Devil's Dice Part 15

"I don't know that I have," I said reflectively. She was one of the most charming girls of the season, and I believe were it not for the fact that I had already loved and lost, and that my feelings toward the opposite s.e.x had become sadly embittered by what I felt was unnecessary pain that had been heaped upon me, I should have asked her to renounce her lover and let me take his place.

But only during a few moments did I entertain such foolish thoughts, for I quickly saw that she adored the soldier-novelist, and that I had no right to be disloyal to a friend, even though that friend might be a murderer.

"I'm afraid our conversation is drifting towards a rather dangerous topic," she said. "But you are such a confirmed bachelor that I always feel I can talk to you without fear that you will go down on your knees or perform some other equally absurd antic."

"I'm sure I'm greatly gratified to know that I'm held in such high esteem," I observed laughing. "But under the eyes of a pretty woman like yourself, men are sometimes fascinated, you know."

"Yes, but fascination is not love. When a man is fascinated by a woman, either the latter is an adventuress, or the former a fool." And she threw back her handsome head and laughed at my discomfiture.

I had been fascinated by Sybil. Had she been an adventuress, I wondered; or had I been a fool?

"True," I answered, earnestly. "But woman's beauty exercises a most powerful influence over man." Then I added--"I confess that if I was not aware of your love for Jack I should think of you tenderly, and very possibly I should perform one of those gymnastic antics you denounce as absurd."

"Then I'm very pleased you know of our attachment," she answered with a coquettish laugh. "I mean to marry Jack, as you are aware, therefore I can never be any more to you than a friend, but friend I will be always, if you will allow me?"

"Of course," I said. "The many years we have known one another--I mustn't count them or I shall mention your age, which won't be polite-- give us licence to talk with freedom without falling in love--eh? But there, a truce to joking, what about this extraordinary letter from Jack? Where is he?"

"Well, he writes from Dover," she said, drawing a note from her perfumed m.u.f.f. "Shall I read you an extract?"

"Certainly. I suppose I mustn't read it myself because it is all `darling' love and kisses."

She blushed, saying: "I have read somewhere--in one of Jack's books, I think--the proverb, _Les hommes aiment par jalousie, mais les femmes sont jalouses par amour_. If you loved a woman, you too would call her darling, and I know you would kiss her. Every man does."

"Your own experience--eh?" I laughed. "Perhaps I should make crosses in representation of kisses. But if you intend to convey the idea of male impossibilities I think those of your own s.e.x are certainly more numerous. It has always occurred to me that feminine impossibilities would make a very remarkable and interesting study. For instance, woman can't for the life of her make head nor tail out of a time-table; she can't be jolly and appreciate the most enjoyable function if she thinks her hair is a little out of curl; she can't help gauging a woman by her clothes, even though experience has taught her that beggars sometimes ride in fine carriages, and she can't, when it's a question between Cupid and herself, help saying `No' where she means `Yes' and vice versa."

"And man, when he sees a woman's pretty face, no matter if the complexion is added by the hare's foot or the glorious tresses false, must straightway flirt with her if he has a chance, just as you are doing now."

Then she laughed heartily, and clapped her small gloved hands gleefully, knowing that she had successfully turned my own sarcasm against myself.

This I was compelled to admit. She was apparently in the highest spirits. Little, alas! did she dream of the terrible truth that the man she loved was an a.s.sa.s.sin. After more good-humoured banter she pursed her lips in pretty affectation, then opened the treasured letter, saying:

"Now, this is what puzzles me. Jack, who gives no address, the postmark only showing that it was posted at Dover, says: `I came up from Hounslow intending to call and see you. I only had sufficient time, however, to drive to Charing Cross and catch the night mail to the Continent. I am writing this in the train, and shall post it at Dover before crossing.

I may be absent only a week, or I may be away a month or so. If I can I will write, but I can give no address for I shall be constantly moving.

Therefore if you love me do not attempt to communicate with me. I am sorry it is not possible for me to see you and explain, but immediately you receive this letter destroy it, and if anyone inquires after me-- whoever they may be--tell them you know nothing. Do not mention my letter to a soul. Trust in me, and when I return I will explain.

Good-bye.'"

"What else?" I asked.

"Good-bye, darling," she said in a low voice, blus.h.i.+ng deeply.

"Certainly it is very strange--very strange," I said. "But if I were you I should not trouble about it. It may be that he has been sent on some special mission abroad."

"Oh, I shall not worry," she answered rea.s.suringly. "In a week or two he will return and explain."

It was upon my lips to tell her the sad news that he would never return, but I stifled the words, and said instead:

"Of course. There is nothing very extraordinary in his omission to give an address. If he is travelling quickly to an uncertain destination, as I have done sometimes, letters are quite out of the question."

"Yes, I know. But there is yet a stranger fact," she said. "Last night when we got home Lord Wansford came to supper with some other people, and he told me he had a few hours before seen Jack at Victoria Station talking to a lady who was leaving with a quant.i.ty of luggage."

This new feature was startling, but I saw it was best to scout the idea.

"Old Wansford is rather short-sighted," I observed. "No doubt he was mistaken. Jack would not wilfully deceive you like that."

"No. I feel confident he wouldn't," she replied, toying with the letter. "My opinion is the same as yours, that he mistook someone else for Jack."

"No doubt. I've been round to his chambers half an hour ago, and seen Mrs Horton. She says he has not been home for three days and that fully bears out his letter."

"Do you think," she said hesitatingly a few moments later, "do you think that if I went down to Hounslow I could find out where he has gone? I know Major Tottenham quite well."

"No. If I were you I would not go. Had he known his destination he would certainly have put it in his letter. I will endeavour to find out for you, but in the meantime do not let his absence trouble you. I have invited him down to Wadenhoe, so you will meet, and--"

"Oh, what a good angel you are," she cried joyously. "I've been wondering how I could get him down there for the hunting now that Ma declines to ask him."

"Well, I have asked him because I knew you wanted to have him near you.

So do not let your spirits flag nor trouble yourself regarding his journey. He will be back soon, and you can have some jolly spins across country together."

"I don't know how to thank you sufficiently," she said, rising slowly and stretching forth her small hand. "You are an awfully good friend both to Jack and to myself. But I must go, for I have to call at the dressmaker's with Ma at twelve, and I've only just time to get back."

"Good-bye, Dora," I said earnestly. "If we do not meet again in town I shall call on you at Blatherwycke. Then we can arrange plans."

We shook hands and she left, leaving behind her a delightful breath of some subtle perfume that stirred my senses. Her beauty always brought back to me sad memories of Sybil, the adorable woman who came into my life, the one ray of happiness, brief and fleeting, as suns.h.i.+ne on an April day. Like Dora, she had been bright, radiant, and happy, but the grave, alas! had claimed her, and she had left me alone, gloomy and forgotten.

I took her portrait--the one I had bought in Regent Street--from its hiding-place, and as I gazed upon the pictured face, my throat contracted and a mist rose before my eyes--the tearful mist caused by life's bitterness.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

BETWEEN THE DANCES.

I delayed my departure for nearly a fortnight in an endeavour to learn something of Bethune but could glean no tidings, so at last went down to the home of my childhood. My grandfather had purchased it in the early part of the century because the county was a hunting one and the neighbours a good set. I had spent the greater part of my youth there, and my parents still resided there at frequent intervals. Situated midway between Oundle and Deenethorpe, near Benefield village, Wadenhoe Manor was a great rambling old place, a typical English home, half hidden by ivy, with quaint gables and Elizabethan chimneys. As in the fading sunlight I drove up to it I thought I had never seen the old place looking so peaceful. Perhaps it was because my own mind was so perturbed by recent events that the solitude seemed complete. From the old mullioned windows the yellow sunset flashed back like molten gold and the birds in the chestnuts were chattering loudly before roosting.

On the hill-slope farther down lay the quiet hamlet, a poem in itself.

By the grey tower of its church stood two tall poplars, like guardian angels, the golden green of their young foliage all a-s.h.i.+mmer in the sunlight Beneath them was the sombre shade of one old yew, while a line of dark cypress trees, marshalled like a procession of mourners, stood along the grey old wall, and here and there showed the brown thatch of cottage roofs.

At home I found quite a party of visitors and the warmest welcome awaited me. My parents, who had not enjoyed good health, had remained there nearly all the winter, my father only coming to town now and then on pressing business, so I had not seen my mother for several months.

The visitors, mostly friends from London, were a gay and pleasant company and dinner was bright and enjoyable, while there was plenty of brilliant chatter in the drawing-room afterwards.

Every one was full of expectancy of the meet on the morrow at Glapthorn, and the ball that was to be given by Lady Stretton at Blatherwycke in the evening, therefore all retired early, and were about again betimes.

The meet was a great success, and at night I accompanied our party to the dance, not because I felt in any mood for dancing, but because I wanted to get a chat with Dora and hear if she had received news of her lover.

Blatherwycke Hall was situated at a beautiful spot. I knew the place almost from the time I could toddle. It was a very ancient house. Its ma.s.sive walls and dark oak timbers, its open hearths and s.p.a.cious chimneys, its heavy doors with their antique locks and bars and hinges went back to the Armada days when the Stretton who held it was, in the words of a ballad of the time, "A hard-riding devil." As old as the Hall, too, were the barns that cl.u.s.tered around it, the thatch of whose pointed gables was weathered to every shade of brown and grey, green with moss and golden with clinging lichens. Beyond was the green woodland, musical with streams, its stately pine trees springing straight and tall, its n.o.ble oaks just breaking into leaf, its larch and elm and hawthorn in all the pride of their young beauty.

From without it looked warm and cheerful with its brightly-lit windows, and within all was warm, comfortable, and brilliant. The party was a large one, for all the best people in the county came to Lady Stretton's dances, and as I entered the great oak-panelled ballroom with its stands of armour and its quaint old chiming clock, I looked eagerly around and saw Dora in a ravis.h.i.+ng toilette with skirt and sleeves of soft white satin, a bodice of rose-pink velvet, with the front lightly traced with jet, talking to several men, while at that moment I heard my name uttered by a well-known voice and turned to greet Mabel who, standing with her husband, the Earl, was attired in a marvellous gown of palest heliotrope.

As soon as dancing commenced, however, I managed to speak with Dora, and found she had saved me several dances. Many of the guests were my friends, and we spent altogether a most delightful night. Lady Stretton always entertained in first-rate style, and this was no exception.

Outside, in the old-world garden, Chinese lanterns were hung in the arched walks, and in the smaller paths similarly arched crossing the central one at intervals those who desired air could find cool alleys, where the starlight filtered through the trees.

Along one of these I wandered with Dora after we had been waltzing, and finding a seat, we sat down to rest heedless of the chill air.