Chapter III

Lady Mary Dombey was a young woman of very pleasing appearance, but there were occasions upon which she could look stern. This was one of them.

“I am never surprised at anything that Gerald does,” she told Christopher, who was seated next her at the dinner table, “but I must say that I should never have expected you to have been mixed up in one of his escapades. What are you going to do with the girl?”

“We rather hoped for some advice from you,” was the somewhat rueful reply.

“You are welcome to it. Send her home.”

“You wouldn’t talk like that if you’d seen the state of terror she was in when we found her, Mary,” Gerald remarked from the other side of the table.

“Is she very beautiful?” his sister enquired.

“Wonderfully,” Christopher pronounced.

Gerald shrugged his shoulders.

“She is of an age when all girls are beautiful,” he observed. “Perfectly filthy time she seems to have been having, though.”

“We hoped,” Christopher ventured, a little doubtfully, “that you might be able to make use of her as a kind of under sewing maid, or something of that sort.”

“Thank you,” Lady Mary replied, without enthusiasm, “I am perfectly satisfied with the services of my own maid. Besides, the servants’ quarters here are ridiculously cramped. They are all complaining, as it is.”

Lord Hinterleys, who had taken only a languid interest in the conversation, intervened for the first time.

“Where is the young person now?” he enquired.

“In some rooms one of the housekeepers at the hotel found for me, sir,” Gerald replied.

“Perhaps the housekeeper can find her some employment,” his father suggested.

“We’ll dispose of her all right,” Gerald declared confidently. “She may wake up in the morning and feel homesick, and, if so, we’ll send her back.”

“You know very well that she won’t do anything of the sort,” Christopher protested.

Lady Mary rose to her feet.

“I can’t quite decide,” she said, “which of you two has lost his heart to this paragon of village loveliness. However, I feel sure that my advice is the best. Send her back to her people.”

Gerald strolled to the door with his sister and returned to his place, fingering his cigarette case irritably.

“I have always thought,” he remarked, with mild sarcasm, “that a barrister should be a person of infinite tact and perceptions. It appears that I was wrong. I never dreamed that any one could be such a blithering ass as you, Chris.”

“Thank you, Gerald,” his friend replied, helping himself from the decanter which Lord Hinterleys had passed around. “In what respect have I merited this severe criticism?”

“Why, by talking about the girl as though she were something unusual! Mary’s a good sort, and all that, but no girl likes the man who is sitting next her at dinner time to rave about his latest discovery of violet eyes. You’d probably have had those violet eyes to look at every time you came down to stay at Hinterleys, if you hadn’t made such an ass of yourself.”

Lord Hinterleys sipped his wine thoughtfully. Gerald, who was longing to smoke, watched its leisurely disappearance with impatience.

“I am not suggesting for a single moment,” the former observed, “that your attitude towards this young woman is not and will not always be entirely irreproachable, but at the same time you must remember that we are in a country where such adventures are likely to be misunderstood. I feel inclined, therefore, to endorse your sister’s advice. It is very possible that the young woman, at the time you discovered her, was indulging in a passing fit of petulance. I should do all that I could to encourage her to return to her people.”

“We’ll talk to her in the morning, sir,” Gerald promised. “Wonderfully this port has travelled.”

“We brought it out six years ago,” his father remarked. “Martin laid it down himself, and it has not been disturbed since.--There, I have finished my two glasses. I shall retire to the drawing-room and persuade Mary to sing to me, and you two young fellows can smoke to your hearts’ content. Give me your arm, Gerald.”

“Don’t think we shall stop long, if you’ll excuse us, sir,” Gerald confided, as he rose to his feet. “It’s Christopher’s first night in Monte Carlo and I want to show him the ropes. Come along, old chap, and make your adieux,” he added, turning to his friend.

Lord Hinterleys nodded as he leaned on his ivory-topped stick.

“You young men choose weird games at which to lose your money, nowadays,” he observed. “Filthy places, all Casinos--no ventilation, foul atmosphere, reeking of scent and tobacco, and, to say the least of it, a very dubious company. Still, if I were your age I suppose I shouldn’t notice these things.--Did you do any good with those two hunters you bought from Loxley, Gerald? One of them I thought was good enough for some of these country steeplechases.”

Father and son became temporarily absorbed in a subject of common interest. Lady Mary made room for Christopher by her side. She was scarcely possessed of her brother’s good looks, but her complexion was good, her features unexceptionable, her eyes clear and as a rule sympathetic, her tone and manner attractive. Her figure, especially in a riding habit, was undeniable, her skill at golf and tennis far above the ordinary amateur. It was not for lack of offers that, at twenty-four years of age, she was still unmarried.

“Must you rush off so soon on your first evening?” she asked reproachfully.

“Not so far as I am concerned,” he assured her. “I would rather stay here and listen to you sing. It’s Gerald who is dying to lose his money.”

She made a little grimace.

“Every one goes to the Casino or the Sporting Club at night,” she said, “and for the first few times it is amusing enough. I hope you won’t spend all your time there. When shall we play golf?”

“To-morrow afternoon?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’m taking father out to lunch at the Club,” she said. “We’ll play directly afterwards, if that suits you. Tell me, have you had any interesting cases lately? I saw that you won the libel suit you were telling me about.”

They talked for some time with interest. Lady Mary’s wit was keen and her insight unusual. During a pause in their conversation, Lord Hinterleys looked across the room through his horn-rimmed eyeglass.

“Your friend seems to get on very well with Mary,” he remarked.

“They’ve always been pals,” Gerald acquiesced.

“Doing pretty well at the Bar, isn’t he?”

“Thundering well. They say he’s certain to be one of our youngest K. C’s.”

“I knew his father,” Lord Hinterleys reflected. “He was at Eton with me. Very good stock, though not remarkably prosperous.”

“Christopher isn’t well off,” Gerald admitted. “You don’t make a lot of money at the Bar your first few years.”

Lord Hinterleys said nothing for several moments.

“Mary has her aunt’s hundred thousand pounds,” he said at length. “She is a difficult young person to marry. Knows her own mind, though. I should never interfere.”

“Chris is a good fellow, but I don’t fancy he has any thought of marrying just yet,” Gerald remarked. “You won’t mind if I take him off now, sir? We shall meet for lunch at the Golf Club to-morrow.”

Christopher obeyed his friend’s summons without enthusiasm. Gerald, however, was both insistent and impatient, and the two young men took their leave a few minutes later.

Christopher, quickly impressed with the charm of the place, would have willingly spent the remainder of the evening seated outside the Café de Paris, watching the passers-by, listening to the music, and marvelling at the amphitheatre of lights which fringed the bay and dotted the whole background of hills with little specks of yellow fire. Gerald, however, was too anxious to do the whole honours of the place. He dragged his friend into the bureau of the Casino, where they obtained their tickets for the Cercle Privé, and afterwards on to the Sporting Club, the Mecca of Gerald’s desires for the evening, at any rate. Christopher breathed a little more freely here than in the Casino; the atmosphere was less pernicious, the crowd by which he was surrounded far more attractive. After Gerald had taken a seat at the baccarat table, he wandered around for some time, fascinated by this strange, cosmopolitan gathering, their diversity in class, manners and dress. Presently he found a seat in the little bar, ordered a whisky and soda and leaned back to watch the never-ceasing stream of pleasure-seeking loiterers. Suddenly, without any warning, his thoughts played him a queer trick. The walls of the thronged room fell away; its murmur of silvery voices, its tangle of exotic perfumes, were nonexistent. He was back on the cool, sunlit hillside, with the odour of the violets and the pines in his nostrils, and the girl looking over the gate. She turned her head and he saw her face,--her beautiful eyes, with their passionate, terrified appeal; her quivering lips, her child’s figure; the tender appeal of her, the soul and sweetness of her innocent youth clinging like some fresh, sweet perfume to her trembling body.

Gerald stood suddenly before him, his face aflame, his eyes brilliant. His voice quivered with excitement.

“Christopher, you moonstruck old dodderer,” he cried, “wake up! I have seen the most wonderful creature on earth. I won’t leave this place until I find out who she is.”

“What, another adventure?” Christopher exclaimed. “Sit down and have a whisky and soda.”

“Don’t talk to me about whiskies and sodas,” Gerald replied, sinking into the vacant chair, however, and calling a waiter. “I tell you she’s the most amazing person I ever saw--a revelation!”

“You’re not thinking about Myrtile?”

“That child? No!” was the impatient rejoinder. “I tell you it’s some one here to-night. She’s either French or Russian or Italian--I can’t make up my mind which. She is with an older woman, who seems to be a sort of attendant. Every one’s talking about her, but no one seems to know who she is.”

“This place is full of that sort of people, isn’t it?” Christopher asked, not greatly impressed.

“That sort of people!” Gerald repeated contemptuously. “Wait till you see her! I’m not easily led away. I’ve seen the most beautiful women in most of the capitals of the world. I was at Vienna and Rome before the war, you know, but I never---- Don’t move, Chris. Don’t look as though I’ve been talking about them. Here they come!”

Christopher watched the approach of the two women with an interest casual at first but real enough as they drew nearer. The younger of the two walked slightly in advance. She was rather over the medium height, and her carriage, although she was not in the least assertive, was full of the simple dignity of one who has been accustomed to command respect. She was slim, yet the outlines of her figure were so soft as to become almost voluptuous. She wore a dress of perfectly plain black lace, against which the skin of her neck and shoulders seemed of almost alabaster whiteness. Her only ornament was a long, double string of pearls of unusual size. Her hair, glossy and absolutely jet black, was brushed from her forehead and around her ears so that it seemed almost like a sheath. Her complexion was absolutely pallid, her lips a natural scarlet. Her eyes were of a deep shade of brown, inclined to be half-closed, as though she were short-sighted. Her eyelashes were long and silky; her eyebrows looked as though they had been pencilled, and yet left a conviction of entire naturalness. Such details as remained of her toilette were unique yet simple. The woman who followed her possessed also an air of distinction, but she was middle-aged, with grey hair and somewhat unwieldy figure. She carried herself with an air of deference towards her companion.

“Well?” Gerald whispered excitedly.

“She is very beautiful and very unusual,” Christopher admitted. “Have you no idea who she is?”

“If I had found any one who knew who they were, I should have been introduced before now,” was the blunt reply. “Freddie Carruthers has gone down to ask the Superintendent.”

The two women subsided on to a couch. The elder one gave an order to a waiter, the younger one glanced indifferently around. Her eyes rested for a moment upon Gerald. There was nothing personal in their regard--her manner was, indeed, if anything, austere--but Christopher was conscious of a sudden indrawn breath, almost a sob, which escaped from his companion’s lips.

“I wish Carruthers would come,” the latter muttered impatiently. “I didn’t exaggerate, did I, Chris?”

“No,” the latter admitted, “I can’t say that you did. She is very wonderful and very interesting. It is quite your day for adventures.”

Gerald laughed scornfully.

“You’re not comparing our little protégée from the hills with--with her, are you?” he demanded.

“Each has her charm,” Christopher replied.

Gerald leaned back in his chair and laughed long and heartily.

“Our little wild rose,” he said, “is like a thousand others--a pretty face, a fascinating age, confiding manners. In twenty-four hours she would have taught you all that she could know of love and life. She is as much a yokel intellectually as this girl is a mystery. Are there any queens or royal princesses wandering about the world nowadays, Chris? I swear that she looks as though she had stepped down from a throne. Thank heavens, here comes Carruthers!”

A young man who had been staring in at the doorway recognised Gerald and came across to them.

“No go, old thing,” he confided, leaning down. “They are registered here as Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière--aunt and niece. The old buffer downstairs, however, admitted that he believed that to be an assumed name.”

“Couldn’t you bribe him, or something?” Gerald asked eagerly.

“Old Johnny fairly cornered me,” Carruthers explained. “The two ladies, he told me, had declared their desire to remain incognito. It was not, therefore, the business of a gentleman to be inquisitive. Whereupon I came away with my tail between my legs. All the same, I don’t believe he has the least idea who they are.”

“They can’t possibly escape for more than a few days, in a place like this, without being recognised,” Gerald declared.

Carruthers stroked an incipient moustache.

“One gets nasty knocks sometimes,” he observed. “There was a milliner and her head mannequin who fairly knocked them all silly at Biarritz last season.”

“Don’t be a blatant ass, Freddy!” Gerald exclaimed contemptuously. “Mannequins can learn to strut but not to walk. That habit of walking into a crowded room as though you were the only person in it isn’t picked up in Bond Street or the Rue de la Paix. I----”

Gerald was suddenly on his feet. The younger of the two women, in turning towards her companion, had swept a small lace handkerchief, which she had laid upon the table in front of them, to the floor. She made no effort herself to regain possession of it, but glanced towards the waiter. Gerald, however, already held it in his fingers.

“I believe this is your handkerchief, mademoiselle,” he ventured.

She accepted it with a very slight but sufficiently gracious smile.

“I thank you very much, sir,” she said, speaking in English, with a slight foreign accent.

Some casual remark was already framing itself upon Gerald’s lips, but it remained unuttered. The girl had turned and resumed her conversation with her companion. She had the air of not realising that there was another person in the room. The young man, with a little bow, returned to his place. He hid his feelings perfectly, but his two companions could guess at his discomfiture.

“It’s no good, old chap,” Carruthers assured him confidentially. “They simply aren’t taking any. That Italian Prince with the swivel eye, whom all the women are raving about, tried his best to get into conversation. Managed to get one of his pals to address him by name, so that they knew who he was, but there was nothing doing. Dicky Gordon tried to get a word in edgeways at the roulette table, but it didn’t come off. One of the croupiers, whom he knew, went out of his way to whisper to him that the ladies did not desire acquaintances.”

Gerald sighed.

“I shall know her sooner or later,” he muttered, “but it’s such a waste of precious time.”

The woman and the girl rose presently to their feet and turned towards the door. Gerald, for the first time in his life, felt himself guilty of an impertinence. He watched them descend the stairs, watched a bowing servant run and fetch a waiting automobile. He even, from his position at the top of the steps, leaned forward to hear if any word of address was spoken. He was unrewarded. A footman opened the door of the car, closed it and mounted to the side of the chauffeur. The car drove rapidly away in the direction of Nice. Gerald waited for the porter to remount the steps and slipped a ten franc note in his hand.

“Do you know who those two ladies were?” he asked.

“They call themselves Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière,” the man replied, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Call themselves?” Gerald repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“There are many who come here who do not desire their presence to be known, monsieur,” he said cautiously.

“Criminals, perhaps,--or royalty?” Gerald ventured.

The man looked imperturbably through the revolving doors.

“Many of all sorts, monsieur,” he assented. “Monsieur will excuse.”

He hastened off on some excuse connected with a waiting automobile. Gerald had no alternative but to rejoin Carruthers and Christopher, whom he found watching the play at one of the roulette tables.

“Any luck?” the former asked eagerly.

“Not an iota,” Gerald confessed. “I tipped the man who saw them off, but he either knew nothing or would tell me nothing.--I shall have a plunge at baccarat,” he added. “I feel like gambling this evening.”

“You won’t forget that we promised to go and see Myrtile early?” Christopher reminded him.

Gerald stared at his friend.

“Myrtile? Who the devil---- Why, the child from the violet farm, of course! I’d forgotten all about her.”