Saved from herself or, On the edge of doom
“And have pneumonia when we come in,” with practical experience of
wettings in the days when she ran errands, half-clad. “Not I!”
“But I’m bored,” peevishly.
“Are you? Then thank Heaven! It’s a very healthy state of mind,” said
Ismay drolly. “I wish I were.”
“Aren’t you?” with her violet eyes wide.
Ismay shook her head.
“Too glad to be in out of that!” she observed coolly. “I used to be out
in it too often when we were poor.”
“I’d like to be poor, and work,” Cristiane said thoughtfully. “It must
be so amusing never to know where you’re going to get to-morrow’s
dinner! Something like gambling.”
“Very like it; when you lose, and have no dinner.”
“You’re so material!” Cristiane said reproachfully. “Now I want to be
amused. Even stupid old Miles would be better than nobody.”
Ismay was so startled that she had blushed crimson before she had time
to turn away her head. Utterly at loss she sat as guilty-looking as the
silliest schoolgirl who ever adored a music-master in secret!
“Stupid old Miles!” she could have boxed her hostess’ ears with rage.
And for once her hostess was clear-eyed.
A suspicion had sprung up full grown in her mind as she saw Ismay’s
confusion. Why should she get so red at the mere name of a man she
had only seen twice? Could those solitary walks of hers have covered
meetings with him? He was nearly always hanging about--or had been!
Cristiane had refused him, certainly, but she was none the less stung
at the mere thought that he was daring to console himself; she felt
exactly like the proverbial dog in the manger, even if she did not want
the oats no one else should have them. For the first time, Miles Cylmer
seemed a desirable possession to the spoiled child.
“What’s the matter?” she inquired. “Don’t look so cross.”
Ismay threw back her head, with a lovely laugh, that rang with
innocence.
“I’m not cross,” she cried, “it’s you that are a baby! I told you long
ago that you really liked him.” Her sweet voice gave no sign of the
fright in her mind lest this girl, who had everything, might try to get
back the one that was Ismay’s all, and so strike aside the arm that
stood between her and death.
“I didn’t like him, or I could have married him,” Cristiane retorted,
with intention; Ismay should see that Miles was hers, and not to be
interfered with.
“Why on earth didn’t you, then? He’s so good-looking,” said the other
imperturbably.
“I get too tired of him. He was a friend of father’s, and always
bothering over here.” As usual, her crimson lips quivered at her
father’s name.
“Oh, Cristiane--darling, forgive me!” Ismay kissed her, half with real
compunction, half to mislead her. “Don’t let’s talk of him any more.”
“I don’t want to; I hate him. He never came near me when I was in
trouble, just because I wouldn’t marry him. Did you ever hear of
anything so selfish?” smarting tears in her eyes.
Ismay reflected swiftly that she must burn that penciled card.
“I suppose,” Cristiane was going on, “he will be back again
soon--saying he loves me, and all that, but he can die of love, for all
me.”
In spite of her anxious heart it was all Ismay could do to restrain the
cold, clear laugh that was in her throat.
“I wish that nice Mr. Wray was coming back sooner,” Cristiane observed,
when her equanimity was further restored. “A fortnight is a very long
time when you’re dull. I like him far better than Miles Cylmer. He’s so
much cleverer--and kinder,” dropping her voice.
“Kinder? Look here, Cristiane, listen to me,” said Ismay, very
earnestly. “He isn’t kind at all, and I wouldn’t trust him, if I were
you, with my little finger.”
“Why? I believe you’re cross, Ismay, because Mr. Wray talks more to
your mother and me than to you.”
“I wish he were struck dumb, and would never speak again,” replied
Ismay viciously. “I don’t like him because I think he’s a bad man, that
is why.”
“Then I shall like him,” with defiance. “Bad men in books are always
much the nicest; I have often longed to know one.”
“Well, you have your wish!” returned Ismay calmly.
“Listen, I hear wheels!” cried Cristiane suddenly. “There’s some one
coming. Even if it’s only Miles, he shall stay to lunch.”
Indifferently, since Miles was in London, Ismay followed her, to look
out on the rain-beaten sweep of gravel. Yet could it be Miles? For a
closed fly from the station was in front of the hall door.
Cristiane gave a little shriek.
“It’s--why, Ismay, it’s your mother! And Mr. Wray,” as a man followed
Mrs. Trelane leisurely onto the streaming terrace.
She rushed to the door to greet the arrivals.
Ismay Trelane, white as ashes, was left alone to meet a terror that
made her arms fall inert to her sides.
What had brought her mother back? And what was hurrying Marcus Wray,
that his fortnight of grace had been turned to two days?
CHAPTER XXII.
“A CHARMING MAN.”
Thomas, waiting that evening on the dinner-party, beamed as he directed
his subordinates, so joyful was he to see the old light of happiness
and gaiety on his young mistress’ face.
The strange gentleman from London talked so well, and was so quietly
amusing, that the old man had to turn away at times to hide the smile
forbidden to a well-bred servant. But he showed his gratification by
pressing on Mr. Wray Sir Gaspard’s priceless Burgundy, which by degrees
warmed that individual to the heart, so that important things seemed
curiously less important, even to him.
Ismay surveyed the party from a different point of view.
There sat her mother, probably a murderess, certainly a thief; next
her, Wray, a receiver of stolen goods, a blackmailer, with an awful
crime waiting for committal; at the head of the table, Cristiane, with
death at her elbow, and against them all no one but a girl, fearing
all things, hoping nothing. It was certainly an unusual party.
Mrs. Trelane, powdered, painted, nervously gay, was reckless in her
conversation.
Ismay, with resigned despair, did not try to warn her even by a glance;
Cristiane, perhaps, did not understand her wildest sallies.
“If she did, she’d leave the table,” the girl thought scornfully,
looking at the other girl’s smiling density. “But I wonder, wonder,
wonder, what brought him down!”
Mr. Wray caught her glance that was so hard and searching.
“Dear Ismay,” he said paternally, “have a little mercy! Don’t sit
there, wishing I had stayed at home.”
“I didn’t know you had a home!” cuttingly. “Have you?”
For some unknown reason the shot told; perhaps Mr. Wray knew more of
domesticity than he avowed, for he changed his smile with abruptness.
“I hope to have one--some day!” his tone that of a man who takes an
undeserved wound bravely; his glance, that only Ismay saw, a cold and
savage threat.
Cristiane flushed. How could Ismay, whom her father had saved from
starvation, dare to taunt a man, who could not be too well off, with
his poverty?
“Homes are uncertain things!” she observed acidly, and Ismay could have
wrung her hands under the table as she saw her mother look with open
mockery at Wray.
What were they going to do?
“There’ll be no chance of my finding out by listening,” she thought
forlornly. “They must have done all the talking they needed in the
train. Their plans--his plan”--with bitter correction, “must be cut and
dried by now, and that idiot of a girl will walk into their trap!
“But perhaps he means to stand by my mother on account of the money. He
must--it would be murder wasted, if he did not. And not even he would
waste murder.”
Her face was more somber than she knew, as her thoughts, in spite
of her, flew to Cylmer and his business in London. And Wray saw it;
he was used to rudeness in her, but not to gloom, and, in spite of
the cheering Burgundy, he was suspicious. At bedtime, as he lit Mrs.
Trelane’s candle for her in the hall, he spoke to her angrily, and
quietly, having ignored her for Cristiane throughout the evening.
“What’s the matter with Ismay? Have you been fool enough to tell her
things? She looks simply stuffed with righteous wrath.”
Ismay, on the first step of the stairs, pricked up her ears at his
tone. But Cristiane, her arm through hers, was dragging her on--her
young blood as light from Marcus Wray’s respectfully adoring eyes as
his had been from her father’s Burgundy!
Miss Trelane, for the second time that day, longed to box her ears.
“I hate fools,” she thought grimly, “and this one will ruin herself
and me, too, if I can’t teach her some sense. And the worst of it is,
I can’t help trying to take care of the silly little donkey. I wish I
could speak out to her, but she’d only think me crazy.”
Cristiane gave an ecstatic squeeze to the inert arm in hers.
“Isn’t he a dear?” she whispered, as they turned the corner of the
great stairs.
Ismay stopped the second they were out of sight from below, and was
listening with all her ears, but not to Cristiane.
Wray was just underneath her, and his voice floated up to her in a
far-reaching whisper.
“Mind you find out what ails the girl before you go to bed, and come
and tell me in the library. She makes me angry with her tragedy airs.”
“Nothing so fatal as a whisper! I’ll mark that for future reference,”
reflected the eavesdropper, with lightning speed. “What did you say,
Cristiane, dear?”
“If he’s a bad man, they’re charming things. And he’s going to stay a
week; I asked him. Won’t it be nice? Come now, tell the truth! Don’t
you honestly think he’s charming?”
“Charming? Yes! But you’ll turn his head if you let him know it.”
Charming was exactly the word; people used it about a snake fascinating
a bird before it killed it.
“Of course, I sha’n’t let him know it,” returned Cristiane. “Good
night; mind you’re nice to him to-morrow, because he’s going to stay,”
with a laughing nod of power, since it was her house and her guest that
were in question.
“She won’t let him know it! When she’s been gazing at him all the
evening,” said Miss Trelane derisively, when she was safe in her own
bedroom. “For pure downright idiocy, commend me to a well-brought-up
girl, who thinks the world is a playground where little geese can wear
gold collars and show them off to the nice, kind foxes!” but she did
not smile at her own parable, as she locked her door and got into bed
with incredible speed.
She had not been there five minutes before the door-handle was turned
sharply.
“Ismay, open the door at once! You can’t be in bed,” cried her mother,
from the corridor, with the assurance of a person who finds a door
unexpectedly locked.
“Yes, I am!” with childlike surprise. “What’s the matter? I don’t want
to get up again.”
“Let me in at once,” giving the door a cross jerk.
“Delighted!” she crossed the floor with swift bare feet, and turned the
key.
“What on earth did you lock your door for?”
Mrs. Trelane banged it, too, behind her as she swept in, her gauzy,
glittering gown, that was fit for the stage, trailing behind her.
“And you’ll never keep your looks if you’re going to get into bed like
a plowboy, without even washing your face.”
“It’s quite clean. I never use powder,” was the retort.
“Pray don’t be clever. I’m dead tired.” Mrs. Trelane dropped into the
most comfortable chair in the room. “I can’t appreciate it. I suppose
you locked your door because you’re annoyed with me for bringing Marcus
here?”
Ismay, sitting on the edge of her bed, white and exquisite, rubbed one
foot with the shell-pink heel of the other; and looked ashamed, as one
who is about to disgrace herself by a chicken-hearted confession.
“I always lock my door in this house at night,” looking at her feet.
“I’m--afraid!”
“Afraid? What on earth of?”
“Nothing--on earth,” whispering. “But haven’t you heard anything funny
since you came here?”