The young man stared at him. He was slowly growing crimson.
“There’s another consideration,” Peter said stiffly, “and I’m afraid that’s the one that’s bothering me. When one’s been engaged to a woman for seven years——” He broke off expressively, and the older man laughed.
“My dear Peter, quite a Galahad in your own way, aren’t you!” he said. “Don’t misunderstand me, my boy; I appreciate it. And I think, too,” he went on, a note of sternness creeping into the smooth, half-frivolous tone, “that you would be very unwise indeed to make—er—any drastic change in your private affairs. After all, she has a powerful family, of which I am afraid I must point out I am a part.”
Peter met his eyes steadily. “Yes,” he said. “I was thinking of that.”
“Oh well, now we understand one another,” Lord Tollesbury seemed relieved. “Let me try to cheer you up a little. Whereas Evelyn is a gentle, sheltered little girl of the type you know and understand, I think you may have made a serious mistake about the girl Coleridge. She’s no tender little flower, believe me. I never had a more interesting interview with anyone in my life. She played me like an old hand, took the way that was most advantageous to her but didn’t grant me an inch. She made no admissions at all. Her story to Lissen was highly coloured but quite ingenious, and might at a stretch have served as an excuse for her consenting to the interview if she wanted to get out of the arrangement afterwards.”
Peter thrust his hands through his hair.
“We’re all so subtle,” he said helplessly. “We’re all so clever. Don’t you think, sir, that we may be sometimes a little too—too clever by half? I’d have staked my life on it that that girl was as straightforward as a child.”
“Part of her cleverness,” said Tollesbury airily. “Good heavens, my boy, d’you think she’d have agreed to the proposition if there hadn’t been something in it?”
“You’re sure her story wasn’t true?” Peter spoke nervously, a wavering hope in his voice. “You’re sure she wasn’t being perfectly innocent? You’re sure what you thought was subtlety wasn’t ignorance?”
Lord Tollesbury’s dark face took on a deeper hue.
“My dear Peter,” he said stiffly, “I admit that young men often understand young women so much better than their elders, but I would like to point out that I’m not a complete fool. I’ve had some experience in business affairs and——”
“Oh don’t!” Peter spread out his hands helplessly. “I’m sorry, sir. You must forgive me, but I got to know the girl quite well, and, as I told you when I reported her recognition of me this morning, I heard the story of her life, and the facts I told Lissen seem to have been true. She never struck me as being shrewd or subtle, that’s all.”
“Yes, yes, she’s a very charming little thing,” said the older man, as though an entirely different question had been asked him. “Quite the type who might wreck a promising young man’s career, especially if she had some serious hold over him. You leave this to me, you young idiot,” he went on with an entire change of tone. “You made love to her, I suppose?”
“No,” said Peter. “No, never.”
“Thoughtful of you. Still, I believe you. Otherwise we might have a much more difficult business on our hands.”
“You’ve got her all wrong,” said Peter. “She——”
Lord Tollesbury sprang to his feet. “Peter Muir-David,” he said, “did you or you not see that girl in the De Liane house? Did Lessen follow her from the De Liane flat this afternoon or did he not? Did she see him and slip away from the De Lianes and lead him on a wild-goose chase on foot through London until he picked her up well out of their sight?”
Peter sighed. “You’ve told me so, and therefore I suppose it’s true,” he said unhappily. “I suppose what you say about the De Lianes is true.”
Lord Tollesbury laughed. “I haven’t begun to tell you about the De Lianes, mother and son,” he said. “Life’s too short. I would rather place myself at the mercy of all the blackmailers in the world combined than grant that old woman half an inch. However, we’ve scotched them, or we shall have done when we can get the girl out of the country. If they haven’t got her as a witness they can do nothing. She’s the only person, you see, who knows that young Mr Peter Muir, employee in that dangerous new concern, Holly and Holly, Limited, makers of synthetic mica, is Sir Peter Muir-David, the bright young man behind the scenes at Cosmos Mines. In other words, my dear Peter, that girl is the only person whose testimony could set the stock markets tumbling about our ears, the only person who could prove that you were a spy sent out by one great firm to facilitate its dealings with a dangerous rival. Need I be more explicit? Or must I tell you just how much we should lose, what my own position would be, or what would happen to your own and your father’s fortune?”
Peter stood up resolutely. “I’ve done it,” he said. “I’m sorry I did it, but I’ve done it and there’s no help for it. If I’d known at the beginning, when you put up this—this fantastic scheme to me, what it was going to lead to, I never would have done it, even though Holly’s had ruined us.”
“Then somebody else would have done it,” said Lord Tollesbury easily. “I don’t understand you, Peter. I’ve always thought you were one of the most promising of my younger men, but it seems to me you’re liable to get hysterical. What’s the matter, man? You’re behaving as though you’re in love.”
Peter did not answer. He stood looking straight in front of him, and there was tragedy and weakness and despair in his face.
Lord Tollesbury eyed him. “‘… For he had great possessions,’” he quoted softly. “Don’t be silly. These things do happen, I know. They upset one. One’s private affairs are always butting in and trying to spoil one’s chances in the great game.”
He paused and, when the younger man did not speak, went over to him and spoke to him with deep sincerity, all the more startling because of the emptiness of his creed.
“Money, my boy,” he said. “It’s a hard master but a great master. You’ve got to serve it utterly with everything there is in you. You’ve got to make sacrifices for it, and you’ve got to face dangers for it, but in the end it repays you. It gives you power, the one thing of real value in the world.”
Peter looked at him steadily. “I—I wonder,” he said, and his voice was none too steady.
Lord Tollesbury turned his back upon him and walked over to the fire again.
“Everything else passes,” he said. “I’ve been in love myself in my time, deliriously in love, but do you know, at the moment I have forgotten her name. Well then, this is the situation. While the De Lianes have that girl on their side they are in a position either to ruin us or to blackmail us. Knowing them, I think they would choose the latter. While we have the girl they can do nothing. We can laugh at them. They might try to get other witnesses, but she’s the only dangerous one. You may have to disappear yourself for a month or two. She’ll go to Canada with Edith, and we shall carry out our obligations to her implicitly. It’ll be well worth our while. That’s that. Now I think we’ll go on to the theatre, where those two girls are waiting for us so impatiently. Are you coming?”
Peter nodded. He walked with heavy footsteps. His eyes were dull, and his face was drawn.
Lord Tollesbury glanced at him sharply. “I should avoid this house until Friday,” he said, and in his mouth the words were a command.
“I thought I might just have a word with her,” Peter began. “I didn’t want her to think——”
“What does it matter what she thinks? Forget her. You are not to see her. Put her clean out of your mind. She’s just one of those little sacrifices one has to make in the course of a great career. Understand?”
For an instant a light of rebellion crept into the younger man’s eyes, and it seemed as though he were about to make a stand, a protest against the system which was crushing him, but before the expression in the other man’s face his spirit weakened and his fire died.
“Yes,” said Peter, and followed him miserably from the room.
CHAPTER XVII
You Won’t Forget Me
“I THINK you look very nice.”
There was begrudging admiration and a hint of wistfulness in Evelyn Mortimer’s voice as she looked at the girl in the plain grey tweed suit which had just come from an Oxford Street store.
“It fits perfectly,” she went on, walking round Mary. “You’re very lucky to be exactly stock size. You didn’t mind not coming to choose, did you? Uncle—I mean Mother thought there was no point in your going out of the house until you sail tomorrow.”
“Oh no, I didn’t mind,” said Mary absently. “I think it’s very kind of you to get such pretty things.”
The two girls were in the little bedroom, which had been growing more and more like a prison to the younger girl for the past three days. On the floor stood a new cabin trunk, and in it were already packed the few things which Mary needed for her voyage to the New World.
Having ascertained that the suit fitted, Mary changed into a navy-blue house frock which had come with the other things and began to pack the suit into the trunk.
Evelyn Mortimer lingered. Great pains had been taken with her own clothes, but she made a very insignificant figure beside Mary in the plain, almost school-girlish frock. In spite of her worries, the rest had done the girl good. Her red-gold hair shone, her cream skin had lost its pallor, and although her eyes were still dark and anxious their original beauty was not altogether eclipsed.
“Do you want to go to Canada?” Evelyn Mortimer sat down on the edge of the bed to watch Mary pack.
“Yes.” There was no hesitation in Mary’s reply. Her new-found self-reliance warned her to be very careful to whom she spoke about her affairs. She had no idea how much Evelyn knew about the business, or indeed how much of the business there was to know.
“Perhaps you’re going out there to get married?”
“No,” said Mary and then, anxious not to sound sullen, added in a more conversational tone, “No, I’m not.”
“Are you engaged to anyone over here?”
“No.”
“Are you in love?”
“No.”
“You’re wearing an engagement ring …”
Mary looked down at the little round of diamonds on her finger and shivered in spite of herself. She felt suddenly very much older than this sullen, petulant child at her side and was glad that she had taken off the wedding ring which Richard had bought her and had hidden it in her pocket.
She wondered if it was still there now that her clothes had been dried and made a mental note to look.
But although she was so obviously not anxious for conversation, Evelyn Mortimer was clearly eager to talk.
“I’m going to be married to Peter in the spring. We’ve been engaged for seven years. Peter told me you looked like somebody he knew once, but he wouldn’t tell me who she was. You thought you’d seen him before, didn’t you?”
“No,” said Mary. She was naturally averse to lying and wished the girl would leave the subject. All the same she was curious about Peter. “Are you—are you very fond of him?” she asked.
“Oh, as much as one ever is, you know.” The young voice sounded inexpressibly bored, and Mary was shocked. “It’s all been arranged for years that we should marry. He’s very rich and so am I—or rather, I shall be. Money’s terribly important, don’t you think?”
Mary did not answer. So that’s how it was then. She understood. She found herself feeling very sorry for Peter.
“It’ll be fun when I get married,” the other went on. “I shall go everywhere and know everybody, and I shall have a title. I’m quite looking forward to it. When Mother comes back we’re going to start getting my trousseau.”
“Has Mr—I mean Sir Peter, been here lately?” Mary tried to make the question sound disinterested.
“No. Sometimes I don’t see him for ages. He’s so busy, you see. Uncle says he’s going to be one of the richest men in the world before he dies. It’s terribly thrilling, don’t you think?”
“Is it?” said Mary. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Evidently the girl found her very dull, for presently she rose to her feet and wandered over to the doorway.
“I brought the papers up. I don’t know if you’re interested,” she said: “I can’t read ’em myself.”
She went out, and Mary finished her packing.
The pile of newspapers lay upon the bed, and when she had finished folding her clothes into the trunk she turned them over idly. The Times lay under the rest of the bundle. It was unopened, and Mary, glancing at it casually, caught sight of something in the personal column which fastened her attention at once. The printed words stood out from the page vividly, as though they had been printed in blacker type than the rest.
“Hallo Angel,” she read, and beside it, in smaller type, “Mary, I am heartbroken. Never realized before what it was like to fall in love. At my wits’ end. Have a little pity. Your husband, Richard.”
She never doubted for an instant but that the message was for her, and the appeal came startlingly, as though it had been made in words. To her astonishment she found that she was breathless and that her heart was thumping painfully in her side. She sat down, the paper in her hands, and as she looked at it the message faded and she saw instead Richard de Liane’s face as vividly as if he were before her.
She saw him as she had first seen him, lying in the great bed, his skin brown against the white linen, the two deep creases in his cheeks, and his blue eyes dancing with amusement as he smiled up at her impudently.
She threw the paper down. She was trembling and suddenly terribly afraid. All her new calm deserted her. The experience had been so real, and there was his message, clear and concrete, for her to read again and again.
That was the first time it had ever dawned upon her that the thing which she had most to fear was herself.
For some little time she sat struggling with an inclination to reread the message and suddenly gave way to it.
“Never realized before what it was like to fall in love.”
The sentence stood out from the others, and for a minute or two she allowed herself to bask in the warm, satisfying feeling, the strange contentment which it gave her, but immediately afterwards her brain rebuked her. Richard de Liane had probably not inserted that advertisement, or if he had it was done at the instigation of his mother.
Once again in her mind Mary heard that terrible gentle voice and saw that placid face with the gentle mouth from which such cruel words could come.
She tore the sheet of paper into small pieces and burned them in the grate, and forced herself to forget the odd experience of a minute or two before when her heart had bounded so unaccountably and she had experienced that strange feeling of content.
When Mrs Mortimer’s maid came up to bring her some tea she was placidly looking over her new clothes.
The following morning it was raining when the chauffeur and the butler between them carried Mary’s trunk down to the waiting Daimler and Mary climbed in beside Mrs Mortimer. It was early, and as yet the streets were empty of heavy traffic.
Throughout the journey to the station the woman was very silent. She sat huddled in the car, wrapped up in a big mink coat, and Mary, very small and young looking in her new grey travelling coat, sat quietly by her side. So far she had stuck resolutely to her purpose not to think of Richard de Liane. Peter she felt she understood, and she was sorry for him, but not for herself where he was concerned.
As they neared Euston Mrs Mortimer peered at her from among her furs.
“I hope you’re a good sailor, my child,” she said. “I’m not. I do dread these journeys so. Evelyn was going to see us off, but I told her not to. It’s so terribly early. Lean back, dear. There’s no need to look out of the window.” The last words were spoken petulantly, and Mary turned away from the
window obediently.
When they arrived at the station the old-fashioned courtyard was crowded with cars and an excited throng of porters. Mrs Mortimer proved to be a fussy, excitable traveller, and Mary had her mind fully occupied with the business of getting the luggage onto the train, and it occurred to her then that whatever ulterior motive the woman might have had in engaging her as a companion she certainly needed someone to look after her and her belongings.
“Mary, you have your tickets and your passport, haven’t you? I gave them to you yesterday. You did remember them?” … “Mary, have you seen my small brown handbag?—the crocodile one?” … “Mary, I believe there’s another suitcase.”
It seemed impossible that any woman could lose so many things, and any emotions which Mary might have experienced on leaving her country were temporarily forgotten in the excitement of managing her volatile employer.
At last they climbed into their reserved seats, and their hand luggage was duly stowed about the carriage. They had it to themselves, and Mrs Mortimer was loudly relieved, since, as she said, the journey to Liverpool was a long one.
They were still considerably early and, discovering that she had at least fifteen minutes to spare, Mrs Mortimer could not be content to stay placidly where she was.
“I’m just going down to the bookstall,” she said, “and I’ve just thought of something I must tell the chauffeur. He won’t have gone yet. Just stay where you are. You have got your passport, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mary wearily and leaned back in her seat, idly watching the excited throngs of passengers and their attendant porters bustling up and down the platform.
She sat quite still for five minutes, keeping her thoughts religiously upon the journey ahead of her and the possibilities of life in the new land. She dared not think of what had passed. That was gone, she told herself resolutely. In a few days now she would be free.
The Shadow In The House Page 15