"I don't understand," said Jimmy, withdrawing his hand.
"It's perfectly true," muttered Mark, moistening his lips, "thatCarrissima came to Golfney Place and saw me——"
"Saw you—saw you with Bridget in your arms! Good Lord!" exclaimedJimmy, gazing down at Mark's bowed head.
Rising from his chair, Mark gripped one lapelle of his frock coat in each hand as he paced the small room.
"She was talking about her earlier days at Crowborough," he said, with considerable embarrassment. "She had been there that morning. She seemed upset, and I—well, I lost my head for the moment. I hadn't seen her since the day after my return from Paris. What I told Carrissima was absolutely true. The moment she entered Bridget's room I saw what a fool I had been. Of course, we both made the mistake of imagining Carrissima had seen nothing. But anyhow—whatever she saw, to think she could jump to such a conclusion!"
"Not very surprising, after all," said Jimmy quietly. "I fancy that I should have thought the same. You must admit the situation appeared a little compromising."
"You wouldn't say that if you had seen Bridget later on," answered Mark.
"Look here, old fellow," said Jimmy, "you and I have known each other a good many years. You remember when we used to fight like billy-oh at Brighton."
"I dare say you feel rather as if you would like to punch my head now," returned Mark.
"H'm, well—I tell you frankly," said Jimmy. "This jaw we're having may influence my whole life."
"It has already influenced mine," cried Mark.
"How's that?" demanded Jimmy.
"I have been hoping to marry Carrissima—to put it plainly. You've shown what she thinks of me."
"Surely," said Jimmy, "she had more than a little excuse!"
"My dear chap," replied Mark, "you're not such a prig that you can't understand the possibility of a man's losing his head about a pretty woman."
"Why, no," said Jimmy; "but I wish to goodness you had not chosen that particular one."
"If I had imagined Carrissima saw us, I should have explained things at once," added Mark.
"The question is," suggested Jimmy, "whether your explanation would have sounded quite convincing."
"Good Lord!" said Mark, "you speak as if you were not convinced!"
"Of one thing—yes," was the answer. "I can understand a fellow's kissing a pretty woman—or a dozen if it comes to that, but I know you're not the man to go where you're not certain you're wanted."
Now Mark hesitated, thinking that he had humiliated himself almost enough. Seeing, however, that Jimmy was hanging upon his answer, he felt compelled to belittle himself to the uttermost rather than allow the slightest obstacle to remain between Bridget and this man who appointed himself her champion.
"The truth is," said Mark, "I—well, I made a mistake."
"About Bridget?" demanded Jimmy eagerly.
"Yes," answered Mark. "I had no shadow of an excuse. From first to last she had never given me the remotest reason. It was simply my own egregious stupidity. To put it honestly, I acted like a bounder. I'm immensely sorry, Jimmy."
Jimmy could not help feeling sore about it. For one thing, he regretted the necessity to admit to Sybil that the false report contained that one word of truth. Worse than this! an indignity had been put on Bridget by Mark Driver, who seemed the last man in the world to inflict it. Jimmy, however, realized that one of her most potent charms was a delectable, seductive ingenuousness and irresponsibility, which might, perhaps, on occasion prove a little misleading to unregenerate man. Nevertheless, he felt sore as he left Weymouth Street.
"Mr. Driver," announced Knight at half-past three that Monday afternoon.
Carrissima at once came to the conclusion that she had never seen him look so solemn—or quite so handsome, although she wished that he had stayed away.
"How are you, Mark?" she said, mustering a smile, however, as she held out her hand.
"I have come rather early," he answered, and Carrissima noticed that he barely touched her finger tips.
"Won't you sit down?" she suggested, returning to her own chair.
"So that I might make certain of finding you alone," continued Mark, still standing in the middle of the room.
"Well, your object is attained," she cried brightly. "Father is not at home, and I am not expecting any visitors."
"I thought the best plan," he said, "was to have it out without any waste of time."
"Oh dear!" murmured Carrissima. "Have what out?"
"I am going to speak quite plainly——"
"Why in the world shouldn't you?"
"I want to know," said Mark, "why you—of all people—told SybilClynesworth—well, what you did tell her?"
"What did I?" asked Carrissima.
"It amounts to this. That I have been acting like a pretty miserable humbug and scoundrel combined."
"Mark!" faltered Carrissima, "I didn't. I couldn't have said anything of the sort."
"Then Sybil deliberately invented the story!"
"But what—what story?" said Carrissima.
"The charming little tale she repeated to Jimmy!"
"If only you could manage to be a little more explicit," urgedCarrissima, with a suggestion of annoyance in her tone.
"Oh, I shall speak out plainly enough," said Mark. "Sybil told Jimmy I had been carrying on a wretched intrigue with Bridget—neither more nor less. She gave you as her authority."
"She had no right," exclaimed Carrissima, and for an instant Mark's face cleared.
"Do you mean to say that you haven't mentioned my name to Sybil in such a connection?" he demanded, taking a step nearer.
"Yes, I mentioned your name," Carrissima admitted. "But I could never have said that—never! I feel almost certain I couldn't."
"Good heavens!" cried Mark, "you don't seem to know what you told her and what you didn't!"
Strange as it might appear to him, that was precisely the truth. She scarcely remembered what she had said in her excitement and disappointment, although she had little doubt it was something far too much to the point. His wrath was in some degree a relief to Carrissima, although she could not imagine what plausible excuse he could intend to offer. Because, after all, she could not disbelieve the evidence of her own senses.
"Mark," she said, "I don't think you are treating me in the least fairly."
"How is that?" he demanded.
"Oh well, you come here and take the offensive——"
"Then you believe I have nothing to do but defend myself?" said Mark.
"I can only suppose," she retorted, "that you fancy the best method is to try to carry the war into the enemy's country."
"My enemy—you! Good Lord!" exclaimed Mark.
"Of course," she continued, "there doesn't exist the slightest reason why you should take the trouble to excuse yourself to me. You have done me no wrong."
"By Jove! you have done me a cruel one," he said, with evident emotion.
"I am sorry I said a word to Sybil," answered Carrissima. "But she happened to be here when I got home from Golfney Place that afternoon. You know what I saw there——"
"I wish to goodness you hadn't gone near the house!" said Mark.
"No doubt you do!" she retorted. "It was no business of mine, only it seemed so utterly inconsistent with that you distinctly told me!"
"I told you precisely the truth," he insisted.
"Oh, what nonsense!" said Carrissima.
"How could it be! You told me that Bridget was—was nothing to you."
"She was nothing. She is nothing."
"If that is really the case," said Carrissima, "why, then your conduct appears inexplicable."
"Why didn't you tackle me?" he demanded. "Surely you have known me long enough!"
Carrissima realized that the circumstances were against her. She had, before to-day, come to the conclusion that those first excited suspicions were entirely unjustifiable; although Mark had no doubt deceived her, he could not be so bad as she had imagined at the time. She perceived that she might find one excuse which yet she durst not mention. If she could admit plainly that the sight of Bridget in his arms made her madly jealous and for the moment unaccountable for her words, then, perhaps, Mark might be mollified. At least this defence would be true. It seemed incongruous that she instead of him should be considered the offender; but above everything Carrissima must keep back the only explanation which was likely to sound plausible.
"It was nothing to me," she said.
"Anyhow, it was a great deal to me," replied Mark. "Of course I played the fool that afternoon. I don't want to make excuses. I admit there are none. But you ought to understand that Bridget was an innocent victim. No one was to blame but myself, and I not very severely. Yet because of one act of momentary folly you could tell Sybil that monstrous story."
"Well, I am sorry," said Carrissima. "I was carried away by excitement. I suppose it's a weakness of mine! I sometimes do tell people things and repent afterwards. I don't pretend to be immaculate."
"The fact is," returned Mark, "you've always been down on Bridget. The girl is absolutely straight! What beats me is that you could meet me as usual, as if nothing had come between us, take my hand and yet believe all the time I was that sort of outsider."
"And now," exclaimed Carrissima, "you ask me to believe that not having seen Bridget for weeks you went to her house and took her in your arms against her will! But there! what is the use of going over it all again? I feel immensely angry with Sybil. It is entirely her fault. She promised faithfully never to say a word."
"You beg the question in a rather womanly way," said Mark.
"Well, what would you have?" cried Carrissima, flinging out her arms. "I am a woman, you know. I dare say I am not always consistent, if that's what you mean."
"I thought it best to come and see you," answered Mark, with a shrug.
"Oh yes, by far the best," said Carrissima, with a shiver.
With that he went away, and Carrissima sought her room, locking herself in. She felt exceedingly angry with Sybil, and determined to write to her before the day ended. As to Mark, it was true she had done him an injustice, but his conduct appeared as difficult to explain as ever. Nothing which he had said made it any more comprehensible, and the only certainty seemed to be that a man could not conceivably love one woman and kiss another!
Mr. Joseph Dotting, having driven a hansom for several years, was compelled by force of circumstances to learn late in life to drive a taxi-cab or perish. He was not a man who, as a rule, took any absorbing interest in the events of the day, with the occasional exception, perhaps, of an exciting murder case; but he was always a close student of starting prices.
Having been ordered to wait outside Marshall and Snelgrove's on Tuesday morning, however, the two ladies whom he had driven from Eccleston Square kept him so long that he took Monday's 6.30 edition of theEvening Newsfrom beneath his seat. Happening to glance through the advertisement colums, his attention became presently arrested by the offer of Five Pounds reward.
"Dashed if that ain't the party I drove to Blackheath the other afternoon," he said half aloud. "Leastways, I picked her up in Golfney Place whether it was Number 5 or not. 'Tain't likely there was two of 'em!"
Mr. Joseph Botting felt certain that he could recognize the house again, and when at last the two ladies came forth from the shop, followed by a boy who was laden with many small parcels, Mr. Botting, in his haste to set them down at Eccleston Square again, put more than one life in peril.
The next thing was to drive to the nearest public-house, where it did not take many seconds to swallow a pint of six ale. The sandwiches which a careful wife had wrapped in a piece of newspaper, could wait until he had made certain of his good fortune. On reaching Golfney Place, he saw beyond a doubt that the house from which he had driven the young lady and her luggage was assuredly Number 5, and then Mr. Joseph Botting lost no time in making his way to Upper Grosvenor Street, where the advertisement said he was to apply.
Before he had time to get down from his seat Jimmy, having seen him through the dining-room window, came out with his napkin in his hand.
"'Morning, guvnor," said Joseph. "I've come about this 'ere five pound reward."
"You have only to tell me where you left the young lady," repliedJimmy, taking out his pocket-case and temptingly exposing a bank note.
"Well, you see, guvnor, I can't call to mind the address," said Joseph.
"It wasn't a railway station!"
"No," was the answer. "I'll tell you where it was."
"Where?" demanded Jimmy.
"Blackheath," said Dotting. "'Cabman,' she says, 'drive to the Marble Arch.' But when we got there she tells me to go over Westminster Bridge to Blackheath. As soon as we were at the village, as they calls it, she gets out and looks round for a second and then she darts across the road by the cab rank and goes into a sort of registry office. By an' by," Joseph Botting continued, "she comes out agin and tells me to drive on to—blest if I can recollect the name o' the place."
"Could you find your way to the house again?" suggested Jimmy, asBotting took off his cap and rubbed his crown.
"Like a shot, guvnor."
"Jump up, then," said Jimmy. "The moment I hear that the young lady has been at the house you shall have the fiver and a good tip beyond your fare."
"Right you are," cried Botting, and Jimmy, re-entering the hall, spoke a few words of unsatisfactory explanation to Sybil, while he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his motor coat.
When once he was on the way he quickly recovered his customary self-control. Lighting a cigar, he leaned back in the cab and was soon on the Surrey side of Westminster Bridge. He was driven along the dreary length of Walworth Road, to Camberwell Green, through Peckham to Lewisham. From the Lee High Road Joseph Botting turned along a shady thoroughfare to the left, presently reaching Blackheath with Greenwich Park on the farther side, and immediately on the right a row of high, old-fashioned houses.
"Here we are, guvnor!" exclaimed Joseph, applying his brake, and Jimmy was out on the pavement in an instant, across the long front garden, ringing the bell, knocking at the door.
"Miss Rosser?" he asked when it was opened by a middle-aged woman.
"She went out three-quarters of an hour ago," was the answer.
"At what time do you expect her home?" said Jimmy.
"She ordered tea for half-past four," replied the woman.
Jimmy could not wait until half-past four! He looked at his watch and saw there would be more than an hour!
"Can you tell me where she has gone?" he inquired.
"Well, she asked how to find Greenwich Park," said the woman, and as Jimmy turned away from the door he took out his pocket-book. Standing on the pavement he handed a five-pound note, together with the fare from Upper Grosvenor Street and a liberal tip to Joseph Botting, who grinned with delight, then Jimmy crossed the road and struck across the heath. A few children were scampering about, some men were playing at golf on this, the oldest course in England. Entering the park a few minutes later he followed the broad walk, bordered by Spanish chestnut trees, keeping the while a brisk lookout and hesitating whether to take one of the diverging paths to the right or left.
Surely that must be Bridget! She was scarcely to be mistaken, with her slender figure, her rather closely fitting skirt, her wide-brimmed hat, her wealth of chestnut-coloured hair! On Jimmy's left was the observatory, and two or three people were adjusting their watches by the large clock in the wall. She stood close to an iron railing, from which sloped down a grassy hill, and beyond lay Greenwich Hospital and the Thames; on its farther bank tall chimneys rising from amidst the docks and houses of the Isle of Dogs.
With her back still towards him, her eyes upon the wonderful prospect, she had no suspicion of Jimmy's propinquity until he mentioned her name.
"Bridget!" he whispered, close behind her, and on the instant she turned, her face radiant with joy.
"Oh, I wondered whether you would come!" she cried.
"What else could I do?" he said. "Now I am here, where can we go to talk about the most important subject in the world?"
"Let us," suggested Bridget, "stroll across the grass!"
They soon reached a secluded spot, and found some chairs near an ancient, ivy-covered tree-trunk, surrounded by an iron fence. The sun was shining brightly, and a fawn, which had strayed from the small herd of fallow deer, left off browsing to gaze. As Jimmy and Bridget sat down it turned and slowly ambled away.
"Why did you choose this particular place of all others?" asked Jimmy.
"Once upon a time," said Bridget, "years and years ago, my aunts used to live at Blackheath."
"I should rather like to take you to them at Sandbay," replied Jimmy. "I have been there. They are the dearest old ladies, and your proper place seems to be with them—for the present!"
"Oh, I couldn't," she exclaimed. "Especially after what I imagine you have told them about me. I really couldn't go," she said.
"Then you leave me only one alternative," said Jimmy. "I was anxious to do everything decently and in order, but it appears you won't let me."
"You have not asked why I left Golfney Place," suggested Bridget, leaning forward in her chair and digging the ferrule of her sunshade into the turf.
"I fancy I know," said Jimmy. "You lacked courage to face oldFaversham."
"Oh, how abominably I treated him!" murmured Bridget.
"There is not the least doubt about it," Jimmy admitted.
"So very, very badly," she continued gravely, with her eyes on the grass, "that I wonder you took the trouble to find me."
"Do you?" he asked, and as she remained silent for a few moments Jimmy repeated the question. "Do you?" he said.
"Why, no," she cried, raising her head and facing him with a laugh. "But it is more than I deserve," she added. "Jimmy, I was in great straits. I saw how fast my money was going, that I should have none left in a year or two, and so when Colonel Faversham bothered me to marry him I gave in. I thought I could do it, you know."
"Until I came to undeceive you!" suggested Jimmy.
"Yes," said Bridget; "but I was afraid you might be—be disgusted! I wanted you to know, and yet I didn't. I tried to tell you time after time, and still I couldn't say the word which I thought might drive you away from me. I saw it would be impossible to marry Colonel Faversham, but if I threw him over what should I do in the future? I hesitated and hesitated. I went to Crowborough because I hoped the influence of the place might give me courage; it didn't and I had some wild idea of appealing to Mark for help. That—that wouldn't do, and Colonel Faversham insisted I should tell him when I would be his wife—he talked of our being married within a week or ten days. Oh dear! how hard I tried to make him understand; but I couldn't succeed, and at last in desperation a fresh idea occurred to me: I would run away! I told him to come for his answer the next morning—oh, I know I was horrid to him!"
"Well, we agree about that," said Jimmy. "We are going to agree about everything, you see. I suppose," he added, "you thought you would appeal to me as a sort of forlorn hope?"
"Oh, it was scarcely worth calling a hope," she answered. "You had said so much about truthfulness. You could forgive anything else but deceit, and of course I had deceived you from the beginning."
"So that you love me in the end," he said.
"Ah, Jimmy!" murmured Bridget. "But nobody will ever relieve it. They will think I threw Colonel Faversham over because you were the richer. It is only natural they should say that."
"Let them say what they like," was the answer. "When you told me about your engagement I could do only one thing. I should have liked to ask you to come away with me then and there; but I—well, it couldn't be done, dear. The moment I heard you were free of the colonel, I hadn't a doubt in the world. Bridget, you will have to make up your mind to marry me at once."
She did not attempt to gainsay him, but placed her hand in his, and a few minutes later they rose from their chairs, walking across the grass to the gate by which Jimmy had entered the park. Bridget's step was light, she hung upon his arm as they crossed the heath, the sun shone upon her and she looked as if she had not a care in the world.
"I must say 'good-bye' now," said Jimmy, outside the garden gate. "I shall see you to-morrow afternoon, but Sybil must come in the morning."
"At last!" cried Bridget, with a smile.
"Well, I always told you she would come," he answered. "For the rest, I think your best plan will be to return to Golfney Place—it won't be for many days, you know. Suppose I see Miller this evening and Sybil can bring the motor-car to drive you back."
Sybil Clynesworth made an unconditional surrender. It was true that, never having seen Bridget, she failed to understand Jimmy's facile satisfaction. She certainly still considered that he was ridiculously credulous. But while she would have been prepared to go to great lengths in order to prevent her brother from entering into what she could not help regarding as an unsuitable marriage, she saw that he had made up his mind.
The idea of living on unfriendly terms with him or his wife appeared preposterous, whereas a single false step at this critical period might easily make Bridget her enemy for life. So Sybil expressed her willingness to fall in with Jimmy's wishes; she would go to Blackheath in the motor-car early the following morning, inconvenient as the expedition would be; and she would bring Miss Rosser back to Golfney Place.
When the time came, however, Sybil set out with considerable nervousness, and her legs threatened to give way beneath her as she got out of the motor-car at the garden gate. The first sight of Bridget at least put an end to any surprise at Jimmy's infatuation, and when she came forward with both hands held out, kissing her visitor's cheek without the slightest hesitation, the way was half won to Sybil's accessible heart.
"You see, you are Jimmy's sister," said Bridget, with a charming air of entreaty, and in spite of her former equivocal opinion of Miss Rosser, Sybil could not refrain from answering—
"My dear, you must let me be yours."
Bridget, it appeared, was to return to lunch in Upper Grosvenor Street, and Jimmy, having already spoken to Miller, would escort her to No. 5, Golfney Place during the afternoon. It was while he was absent on this errand that Sybil sat down to write to Carrissima, sending the note to Grandison Square by hand. Since the reproachful letter which Sybil had received on the morning after the interview with Mark Driver, it seemed too soon to carry the epoch-marking news in person. So she explained that Jimmy was engaged to be married, and admitted her own more favourable impression of her prospective sister-in-law; she told Carrissima that Bridget had returned to Golfney Place, and added that the wedding was to take place at once.
"Well," demanded Colonel Faversham, who happened to be sitting withCarrissima when Knight brought in the letter, "who's it from?"
"Sybil Clynesworth," she answered, with her eyes on the notepaper.
"What has she got to say?" exclaimed the colonel, fidgeting in his chair. "Why do you hesitate?" he added.
"Jimmy is going to be married," said Carrissima.
"H'm! Going to marry Bridget?"
"From what Sybil says, in a very few days," was the answer.
Colonel Faversham said nothing more at the moment. He had been doing his utmost to make a virtue of necessity. The grapes were sour. He ought to be thankful for a lucky escape! He wished Jimmy joy of his bargain! Nevertheless, he looked dejected as he sat in his easy-chair, and Carrissima could not help feeling sorry for him in one way, although she was profoundly thankful that he had been saved, in spite of himself, from a marriage which could scarcely have failed to turn out miserably.
"I suppose," said Carrissima, "I ought to send some sort of wedding present?"
"Send a wedding present! Of course! Why not?" answered Colonel Faversham, eager above all things to keep her for ever ignorant of his own engagement. "Better go to Donaldson's," he added.
"There's not much time to lose," suggested Carrissima. "I think I will go to-morrow morning."
"Upon my word," said her father, "I should rather like to get away for a bit."
"Oh, so should I!" was the answer.
"You wouldn't care to cut into the season!"
"I really shouldn't mind a scrap," said Carrissima.
She was inclined to feel that she did not much care about anything, and the news of Bridget's betrothal seemed to intensify her own disappointment.
"Would next week be too soon?" asked Colonel Faversham, and she promised to be ready by its end. He began at once to interest himself in the trip; they were to go abroad, and having fetched some old volumes of Baedeker from the smoking-room, he grew more cheerful than Carrissima had seen him for some days.
The next morning she spent an hour and a half at Donaldson's, inspecting various gold and silver articles, but at last selecting nothing more original than a large rose-bowl. On her way home, close to Golfney Place, she met Mark, and wondered whether she should stop if he showed no sign of doing so. She had never passed him by before, and in spite of a lingering sense of injustice, and even indignation, she had not the heart to let him go on without a word. She felt confident, however, that he would not have spoken if she had not taken the matter out of his hands.
"Have you heard the latest news?" asked Carrissima, as he raised his hat.
"About Jimmy and Bridget—yes, I was immensely glad to have a visit from him late last night."
"I have just been choosing a wedding present at Donaldson's," saidCarrissima.
"Oh yes," replied Mark, so distantly that she looked up suddenly to his face.
"How is your patient?" she inquired.
"Sir Wilford?" said Mark. "I have just come from Burnham Crescent.Randolph Messeter operated. I hope we shall pull him through."
"Father and I are going abroad," Carrissima explained. "I dare say we shall be away quite a month."
"I hope you will have a good time," said Mark, and then raising his hat again, he walked on.
Carrissima bit her lower lip and kept her eyes on the pavement. She had done all she could, and there was an end of it! Perhaps the lapse of time would make him more reasonable, because it really was ridiculous to behave as if she were the original sinner. Not that she imagined that anything in the world would ever facilitate the happiness to which she had formerly tried to look forward.
The same evening brought a surprise in the form of a letter from Bridget. She wished to see Carrissima very particularly indeed. As it was not very convenient to come to Grandison Square, would Carrissima mind going to Golfney Place at half-past eleven the following morning?
Carrissima certainly could understand the "inconvenience" of a visit to Colonel Faversham's house, but she scarcely hesitated about going to see Bridget at her lodgings. Personally, she had not the least antipathy to the marriage, and, moreover, it seemed inevitable that she should see something of Jimmy's wife in the future. Consequently there was nothing to be gained by holding aloof in the present.
She was at once impressed by the subtle change in Miss Rosser's demeanour. It almost seemed as if she had increased in stature during the last few days; certainly she held her head higher in the air. There was an obvious accession of dignity, and she greeted her visitor rather condescendingly—quite charmingly, nevertheless.
"Thank you so very, very much for that lovely rose-bowl," she exclaimed. "So clever of you to know just what we wanted. Jimmy was here when it came yesterday evening, and he admired it immensely. Besides, it was our first wedding present!"
"Now I must add my congratulations," said Carrissima.
"Carrissima!" answered Bridget, "it's all beautiful. Do you like my ring?" she continued, holding out her left hand. "Jimmy wanted to see you, but I insisted upon having you all to myself. Do, please, sit down!"
Carrissima took a chair, and her thoughts flew back to that last dreadful visit when she had sat nearly in the same position, striving to lead Mark to believe that she had not seen him with Bridget in his arms.
"You must have been immensely surprised to get my letter," said Bridget. "I had a long discussion with Jimmy before I sent it. Of course it would not have been written but for what he told me, only I should love to try and make you happy too, though you may hate me for it. I don't want you to hate me," Bridget added, "because I could grow very fond of you if you would let me. Mean to blame one's circumstances, isn't it? Still, you know, if my father and mother had lived I have no shadow of doubt I should have gone along quite decently, and you would have thought I was a very estimable person. But I really want to talk about Mark!"
"What about him?" asked Carrissima, at once on her guard.
"The fact is," Bridget explained, "I ought to have drawn in and lived on my hundred pounds a year, or whatever it was, only I hadn't got it in me. I formed a different plan. I thought I would take London by storm—no less! I had been flattered and spoiled in Paris, and goodness knows what ridiculous ideas I came away with. Well, I was left alone with no one to speak to till I recognized Mark at the Old Masters', and dropped my purse so that he might pick it up and give me an excuse to claim acquaintance. They say that open confession is good for the soul! Oh dear, mine ought to be in such splendid condition."
"Why should you inflict the penance on yourself to-day?" suggestedCarrissima.
"I liked Mark Driver," said Bridget, "and I thought he liked me—in a rather different way. Until he went to Yorkshire, I believed he would ask me to marry him. I had tried to make him! After his return, that evening he took me to Belloni's, I tried my hardest and wondered why I failed till I saw you."
"I don't see what I can possibly have to do with it," murmuredCarrissima.
"Oh, you were very discreet—very clever! But it wasn't long before I saw you would give your heart for Mark——"
"You have not the least right to say that!" exclaimed Carrissima.
"Of course I haven't," Bridget admitted. "I am taking the most abominable liberty. Well, I was going to tell you that when Colonel Faversham asked me to marry him, I temporized until Mark's return from Paris; then I knew for certain there was nothing to be hoped for from him. I am giving myself away pretty liberally," said Bridget, "but this is what I want to make you understand. Though I deliberately devoted myself to captivate Mark, he never yielded—till just that once! Odd, that I who feel absolutely indifferent about him, should read his character so much more correctly than you who love him. Oh, please," entreated Bridget, "don't look so fierce, because if I had not been certain, there would have been no object in asking you to come here this morning."
"I cannot see one in—in any case!" said Carrissima.
"Oh, I hope there is," answered Bridget. "I know it sounds a wee bit inconsistent, because, of course, Mark was wrong, and at the time I felt immensely angry with him. But he wasn't a thousandth part so wrong as you imagined, and, Carrissima! there are very few men of his age whom you or I couldn't tempt if we gave our minds to it."
"I am not in the least likely to make the experiment," exclaimedCarrissima.
"No, but, you see, I did! It's true nothing could have been further from my thoughts or my wishes on the afternoon you dropped the roses. But how was Mark to know that? And at other times I had done my very best to lead him on, and I failed only because of you! Imagine what it meant when he heard from Jimmy that the woman he loved, whom he had intended to ask to be his wife——"
"That is your own imagination!" cried Carrissima. "You cannot possibly have any ground for believing such a thing!"
"Anyhow, I have his own assurance; besides, he told Jimmy, if my word is not enough. You told Sybil that Mark had lied to you, and acted goodness knows how horridly concerning me, and the truth was he had merely lost his head for a single instant, and what was it after all? Carrissima, I have taken myself to pieces just to convince you I am sincere for once in a way! I see the possibility of danger ahead . . . danger that Mark is too much hurt to come forward again, and what a pity! Take my advice and don't let things rest. What does it matter who eats humble pie if you're going to dine together for the remainder of your lives? Do something at once! Write to him—send for him as I sent for you. I hoped I might make you believe he loves you, and that then you might live happily ever after!"
The ensuing few hours proved the most restless of Carrissima's life. At luncheon she could scarcely concentrate her thoughts sufficiently to listen to the explanation of Colonel Faversham's plans for the forthcoming tour abroad, and afterwards she retired to her own room, where she made a valiant attempt to persuade herself that as the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.
It required, however, considerable courage to follow Bridget's advice and send Mark a letter, and when at last she succeeded in silencing her doubts, she scarcely knew what to say to him. Hitherto, in all her dealings with Mark, she had felt uncertain (to say the least) about his regard. Now, if Bridget were to be credited, there remained no room for disbelief. Mark loved her! In spite of that compromising situation which she had witnessed, he loved her.
If this were the case, nothing else seemed to be of any importance. Carrissima was prepared to condone an offence, the importance of which, she supposed, she had exaggerated; and perhaps if she were to make herself more abject, he would grasp the olive branch. As Bridget suggested, what did it matter so that they came together at last? Granting his love, as there could be no doubt about her own, it would be sheer foolishness to allow the present unfortunate estrangement to continue.
So she took a pen presently, and after profound consideration succeeded in writing the few necessary words—
"Will you be magnanimous and spare me a few minutes after dinner this evening?
"Yours very sincerely,
The mountain in labour having brought forth a mouse, Carrissima put on her hat and set out, intending personally to post the letter. There would be ample time. He would receive it before seven o'clock, and, it was to be hoped, reach Grandison Square soon after nine. She determined to be on the watch for his arrival, in order to take him to some unoccupied room. Well, what then? she wondered, as she drew near the pillar-box. What could she do but repeat the assurance already given that she had never really believed what she told Sybil Clynesworth—or at the worst only for a few seconds.
Bridget, presumably, expected her to employ some feminine wiles to bring Mark to a more amenable condition, but there Carrissima drew the line. Within reach of the pillar-box, she took the letter in both hands, tore it into a dozen pieces and scattered them to the winds.
She would not, after all, make any definite appointment. If Mark loved her he was not likely to change, and everything must eventually come right; if he did not, why, in that case she could not do aught to improve the existing condition of things, even if she would. Time might, unassisted, enable him to judge her more leniently. If she did not meet him before she left England, he could scarcely fail, sooner or later, to cross her path after her return. In the meantime, rather miserably, she began her preparations; and, as it happened, she was to depart two days after Bridget's marriage.
Although this had been arranged to take place very quietly at the church which Sybil so regularly attended, a good many of Jimmy's friends seemed to hear of the affair. Small as the wedding-party was (although it included the Misses Dobson), a large congregation gathered together. Mark was present, at the rear of the church; but although Carrissima hesitated, she conquered her curiosity and stayed away.
Going to Charteris Street the same afternoon, she found Lawrence in a mood to moralize.
"Well," he remarked, "they are a lively pair, Jimmy and this wife of his!"
"Yes, they will at least be that," returned Carrissima. "After all, I suppose it's something to the good, and they're certain to get along splendidly together."
"They will flourish like the green bay tree," exclaimed Lawrence.
"Oh, don't be a Pharisee!" said Carrissima.
"I am a man of common-sense," he protested. "We all know Jimmy! The only astonishing thing is that he was not too experienced a bird to be so easily caught."
"Perhaps he was willing to meet his fate," suggested Phoebe.
"Not a doubt about it," said her husband. "So complete was his beguilement."
"You entirely ignore the possibility that Bridget may be sincerely fond of him," said Carrissima.
"Just as she was fond first of Mark, then of father," retorted Lawrence. "You must admit that she angled for each in turn, and that she finally chose the richest."
"Oh dear, yes," said Carrissima. "What is more, she would make the same admission herself."
"A little barefaced," remarked Phoebe.
"Anyhow," Carrissima insisted, "I believe that Bridget simply fell in love with Jimmy, and that was why she altered her course."
"Rotten sentimentality!" exclaimed Lawrence. "The curse of the age. Oh, there's no doubt she was clever. She played her cards so well that she succeeded in deceiving the principal looker-on as well as her victim."
"Victim or not," said Carrissima, "I positively can't feel sorry forJimmy."
"Neither can I," cried Lawrence. "I always find it difficult to pity a fool. Anyhow, I hope you have done with her," he added.
"Lawrence would not let me send Jimmy a present," said Phoebe.
"Certainly not," was the answer. "The whole mischief," he continued, facing his sister, "was brought about by the first visit you paid to Golfney Place."
"Oh well," said Carrissima, "there will scarcely be a question of my patronizing her in the future. You see, Mrs. Clynesworth will be a quite important personage."
"We have every reason to be thankful she isn't Mrs. Faversham," returned Lawrence. "For the rest, it's just the way of the world."
So he dismissed the topic, and a few minutes later Phoebe inquired whether Carrissima had seen anything of Mark during the last few days.
"He really looks ill," she insisted. "He was here yesterday, and I thought he had come to make an appointment to see the new carpet. He spoke about it the last time, but when I suggested we should go before you left England, he said he was afraid he should be too busy. I fancy he is bothered about Sir Wilford Scones."
Carrissima did not see him again before her departure, and she was absent with Colonel Faversham six weeks. As Lawrence had taken a cottage in the country for the benefit of Victor, Carrissima, on her return to Grandison Square, stood no chance of meeting Mark in Charteris Street. As a matter of fact, he did not cross her path again until after she came back from her usual round of country-house visits at the end of October, with the intention of settling down for what promised to prove a dreary winter.
Her former avocations had lost their zest; life seemed to have become flat, stale and unprofitable. She longed for some kind of change, although she knew not what. At Charteris Street, whither Phoebe had by this time returned, the only news of Mark was that he had spent six weeks mountain-climbing in Switzerland. Lawrence complained of his brother-in-law's neglect.
"Phoebe is his only sister," he said one afternoon, during the first week of November. "The least he might do is to come and see her now and then. I say nothing about myself."
"I have only seen Mark once for five minutes since he came back," addedPhoebe.
"When was that?" asked Carrissima.
"Last week——"
"And," suggested Lawrence, "I don't imagine he would have taken the trouble then if he hadn't wanted you to do something for him."
"You see, Carrissima," Phoebe explained, "Dr. Bunbury's wife and daughter are coming on a visit to London for a few weeks. Mark has promised to play cicerone, and he is anxious I shall call and invite the Bunburys here. Of course I told him I should be quite pleased. By the bye," Phoebe added, "I met Sybil Clynesworth the other day. She said that Jimmy and his wife would soon be home."
"They are still living together," said Lawrence.
They had not returned to England since their wedding, and it seemed that Bridget had passed entirely out of Carrissima's life, after occupying a considerable space in it for many weeks. Whatever the future might prove concerning her influence over Jimmy, it certainly appeared that she had brought nothing but mischief upon the household in Grandison Square.
Colonel Faversham had never been quite the same man since that morning he went to Number 5, Golfney Place, and found that Bridget had departed. Signs of age had become suddenly visible; he devoted his life less to golf, and spent far more time at home—not an unmitigated advantage to his daughter.
As for Carrissima, she did her best to take a calm survey of the situation, but without being able to understand why Mark continued to sulk in his tent. If he really loved her, surely he would before now have admitted his own fault and made allowances for the momentary indiscretion which was provoked by Carrissima's knowledge of it.
As a matter of fact, Mark felt as deeply vexed with himself as with her. But for his own lamentable weakness, he might have proved more tolerant of Carrissima's shortcoming; the circumstance that his own withers were wrung, made arapprochementless likely. There were moments when he wished that he had taken a different line from the beginning; but having already held aloof from Grandison Square so long, it became increasingly difficult to venture near the house.
Carrissima, who had not seen his face for several months, met him with Mrs. Bunbury and her daughter in Regent Street, and promptly came to the conclusion that his younger companion might prove quite dangerously attractive. At least, she presented a striking contrast to Bridget, being very quietly dressed, with dark hair, large "saucer" eyes, and a general appearance of demureness.
Phoebe had, as Carrissima knew, formed an exceedingly favourable opinion of Mary Bunbury, who had dined with her mother and Mark in Charteris Street. Carrissima wondered that she had not been invited to meet them, and realized that a year ago she would have been the first person to whom Mark appealed to help in their entertainment. Instead of taking advantage of the present encounter in Regent Street to introduce her, he passed on with a bow. His face did not wear a smile and Carrissima was left with the impression that she remained unforgiven. To tell the truth, his behaviour aroused rebellious feelings in her breast; because, after all, she was not the only or the original sinner.
So that each was going a separate way, Mark's (by no means disagreeable) leading him on innumerable expeditions with Mary Bunbury, when the god stepped out of the machine.
Colonel Faversham set out one morning in November after prolonged hesitation. A year ago he would not have thought twice, but of late he had grown much more careful of himself. The day was misty and the air struck raw and cold. He made no protest when Carrissima suggested that he should wear a scarf, although after she had wound it around his neck he, somewhat irritably, rearranged it in order to expose his necktie.
"Bless me!" he exclaimed, with something of his former energy, "you seem to want to make me look like an infernal invalid. Thank goodness I haven't got to that yet by a long shot. Molly-coddling a man in this way!"
"I don't see much use in wearing a scarf if you tuck it down beneath your coat," said Carrissima.
"Who wants to wear one?" he demanded, pulling it off and flinging it on to the hall table. "I won't wear it. I won't be bothered and interfered with!"
He selected a walking-stick from the stand, but when Carrissima opened the door for him, returned to exchange it for an umbrella; at last, setting forth at a quarter to twelve, walking rather slowly in the direction of his club. As he made his way along Piccadilly Colonel Faversham came almost to a standstill. Good heavens! that must be Bridget coming towards him. He fixed his eye-glass and saw that he had not make a mistake; in fact, it was difficult to be mistaken. She was as becomingly dressed as ever, and carried an enormous muff, with a great many of some small animals' tails depending from it.
Colonel Faversham's thoughts at once flew back to that last time he had seen her in Golfney Place, when he had insisted that she should name the date for their marriage—a week or two hence, as he had egregiously hoped! And she had seemed to promise that she would gratify him when he came the following morning, and he arrived with exuberant anticipations only to find the bird flown! Everything stood out clearly in his mind, and now that she was within a few yards he wished he had not passed Half Moon Street, so that he might have slipped down the turning in order to avoid a meeting.
Had he done so in all probability Bridget would have pursued him! Quickening her pace she bore down upon the colonel with her right hand outstretched, while with the left she held the enormous muff. He had no alternative; it seemed inevitable that he should meet her half-way. Although he had always admired her, she had never appeared quite so enticing as this dull November morning; looking into his face with merry eyes, while yet the corners of her mouth were drawn down as if to express the penitence, which he knew that no one in the world could have been farther from feeling.
"Oh, Colonel Faversham, how delighted I am to see you again!" she cried, and the provoking part of it was that he could not avoid a sensation of pleasure on seeing her at closer quarters. He did not imagine for an instant that she wished to see him, although for the time her manner might carry conviction. "I have positively been longing to meet you," said Bridget.
"It is very kind to say so," muttered Colonel Faversham.
"And," she continued, with her eyes on his face, "how splendidly well you are looking!"
"Ah, you think I am?" he answered. "Well, thank Heaven, I feel pretty well. How long have you been in London?" he asked rather hastily, because no one could feel more anxious to omit any allusion to the painful past.
"Only a couple of days," said Bridget. "We had the loveliest time abroad, and the best of it was that I really knew my way about far better than Jimmy."
Well, Colonel Faversham, for his part, did not doubt that she knew her way about better than most people.
"Now, tell the truth!" she exclaimed, as they stood in the middle of the pavement, "don't you think you ought to feel immensely grateful to me?"
"Bless my soul, I had not thought of that!" he answered, with a laugh.
"Well, you can recognize the fact now it's pointed out to you. Admit you had a happy release, as they sometimes say in different circumstances."
"Now I have seen you again," said Colonel Faversham gallantly, "it becomes much more difficult than ever to believe anything of the sort."
"I hope," replied Bridget, "you mean to come and see me often. Jimmy will be delighted. We have taken the duckiest little furnished flat while we look about for a house of our own."
"You are not going to settle down in Upper Grosvenor Street?" suggested the colonel.
"Oh dear, no! We should never dream of disturbing Sybil, nor of living with her. You don't know what a good fellow Jimmy is! Now he has a wife to keep him up to the mark he will do the most wonderful and unexpected things. You will see! He is going to stand for Atlinghurst, and I assure you I intend to get him in. Don't you think I shall make an excellent canvasser? Now, please, understand," she added, "I expect you to come and see me!"
"Where is the flat?" he inquired.
"Aberdeen Mansion," she answered. "Jimmy took it while we were abroad——"
"Without seeing it? Good gracious!" said Colonel Faversham. That was just like Jimmy—and Bridget.
"Oh dear, yes," she said. "We left it to an agent, and, really, nothing could have turned out better. It is only a few yards from Hyde Park Corner. Will you come and have lunch this morning? I know Jimmy will be at home—not that it matters if he isn't."
"Some other time, if you will allow me," said Colonel Faversham, offering his right hand.
"I wish," cried Bridget, as she stood holding it, "you would promise me one thing!"
"Upon my word," he replied, "it's difficult to refuse to promise you anything."
"Well, then, please make Carrissima pay me a visit at once—at once, you understand?"
As Colonel Faversham walked on to his club, hastening because he had grown cold standing still so long, he doubted whether or not he should mention Mrs. Jimmy's name at Grandison Square. He never ceased to congratulate himself, inasmuch as the fact of his abortive engagement had been kept secret. Even if Carrissima suspected anything of the kind, she could not possibly know for certain! Colonel Faversham realized, however, that his relationship to Bridget in former days might still be raked up as food for scoffers, and he shrank from anything of the nature of ridicule. Mrs. Jimmy, indeed, was a delicate topic, and he would probably have kept his own counsel concerning the meeting in Piccadilly, if he had not feared lest she should subsequently come into contact with Carrissima, when his silence might defeat his own end.
"Whom do you think I saw this morning?" he asked, after dinner that evening.
"Not—not Bridget?" she exclaimed.
"Yes—Mrs. Jimmy! They have been in London only a couple of days."
"Then you spoke to her?"
"Good gracious!" answered the colonel, "why on earth shouldn't I speak to her. As a matter of fact there was no getting out of it. She insisted on speaking to me. She is living in a furnished flat—Aberdeen Mansion, close to Hyde Park Corner, you know, and she made me promise that you should pay her a visit as soon as possible. I don't know whether you will care to go."
"Oh yes," said Carrissima, "I am bound to call sooner or later."
"Well, well, you know best," was the answer. "She thought I was looking uncommonly well—at least she said so. Goodness knows whether she meant it. Anyhow, I feel pretty fit!"
Although anything resembling an intimacy with Bridget might be out of the question, it seemed absolutely necessary to pay Jimmy's wife an ordinary, complimentary visit. Deep down in Carrissima's mind, perhaps, was an idea that Bridget might prove capable of an intervention as auspicious as her previous alarums and excursions had been unfortunate.
If this were the case, Carrissima scarcely admitted the impeachment even to herself; but two afternoons after the meeting with Colonel Faversham near Half Moon Street his daughter set out to Aberdeen Mansion, where she found Mrs. Clynesworth at home, and at once came to the conclusion that until the present, at least, she believed everything had turned out for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
She at once broke through Carrissima's reserve. Paying no attention to her proffered hand, she leaned forward and demonstratively kissed her first on the right cheek, then on the left.
"So glad you have come," she cried effusively. "And how extremely fortunate that Jimmy is out."
"Is he all right?" asked Carrissima.
"Oh yes, quite all right," was the answer. "You will say he looks splendid, though I don't take any credit to myself for that, because he always did. I thought so the very first time I saw his photograph at your house. I haven't the remotest notion where he has gone and I never inquire. That's my theory of matrimony. Perhaps you are surprised to hear I have a theory of any kind; but no," said Bridget, "of course you're more likely to go to the opposite extreme. You can't help regarding me as a horrid sort of schemer!"
"All's well that ends well," returned Carrissima, with a smile.
"Ah! but, you see, it isn't the end!" said Bridget. "It's only the beginning. We're not living in one of those novels where marriage is the end of all things. But Jimmy and I always go our separate ways and the consequence is when we meet we're generally quite glad to see each other. Such an immense mistake to imagine that any two people can tell one another everything."
"Is it?" murmured Carrissima, who clung to a vastly different ideal.
"What bores we should become!" said Bridget. "And, you know, whatever you do to a man you must never bore him—poor fellow! But, please, don't encourage me to talk about myself—not that I really need much encouragement. I feel so perfectly delighted with everything!—how is Mark?" she added, abruptly changing her tone.
"He looked very well the last time I saw him," replied Carrissima, at once on guard.
"When was that?"
"A few days ago!"
"You don't appear to have any interesting announcement to make," suggested Bridget, with expressive eyes on Carrissima's face. Now, Carrissima hesitated. She could easily have answered in such a way that her hostess, with all her audacity, would have been silenced.
"I haven't spoken to Mark," she faltered, "since your marriage."
"How disappointing!" cried Bridget. "So, after all my efforts you didn't follow the advice I gave you."
"No," said Carrissima.
"Why not?"
"Oh well, I couldn't," said Carrissima, and Bridget shrugged her shoulders as if to put the topic aside.
"Did the colonel tell you," she inquired, "that Jimmy is going to stand for Atlinghurst? Between us we are going to accomplish the most wonderful things. He always insists that his mind is too independent for the House of Commons, but I tell him a man must expect to sacrifice some of his independence when he marries."
"In spite of all your theories!" suggested Carrissima.
"Of course," Bridget continued, "I quite understand that most peoplebelieve Jimmy sacrificed a great deal more than that! Your brotherLawrence, for instance! Oh dear, I can imagine exactly what he says!Carrissima, there's one thing which makes me angry!"
"Only one?" said Carrissima.
"The want of discrimination in the human mind. I dare say that even yours is tainted! It's of no use to pretend you can't understand. In a moment of self-denying effusiveness I admitted that I deliberately angled for a husband: first for Mark Driver, then for Colonel Faversham. Well, although one would have none of me and I didn't want the other, the fact remains that I am the wife of the richest of the trio! Everybody who knows Jimmy naturally thinks that was all I thought about—his money, his position and so forth. Well, there's only one consolation," said Bridget.
"What is that?" demanded Carrissima.
"Jimmy knows better. I can't tell you how, but there's the glorious fact that he does. All the evidence was against me! I suppose Jimmy is a kind of seer—oh, of course you can't help smiling at that! But, then, neither you nor any one else has the slightest idea what there is in Jimmy. Carrissima, my husband is a clever man who has the misfortune—if it is really a misfortune—to see both sides of every question too distinctly! Being a poor partisan, he appears to lack enthusiasm. But, then, I have a boundless store!"
"I begin to think," said Carrissima, "that none of us imagined all there was inyou!"
"Oh, as for me," returned Bridget, "I was simply a little wretch during the few months you saw anything of me. I honestly believe that was a kind of interregnum. If you had met me while my father was alive you would have taken me for a quite different woman. All that is over and done with and for the rest—well, you will see!"
When Carrissima rose to go away Bridget clung to her hand—
"Jimmy will be immensely disappointed," she exclaimed. "I wish you would do something to console him by dining with us one evening. Our space here isn't sufficient for large parties."
"I should be very pleased," said Carrissima.
"Let me see," returned Bridget, knitting her brows, "we were reckless enough to promise to go to Sandbay from Friday till Monday—my dear little Dresden china aunts, you remember! It is really very amusing! Jimmy paid them a visit just after I left Golfney Place and they have taken quite a fancy to him. The odd part of it is, that he seems to like them in return. Goodness knows how he will endure three days in a house where tobacco has always been tabooed. Would next Friday suit you?"
"Quite nicely," said Carrissima.
"Oh, but Friday is an unlucky day, isn't it?" cried Bridget. "I don't know whether you are superstitious, although I believe everyone is about something. Suppose we say Thursday, and if I can't get together the people I should like to meet you I must write and fix another evening. If you don't hear to the contrary I shall expect you on Thursday—at eight o'clock. Or," Bridget added, "perhaps half-past seven will be more convenient. Yes, please let it be half-past seven."
Carrissima walked back to Grandison Square thinking of the change which had occurred in Bridget, who yet remained in many ways the same as she had ever been and most likely always would be. But she had no longer anything to disguise, anything to scheme for. Her manner was characterized by a new and delightful air of authority, and, indeed, Carrissima, if anybody, had become the plotter now! As far as Mrs. Jimmy was concerned the slate had been cleaned. No, in spite of anything that Lawrence might say, in spite of all that Bridget had done, Carrissima could not believe that Jimmy Clynesworth was to be very deeply pitied.