It lacks what you call the atmosphere.
The people are all so polite, and so deadly, deadly dull.
How different in Paris or Berlin, even Brussels!"
"Circumstances are a little against us, aren't they?"
Louise remarked.
"Our opportunities for making acquaintances are limited."
The Baroness made a little grimace.
"You, my young friend," she said, "are of the English--very English.
Quite Saxon, in fact.
With you there would never be any making of acquaintances!
I feel myself in the bonds of a cast-iron chaperonage whenever I move out with you.
Why is it, little one?
Have you never any desire to amuse yourself?"
"I don't quite understand you," her companion answered dryly.
"If you mean that I have no desire to encourage promiscuous acquaintances, you are certainly right.
I prefer to be dull."
The Baroness sighed gently.
"Some of my dearest friends," she murmured, "I have--but there, it is a subject upon which we disagree.
We will talk of something else.
Shall we go to the theatre to-night?"
"As you will," Louise answered indifferently.
"There isn't much that we haven't seen, is there?"
"We will send for a paper and see," the Baroness said.
"We cannot sit and look at one another all the evening.
With music one can make dinner last out till nine or even half past--an idea, my Louise!"
she exclaimed suddenly.
"Cannot we go to a music-hall, the Alhambra, for example?
We could take a box and sit back."
"It is not customary," Louise declared coldly.
"If you really wish it, though, I don't--I don't--" Her speech was broken off in a somewhat extraordinary manner.
She was leaning a little forward in her chair, all her listlessness and pallor seemed to have been swept away by a sudden rush of emotion.
The colour had flooded her cheeks, her tired eyes were suddenly bright; was it with fear or only surprise?
The Baroness wasted no time in asking questions.
She raised her lorgnettes and turned round, facing the direction in which Louise was looking.
Coming directly towards them from the further end of the restaurant was a young man, whose eyes never swerved from their table.
He was pale, somewhat slight, but the lines of his mouth were straight and firm, and there was not lacking in him that air of distinction which the Baroness never failed to recognize.
She put down her glasses and looked across at Louise with a smile.
She was quite prepared to approve.
The young man stopped at their table and addressed himself directly to Louise.
The Baroness frowned as she saw how scanty were the signs of encouragement in her young companion's face.
She leaned a little forward, ready at the first signs of an introduction to make every effort to atone for Louise's coldness by a most complete amiability.
This young man should not be driven away if she could help it!
"I have been hoping, Miss Fitzmaurice," Wrayson said calmly, "that I might meet you somewhere."
She shrank a little back for a moment.
There flashed across her face a quiver, as though of pain.
"Why do you think," she asked, "that that is my name?"
"Your father, Colonel Fitzmaurice, is one of my best friends," he answered gravely.
"I was at his house yesterday.
I only came up this morning.
I beg your pardon!
You are not well!"
Every vestige of colour had left her cheeks.
The Baroness touched her foot under the table, and Louise found her voice with an effort.
"How did you know that Colonel Fitzmaurice was my father?"
she asked breathlessly.
"I found a picture in your sister's album," he answered.
The answer seemed somehow to reassure her.
She leaned a little towards him.
Under cover of the music her voice was inaudible to any one else.
"Mr. Wrayson," she said, "please don't think me unkind.
I know that I have a great deal to thank you for, and that there are certain explanations which you have almost a right to demand from me.
And yet I ask you to go away, to ask me nothing at all, to believe me when I assure you that there is nothing in the world so undesirable as any acquaintance between you and me."
Wrayson was staggered, the words were so earnestly spoken, and the look which accompanied them was so eloquent.
He was never sure, when he thought it over afterwards, what manner of reply he might not have made to an appeal, the genuineness of which was absolutely convincing.
But before he could frame an answer, the Baroness intervened.
"Louise," she said softly, "do you not think that this place is a little public for intimate conversation, and will you not introduce to me your friend?"
Wrayson, who had been afraid of dismissal, turned at once, almost eagerly, towards the Baroness.
She smiled at him graciously.
Louise hesitated for a moment.
There was no smile upon her lips.
She bowed, however, to the inevitable.
"This is Mr. Wrayson," she said quietly; "the Baroness de Sturm."
The Baroness raised her eyebrows, and she bestowed upon Wrayson a comprehending look.
The graciousness of her manner, however, underwent no abatement.
"I fancy," she said, "that I have heard of you somewhere lately, or is it another of the same name?
Will you not sit down and take your coffee with us--and a cigarette--yes?"
"We are keeping Mr. Wrayson from his friends, no doubt," Louise said coldly.
"Besides--do you see the time, Amy?"
But Wrayson had already drawn up a chair to the table.
"I am quite alone," he said.
"If I may stay, I shall be delighted."
"Why not?"
the Baroness asked, passing her cigarette case.
"You can solve for us the problem we were just then discussing.
Is it _comme-il-faut,_ Mr. Wrayson, for two ladies, one of whom is almost middle-aged, to visit a music-hall here in London unescorted?"
Wrayson glanced from Louise to her friend.
"May I inquire," he asked blandly, "which is the lady who is posing as being almost middle-aged?"
The Baroness laughed at him softly, with a little contraction of the eyebrows, which she usually found effective.
"We are going to be friends, Mr. Wrayson," she declared.
"You are sitting there in fear and trembling, and yet you have dared to pay a compliment, the first I have heard for, oh!
so many months.
Do not be afraid.
Louise is not so terrible as she seems.
I will not let her send you away.
Now you must answer my question.
May we do this terrible thing, Louise and I?"
"Assuredly not," he answered gravely, "when there is a man at hand who is so anxious to offer his escort as I." The Baroness clapped her hands.
"Do you hear, Louise?"
she exclaimed.
"I hear," Louise answered dryly.
The Baroness made a little grimace.
"You are in an impossible humour, my dear child," she declared.
"Nevertheless, I declare for the music-hall, and for the escort of your friend, Mr. Wrayson, if he really is in earnest."
"I can assure you," he said, "that you would be doing me a great kindness in allowing me to offer my services."
The Baroness beamed upon him amiably, and rose to her feet.
"You have come," she avowed, "in time to save me from despair.
I am not used to go about so much unescorted, and I am not so independent as Louise.
See," she added, pushing a gold purse towards him, "you shall pay our bill while we put on our cloaks.
And will you ask afterwards for my carriage, and we will meet in the portico?"
"With pleasure!"
