Читать книгу The Counterstroke - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 5

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MISS FRANCINE ELLIOTT, only daughter of Colonel Vernon Elliott, V.C., C.B., sat one afternoon in the library of her father's house in Berkeley Square, giving tea to her cousin and intimate friend, Captain Lethby, of the 1st Dragoon Guards.

Miss Elliott was twenty-four years of age, and a girl of much parts and character. She managed unaided her father's household, her mother having died in her infancy; she was president of a woman's franchise society, secretary to an important private charitable institution, and treasurer to one of the largest working girls' clubs in London. She had already painted two pictures which had been hung in the Royal Academy; she possessed an exceedingly sweet contralto voice, and for four years past had sung at almost every charitable concert organized in the city. She was a clever conversationalist, and much in demand for four o'clocks and dinner parties; she loved dancing above all other pleasures, and during the five seasons since she had been "out" had contrived to be present and enjoy herself at almost every fashionable ball given by society's best set.

Naturally she was a very busy young woman indeed, who had very little spare time ever on her hands, but in spite of her manifold duties, and in spite of her popularity and the adulation she received in consequence, she remained an unspoiled and unassuming girl, remarkable chiefly for a sweet and approachable demeanour, and a manner whose charm was universally admitted, and which converted her most distant acquaintances into admiring friends.

She was rather tall; slight, but not thin; she had a firm but gliding gait, an unimaginably graceful carriage. Her eyes were large and blue as the sea; they looked at one directly, straight and true. Her chin was prominent but softly rounded; her faintly aquiline nose was beautifully shaped, and its curved and quivering nostrils strangely matched the sensitive mouth beneath. She seemed to exhale kindness and distinction. To see her was to wish to know her.

Captain Lethby had been in love with his cousin for quite six years, but after two refusals of his suit he had gradually settled into the assured position of her chum and closest friend. He had not abandoned all hope of winning her, but his addresses were never in evidence, and in consequence he had enjoyed for two years the privilege of her fullest confidence, and was usually also her appointed escort. He found in such constant companionship a solace for his long-repressed desires, and was therefore satisfied to wait. He was a frank and generous-hearted gentleman, not good-looking, but he looked good, and in spite of rather blunt and off-hand manners was the best-liked officer in his regiment. It is true that he spent his money freely, and that he had plenty to spend, being an only son and heir to a baronetcy and uninvolved estates, two advantages alone sufficient to win for almost any man a certain popularity.

His open face at present wore an expression of embarrassment, for Miss Elliott was attentively regarding him, awaiting his reply to a question he appeared to find a difficulty in answering.

"Lord Francis Cressingham is a friend of yours, surely?" she repeated. "He used to be, I know," added the girl.

Captain Lethby fenced with her. "Oh, ah, well, of course, he used to be one of us, you know."

"But you do not like him? Out with it, Jack; you have no secrets from me, have you?" with an arch smile.

Captain Lethby fidgeted in his chair. "Well, er, the fact is, Francine, I like him well enough. It's a question of respect. You see, he got badly mixed up in that Russian affair, and although he resigned at once, he hasn't attempted to give out anything like a proper explanation. Our fellows say there was more in it than mere carelessness; and then, he's been acting so queerly ever since. Never goes anywhere except to the house of that foreign Countess-what's-her-name. And even when one meets him there he keeps out of one's road. Funny business altogether. May I smoke?"

"Why, yes, of course. But what do you think of it yourself?"

Captain Lethby puffed out three long smoke wreaths. "Hum, er—well. Blessed if I know what to think. No more tea, thanks. What makes you so keen about him, Francine?"

The girl gave a queer little smile. "You might offer me a cigarette, Jack. Thanks." As she lit the cigarette she gave a contented sigh and remarked: "I was there myself last night."

"Where?"

"At the Countess of Hobenstein's."

"The deuce! Beg pardon, Francine, but what under heaven took you there?"

"A hansom."

"But, er, you know—er, they say the Queen refused to receive her."

"Do they? I don't believe it. There was a big crowd there, and all good people. I like her, Jack."

"Well, wonders will never cease; I didn't think she'd be your sort."

"Why not?" imperiously. "She is the sweetest woman I have met for years, and pardon me, Jack, but although all London is discussing her, you are the first person who has said a word to me of her disparagingly."

"I beg your pardon," retorted the Captain; "I only said I didn't think she was your sort."

Francine laughed merrily. "You did not mean that to be uncomplimentary, did you, Jack?"

The Captain did not catch the point. "Did you meet Cressingham there?" he asked.

"I saw him at a distance. He was looking far from well."

Lethby regarded the girl with jealous eyes. "You seem to take a lot of interest in him," he remarked.

"He was once a friend of mine. Do you know, Jack, he is the only man who ever——" she hesitated, blushing faintly and casting down her eyes.

"Who ever what?"

"Nothing."

"Francine!"

"Yes, Jack."

"You are blushing; you have a secret."

"Not from you, Jack; I meant to tell you some day."

"Then tell me now."

"Oh, how stern you look! Really, I always meant to tell you—but somehow I have never had an opportunity. There, don't look at me; turn away your head—so. You see, it was a little serious at first——"

"Francine!"

"Ah, please not to look, or I can't tell you. It was at Lady Martin's ball. But it isn't serious now, Jack. I've got over it. It was ever so long back, quite six months ago, my salad days in fact; every one has salad days, haven't they?"

"Go on," said Lethby, staring morosely at the wall.

"He was going next day to St. Petersburg. We had a waltz together; then he took me to the library, and, and—he kissed me, Jack."

"Ah! and you?" very sternly.

"I, I rather liked it. He asked me to be his wife."

"Francine, you love him!"

The girl's lips trembled. "N—no, Jack, not now."

"The infernal cad!" growled Captain Lethby.

"You are wrong," cried the girl. "I, I refused him. I have no right to complain."

"Tell that to the Marines!" cried the Captain rudely, getting noisily to his feet as he spoke. But at that moment a servant tapped at the door and entered, with the announcement: "The Countess of Hobenstein."

"I forgot to tell you she was coming; please stay, Jack," said Miss Elliott.

"And Lord Francis Cressingham," continued the footman pompously.

On mention of the second name, Miss Elliott turned quite pale and rose abruptly. "How do you do?" she said, holding out her hand to the lady who was pausing on the threshold. Then: "So glad you came; allow me to present—The Countess of Hobenstein—Captain Lethby. Won't you sit here. Countess? How d'ye do, Lord Francis! I fancy you gentlemen are acquainted. James, some fresh tea, please—and wine, or would you prefer spirit, Lord Francis?"

"No, thanks, a cup of tea, if I may."

Lord Francis Cressingham's handsome and determined face was not seen to advantage just then; he looked a little haggard and careworn, and appeared to be nervously uneasy, for his eye-glass defied his efforts to adjust it firmly in its place. Captain Lethby favoured him with the coldest of nods, and turned to observe the Countess.

Katherin Viyella, Countess of Hobenstein, was a woman of perhaps six-and-thirty years of age, but she was so magically preserved, and possessed of such excessive physical vitality, that she seemed at the utmost twenty-nine.

She was somewhat above the average height and moulded languorously, the lithe and fascinating curves of her generously ample figure defying the suspicion of art in construction, although her gown was of itself a veritable artistic triumph. Beneath a cloak, which presently she cast carelessly aside, she wore a clinging, seamless robe of fine grey lawn that fitted her with glove-like closeness, its simplicity daring to excess.

Her face, less beautiful than bewitchingly attractive, was the face of an enchantress. Its only strictly perfect feature was the nose, which was of classic straightness. Her forehead was broad and high, draped with a heavy fringe of dark-brown hair, parted sharply to one side. Her teeth and full red-lipped mouth were expressive and alluring, but seemed strangely at odds with her low-lidded Eastern eyes, which set irregularly under black arched brows were the home of a speaking spirit that lurked in their red-brown depths, a spirit endowed with such a power of sensuous suggestion that Madame's shortest glance was able to convey a subtle and intoxicating challenge.

Captain Lethby suffered the momentary fire of her regard, and surrendered at discretion.

"Ah," she murmured softly, her vowels marked with a quaint and foreign roundness of enunciation, "I have wished to meet you, Captain Lethby."

She had never heard of him before, but it was one of her principles to flatter all prospective victims, and she marked a fresh victim here. "Won't you come and speak with me?"

The Captain, who had been about to decamp, deposited himself at her side without hesitation, and Miss Elliott found herself alone with Cressingham. Lord Francis was rendered uncomfortable at her propinquity, but, a man of resource, he contrived to make the conversation for some moments general. After a while, however, it languished in spite of him, and he fell to watching the Countess, while Miss Elliott busied herself with the tea.

"You have not called since your return—until to-day," she murmured in a low voice presently.

He started, and changed colour. "No—I have been very busy."

"Indeed! Sugar, Countess?"

"If you please, my dear—may I call you 'my dear'? Do you know, I want to be great friends with you, Miss Elliott."

"That is sweet of you, Countess. Lord Francis, will you——ah, thanks."

The Countess smiled bewitchingly. "I want to carry you off with me to-night. I have a box at St. James'. Please say that I may."

"Unhappily I cannot this evening, Countess. I have to sing at a concert."

"Then won't you take me with you? I should so love to hear you sing."

Miss Elliott blushed with pleasure. "If you would care really. It is the Factory Girls and Sempstresses' Club. Rather a poor place, you know."

"I was a poor girl once myself. Thank you so much, dear; it will be a great pleasure to me."

"May I go too?" asked Captain Lethby suddenly.

"Why not?" said Miss Elliott; "you know you are always welcome there, Jack. Let me see, what was the amount of your last subscription? Ten pounds, I think."

"Nonsense," cried the Captain laughingly, "more like ten pence: but your concerts are good fun sometimes."

"And you, mon ami," said the Countess, turning languidly to Cressingham, "you will come with us?"

"Thank you, no. I have an engagement."

He spoke so sharply that all stared at him. The Countess smiled in his face. "Postpone it, my Lord, I wish you to come."

"No."

"To please me,"—with a caressing glance.

The man turned pale. "I cannot."

The Countess abruptly stood up, her dark eyes gleaming, and with a quick movement drew her cloak about her. "Well, for the present, au revoir, ma chére—no, do not trouble. At what time shall I call for you, or will you call for me?"

"I shall call for you—shall we say at nine?" replied Miss Elliott.

"An admirable hour. I shall expect you."

She moved across the floor with an indescribable half-floating half-surging gait, her evident agitation filling the room with a vague intangible essence of emotion. When passing Cressingham, a glove fell from her hand.

Captain Lethby started forward, but Lord Francis picked it up. "Your glove, Countess," he said, following her to the door.

She slightly turned her head, and muttered in a low, fierce whisper: "You dare to stay!" smiled, and was gone. Cressingham hesitated, hat in hand, as if uncertain what to do.

Miss Elliott, whose quick ears had caught the Countess' strange words, watched him searchingly, a satirical smile just curling her lips. He caught the look, and his pallor deepened. "I should like another cup of tea," he said.

Captain Lethby got to his feet. "And I must be going. Au revoir, Francine."

"Good-bye, Jack, be here not later than 8.30. Certainly, Lord Francis, one can see that you need it; you are awfully pale, have you a headache? Do sit down!"

"Don't bother with the tea, Miss Elliott; it was only an excuse," said Cressingham.

"Then some wine; shall I ring?"

"Please not."

"A cigarette, perhaps?"

"I thank you, no." He sat down upon a chair, holding his cane tightly clasped with both hands.

Miss Elliott toyed with a ring on the third finger of her left hand. A man's signet it was, cut from a single piece of chrysophrase. Unconsciously Cressingham's eyes followed her action, and when he saw the ring he started visibly and cried: "You wear that still, Fran——Miss Elliott."

The girl, smiling composedly, drew the ring from her finger and held it out to him. "I have worn it for the last fortnight, my Lord, hoping for a chance to return it to you. The chance has now arrived."

The man took the ring and weighed it carefully upon his palm, his eyes downcast. "I have no right to ask you to keep it," he murmured.

Miss Elliott laughed merrily. "Really, Lord Francis, you grow quite amusing; do I seem to want it?"

He looked up and caught the challenge in her glance. "No," he replied.

"You spoke just now of an excuse," said Miss Elliott.

"Captain Lethby was here. I wanted to stay—to say something to you."

"Well?"

"It is something impertinent, I don't know how to put it."

"Then leave it unsaid, please. I hate to be out of friends with people. Lord Francis, but I don't think I could suffer an impertinence."

Lord Francis looked excessively uncomfortable. "If only your father were in England," he sighed.

"Oh, it is advice you want to offer me," cried the girl, amused.

"Yes, advice, that is it." He caught eagerly at the word. "Advice, yes, a piece of advice which I would not dare to advance if I had not your welfare deep at heart, Miss Elliott."

His face grew passionately earnest as he spoke, and the girl found herself involuntarily growing earnest too.

"Speak, then," she said.

"It is about that woman,"—he groaned out the words with an effort that was painfully transparent—"who was here just now, the Countess of Hobenstein."

"Ah!" the girl's eyes flashed and she clasped her hands across her knee. "Be careful, Lord Francis. I like 'that woman' as you call her."

The man almost groaned. "For heaven's sake don't allow yourself to like her!" he cried. "She means you harm; yes, Francine, she means you harm."

"Francine!" echoed Miss Elliott springing to her feet; "you have no right to name me so, and less to speak ill of my friends. How dare you say such a thing to me of the Countess—and behind her back?"

Cressingham arose too. "I dare, Miss Elliott, because I, I once"—(he gulped down a breath)—"because I wish to be your friend, and surely it is a friend's part to warn his friend when there is danger. Pardon me one moment. Please let me speak. I know that what I am saying will cut me off from your acquaintance for all time, but say it I must so that at all hazards you be warned. That woman has been my ruin; wantonly and deliberately she wrecked my career, and, not yet satisfied, she now pursues me with professions of affection. Recently she has chosen to regard you as a rival. I think that she is mad, at all events she is dangerous; I believe that she hates you, I know that she will try to do you harm."

"My Lord!" Miss Elliott seemed trying not to laugh.

"Forgive me, Miss Elliott, what I have said must sound to you horribly absurd and egotistical. But for all that I pledge you my honour it is true. I felt that it was my duty to warn you, even though it has only worked me further injury."

"Time will show, my Lord," said Miss Elliott coldly.

"Ay, Time. It is the only friend I have left." The words were spoken with such unaffected sadness that the girl's heart was touched. She moved a step nearer to the man and put her hand timidly upon his arm.

"Lord Francis, if what you say is true, why do you, why do you persevere in an acquaintance which appears to you so evil?"

He looked at her gravely, his eyes full of melancholy. "I cannot answer you, Miss Elliott."

The girl drew herself erect, and surveyed him with a chilling smile. "I think I understand. Lord Francis, I thank you for the warning. Perhaps it was kindly meant. Need I detain you longer?"

"No." Cressingham bowed low. "Good-bye." He stood gazing at her imploringly.

But Miss Elliott, turning her back, crossed the room to ring the bell.

"Good-bye," she replied without looking at him, and with a quick sigh he departed.

When the girl was quite alone she sank into a deep armchair and thought these words aloud: "I suppose I can't be a proper sort of woman, certainly not the sort that one reads about in improving books. I know I ought to feel frightfully indignant, the outraged divinity business, and all that. But I don't a bit. I love Frank Cressingham, and I don't care much who knows it, so long as he does not. As for that woman, she has fascinated him, of course, but I don't believe he loves her. I can feel that she is not a good woman. Any way and whether or not, she is not going to keep him. He is too good for her, and I want him, yes, I want him, want him with all my heart."

Then Miss Elliott went to her bedroom, locked the door, threw herself upon her bed, and wept unreservedly for quite ten minutes.