CHAPTER II
The guests had assembled at length, the dinner was in full swing. Itwould have been hard for any onlooker to have guessed that so muchmisery and heart-burning were there. Sir Charles, smiling, gay,debonair, chatted with his guests as if quite forgetful of the silentwatchers by the railings outside. He might have been a rich man as hesurveyed the tables and ordered the waiters about. True, somebody elsewould eventually pay for the dinner, but that detracted nothing from thehost's enjoyment.
Beatrice had a fixed smile to her face; she also had disguised herfeelings marvellously. There were other girls bidden to that brilliantfeast who envied Miss Darryll and secretly wondered why she was dressedso plainly and simply. On her left hand sat Stephen Richford, a dull,heavy-looking man with a thick lip and a suggestion of shiftiness in hissmall eyes. Altogether he bore a strong resemblance to a prize-fighter.He was quiet and a little moody, as was his wont, so that most ofBeatrice's conversation was directed to her neighbour on the other side,Colonel Berrington, a brilliant soldier not long from the East.
A handsome and distinguished-looking man he was, with melancholy droopto his moustache and the shadow of some old sorrow in his eyes. ColonelBerrington went everywhere and knew everything, but as to his past hesaid nothing. Nobody knew anything about his people and yet everybodytrusted him, indeed no man in the Army had been in receipt of moreconfidences. Perhaps it was his innate feeling, his deep sense ofintrospection. And he knew by a kind of instinct that the beautiful girlby his side was not happy.
"So this is your last free party, Miss Beatrice," he smiled. "It seemsstrange to think that when last we met you were a happy child, andnow----"
"And now an unhappy woman, you were going to suggest," Beatrice replied."Is not that so?"
"Positively, I refuse to have words like that put into my mouth,"Berrington protested. "Looking round the table I can see four girls atleast who are envying you from the bottom of their hearts. Now could anysociety woman be miserable under those circumstances?"
Beatrice flushed a little as she toyed nervously with her bread.Berrington's words were playful enough, but there was a hidden meaningbehind them that Beatrice did not fail to notice. In a way he wastelling her how sorry he was; Richford had been more or less draggedinto a sporting discussion by the lady on the other side, so thatBeatrice and her companion had no fear of being interrupted. Their eyesmet for a moment.
"I don't think they have any great need to be envious," the girl said."Colonel Berrington, I am going to ask what may seem a strange questionunder the circumstances. I am going to make a singular request.Everybody likes and trusts you. I have liked and trusted you since thefirst day I met you. Will you be my friend,--if anything happens when Iwant a friend sorely, will you come to me and help me? I know it issingular----"
"It is not at all singular," Berrington said in a low voice. He shot aquick glance of dislike at Richford's heavy jowl. "One sees things,quiet men like myself always see things. And I understand exactly whatyou mean. If I am in England I will come to you. But I warn you that mytime is fully occupied. All my long leave----"
"But surely you have no work to do whilst you are in England on leave?"
"Indeed I have. I have a quest, a search that never seems to end. Ithought that I had finished it to-night, and singularly enough, in thisvery hotel. I can't go into the matter here with all this chattering mobof people about us, for the story is a sad one. But if ever you shouldchance to meet a grey lady with brown eyes and lovely grey hair----"
"The stranger! How singular!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Why, only to-night inthis very room."
"Ah!" the word came with a gasp almost like pain from Berrington's lips.The laughter and chatter of the dinner-table gave these two a sense ofpersonal isolation. "That is remarkable. I am looking for a grey lady,and I trace her to this hotel--quite by accident, and simply because Iam dining here to-night. And you saw her in this room?"
"I did," Beatrice said eagerly. "She came here by mistake; evidently shehad quite lost herself in this barrack of a place. She was dressed fromhead to foot in silver grey, she had just the eyes and hair that youdescribe. And when I asked her who she was, she merely said that she wasthe Slave of the Bond and vanished."
Colonel Berrington's _entree_ lay neglected on his plate. A deeper tingeof melancholy than usual was on his face. It was some time before hespoke again.
"The Slave of the Bond," he echoed. "How true, how characteristic! Andthat is all you have to tell me. If you see her again----but there, youare never likely to see her again ... I will tell you the story someother time, not before these frivolous creatures here. It is a sadstory; to a great extent, it reminds me of your own, Miss Beatrice."
"Is mine a sad story?" Beatrice smiled and blushed. "In what way is itsad, do you think?"
"Well, we need not go into details here," Berrington replied. "You see,Mark Ventmore is an old friend of mine. I knew his father intimately. Itwas only at Easter that we met in Rome, and, as you say, people are sogood as to regard me as worthy of confidence. Beatrice, is it too late?"
Berrington asked the question in a fierce, sudden whisper. His leanfingers clasped over the girl's hand. Sir Charles was leaning back inhis chair talking gaily. Nobody seemed to heed the drama that was goingon in their midst. Beatrice's eyes filled with tears.
"It is a great comfort to me to know that I have so good and true afriend," she said with her eyes cast down on her plate. "No, I do notwant any wine. Why does that waiter keep pushing that wine list of hisunder my nose?"
"Then you are quite sure that it is too late?" Berrington asked again.
"My dear friend, it is inevitable," Beatrice replied. "It is a matterof--duty. Look at my father."
Berrington glanced in the direction of Sir Charles, who was bendingtenderly over the very pretty woman on his right hand. Apparently thebaronet had not a single care in the world; his slim hand toyed with aglass of _vintage_ claret. Berrington gave him a quick glance ofcontempt.
"I do not see what Sir Charles has to do with it," he said.
"My father has everything to do with it," Beatrice said. "Does he notlook happy and prosperous! And yet you can never tell. And there was atime when he was so very different. And the mere thought that any actionof mine would bring disgrace upon him----"
Beatrice paused as she felt Berrington's eyes upon her. The expressionof his face showed that she had said enough, and more than enough.
"I quite understand," Berrington said quietly. "You are a hostage tofortune. Honour thy father that _his_ days may be long in the land wheregood dinners abound and tradesmen are confiding. But the shame, theburning shame of it! Here's that confounded waiter again."
Beatrice felt inclined to laugh hysterically at Berrington's suddenchange of tone. The dark-eyed Swiss waiter was bending over the girl'schair again with a supplicating suggestion that she should try a littlewine of some sort. He had a clean list in his hand, and evenBerrington's severest military frown did not suffice to scare him away.
"Ver' excellent wine," he murmured. "A little claret, a liqueur. No. 74is what--will madame kindly look? Madame will look for one littlemoment?"
With an insistence worthy of a better cause, the Swiss placed the cardin Beatrice's hand.
It was a clean card, printed in red and gold, and opposite No. 74 was apencilled note. The girl's eyes gleamed as she saw the writing. Thewords were few but significant. "In the little conservatory beyond thedrawing-room. Soon as possible."
"I shall have to complain about that fellow," Berrington said. "MissBeatrice, are you not well?"
"I am quite well, quite strong and well," Beatrice whispered. "I imploreyou not to attract any attention to me. And the waiter was not to blame.He had a message to deliver to me. You can see how cleverly he has doneit. Look here!"
Beatrice displayed the card with the pencilled words upon it.Berrington's quick intelligence took everything in at a glance.
"Of course that is intended for you," he said. "A n
eat handwriting. Andyet in some way it seems quite familiar to me. Could I possibly haveseen it anywhere before?"
"I should say that it is extremely likely," the girl said. "It is MarkVentmore's own handwriting."
Berrington smiled. He had all a soldier's love of adventure, and hebegan to see a very pretty one here.
"I wrote to him a little over a week ago," Beatrice said rapidly. "If hehad got my letter then and come, goodness knows what would havehappened. I was not quite aware at that hour how close was the shadow ofdisgrace. I expect Mark has found out everything. Probably he has onlyjust arrived and feels that if he does not see me to-night it will betoo late. Colonel Berrington, I must see Mark at once, oh, I _must_."
Nothing could be easier. Beatrice had merely to say that she wassuffering with a dreadful headache, that the atmosphere of the room wasinsupportable, and that she was going to try the purer air of theconservatory beyond the dining-room.
"No, you need not come," Beatrice said as Richford lounged heavily tohis feet. "I do not feel the least in the mood to talk to anybody, noteven you."
The listener's sullen features flushed, and he clenched his hands.Beatrice had never taken the slightest trouble to disguise her dislikefor the man she had promised to marry. In his heart of hearts he hadmade up his mind that she should suffer presently for all theindignities that she had heaped upon his head.
"All right," he said. "I'll come into the drawing-room and wait for you.Keep you from being interrupted, in fact. I know what women's headachesmean."
There was no mistaking the cowardly insinuation, but Berrington saidnothing. Richford could not possibly have seen the signal, and yet heimplied an assignation if his words meant anything at all. It was acruel disappointment, but the girl's face said nothing of her emotions.She passed quietly along till she came to the little conservatory wherepresently she was followed by the Swiss waiter, who had given her thecard with Mark Ventmore's message upon it.
"Madame is not well," he said. "Madame has the dreadful headache. Can Iget anything for Madame? A glass of water, an ice, a cup of coffee,or----"
Beatrice was on the point of declining everything, when she caught theeye of the speaker. Apparently there was some hidden meaning behind hiswords, for she changed her mind.
"No coffee," she said in a voice that was meant for the lounger in thedrawing-room, "but I shall be very glad if you will let me have a cup oftea, strong tea, without milk or sugar."
The waiter bowed and retired. Beatrice sat there with her head back asif utterly worn out, though her heart was beating thick and fast. Shelooked up again presently as a waiter entered leaving the necessarythings on a tray. It was not the same waiter, but a taller, fairer manwho bowed as he held out the silver salver.
"The tea, Madame," he said. "May I be allowed to pour it out for you?Steady!"
The last word was no more than a whisper. Beatrice checked the cry thatcame to her lips.
"Mark," she murmured. "Mark, dear Mark, is it really you?"
The tall waiter smiled as he laid a hand on the girl's tremblingfingers.
"Indeed it is, darling," he said. "For God's sake don't say I have cometoo late!"
The Slave of Silence Page 2
