“Yes, worse,” repeated Susan, swallowing hard. “You see, it’s all my own fault — at least, not quite all. But the worst part is due to — to — my own folly and impulsiveness. Oh, Georgy!” She broke into a heartrending wail, and buried her face on her friend’s shoulder. “It’s your brother Hugh — the Beau — whom I fear may come out here again! He nearly caught me while — while I was waiting outside on the terrace!” She raised her head slightly, and finished, in a choking voice, “I — I love him, Georgy, and — and I never want to see him again! You must help me — please — help me to hide away from him! For I shall die — die of shame, I tell you — if — if he marries me, now!”
BEAU EVERSLEY AMUSES HIMSELF
Beau Eversley slept late on the following morning, and was awakened by his man bringing in the morning chocolate and some letters.
“This was delivered earlier by hand, sir,” he said, indicating the top one, “but I did not care to disturb you.”
Eversley idly turned the letter over in his hand, then, failing to recognize the handwriting, tossed it aside in favour of the rest of his correspondence. There being nothing of any particular interest, he eventually picked up the discarded letter, and broke the seal.
He looked for the address, but saw there was none. His curiosity piqued, he read the brief lines quickly, a frown gathering on his. face as he did so.
I do not know how Best to say this, so Pray forgive me if I should unwittingly give Offence. There is no need of waiting Today on Mrs. Fyfield, for I shall not be present. I have decided to leave London for a Time, and I think it Best if you and I should never meet again.
“It was most Kind in you, dear Sir” — here there was a watery blot on the paper — “to agree to my foolish Deception, and I am deeply Grateful. But there is no longer any Purpose in continuing it; and I beg that you will speedily and for ever Forget one who has no name with which to sign this letter other than —
S.
The words “for ever” had been underlined, and his eye persisted in dwelling on them even after he had read the letter twice, and had thoroughly mastered its contents.
He leapt out of bed, jerked his dressing gown about his shoulders, and strode over to the windows. For a time he stood gazing down abstractedly into the street, heedless of his man moving round the room laying out his garments.
So this was to be the end of the curious affair — an affair which had looked like ending in matrimony. No doubt about it, he reflected; if he had gone today to see Mrs. Fyfield’s lawyer, it would have been to make a formal application for Susan’s hand. He could see no other way. A much more brutal man than himself might have found it difficult to extricate himself from the net which chance had cast about him. It could not be done without causing further suffering to the girl; and she had suffered too much already.
He frowned suddenly. How great was the sacrifice he had been prepared to make for her sake? Would he have been ready to marry her whatever her parentage might be? He paused for a moment in his reflections, brought up short by the question. Something, after all, was owing to his family. An Eversley must marry his own kind.
No matter: the question need no longer vex him. Susan had gone away for a while, a wise course doubtless suggested by Mrs. Fyfield, who was not nearly such a henwitted female as she appeared to be. When the girl eventually returned, it was certain that she would view everything in a different light. At seventeen, he mused with a smile, even a few days could make a difference to one’s outlook. A few weeks must succeed both in reconciling her to a new identity and in helping her to forget the schoolgirl fancy which had fixed itself on Beau Eversley. Who could tell? Perhaps while she was away she might even meet some eligible young man who could teach her the joy of sharing a more substantial love.
A brief picture of her flashed before his mind’s eye — the piquant, childlike face framed in dark curls, the dreamy eyes, soft and deep. Suddenly he crushed the letter in his hand. She had been more fortunate than she knew in escaping marriage to her Beau ideal. Pedestals were notoriously precarious perches for such as he. There had been something about the child, some quality of freshness and naïveté, which had drawn out an answering protectiveness in him. She was the first female ever to inspire such feelings — except, of course, for his sisters. That was it, he told himself; he thought of Susan as a sister.
He thrust the crumpled note into the pocket of his dressing gown, and turned abruptly from the window. What should he do today? He felt the need of something to give his thoughts a new direction. What better than to resume the pursuit of Maria McCann?
He was not at all sure that she would be willing to receive him, but no trace of this appeared in his manner when he handed a card to the footman who answered her door.
He was invited to enter, and left cooling his heels for almost twenty minutes in a small, pleasant parlour on the ground floor. After consulting his watch for the third time, he was about to leave when he heard a quiet footstep outside the room. A moment later, Maria McCann entered.
She came towards him with a soft swish of skirts. Her gown was of pale pink muslin, with narrow stripes of grey, and she wore a pink ribbon threaded through her glossy black hair. Even in the unkind morning light which streamed through the windows, today she could have passed for six and twenty. It flashed across his mind that in reality she must be some ten years or so older — he would have taken his oath that her dark hair owed something to art. At once, he was annoyed with himself for allowing such thoughts to intrude at a moment when he was bent on once more insinuating himself into the lady’s good graces.
“I was just about to leave,” he said, carelessly, bowing over her hand. “I thought perhaps you were too occupied to see me today — or else that you did not wish to do so.”
“Now why should you be after thinking that?” She put her head on one side, and surveyed him from under her long, black lashes.
“You know very well why,” he replied, changing his tone. “Is it too soon to hope for your forgiveness? I came to see if I might by any means persuade you to drive with me for a while in the Park.”
“Did you now? And what means had you in mind to make use of, I wonder?”
He hesitated for only a second, then drew her to him.
“Why, this means, my pretty.”
His mouth came down on hers. She yielded for a brief moment, then pushed him playfully away.
“Ach, away with you, now!” The Irish lilt was very pronounced. “Sure, and it’s myself should be sending you about your business, for divil a bit of good you are to any woman, and yourself such a shocking flirt. And what have you done, pray, with that little colleen who was with you yesterday morning, looking at you with her heart in her eyes, like the sweet innocent she was?”
“I did not come here to speak of her,” he answered, with restraint in his manner.
“That I’ll be bound! But some speaking there must be, whether you like it or not, for I’ll not have you for escort if she is to be looking on and suffering agonies of jealousy, poor child!”
“My actions are really no concern of Miss — er — of the young lady in question.” The height of his tone had increased noticeably. “But, if you must know, she is out of Town at present.”
“And so you come to me?” Her lively eyes teased him.
“I see you choose to amuse yourself at my expense,” he said, relaxing a little. “I suppose it is no more than I deserve for forgetting my appointment with you yesterday. As I told you then, this young lady means nothing to me.”
She glanced at him shrewdly.
“Are you quite sure you do not protest too much?” He frowned and looked away; for a second he made no answer.
Her mood changed suddenly. “Well, then, I’ll surely forgive you, since it’s a beautiful day, and I feel above all things in the mood for a drive in the Park. I’ll away to fetch my bonnet, and then I’ll be with you before you can turn around.” At the door, she paused, “What horses are you driving —
the greys or the chestnuts?”
“The greys.”
“Then I’ll take them in hand for a spell. You once promised me I might — remember?”
He bowed. “Can I ever forget anything you have said to me?”
“Ah, away with you!” she countered, with a sweep of her arm that eloquently expressed disbelief. “Sure, an’ you’ve kissed the Blarney stone!”
When she returned, she had donned a pretty pick bonnet trimmed with grey feathers. She peeped at him so roguishly from under its brim, that his spirits, which had become unaccountably low once she had left him alone, lifted again.
The Park was crowded, not only with vehicles, but with people strolling. On such a lovely day, all fashionable London seemed to have turned out to take the air. Glances of curiosity and sometimes envy were thrown at the pair in the curricle.
“I see Beau Eversley’s got the McCann in tow again,” remarked a friend who was strolling with Peter Radley, as the equipage swept past them. “I thought he’d dropped her, and I hoped there might be a chance for someone else.”
“There are quite a few in the running,” replied Radley, with a shrug. “Whenever I happen to meet the lady, she seems to have a different escort. I collect she never goes out with the same man twice.”
“With the exception of Eversley. What is there about him that draws on all the women — even an experienced Cyprian like the McCann must be?”
“God knows — you’d need a female to answer that question for you. But I fancy from the way she’s shaping that the McCann means to go to the highest bidder; so Hugh’s personal charm is nothing to the purpose.”
She was driving the greys now, with light hands that yet could hold the high-bred animals in check.
“Excellent!” approved the Beau. “I see you’ve been well taught. Do you keep an equipage of your own in Ireland?”
She nodded, keeping her eyes on the track ahead. “I’ve a phaeton. And sometimes I join the Hunt. I’ve been riding ever since I can remember — I love it. But it was my husband who taught me to handle a pair.”
“Your husband?”
She bit her lip, and for a moment her attention wandered. It was long enough for the spirited horses to feel the lack of guidance: they swerved suddenly.
“Careful!”
His hands came firmly down over hers, and he drew the horses to a standstill.
“Do you wish to continue?” he asked, quietly.
She shook her head. “No, I have lost patience, now. You drive.”
They changed places, and for a time continued in silence.
“I did not know you were married,” he said, at last, with some constraint in his manner.
“You did not need to know. I was but a short while a wife, and have been long a widow.”
A look of relief crossed his face. It was not his way to dally with married women, even those of the McCann variety.
“Was your late husband also an actor?” he asked presently, in a casual tone. She did not answer for a moment; and, when she did, he saw that she disliked the question.
“No, he was not. But the past is done, and I’ll not be talking of it now. I must be at the playhouse tonight, so you’d best take me home.”
“May I see you again?”
“To be sure,” she answered, carelessly.
“When? Tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “I am engaged for tomorrow.”
“Then the next day?”
“Perhaps.”
“What use if perhaps? Give me leave to meet you from the playhouse, and take you somewhere for supper.”
“And where would you take me?”
“To my own house, for preference,” he replied, quickly. “I have an excellent chef in my service — I’ll wager you won’t dine better anywhere.”
She nodded. “And afterwards?”
He shot her a quick, sidelong glance from his keen hazel eyes.
“Who knows?” he said, softly.
“I do — I know.” Her voice was emphatic. “Tell me, now, sir, how long have you played this game of love and leave?”
“For ever — till I met you,” he replied, smiling.
“Away wi’ ye! I am nothing — no more than the others — and you know it well, in your heart of hearts. One day you will meet someone who will truly matter to you.”
“You may be right,” he admitted, with a careless shrug. “But until that day comes? —”
He looked a question.
“You may be my escort — no more, mind. As for snug little suppers at your house—” She shook her head.
He stared at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed softly.
“Upon my word, you are the most extraordinary female!”
“Why?” She gave him a straight look. “Did you suppose that I was hanging out for a protector? Just because I am an actress, is that any reason to think me a — a lightskirt?”
“Phew!” he exclaimed, taken aback. “You don’t mince your words, do you?”
“That I do not. But you must take me as you find me, or leave me alone.”
“I’ll take you,” he said, with a smile.
“It will not be for long,” she said. “My theatrical engagements here will be finished at the end of this month, and then I’ll be away again to my own country.”
“So soon? But you only arrived here quite recently — sturdy it was scarce worth your while to come to London for so short a spell?”
“I did not come only for my bookings at the playhouse. There was another reason.”
He raised his brows, inviting an explanation.
“A private reason,” she said, firmly. “But — it has come to nothing, and I may as well return.”
“You don’t wish to confide in me? Mayhap I could be of assistance — who knows?”
She shook her head, and deliberately changed the subject.
During the ensuing weeks, he saw a great deal of Maria McCann; but he quickly realized that there was no prospect of making her his mistress. It was a novel experience to one whom most women found irresistible. It might have been supposed that he would drop her, and try his luck in a more hopeful quarter. Oddly enough, he continued to seek her out, and for the moment showed no particular inclination for the company of any other female. The truth was that for the first time in his life he had found it possible to be on terms of platonic friendship with a woman, without any risk of emotional complications. The experience provided a relaxing interlude. Maria was a lively, intelligent companion who stimulated his mind; and as she always looked decorative, it exactly suited his cynical turn of humour to sport her on his arm under the envious glances of other men who fancied that he had succeeded where they had failed.
Besides, he needed something to divert his thoughts. At odd moments, they had an unsettling trick of turning to Susan. Where was she, and how was she faring? Possibly by now she had learnt her true identity, and become reconciled to it, whatever it might be. Poor child, she had paid a high price for her foolish hoax, and one which could not have been foreseen. Perhaps the experience would have made her less impetuous for the future. He wondered a trifle wistfully if this might not rob her of some of her charm; and then told himself impatiently that it was no concern of his.
He had been musing in this way one day when his man announced a visitor.
“A Mrs. Fyfield, sir. Shall I admit her?”
Beau Eversley tossed aside the newspaper he had been trying to read. His face betrayed his sudden interest.
“By all means,” he said, starting to his feet. “Is Mrs. Fyfield alone?”
“Except for her maid, sir. Shall I show the lady in here?”
Hugh nodded, concealing an irrational feeling of disappointment. A moment later, Mrs. Fyfield entered the room. He asked her to be seated, and began the usual polite inquiries about her health, but she quickly broke into his civilities with a flustered note in her voice.
“Oh, you are very kind, Mr. Eversley! I do trus
t you will forgive my intruding on you in this way, but I do not quite know what should be done; and I thought perhaps you ought to be consulted, as, after all, you are an interested party.”
Beau Eversley knitted his brows. “Forgive me, but I do not quite—”
“Oh dear! How foolish I am! I should have informed you at once that I am come about my — about Susan. Did she write you, sir? She told me that she meant to do so.”
She looked anxiously at him, and he nodded. A gleam of hope came to her eyes.
“Oh, then, perhaps you know — can you tell me, Mr. Eversley, where Susan has gone?”
For a moment, he stared.
“Can I tell you — but do you mean to say, ma’am, that you yourself do not know?”
She shook her head despondently. “No. I have no notion where she has been since she left my house more than a fortnight ago.”
A WOMAN CALLED POLLY
“No notion—” He broke off, knitting his brows. “But this is absurd! Do you mean to tell me that Miss F — that — er — Susan — ran away?”
Mrs. Fyfield nodded unhappily. “Exactly so! And I see that you do not know any more about where she has gone than I do myself. So there’s no use in plaguing you with questions. Only I did hope, when she mentioned having written to you, that she might have divulged her plans to you. However, I see it isn’t so, and now I just do not know what to do. For she’s such a wild, impetuous girl, Mr. Eversley; and there’s no saying what starts she may be getting up to, at this very minute, while we are sitting here talking!”
“I’m not so sure of that,” he replied, soothingly. “I think it likely that certain of her recent experiences may have taught her the danger of acting on impulse. But suppose you tell me all about it from the beginning.”
“Well, of course you’ll recall that distressing scene when I had to confess that Susan was not my niece — after you’d left us, I persuaded her to go and lie down in her room. Sometimes a woman needs a shoulder to cry on, and other times she does better alone; and I judged this was one of the times when Susan needed to be alone for a while. Well, we went up to her at intervals, both my daughter and myself; but she’d locked her door, and only told us to go away and not bother her. When it was time for dinner, we both tried to tempt her downstairs without making the least headway, so in the end I had the housekeeper carry up a tray to her room. Susan took it in, but she doesn’t seem to have eaten much from it — only a nibble here and there.”
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 11
