Saved from herself or, On the edge of doom
and he was very tall as he looked down at her with a little laugh.
“You--lonely!” her eyes darkened with surprise. “Why, you can go
anywhere you like in all London, you have not to sit alone evening
after evening till----”
“No, but you see I don’t know anywhere I want to go,” he interrupted.
“And if we’re both here, and both lonely, why--I think we may as well
talk to one another.”
They were moving slowly along the crowded promenade on their way to the
stairs, and the languid grace of the girl’s steps was apparent.
“Are you tired?” he said suddenly. “You look pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
A swift intuition flashed over him.
“I don’t think,” he observed deliberately, “that you have had any
dinner!”
Miss Trelane flushed--exquisitely.
The remembrance of the supper of bread and butter, which pride had made
her forego, was haunting her. She had eaten nothing since tea at five
o’clock.
She raised her head haughtily, as a woman of the world would have
done, and caught a look on her companion’s face that made her suddenly
childlike again.
“I--I didn’t wait,” she stammered.
Her companion stopped at a vacant table, and put her into a chair.
“Now that I think of it, I am hungry myself,” he observed, signaling to
a waiter, and then ordering sandwiches and some liquor.
He sat looking at this waif from some other world as she ate the
sandwiches; the fiery cherry brandy made her less pale, the depths of
her strange eyes less somber. His first theory had been right: she
was very young. But the beautiful face was prophetic of tragedy and
passion; the scarlet lips cynical. She looked at him, raising slow
white lids, till he seemed to see unfathomable depths in her clear
green eyes.
“Do you know you are the first person who has ever been kind to me in
all my life?” she said. “Tell me, why are you kind?”
There was in her voice only calm inquiry, nothing to tell him that this
strange, pale girl was filled with passionate gratitude.
“I’m not kind; it is a pleasure to sit and talk to you. You forget
that.” His manner was to the girl what it would have been to a duchess.
“But it’s getting late, and I’m going to take you home.”
He raised his eyebrows a little as he sat by her in a hansom and heard
her give the man an address in Colbourne Square; it was not exactly a
haunt of poverty, and this girl was nearly out at elbows.
“You live there with your mother?” he said involuntarily.
She laughed with a curious mockery of mirth.
“Yes, but you don’t know who I am, and I won’t tell you.”
“Don’t you want to know who I am?” he asked, somewhat piqued. “My
name----”
“Don’t tell me!” stopping him with a quick coldness. “I don’t want to
know. You have been kind to me--I’ll remember you by that best. No one
else ever was.”
“I wonder,” he said abruptly, “if I will ever see you again.”
“Do you wish to?”
He nodded, and with a sudden flash of her spirit Ismay Trelane
determined to see him again if she had to tramp the world for a sight
of his face.
“You won’t quite forget me, though you won’t let me tell you my name,”
he said more earnestly than he knew, for her strange beauty, her
strange manner, had gone a little to his head.
Ismay turned to him as the hansom stopped at her mother’s door, and
looked once more at his strong, sweet face and broad shoulders.
“No! I will not forget you,” she said, with her delicate smile that was
so much older than her manner. “And when I meet you again--remember,
you must be glad to see me.”
“Shall I knock for you?” he asked, helping her out.
“Knock? Oh, no!” Last night she would have been afraid to go out
secretly and come back openly with an utter stranger, but now there
was a lightness in her dancing blood that made her utterly indifferent
as to what reception she would get from her mother. The light from
the street-lamps fell on her face as she put her hand in his with a
gesture of dismissal, not learned, assuredly, at Mrs. Barlow’s school.
But at the clasp of his strong fingers she thrilled, and knew the world
would end for her before she forgot him.
She drew a long, shivering breath as she watched him drive away.
“I wish,” she thought, with a sudden vain longing, “that I had let him
tell me his name! But I will find him again some day, as sure as he and
I live in this world.”
She little knew how she would find him--nor what terror would make her
almost forget him first--as she calmly rang at her mother’s door-bell.
CHAPTER II.
“A PENNILESS ADVENTURESS.”
Lord Abbotsford stood in front of the fire and broke what had been a
long silence. He was tall and rather good-looking; years younger than
the woman who sat opposite him, her haggard face hidden in her hands.
But his voice was rough to brutality as he spoke.
“You knew I should have to marry some day. I can’t see why you are
making such a fuss.”
Mrs. Trelane quivered with anger. She had known it, but of late it had
been herself whom she had thought of as Lady Abbotsford. After all, why
not? She was as well born as he, and there was nothing--that Abbotsford
knew--against her. She took her hands from her eyes and looked at him.
“Be civil, it can’t hurt you,” she said coldly.
“Well, you did know it, Helen!” But his eyes fell shiftingly, though
he could not know the reason for the despair in hers. Helen Trelane
was like a gambler who had put his all on one throw and seen it swept
off the board. Her last few hundred pounds of capital had gone in the
struggle to be always well dressed and to have a good dinner always for
Lord Abbotsford. She had played not for his love, but for his coronet.
And to-night his news had cut the very ground from under her feet.
It was for this that she had forsaken the cheerful companions who
amused her; to have this dissipated boy stand up and tell her roundly
that he was going to be married, and would in future dispense with the
pleasure of her acquaintance.
And this to her, who had been born à la Marchant!
But the good blood in her veins did not let her forget that she was
penniless and ruined, and that she must drive a bargain with Abbotsford
or starve.
She rose from her low chair and looked at him, a beautiful woman still,
and young.
“Did you mean to marry a month ago, when you were ready to sell your
love to kiss my hand?” she said slowly, cuttingly. “You were ready
enough to come here to eat my bread; but it appears I am not fit to
eat yours in return. Your wife, Lord Abbotsford, has my sympathy. She
will marry a bad-tempered, miserly boy, who thinks of nothing but
his own pleasure. Your presents”--she tore some rings off and threw
them on a brass table, where they rang loud as they fell--“take them!
And go--leave my house. You have told me to my face that I am an
adventuress. I tell you that I am a penniless one, and that even so I
would rather be myself than you.”
She was magnificent as she faced him, and he stammered when he would
have spoken.
He might have said words that would have softened her, might only
have hurried the steps of the Nemesis at his heels, but he lost his
chance. The door of the small scented room opened quickly, and Ismay,
in her shabby clothes, the air still fresh on her cheeks, stood on the
threshold.
Mrs. Trelane stood turned to stone.
“Ismay!” she spoke at last. “What brings you here?”
“I forgot. I thought you were alone!” the girl said quietly. She had
only a contemptuous glance for Abbotsford, that contrasted him with the
man she had just left.
Her mother looked at her as she stood in the doorway; then at
Abbotsford, who was utterly astonished.
“You hear,” she said, “this is my daughter. You did not know I had one?
Well, I have, and I let her be humiliated that I might have money--for
other things.”
She walked over and put her arms round the girl, forgetting for the
moment how unwelcome she was in her fresh youth and beauty.
“Go,” she said, over her shoulder; “leave us! We can starve together
without you and your wife.”
Abbotsford walked by them without a word, but for once in his ill-spent
life he felt small.
But the door had barely closed behind him before Mrs. Trelane drew away
from her daughter, and stood looking at her; the anger Abbotsford had
roused turned on the girl.
“What madness is this?” she asked hardly. “Had you no sense that you
must come in here? And do you know what your freak means to me? If we
starve you have yourself to blame!”
She threw herself into a chair, her nerves and temper thoroughly out of
hand. And then started at the sound in her own child’s voice.
“Oh, no, we sha’n’t!” said the girl, with a cynical smile on her red
lips that were not like Mrs. Trelane’s. “You are too clever, and
so”--deliberately--“am I! You forget I’m not a child any longer.”
Mrs. Trelane looked up, and met eyes which were somehow those of an
equal, another woman, and spoke truthfully in her raging disappointment.
“That man who went out--he’s going to be married. And I, like a fool,
thought he meant to marry me!”
“Can’t you get something out of him?”
“I meant to marry him, I tell you”--roughly. “Those things are all he
ever gave me.” She pointed to the cast-off rings on the Moorish table.
“What do you mean about starving?” Ismay asked. “Haven’t you any money?
Have you”--deliberately--“spent it all on him?”--with a nod toward the
door by which Lord Abbotsford had departed.
Mrs. Trelane moaned.
“I thought it wouldn’t matter. I thought he meant to marry me,” she
said faintly. “That was why I kept you out of the way; I didn’t want
him to know how old I was till it was all settled. And now”--she flung
her hands out angrily--“I will pay him for it all if I kill him!”
“You can sell these things,” Ismay said quickly, looking round her at
the costly furniture, the many ornaments.
“There is a bill of sale on them already,” the woman said dryly, and
speaking perfectly openly, as if to another woman of her own age and
not to her daughter. It was a relief to speak out; she forgot how
she had treated the girl since her return, how she had neglected her
for the prospect of a rich marriage. “But I’ll get something out of
Abbotsford somehow, even if I have to call it a loan,” she added.
“I wouldn’t ever speak to him again,” Ismay remarked scornfully. “And
why didn’t you bring me home from school long ago, if you’d no money?”
“Because”--with absolute truth--“I didn’t want a grown-up girl about.”
For a moment the two pairs of eyes met; then the girl shrugged her
shoulders.
“Well, I’m here, and I’ll have to stay,” she retorted. “As for Lord
Abbotsford, you’re well rid of him. But I suppose you don’t think so.
Can I take this candle? There’s no light up-stairs, and I want to go to
bed.”
Mrs. Trelane was utterly taken aback by the matter-of-fact conclusion.
Somehow Ismay seemed years older to-night, and she had no clue to what
had worked the miracle. She pushed a candlestick over to her without
answering, and not a word did the girl breathe of where and how she had
spent her evening.
CHAPTER III.
THE ROSE-COLORED ROOM.
“Look.” Mrs. Trelane’s face was radiant as she threw a note across the
luncheon-table to Ismay the next day. It was from Lord Abbotsford.
“Look, he wants to see me this afternoon. He’s ill, can’t come out, and
he’s sent me this latch-key so that I can go in without his man seeing
me. He must be going to do something for me.”
“Will you go? I wouldn’t,” Ismay said slowly. She was weary from a
stormy morning; sickened by the abuse of the two maid servants who had
smelled disaster and departed after vainly demanding their wages.
“Go! What else should I do?” Mrs. Trelane seized the note again and
rose to leave the room. “Three o’clock, he says, and it’s two now. I’ll
go and dress.”