Anna looked about her admiringly. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared.
“Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. “I’m really very sorry. Collins, you can go now. I will ring if I want you.”
The maid discreetly withdrew, and Anna stood transfixed, gazing with puzzled frown at her sister.
“Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed.
Annabel laughed a little uneasily.
“The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. Don’t you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?”
“There is nothing particular the matter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You’re exactly twenty-three, and you’re got up as much as a woman of forty-five.”
Annabel shrugged her shoulders.
“I only use the weeniest little dab of rouge,” she declared, “and it is really necessary, because I want to get rid of the ‘pallor effect.’”
Anna made no remark. Her disapproval was obvious enough. Annabel saw it, and suddenly changed her tone.
“You are very stupid, Anna,” she said. “Can you not understand? It is of no use your taking my identity and allthe burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized the moment I show my face in London. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle ofingenuèeand altered my whole style of dress. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself.”
A sudden sense of the gravity of this thing came home to Anna. Her sister’s words were true. They had changed identities absolutely. It was not for a week or a month. It was for ever. A cold shiver came over her. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gayinsouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. Anna never knew whither it had led her—sometimes she had fears. It was her past now, not Annabel’s.
“It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. “To tell you the truth, I am a little dull.”
“Where is your husband?” Anna asked.
“He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. Tell me how are you amusing yourself?”
Anna laughed.
“I have been amusing myself up to now by trying to earn my living,” she replied.
“I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. By-the-bye, do you want any money? Sir John’s ideas of pin money are not exactly princely, but I can manage what you want, I dare say.”
“Thank you,” Anna answered coldly. “I am not in need of any. I might add that in any case I should not touch Sir John’s.”
“That’s rather a pity,” Annabel said. “He wants to settle something on you, I believe. It is really amusing. He lives in constant dread of a reappearance of ‘La Belle Alcide,’ and hearing it said that she is his wife’s sister. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?”
“I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me thebetter. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round.
Annabel shook her head.
“Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. It is absolutely a frightful neighbourhood, this. If only you could see the people who have been to call on me! Sir John has the most absurd ideas, too. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. I can assure you, Anna, it will take me years to get decently established. The man’s as obstinate as a mule.”
Anna looked at her steadily.
“He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. “I do not blame him. I hope you will always remember——”
Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest.
“No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. “I hope you have not come for that.”
“I came,” Anna answered, looking her sister steadily in the face, “to hear all that you can tell me about a man named Hill.”
Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. But she did not speak. She made no attempt to answer her sister’s question. Anna looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart.
“You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. “You must tell me the truth, please. It is necessary.”
Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps.
“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead.”
“Then there is also,” Anna remarked, “a Montague Hill who is very much alive. Not only that, but he is here in London. I have just come from him.”
Annabel no longer attempted to conceal her emotion. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather thanwalked back to her seat. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand.
“Do not be frightened, dear,” she said. “You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you.”
“The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. I know he is dead. I saw him lying on the footway. I felt his heart. It had ceased to beat. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead.”
Anna nodded.
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “It was the night you left Paris. They thought that he was dead at first, and they took him to the hospital. I believe that his recovery was considered almost miraculous.”
“Alive,” Annabel moaned, her eyes large with terror. “You say that he is alive.”
“He is certainly alive,” Anna declared. “More than that, he arrived to-day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted me with a theatrical start, and claimed me—as his wife. That is why I am here. You must tell me what it all means.”
“And you?” Annabel exclaimed. “What did you say?”
“Well, I considered myself justified in denying it,” Anna answered drily. “He produced what he called a marriage certificate, and I believe that nearly every one in the boarding-house, including Mrs. White, my landlady, believes his story. I am fairly well hardened in iniquity—your iniquity, Annabel—but I decline to have a husband thrust upon me. I really cannot have anything to do with Mr. Montague Hill.”
“A—marriage certificate!” Annabel gasped.
Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet.
“Let me get you some water, Annabel. Don’t be frightened, dear. Remember——”
Annabel clutched her sister’s arm. She would not let her move. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear.
“A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.”
Anna nodded.
“It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. “There is no doubt whatever about that. There was the motor accident, too. It is the same man, for he raved in the hospital, and they fetched me. It was you, of course, whom he wanted.”
“Alive! In London!” Annabel moaned.
“Yes. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth.”
The girl on the lounge drew a long sobbing breath.
“You shall,” she said. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. Montague Hill was taken for the millionaire once or twice, and I suppose it flattered his vanity. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. He sent me flowers. Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. He—wanted to marry me. Just then—I was nervous. I had gone further than I meant to—with some Englishmen. I was afraid of being talked about. You don’t know, Anna, but when one is in danger one realizes that the—the other side of the line is Hell. The man was mad to marry me. I heard everywhere of his enormous riches and his generosity. I consented. We went to the Embassy. There was—a service. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. We were to have breakfast there and return in the evening. On the way he confessed. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. Celeste he knew. She was chaffing him about being taken for Meysey Hill, and suggested that he should be presented to me as the millionaire. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. I was his wife. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year. Anna, I listened to all that he had to say, and I called to him to let me get out. He laughed. I tried to jump, but he increased the speed. We were going at a mad pace. I struck him across the mouth, and across the eyes. He lost control of the machine. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. I could not hear his heart beat. I thought that he was dead. I stole away and walked to the railway station. That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents.’Le Petit Journalsaid that the man was dead. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. That is why I was so anxious to leave Paris. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend.”
“The good God!” Anna murmured, herself shaken with fear. “You were married to him!”
“It could not be legal,” Annabel moaned. “It couldn’t be. I thought that I was marrying Meysey Hill, not that creature. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead. Why didn’t he die?”
Anna sprang to her feet and walked restlessly up and down the room. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes.
“You won’t give me away, Anna. He would never recognize me now. You are much more like what I was then.”
Anna stopped in front of her.
“You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?”
“You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. “Tell him that he is mad. Go and live somewhere else.”
“In his present mood,” Anna remarked, “he would follow me.”
“Oh, you are strong and brave,” Annabel murmured. “You can keep him at arm’s length. Besides, it was under false pretences. He told me that he was a millionaire. It could not be a legal marriage.”
“I am very much afraid,” Anna answered, “that it was. It might be upset. I am wondering whether it would not be better to tell your husband everything. You will never be happy with this hanging over you.”
Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne.
“You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. He is steeped in the conventions. Every slight action is influenced by what he imagines would be the opinion of other people. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. He has no imagination, no real generosity. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him.”
Anna was thoughtful. A conviction that her sister’s words were true had from the first possessed her.
“Annabel,” she said slowly, “if I fight this thing out myself, can I trust you that it will not be a vain sacrifice? After what you have said it is useless for us to play with words. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position—to escape from—things which you feared. Will you be a faithful and honest wife? Will you do your duty by him, and forget all your past follies? Unless, Annabel, you can——”
“Oh, I will pledge you my word,” Annabel cried passionately, “my solemn word. Believe me, Anna. Oh, you must believe me. I have been very foolish, but it is over.”
“Remember that you are young still, and fond of admiration,” Anna said. “You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?”
“Anna, I swear it!” her sister sobbed.
“Then I will do what I can,” Anna promised. “I believe that you are quite safe. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now. I don’t think for a moment that he would recognize you.”
Annabel clutched her sister’s hands. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs.
“Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. “Oh, I can’t thank you. You dear, dear girl. I—listen.”
They heard a man’s voice outside.
“Sir John!” Annabel gasped.
Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door.
“One moment, if you please!”
She stopped short and looked round. Sir John stood upon the threshold.
Sir John looked from one to the other of the two sisters. His face darkened.
“My arrival appears to be opportune,” he said stiffly. “I was hoping to be able to secure a few minutes’ conversation with you, Miss Pellissier. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say.”
“Not in the least,” Anna answered calmly. “We have scarcely mentioned your name.”
Sir John coughed. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands—he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him.
“It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously.
“Indeed!” Anna answered indifferently. “That sounds interesting.”
Sir John frowned. Anna was unimpressed. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes.
“I have no wish,” he said, “to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me.”
Anna’s eyes opened a little wider, but she said nothing.
“A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. It will give me great pleasure to settle an annuity for a moderate amount upon you on certain conditions.”
“A—what?” Anna asked.
“An annuity—a sum of money paid to you yearly or quarterly through my solicitors, and which you can consider as a gift from your sister. The conditions are such as I think you will recognize the justice of. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried.”
“May I ask,” Anna said softly, “what you presume to have been the nature of my errand here this evening?”
Sir John pointed to Annabel, who was as yet utterly limp.
“I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involvedthe recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. I should like to add that if a certain amount is needed to set you free from any debts you may have contracted, in addition to this annuity, you will not find me unreasonable.”
Anna glanced momentarily towards her sister, but Annabel neither spoke nor moved.
“With regard to the conditions I mentioned,” Sir John continued, gaining a little confidence from Anna’s silence, “I think you will admit that they are not wholly unreasonable. I should require you to accept no employment whatever upon the stage, and to remain out of England.”
Anna’s demeanour was still imperturbable, her marble pallor untinged by the slightest flush of colour. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. Sir John hesitated, and then continued.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will recognize the justice of these conditions. Under happier circumstances nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have offered you a home with your sister. You yourself, I am sure, recognize how impossible you have made it for me now to do anything of the sort. I may say that the amount of the annuity I propose to allow you is two hundred a year.”
Anna looked for a moment steadily at her sister, whose face was still averted. Then she moved towards the door. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John. The impassivity of her features changed at last. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered.
“Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. I can understand now these newspapers when they talk of your magnificent philanthropy. It is magnificent indeed. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. I am so much obliged to you for your projected benevolence. Frankly, it is the funniest thing which has ever happened to me in my life. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. Good-bye, Anna!”
Annabel sprang up. Sir John waved her back.
“Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?” he asked Anna.
She shot a sudden glance at him. Sir John felt hot and furious. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he hadbeen made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. Anna went out.
Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.
“I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. The fates are never so kind to me. As a matter of fact I have been waiting for you.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Really,” she said. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?”
“No right at all,” he admitted. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. You have been to see your sister, of course. How is she?”
“My sister is quite well, thank you,” she answered. “Would you mind calling that hansom for me?”
He looked at it critically and shook his head.
“You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. I would sooner see you in a ’bus again.”
She laughed.
“Do you mean to say that you have been here ever since I came?”
“I am afraid that I must confess it,” he answered. “Idiotic, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. “I wish you would not do it.”
“Would not do what?”
“Well, follow buses from Russell Square to Hampstead.”
“I can assure you,” he answered, “that it isn’t a habit of mine. But seriously——”
“Well seriously?”
“Isn’t it your own fault a little? Why do you not tell me your address, and allow me to call upon you.”
“Why should I? I have told you that I do not wish for acquaintances in London.”
“Perhaps not in a general way,” he answered calmly. “Youare quite right, I think. Only I am not an acquaintance at all. I am an old friend, and I declined to be shelved.”
“Would you mind telling me,” Anna asked, “how long I knew you in Paris?”
He looked at her sideways. There was nothing to be learned from her face.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner.”
“Oh, Drummond’s dinner!” she repeated. “You were there, were you?”
He laughed a little impatiently.
“Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly.
Her cheeks flushed a dull red. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. Yet her embarrassment was only a passing thing. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders.
“We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. “It was perhaps my fault. You have not forgotten——”
“I have forgotten nothing?” he answered, enigmatically.
Anna hailed a bus. He looked at her reproachfully. The bus however was full. They fell into step again. More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison.
“Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London.”
“Quite true,” she answered briskly, “and thanks to you I have succeeded.”
“Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“No? But it is very simple. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try—the music hall stage here.”
“You must admit,” he declared, “that to us—who had seen you—the thought of your trying anything else was amazing.”
“At any rate,” she declared, “your remarks decided me. I have an engagement with a theatrical agent—I believe for the ‘Unusual’.”
“You are going to sing in London?” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
For a moment or two he did not speak. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face.
“Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. It is that, is it not?”
“No,” he answered readily. “It is not that. The idea of your being a failure would never have occurred to me.”
“Then why are you sorry that I am going to the ‘Unusual’? I do not understand.”
Their eyes met for a moment. His face was very serious.
“I am sorry,” he said slowly. “Why, I do not know.”
“I positively insist upon knowing,” she declared cheerfully. “The sooner you tell me the better.”
“It is very hard to explain,” he answered. “I think that it is only an idea. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. I find you an impenetrable enigma. I find it impossible to associate you with—my little friend of the ‘Ambassador’s.’ The things she said and did from you—seem impossible. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky.”
There was a long silence. Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual.
“I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. Don’t be afraid to go on thinking it. Even though I am going to sing at the ‘Unusual’ you may find that the ‘Alcide,’ whom you knew in Paris does not exist any more. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?”
“Why not?” he answered. “You permitted me then to call you my friend. I do not intend to allow you to forget.”
They passed a man who stared at them curiously. Ennison started and looked anxiously at Anna. She was quite unconcerned.
“Did you see who that was?” he asked in a low tone.
“I did not recognize him,” Anna answered. “I supposed that he took off his hat to you.”
“It was Cheveney!” he said slowly.
“Cheveney!” she repeated. “I do not know any one of that name.”
He caught her wrist and turned her face towards him. Her eyes were wide open with amazement.
“Mr. Ennison!”
He released her.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?”
Anna laughed.
“If it is a choice between the two,” she answered, “I must be Annabel Pellissier. I am certainly no ghost.”
“You have her face and figure,” he muttered. “You have even her name. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum.”
She laughed heartily, and became as suddenly grave.
“So Mr. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked.
“Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. “If any one should know——you should! He was your friend. We were only—les autres.”
“That is quite untrue,” she declared cheerfully. “I certainly knew him no better than you.”
“Then he—and Paris—lied,” Ennison answered.
“That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. You are too credulous.”
Ennison had things to say, but he looked at her and held his tongue. They turned the last corner, and almost immediately a man who had been standing there turned and struck Ennison a violent blow on the cheek. Ennison reeled, and almost fell. Recovering himself quickly his instinct of self-defence was quicker than his recollection of Anna’s presence. He struck out from the shoulder, and the man measured his length upon the pavement.
Anna sprang lightly away across the street. Brendon and Courtlaw who had been watching for her, met her at the door. She pointed across the road.
“Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded.
“It is the first moment we have let him out of our sight,” Brendon exclaimed, as he hastened across the street.
Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone.
“What the devil do you mean by coming for me like that?” Ennison exclaimed, glowering down upon him. “Serves you right if I’d cracked your skull.”
Hill looked up at him, an unkempt, rough-looking object, with broken collar, tumbled hair, and the blood slowly dripping from his face.
“What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely.
Ennison looked down on him in disgust.
“You silly fool,” he said. “I know nothing about your wife. The young lady I was with is not married at all. Why don’t you make sure before you rush out like that upon a stranger?”
“You were with my wife,” Hill repeated sullenly. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket.”
“I don’t know who you are,” Ennison said quietly, “but you are a thundering liar.”
Hill staggered to his feet and drew a folded paper from his pocket.
“Marriage certificates don’t tell lies, at any rate,” he said. “Just look that through, will you.”
Ennison took the document, tore it half in two without looking at it, and flung it back in Hill’s face. Then he turned on his heel and walked off.
“By-the-bye,” his neighbour asked him languidly, “who is our hostess?”
“Usually known, I believe, as Lady Ferringhall,” Ennison answered, “unless I have mixed up my engagement list and come to the wrong house.”
“How dull you are,” the lady remarked. “Of course I mean, who was she?”
“I believe that her name was Pellissier,” Ennison answered.
“Pellissier,” she repeated thoughtfully. “There were some Hampshire Pellissiers.”
“She is one of them,” Ennison said.
“Dear me! I wonder where Sir John picked her up.”
“In Paris, I think,” Ennison answered. “Only married a few months ago and lived out at Hampstead.”
“Heavens!” the lady exclaimed. “I heard they came from somewhere outrageous.”
“Hampstead didn’t suit Lady Ferringhall,” Ennison remarked. “They have just taken this house from Lady Cellender.”
“And what are you doing here?” the lady asked.
“Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. “And you?”
“Same thing. Besides, my husband has shares in Sir John’s company. Do you know, I am beginning to believe that we only exist nowadays by the tolerance of these millionaire tradesmen. Our land brings us in nothing. We have to get them to let us in for the profits of their business, and in return we ask them to—dinner. By-the-bye, have you seen this new woman at the ‘Empire’? What is it they call her—‘Alcide?’”
“Yes, I have seen her,” Ennison answered.
“Every one raves about her,” Lady Angela continued. “For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs.”
“Alcide’s songs are not atrocious,” Ennison remarked.
Lady Angela shrugged her shoulders.
“It is unimportant,” she said.“Nobody understands them, of course, but we all look as though we did. Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess.”
Ennison thought so too half an hour later, when having cut out from one of the bridge tables he settled down for a chat with Annabel. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. Then he remembered that she was Anna’s sister.
He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her.
“By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me.”
The change in Lady Ferringhall’s manner was subtle but unmistakable. She answered him almost coldly.
“I see nothing of my sister,” she said. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. I have heard of you from my husband. You are somebody’s secretary, are you not?”
It was plain that the subject was distasteful to her, but Ennison, although famous in a small way for his social tact, did not at once discard it.
“You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. “I believe that you would find her in some respects curiously altered. I have never in my life been so much puzzled by any one as by your sister. Something has changed her tremendously.”
Annabel looked at him curiously.
“Do you mean in looks?” she asked.
“Not only that,” he answered. “In Paris your sister appeared to me to be a charming student of frivolity. Here she seems to have developed into a brilliant woman with more character and steadfastness than I should ever have given her credit for. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. Do you know, Lady Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her friend.”
“And in Paris——”
“In Paris,” he interrupted, “she was a very delightful companion, but beyond that—one did not take her seriously. I am not boring you, am I?”
She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face.
“You are not boring me,” she said,“but I would rather talk of something else. I suppose you will think me very unsisterly and cold-hearted, but there are circumstances in connexion with my sister’s latest exploit which are intensely irritating both to my husband and to myself.”
He recognized the force, almost the passion, which trembled in her tone, and he at once abandoned the subject. He remained talking with her however. It was easy for him to see that she desired to be agreeable to him. They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face.
“Mr. Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela’s table. Anna, do you not see that the Countess is sitting alone?”
She rose, and flashed a quick smile upon Ennison behind her husband’s back.
“You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him.
He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. On the way home he was still thoughtful. He turned in at the club. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days.
“She has improved her style,” someone declared. “Certainly her voice is far more musical.”
Another differed.
“She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s.’ I don’t know what you’d call it—a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. She sings better perhaps. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so.”
“I will tell you what there is about her which is so fetching,” Drummond, who was lounging by, declared. “She contrives somehow to strike the personal note in an amazing manner. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself.”
“And if you are a millionaire like Drummond,” someone remarked, “you send round a note and ask her to come out to supper.”
“In the present case,” Drummond remarked, glancing across the room, “Cheveney wouldn’t permit it.”
Ennison dropped the evening paper which he had been pretending to read. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth.
“Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. “Ungracious little beast, I call her. I don’t mind telling you chaps that except on the stage I haven’t set eyes on her this side of the water. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. Rank ingratitude, I call it.”
There was a shout of laughter. Drummond patted him on the shoulder.
“Never mind, old chap,” he declared. “Let’s hope your successor is worthy of you.”
“You fellows,” Ennison said quietly, “are getting a little wild. I have known Miss Pellissier as long as any of you perhaps, and I have seen something of her since her arrival in London. I consider her a very charming young woman—and I won’t hear a word about Paris, for there are things I don’t understand about that, but I will stake my word upon it that to-day Miss Pellissier is entitled not only to our admiration, but to our respect. I firmly believe that she is as straight as a die.”
Ennison’s voice shook a little. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders.
“I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. “You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn’t she? and she herself must be drawing no end of a good screw here. I always say that it’s poverty before everything that makes a girl skip the line.”
Ennison escaped. He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. On his way he made a slight divergence from the direct route and paused for a moment outside the flat where Anna was now living. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. A man came out, and walking recklessly, almost cannoned into Ennison. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short.
“It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?”
Ennison looked at him in surprise.
“I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man.”
Courtlaw was pale and dishevelled. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows.
“What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. “You are one of those who must know all about it. Was there ever such madness?”
“I am afraid that I don’t understand,” Ennison answered. “You seem to have come from Miss Pellissier’s rooms. I had no idea even that she was a friend of yours.”
Courtlaw laughed hardly. His eyes were red. He was in a curious state of desperation.
“Nor am I now,” he answered. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. Why do women take to lies and deceit and trickery as naturally as a duck to water?”
“You are not alluding, I hope, to Miss Pellissier?” Ennison said stiffly.
“Why not? Isn’t the whole thing a lie? Isn’t her reputation, this husband of hers, the ‘Alcide’ business, isn’t it all a cursed juggle? She hasn’t the right to do it. I——”
He stopped short. He had the air of a man who has said too much. Ennison was deeply interested.
“I should like to understand you,” he said. “I knew Miss Pellissier in Paris at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ and I know her now, but I am convinced that there is some mystery in connexion with her change of life. She is curiously altered in many ways. Is there any truth, do you suppose, in this rumoured marriage?”
“I know nothing,” Courtlaw answered hurriedly. “Ask me nothing. I will not talk to you about Miss Pellissier or her affairs.”
“You are not yourself to-night, Courtlaw,” Ennison said. “Come to my rooms and have a drink.”
Courtlaw refused brusquely, almost rudely.
“I am off to-night,” he said. “I am going to America. I have work there. I ought to have gone long ago. Will you answer me a question first?”
“If I can,” Ennison said.
“What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. Why? What is she to you?”
“I was there by accident,” Ennison answered. “Miss Pellissier is nothing to me except a young lady for whom I have the most profound and respectful admiration.”
Courtlaw laid his hand upon Ennison’s shoulder. Theywere at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill.
“Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. “Call it warning, if you like. Admire her as much as you choose—at a distance. No more. Look at me. You knew me in Paris. David Courtlaw. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. I’ve loved her for two years, I love her now. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it.”
He strode away and vanished in the gathering fog. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared.
“I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him. He was going to tell me something—and he shut up. I wonder what it was.”
Lady Ferringhall lifted her eyes to the newcomer, and the greeting in them was obviously meant for him alone. She continued to fan herself.
“You are late,” she murmured.
“My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away.”
She nodded.
“I am bored,” she said abruptly. “This is a very foolish sort of entertainment. And, as usual,” she continued, a little bitterly, “I seem to have been sent along with the dullest and least edifying of Mrs. Montressor’s guests.”
Ennison glanced at the other people in the box and smiled.
“I got your note just in time,” he remarked. “I knew of course that you were at the Montressor’s, but I had no idea that it was a music hall party afterwards. Are you all here?”
“Five boxes full,” she answered. “Some of them seem to be having an awfully good time too. Did you see Lord Delafield and Miss Anderson? They packed me in with Colonel Anson and Mrs. Hitchings, who seem to be absolutely engrossed in one another, and a boy of about seventeen, who no sooner got here than he discovered that he wanted to see a man in the promenade and disappeared.”
Ennison at once seated himself.
“I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair. I expect you had been snubbing him terribly.”
“Well, he was presumptuous,” Annabel remarked, “and he wasn’t nice about it. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently.”
Ennison laughed softly.
“I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally.”
“Are you master of all three methods?” she asked, stopping her fanning for a moment to look at him.
“Indeed, no,” he answered. “Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner. It needs cultivating, I think.”
His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box.
“That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. “I detest amateurs.”
“I will buy books and a lay figure,” he declared, “to practise upon. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?”
“For Heaven’s sake no,” she declared. “I would rather put up with your own efforts, however clumsy. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. At second hand it would be unendurable.”
He leaned towards her.
“Is that a challenge?”
She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels.
“Why not? It might amuse me.”
Somewhat irrelevantly he glanced at the next few boxes where the rest of Mrs. Montressor’s guests were.
“Is your husband here to-night?” he asked.
“My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t.”
“You know,” he said with some hesitation, “that your sister is singing.”
She nodded.
“Of course. I want to hear how she does it.”
“She does it magnificently,” he declared. “I think—we all think that she is wonderful.”
She looked at him with curious eyes.
“I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. Have you seen much of her lately?”
“Nothing at all,” he answered.
The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. She was watching him intently.
“Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. I too can see it. What has been the matter?”
“Toothache,” he answered laconically.
She looked away.
“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason.”
“Oh, I might,” he answered, “have gone further still. I might have told you the truth.”
“Has my sister been unkind to you?”
“The family,” he declared, “has not treated me with consideration.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. “I loathe afternoon concerts, and——”
She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. Her fingers rested upon his.
“You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. “I am so sorry. I had a perfect shoal of callers. People who would not go. I only arrived when everybody was coming away.”
A little murmur of expectation, an audible silence announced the coming of “Alcide.” Then a burst of applause. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. Then she sang.
Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. Anna was singing as she used to sing. She waschic, distinguished, unusual. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all thecul-de-sacgallantry of the moment. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips.
Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. Their conversation became stilted. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks.
“She is marvellously clever,” he said.
“She appears to be very popular here,” she remarked.
“You too sing?” he asked.
“I have given it up,” she answered. “One genius in the family is enough.” After a pause, she added, “Do you mind fetching back my recalcitrant cavalier.”
“Anything except that,” he murmured. “I was half hoping that I might be allowed to see you home.”
“If you can tear yourself away from this delightful place in five minutes,” she answered, “I think I can get rid of the others.”
“We will do it,” he declared. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper.”
“Don’t imperil my reputation before I am established,” she answered, smiling. “Afterwards it seems to me that there are no limits to what one may not do amongst one’s own set.”
“I am frightened of Sir John,” he said, “but I suggest that we risk it.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she said, laughing, and drawing her opera-cloak together. “You shall drive home with me in a hansom, if you will. That is quite as far as I mean to tempt Providence to-night.”
Again on his way homeward from Cavendish Square he abandoned the direct route to pass by the door of Anna’s flat. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. Her sister had told him that it was true. Anna was married. After all, she was a consummate actress. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. There was no longer any risk in association with her. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. He slackened his pace as he reached the flat. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold.
Then a hansom drove up, and his heart gave a great leap.She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. A young man turned to pay the cabman. Then she saw him.
“Mr. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?”
There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. She held out her hand frankly. She seemed honestly glad to see him.
“How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. “Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?”
He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. He saw now that it was merely a boy.
“This is Mr. Sydney Courtlaw—Mr. Ennison,” she said. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?”
“If I may,” he answered. “Your coffee’s too good to refuse.”
She led the way, talking all the time to Ennison.
“Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you,” she said. “I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. I did not even know where to write and thank you.”
“I have been abroad,” he said. “The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. I had to go at a moment’s notice.”
“I am glad that you have a reasonable excuse for not having been to see me,” she said good-humouredly. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I see to the coffee.”
It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. A woman indeed this to love and be loved, beautiful, graceful, gay. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. There were cakes andsandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air.
Ennison stood by her side. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. She felt a new warmth in her blood, a strange sense of elation crept over her. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano.
“I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out. Do you see the time?”
“I may come and see you?” Ennison asked, as his hand touched hers.
“Yes,” she answered, looking away. “Some afternoon.”
“I said some afternoon,” she remarked, throwing open her warm coat, and taking off her gloves, “but I certainly did not mean to-day.”
“I met you accidentally,” he reminded her. “Our ways happened to lie together.”
“And our destinations also, it seems,” she added, smiling.
“You asked me in to tea,” he protested.
“In self-defence I had to,” she answered. “It is a delightful day for walking, but a great deal too cold to be standing on the pavement.”
“Of course,” he said, reaching out his hand tentatively for his hat, “I could go away even now. Your reputation for hospitality would remain under a cloud though, for tea was distinctly mentioned.”
“Then you had better ring the bell,” she declared, laughing. “The walk has given me an appetite, and I do not feel like waiting till five o’clock. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun. Would you mind drawing them back?”
Ennison sprang up, but he never reached the curtains. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. A little exclamation of surprise escaped Ennison. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry.
“You!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? How dare you come to my rooms!”
The man stepped into the middle of the room. The last few months had not dealt kindly with Mr. Montague Hill. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness.
“Why not?” he exclaimed.“I have the right to be here. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. I did not reckon upon—him.”
He pointed to Ennison, who in his turn looked across at Anna.
“You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone.
“I would not have you go for anything,” she answered.
“Nevertheless,” Hill said doggedly, “I am here to speak to you alone.”
“If you do not leave the room at once,” Anna answered calmly, “I shall ring the bell for a policeman.”
He raised his hand, and they saw that he was holding a small revolver.
“You need not be alarmed,” he said. “I do not wish to use this. I came here peaceably, and I only ask for a few words with you. But I mean to have them. No, you don’t!”
Ennison had moved stealthily a little nearer to him, and looked suddenly into the dark muzzle of the revolver.
“If you interfere between us,” the man said, “it will go hardly with you. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. I have the right also to throw you out.”
Ennison obeyed Anna’s gesture, and was silent.
“You can say what you have to say before Mr. Ennison, if at all,” Anna declared calmly. “In any case, I decline to see you alone.”
“Very well,” the man answered. “I have come to tell you this. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. We were properly married, and the certificate is at my lawyer’s. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. I know that you were disappointed because I did not turn out to be the millionaire. Perhaps I deceived you about it. However, that’s over and done with. I’ll make any reasonable arrangement you like. I don’t want to stop your singing. You can live just about how you like. But you belong to me—and I want you.”
He paused for a moment, and then suddenly continued. His voice had broken. He spoke in quick nervous sentences.
“You did your best to kill me,” he said. “You might have given me a chance, anyway. I’m not such a bad sort. You know—I worship you. I have done from the first moment I saw you. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. I want you. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will.”
He took a quick step forward. Anna held out her hand,and he paused. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.
“Listen,” she said. “I have heard these things from you before, and you have had my answer. Understand once and for all that that answer is final. I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. I will not be persecuted in this way by you.”
“You do not deny that you are my wife,” he asked hoarsely. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot.”
“I have denied it,” she answered. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours.”
“Delusion!” he muttered, glaring at her. “Delusion!”
“You can call it what you like,” she said. “In any case you will never receive any different sort of answer from me. Stay where you are, Mr. Ennison.”
With a swift movement she gained the bell and rang it. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. The pistol fell to the floor. Ennison kicked it away with his foot.
“I shall send for a policeman,” Anna said, “directly my maid answers the bell—unless you choose to go before.”
The man made no attempt to recover the revolver. He walked unsteadily towards the door.
“Very well,” he said, “I will go. But,” and he faced them both with a still expressionless glance, “this is not the end!”
Anna recovered her spirits with marvellous facility. It was Ennison who for the rest of his visit was quiet and subdued.
“You are absurd,” she declared. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over—and my toasted scones are delicious. Do have another.”
“It is over for now,” he answered, “but I cannot bear to think that you are subject to this sort of thing.”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.
“It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy.”
“It might become one,” he answered. “The man is dangerous.”
She looked thoughtfully into the fire.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. If so I shall have to leave.”
“You cannot play at hide-and-seek with this creature all your life,” he answered. “Let your friends act for you. There must be ways of getting rid of him.”
“I am afraid,” she murmured, “that it would be difficult. He really deserves a better fate, does he not? He is so beautifully persistent.”
He drew a little nearer to her. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. Nevertheless she withdrew her hand.
“Let me help you,” he begged. “Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you.”
Her hand fell back into her lap. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn.
“That is very nice of you,” she said. “But it is so difficult——”
“Not at all,” he answered eagerly. “I wish you would come and see my lawyers. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there. You need not tell me, but a lawyer is different. His client’s story is safe with him. He would advise you how to get rid of the fellow.”
“I will think of it,” she promised.