Chapter XI: Unforeseen

Mrs. Walsingham made straight for the door of the drawing-room. But before she reached it she paused and looked at her maid. The two women regarded each other steadily. Then the maid smiled faintly.

“You look--tired,” she said.

Mrs. Walsingham nodded and turned towards her bedroom.

“Tell Mr. Shrewsbury I’ll be with him presently,” she said. “Take the whiskey and soda in. Stop--I’ll have some myself. I am tired.”

She walked into the dining-room, and mixing herself a drink as she stood at the sideboard, carried it off to her bedroom. Once in there, she went over to the mirror and looked at herself. She knew well enough what Guyner meant when she spoke significantly of her looking tired--there were lines under her eyes, and a pinched expression about her mouth, and between her fine eyebrows there were two distinct creases. She looked ten years older than she had looked when she tripped out of Abbotsbury House only two hours before. She frowned as she contemplated herself in her glass, but the frown suddenly changed to a smile.

“All the same,” she murmured, with a note of triumph in her voice, “if that’s true, I’m free. Free! My God--and with what possibilities!”

There was nothing tired or discomposed about Mrs. Walsingham, however, when she joined Richard half an hour later. All traces of fatigue had gone from eyes and mouth and forehead; she was wearing her prettiest gown; she gave her visitor her brightest smile. And Richard, who was still feeling somewhat sore after his experience of the afternoon, suddenly felt a sense of relief and of pleasure, and realized that Mrs. Walsingham’s cheerful company was a valuable asset in his life, and he held her hand rather longer than was necessary when she gave it to him.

“I thought you were lost,” she said, laughing. “Don’t forget that you’re only a stranger in London yet.”

“I’m awfully sorry I didn’t turn up,” he said. “I went to lunch with Burgoyne, and then--then I went to make a call at Maida Vale, and after that I found I was near Lord’s, and so I turned in there for an hour, and there was some rather exciting play, and so I stopped longer than I meant to, and then I knew you’d have gone, and so--well, I waited until later.”

“I hope you’ve dined,” she said.

“A bit hurriedly,” he answered. “And you?”

“I don’t let anything interfere with my dinner,” she said. “I didn’t wait very long for you. Give me a cigarette. And what,” she continued, settling herself in her favourite chair, “what took you to Maida Vale? I didn’t know you had ever heard of such a place.”

“I don’t think I ever had,” Richard replied. “I went there to call on Miss Leverton.”

Mrs. Walsingham suddenly dropped her cigarette and made some fuss about picking it up. By the time she had recovered it and had settled herself again she was quite composed and carelessly indifferent.

“Oh--and I didn’t know that you knew Miss Leverton,” she said.

“I didn’t until to-day--I didn’t even know there was a Miss Leverton. No one ever told me there was,” said Richard.

“That means that neither Mr. Carsdale nor I ever told you,” said Mrs. Walsingham. “Why should we?”

“Oh, I don’t know--except that her father and mine were old friends,” he answered, doubtfully. “I--of course, I don’t know anything--I mean of what’s done, or isn’t done.”

“What’s chiefly done is never to meddle with things that don’t concern one,” observed Mrs. Walsingham sententiously. “And where did you meet Miss Frances Leverton?”

“I met her at the solicitor’s--Winch’s, in Lincoln’s Inn--where I went with Burgoyne. And I asked her if I might call on her mother--of course, I thought she’d have a mother--to offer my condolence on her father’s death, and she said I might, and so I went this afternoon.”

“Is that why you are so elaborately attired?” asked Mrs. Walsingham, eyeing her visitor’s garments.

“I--I thought you’d got to tog yourself up rather to pay calls,” said Richard. “Isn’t that--proper?”

“Quite. Well, so you called on Miss Leverton’s mother?” said Mrs. Walsingham. “Proceed.”

“There wasn’t any mother--she’s dead, it seems. And,” continued Richard with boyish candour, “I want to ask you something--Miss Leverton seemed to be angry because--well, because of that letter which I wrote to her father--the one that Carsdale got, you know.”

Mrs. Walsingham dropped her cigarette into an ash-tray and selected another from the cabinet at her side.

“Frances Leverton is the sort of young woman who would be angry at anything that didn’t suit her,” she said. “She is an only child, and she was spoilt by her father, who let her have too much of her own way. She used to bully him at the office, and while he was ill she used to interfere in affairs that didn’t concern her. Of course, she’d be angry about the letter, but it was as much Carsdale’s concern as hers. Didn’t you want Leverton to advise you financially? Well, hasn’t Carsdale done it instead--only much better? She’s mad because your business got into his hands--she thinks she’s a financial genius. That’s all, my friend--pure pique.”

“Oh!” said Richard, blankly. “I see. But--she gave me a message for Carsdale.” He repeated it word for word, having learnt it by heart. “I don’t like giving it,” he said.

“Fiddle!” said Mrs. Walsingham. “Give it, and hear Carsdale laugh at it. Do you think he’ll attach any importance to a message like that. You don’t know John Carsdale if you do.”

“I didn’t want to hurt his feelings,” said Richard.

“Don’t alarm yourself,” said Mrs. Walsingham. “Well, and so now, I suppose, you’ll be visiting Maida Vale again?”

Richard felt himself blushing--why, he did not know.

“Miss Leverton said I might call on Sunday,” he answered.

Mrs. Walsingham laughed.

“Really!” she said. “So Miss Frances is human after all. But, of course, she’s got Lizzie Bryce there to play propriety.”

“Lizzie Bryce?” repeated Richard, vaguely. “Oh--is that the invalid lady?”

“She’s not an invalid--she’s a cripple for life,” said Mrs. Walsingham. “She’s a protégée of Barclay Leverton’s, and a very clever young woman. They’re both clever women, those two. Mind they don’t eat you.”

Richard looked at her doubtfully.

“I never know when you’re serious and when you’re not,” he said. “I don’t think you like Miss Leverton.”

“I don’t suppose it matters the value of a farthing whether I do or I don’t,” replied Mrs. Walsingham. “Frankly, I don’t, because she doesn’t like me. Now, her father and I were very good friends. He was a good sort, Barclay Leverton--perhaps rather too easy-going, but, I say, a good sort. His daughter cherishes what they call Advanced Ideas. She believes in women’s rights, and she’s clever--she’s a New Woman. I’m an Old Woman. I don’t know what women’s rights are and I’m not clever.”

“That isn’t true,” said Richard, with candid emphasis. “I think you’re the cleverest woman I ever met.”

“You’ve met such a lot, haven’t you?” retorted Mrs. Walsingham, teasingly. She threw her cigarette away, and coming over to one of the windows, looked out on the London twilight. “Well,” she said presently, in a low voice, “perhaps you’ll get Miss Leverton and Lizzie Bryce to look after you. I’m thinking of going away.”

Richard looked up in genuine alarm. He suddenly realized that this woman filled a very large place in his small world; he suddenly remembered that since his arrival in London he had spent most of his time with her, that he had always found her amusing, interesting, enlivening; when he had just said that she was the cleverest woman he had ever met, he sincerely meant it, for she had always been ready and willing to give him advice on all sorts of matters, and her advice he had invariably proved to be good. Going away!--that would indeed leave a blank in his scheme of things which it would be hard to fill.

“Going away!” he exclaimed. “Why--where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” she said, indifferently. “Timbuctoo--the North Pole--the South Pole--anywhere. I’m--tired.”

“Tired?” he said. “Of--London?”

“Of London and Life,” she answered. “Why shouldn’t I be? You’re young, my friend, and all young people are dense.”

“Oh, come now,” he said, interrupting her, “I’m no younger than you are, you know! You told me yourself the other day that, as a matter of fact, I’m older than you--you said you wouldn’t be twenty-one until September, and now it’s only June. I was twenty-one three months ago.”

“A woman is always at least five years older than a man,” she answered. “I’m quite an old woman compared to you--you’re a mere child. And as I was saying, all young people are dense--they don’t, won’t, can’t see!”

“What can’t I see?” asked Richard.

“That I’m a little wearied of things,” she answered, still staring straight before her into the twilight. “What do I do, after all? I went in for business because I didn’t want to be idle, but I’m not particularly interested in going down to Abbotsbury House and sitting there for so many hours a day. No--I shall go.”

“Where?” asked Richard, in tones that showed his concern. “Where?”

“Perhaps I’ll go to America--to New York. Perhaps I’ll go to Australia,” she answered. “Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll go travelling and write a book about it when I come back.”

“I don’t know why you want to go anywhere,” he said doggedly.

“Perhaps. But you don’t understand,” she said. “I suppose the real reason is that I’m--lonely.”

“Lonely!” exclaimed Richard. He got up from his chair, and went over to the window, and looked closely at her. “You don’t mean that?” he asked in a voice that trembled a little.

“Oh, you’ve been very good,” she said. “I--I haven’t been lonely since you came. But--I was before, and I shall be again.”

“Again?” he said. “Again?”

Mrs. Walsingham lifted her eyes to his, gave him one look, and dropped them.

“I can’t expect to monopolize you always,” she said, in a very low voice. “No--I really think I shall go away.”

Richard unconsciously moved nearer to her. In that half-light she looked prettier than ever; all the grace and charm of her femininity suddenly appealed to him with overwhelming force; his blood suddenly seemed to catch fire and his pulses leapt.

“Don’t!” he said, hoarsely. “Don’t go! I--I don’t want you to go. I--I shan’t let you go!”

And letting all his natural instincts suddenly assert themselves, he threw his arms round her and drew her to him.

“Stay!” he whispered. “Stay--and marry me! If you won’t--if you do go, you know I shall follow you.”

She made a fluttering movement to escape from him, but the pressure of his arms tightened. He laughed a little--grown confident, although mightily surprised, in his own boldness.

“There, you see, you can’t go,” he said. “I’m stronger than you--in more than one way. You shan’t go until you promise to stop. Promise!”

Mrs. Walsingham suddenly grew afraid--she found her own pulses stirred, her own heart beating; something in her became responsive. She tried to move, and could not; she tried to speak, and could not. And the boy whom she thought a mere youngster, laughed confidently again.

“Promise!” he repeated. “Promise you’ll stop--and that you’ll marry me. Promise--Sylvie!”

He forced her face up to his until their eyes met. Hers dropped swiftly.

“Yes!” she murmured.

A moment later she broke away, to gaze at him with genuine amazement.

“Is it--real?” she asked.

Richard took her into his arms again with a laugh of triumph.

“Of course it’s real!” he said. “Do you think I was going to let you go? You won’t go now.”

She shook her head and again looked at him in silence. For perhaps the first time in her life, Mrs. Walsingham was genuinely surprised. And when Richard had gone, she sat for a long time, thinking, thinking....

And just as midnight sounded from a neighbouring clock, came the cablegram from Nevada, and she tore it open with trembling fingers. Then she knew that the news she had heard in Soho Square was true.