Читать книгу The Mystery of Fell Castle - Arthur Gask - Страница 5

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BY no stretch of imagination could it have been said that little Christine Fontaine had a happy childhood. She received little petting from her parents, her mother resenting she had arrived to spoil her figure and curtail her goings out for amusement, and her father was never quite convinced that she was really his child.

The two quarrelled incessantly and, often short of money, their bickerings were the more bitter on that account. Really, however, they should have been fairly well off, as Jules Fontaine was a fine musician and in receipt of a good salary as first violinist at the Opera House. Moreover, he had plenty of private pupils. Both he and his wife, however, drank heavily and, added to that, the latter spent every penny she could get hold of on clothes. Wherever they lived tradesmen were continually coming up to dun for money, and the frequent migrations of the Fontaines from one suburb to another were generally due to their wanting to escape from their creditors.

Maida Vale, St. John's Wood, Putney, West Kensington and Finsbury Park, had all had their disgruntled tradesmen, and it was a standing joke with his colleagues at the Opera House for them to tell Jules that someone was waiting outside for him.

"A nasty-looking fellow, Jules," they would grin, "and he's got a blue paper sticking out of his pocket."

Maimie Fontaine had been a singer on the Halls when Jules had married her, but, of third-rate ability, she had never made much headway, with her repertoire of highly suggestive songs being acceptable only at places of poor repute. At one time she had been attractive in her way, but with a coarse, florid kind of prettiness which had faded early.

She always had a lot of men friends and her husband, of a naturally jealous disposition, could never be certain how far she had gone with them. She had been twenty-seven when her baby had been born and always averred angrily that the coming of the child had added quite ten years to her appearance.

With such parents it can be understood Christine did not have a good time. Her mother took little notice of her except to give her plenty of slaps. Her father, however, was never unkind to her, though he was not at all interested in her. Occasionally, under the mellowing influences of plenty of whisky, he would toss her a sixpence or a shilling, but her birthdays were never an occasion of rejoicing and she never had the child-like thrills of looking forward to them.

She was not always well fed, she was badly dressed, and she was sent to the cheapest schools. The landladies of the houses in which her parents had their many apartments were, however, nearly always friendly with her, and it was by no means to be wondered at for, with all her sad upbringing, Christine was an attractive child.

With her good features, her auburn hair, her perfect complexion and beautiful violet eyes she had the promise of being far more than ordinarily good-looking when she grew up, and there was a quiet dignity about her, even as a little child, that warmed the hearts of strangers towards her.

"Never mind, dearie," said a stout, hard-breathing West Kensington landlady one day when Christine had been slapped well and truly by her mother, "Your time will come one day. You'll have plenty of sweethearts when you're a big girl, and they'll make it up to you for everything."

When Christine was ten the Fontaines had a great slice of luck, for an uncle of Jules dying, he came into a legacy of £1,000. It was untold wealth to the hard-up musician and his wife and they moved at once from Finsbury Park to Chelsea, renting a small house there, and engaging a maid.

It was a good move in many ways for Jules and for a time, at any rate, his altered circumstances restored the self-respect of which his drunken habits had robbed him. He found himself now among a more congenial class of people, musicians like himself, artists, writers and sculptors and, wearing a good suit of clothes and pulling himself resolutely together, he was received by them on most friendly terms as a brother in the fine arts. He and his wife were invited out quite a lot and, always willing to bring his violin and of a likeable personality, he became a general favourite with everyone.

To her credit it must be said Mrs. Fontaine tried to turn over a new leaf, too, but the effort was too much for her and after only a few months of boring respectability, she began lapsing into her old ways again.

She took to drinking heavily on the quiet, returned to her usual coarse and ribald style of conversation in public, and started making violent and unblushing advances to any members of the opposite sex who happened to take her fancy. Everyone was most amused but, broad-minded though they were in their moral code, felt very sorry for Jules and, if anything, were more kindly disposed towards him in consequence.

Then the best thing which could have happened did, for Maimie Fontaine died suddenly after only a few days illness, from an acute attack of bronchitis.

Christine was then twelve years of age, a long-legged weedy little thing, with skinny arms but beautiful hands and tapering fingers. In a way she regretted her mother's death, but was happy there would be no more of the dreadful quarrels when it happened both of them had had too much to drink.

In another way it was a good thing, too, Maimie Fontaine had died when she did, for Jules had come right to the end of his thousand pounds and the duns were beginning to gather again. His financial worries made him start drinking again and Christine was always terrified of what he was going to do when he came home after he had had too much.

Fortunately, the little home in Chelsea was now being run by a housekeeper and Christine had someone by her to keep her out of her father's way when he was in what they called "his moods." She now went to a better school, and was better clothed but, of set purpose, made no particular friends among the other girls there, because she knew she would be too ashamed ever to bring them to her poverty-stricken home. Sometimes money was so tight that not only were the housekeeper's wages months in arrears, but also it was difficult to buy the barest necessities of life.

Approaching sixteen Christine was becoming a very beautiful girl and Jules's artist friends began to take notice of her. One of them in particular, Arnold Ransome, a rather dissolute man of good family, in his late forties, became a great admirer of hers. He was well known to have a catholic taste for good looks where the other sex was concerned but, for all that, had no difficulty in obtaining Jules's consent for Christine to sit for him as a model. He paid her generously but, having a good idea how tight money was in the Fontaine household, made it a stipulation of his employing her that she should have the money for herself.

Christine was very grateful to him and soon came to regard him as quite the nicest of her father's friends. He always treated her with the greatest respect for, strangely enough, all inclinations of his baser nature had been swept away by her so apparent unawareness that he was a dangerous employer for her to have.

It was not that Christine was entirely innocent of the happenings of life. On the contrary, she had often heard of the misfortunes which came to young girls, but it never entered into her imagination that by any chance they could come to her. She was not of that kind, she told herself, and, serene in her modesty and self-respect, she had no fear of being alone with any man. She would have laughed if anyone had warned her against Ransome and have probably replied that he was nearly as old as her father, as if that were a perfect guarantee of his being quite respectable.

So her relations with the artist were most happy ones, with Ransome often wondering sadly how such a lovely flower had ever come to blossom in such dreadful surroundings as the Fontaine home.

Then one evening Jules was brought home unconscious, having been knocked down in the street in one of his drunken bouts. He died during the night and a subscription had to be raised among his friends to give him a decent burial. Christine found herself penniless. Not only that, but she was warned she could not sell a stick of the furniture as everything would have to go to the creditors.

With no relations she was at her wits' end to know what to do when Ransome came round to the house.

"You've no plans?" he asked brusquely. "Then what about coming to me as my housekeeper? I'll give you ten shillings a week and extra when I want you as a model."

Tears filled Christine's eyes as she assented gratefully.

"Then get your things together at once," he said—he smiled a grim smile—"before anyone tries to stop you. Go up and pack this instant. The creditors can't claim anything that belongs to you, and I'll be round here with a taxi in a quarter of an hour."

So Christine was installed forthwith in Ransome's flat, and even the lax and careless Bohemian world in which the latter moved was very shocked. Ransome was the last person to have charge of a young girl, and everyone was agreed something should be done to prevent it. Still, he was of a masterful and strong personality, and no one seemed particularly anxious to take the first step. However, a brother artist, bolder than the others, ventured to remonstrate with him and tell him it was not a fair thing for the girl.

"You know what you are, Arnold," he said bluntly, "and it will damn the poor child all her life having lived alone with you."

Ransome did not appear in the least offended, but for all that there was a steely glint in his eyes as he retorted with a grim smile:

"Don't you worry, my friend. The old rogue has turned gaoler for once and little Christine will come to no harm through me. I'm adopting her and have appointed myself her guardian."

The other shook his head.

"But you'll have trouble," he said ominously. "That girl's growing up devilishly good-looking and she'll soon be having all the men after her. You'll have to knock them away with a stick. She'll want a lot of protecting."

"Perhaps so," nodded Ransome coldly, "but I'll give it to her. I promise you she's going to be no light of love for any man. I'll teach her to place a proper value on herself."

His friend still appeared dubious. "But she may turn out to be the very spit of her mother, and remember what a lot of worry Maimie gave poor old Jules. If she'd lived much longer he'd have been bound to have divorced her."

"But Christine is not all her mother," snapped Ransome. "She's got a lot of her father in her and that will steady her, at any rate as far as running after the other sex is concerned."

The other laughed. "But all the same, old boy, she's not cut out for a nun, not with those lovely violet eyes and that mouth of hers."

"What's wrong with her mouth?" asked Ransome sharply. "Her lips are beautifully shaped."

"Of course they are," nodded his friend, "and as a portrait painter none should appreciate it better than I do, but they're sensuous, Ransome, they're passionate, and they'll want a lot of kissing to satisfy them."

"And they'll get it," said Ransome sharply, "but as long as I'm looking after her it'll come only from the right man—" he looked very grim, "one who means business as well as pleasure."

With Christine's coming, to everyone's amazement, a great change came over Ransome's way of life and, from being lax in his relations with the other sex, he became almost puritanical in his dealings with them. When models were sitting for him, Christine was always present, with the intention, so he made out, that the latter should learn the art of posing properly. It was noticed, too, that he picked models now from only among those who were reputed to be of good moral reputation.

Also, he was much more careful in his conversation and risque stories were no longer told in his studio. As he had stated he would do, he regarded Christine as if she were his own daughter and in the years which followed, until she had well passed her nineteenth birthday, he looked after her well. He often talked about having her trained in some special occupation, but it being his inveterate habit to put things off as much as possible, nothing eventuated.

Freed now from the unhappiness and worries of her old life, Christine had become animated and bright and, as Ransome often told her smilingly, she had come like a ray of sunshine into his declining years.

She called him uncle and appeared quite contented with her lot, cooking and mending for him and keeping the flat scrupulously clean and tidy. No housekeeper had managed so well before and the studio, in particular, looked very different from what it had been before she came. She painted a little, did a little fancy sewing and read a lot. She could both read and speak French as well as English.

Appreciating his kindness, she became very devoted to him, in time regarding him with far more affection than she had ever given to her father. They had long and intimate conversations together, Ransome talking freely of his experiences in life, always with the direct purpose, however, of pointing some moral to impress upon her in what ways she was to look after herself.

Ransome was not by any means well-to-do, all his income depending upon what his paintings fetched but, being quite a fair artist, he could generally manage to sell anything he had painted, among a small number of patrons he had. However, working as he did, only in fits and starts, he was often, comparatively speaking, hard up and then, with no outings or treats, things were rather monotonous for a girl of Christine's age.

Still, when a good cheque came in, her life brightened up considerably, as then Ransome took her out to restaurants, concerts, pictures and theatres, and gave merry little parties to fellow-artists and their friends, in the flat. He was very proud of her good looks.

All along, however, as far as possible, he was careful whom Christine got to know, keeping those he thought undesirable at a distance. Not that he was in any way prudish and made her deny herself to the admirers who appeared. On the contrary, he allowed her plenty of freedom with those he approved of, at the same time always giving her what he considered wise counsel. In particular he was always warning her against carrying on the slightest flirtation with any married man.

"Never set your feet on any path that's going to lead you nowhere," he said, "and so don't ever start being friendly with a man who's got a wife already. Married men are always the most dangerous to young girls because they know the weaknesses of every woman. They have no illusion that nature has made woman stronger than man to resist natural impulses and, besides, they are much bolder and quicker than the unmarried ones in their advances."

"Single men are sometimes quite bold enough," laughed Christine merrily. "They often want quite a lot of keeping in order."

Ransome seemed to remember something and frowned. "Oh, the other night at that Mendel party," he asked, "did young Harkness want to kiss you when he took you out into the garden?"

Christine looked demure and pretended to think. "Yes, I believe he did," she replied. Then, as there was always complete confidence between them, she went on smilingly, "Yes, of course, he did, and he kissed me once. But it was a very short kiss, Uncle dear, and I didn't kiss him back. I didn't allow myself any thrills."

"And don't you ever," said Ransome sternly, "until the man who really wants to marry you, and of whom I approve, comes along. It will be time enough then for you to start thrilling, as you call it, and running bad risks." He went on earnestly, "I'm always preaching to you that a good marriage is what you must aim for, and you mind your steps until you've made one. I've told you repeatedly what men are and remember—one slip, only one little slip, and you'll be lucky if you've not ruined all your chances for life."

"All right," laughed Christine. "I promise you I'll be very careful."

"All women intend to do that," he grunted, "but they're emotional creatures and once they start letting themselves go, they find they've not strength enough to draw back. I've seen that over and over again during all my life." He shook his head grimly. "It's very hard, my girl, for even the most prudent woman to deny anything to the man she's become fond of."

"Really, Uncle, you have a very bad opinion of us poor women, haven't you?" she suggested.

"Not at all," he replied warmly. "I have the highest opinion of the sex, for nearly all the happiness a man gets in life comes through some woman or other. First his mother, then his sweetheart or his wife and, finally, as often as not it is his daughter who looks after him to the end." He raised his hand warningly. "I'm only trying to impress upon you that all you women are weak."

"Then how can we help ourselves?" smiled Christine. "You mustn't blame us for it."

"I don't blame you," he retorted instantly. "I'm devilish sorry for you, and the only way you can save yourselves is to keep out of danger. That's it. Look ahead and never be alone with a man unless there are plenty of other people close by."

One evening when they had got back from a party at a friend's house he said frowningly, "Look here, Christine, you were talking much too much tonight with that Captain Blair. He's a fellow I don't like."

"But he's not married," exclaimed Christine, rather surprised.

"So he says," scoffed Ransome, "but who knows if it's the truth? He's just the type to be married and separated from his wife. He'd make a rotten husband and give anyone he lives with a bad time. If he's not married then he's certain to have mistresses all over the place."

"But I'd never be one of them," flashed Christine with some indignation, "so don't you worry there." She spoke warmly. "I think you're unjust, Uncle. Captain Blair seems a perfect gentleman to me, and he's most interesting to talk to. He's done exploring all over the world and written a book about it all."

"Everyone is aware of that," retorted Ransome, "but what his private life is, no one knows. I've been meeting him on and off for years and I've never heard him mention his private affairs. Where he gets his money from is a mystery, too."

"He seems to be well-off," remarked Christine. "He's got a Rolls-Royce car and a beautifully furnished flat in Dorchester Square."

"He told you that?" queried Ransome frowningly. "Trying to dazzle you, eh?"

Christine laughed merrily.

"No, he didn't tell me, but Mrs. Hall did. She thinks him a most eligible party for any girl to get hold of."

"Well, I don't," commented Ransome sharply. "As I say, he'd be no good to any woman whether she was married to him or not. He's a hard-bitten seasoned man of the world and as selfish and as heartless as they make them. So you keep out of his way and don't let him hypnotise you. You'll regret it if you do."

A few weeks after this conversation tragedy came again into Christine's life, for Ransome contracted pneumonia and was dead within the week. Christine knew that, with his usual habit of putting things off, he had not altered his will in her favour, which he had always said he was intending to do, so she was quite aware that what little effects there were would go to his only sister who all along had regarded her with hostility, strongly disapproving of her brother having taken her to live under his care.

As Christine had expected, this sister arrived with the least possible delay at the flat to take possession of everything and, a hard suspicious woman, she told her, with no beating about the bush, in what an unfavourable light she regarded her association with her dead brother. She added scornfully that that was the opinion held by everyone else, too, even by her brother's closest friends.

Christine went deathly white in her indignation, and protested her innocence furiously, but she was no match for the elder woman in invective and was soon reduced to tears.

"You're a liar," she panted, "and a vile bad woman, too. No one has ever thought that of me."

"Oh, haven't they?" scoffed the other. "Why, it's been the common talk ever since you've come here. There's not a person who didn't know it. They've pretended not to notice, but they all tumbled to what was going on." She nodded viciously. "You see you'll have plenty of offers from the men to take on housekeeping—" she stressed the word, "on the same terms."

In great misery and dreadful bitterness, Christine gathered her few belongings together and left the flat within half an hour. Fortunately she was not without money, as Ransome's death had occurred during one of his good periods and, only a few days before he had been taken ill, he had given her £20 to buy some new clothes.

Letting no one know where she had gone, because she was too ashamed to face them after what she had been told they thought about her, she took a room at a Girls' Hostel she had seen advertised in the papers, and that same afternoon started to look for some employment. Greatly to her astonishment, she obtained a situation at once.

At the first registry office she went to the woman who kept it was most sympathetic when she told her tale. She said she had come from Manchester where her father had just died and that she had no relations or friends and had to find something to do.

"But what sort of work would you like to take on?" asked the woman admiring the pretty face before her.

"I think I'd like to go into a shop," replied Christine.

"Can you sew?"

Christine nodded. "Yes, I think I'm pretty good at it, but I've only made very simple things."

The woman thought for a moment and then, asking her to wait, went into another room and put through a call on the 'phone.

"See here, George," she said when she had got through to the person she asked for, "I think I've got the very girl you want for the showroom. She's had no experience and says she's never been out to work before, but she's a peach of a girl to look at, with a beautiful little figure. She's quite a little lady and very refined. She says she's twenty-two, but I think she's younger than that. She can't give any references, but she looks quite all right to me. Very well, then I'll send her round to you at once. Oh, one thing, if you think she'll suit you, make that shopwalker of yours keep his hands off her. Understand?"

So Christine went into an unpretentious shop in Finsbury Pavement at thirty-five shillings a week, and was very well pleased with the salary, reckoning as she did that she could live comfortably at the hostel and yet have a few shillings of her money over every week.

Bright and intelligent as the woman at the registry office had thought she was, she soon picked up her duties in the showroom and was quite a success. Had she wished, she could very speedily have had her pick of the male employees at the shop, particularly the amorously-inclined shopwalker, but she kept them all at their distance and had nothing to do with them. She told herself she was sick of men. At the hostel, too, she kept herself very much to herself and purposely made no friends among the other girls there.

Interested in her work and artistic to her finger-tips, she quickly found she had quite a flair for dress-designing, and under her nimble fingers quite ordinary-looking coats and dresses took on a chic appearance. The proprietor of the shop, a shrewd man, realised he had got quite a find in her and before she had been with him three months, raised her weekly salary to fifty shillings.

When she had been working there for about six months, she saw an advertisement in one of the papers for a mannequin. The address given was a Regent Street one and she was very hopeful of success because the advertisement stated that a good knowledge of French was essential. Ever since her mother, who had been an Englishwoman, had died, her father had always insisted she should talk to him in French. He was a Parisian and very proud of his country.

She obtained the situation and, to her delight, during her working hours moved in a world of fashion among beautiful dresses and people who could afford to pay for them. She was quick in making suggestions and they were well received by her employers. Indeed, as had happened in her previous place, it was soon realised she was something out of the ordinary and her salary was accordingly raised to £5 a week. She told everyone she was twenty-three and, though it was often remarked she looked younger than that, the truth of her statement was not doubted. A supreme confidence in herself, which had come to her with success and the friendless and independent life she was still choosing to live, had perhaps made her appear older than she really was.

With the ample money she was now receiving she had taken two rooms in a street off Bloomsbury Square, where she was well looked after by the motherly woman who kept the house. She enjoyed her freedom and, strangely enough for a girl of her age and parentage, never hankered after the attentions of the other sex. She was as yet unawakened in her emotions and quite maiden in her thoughts. The slur which Ransome's sister had thrown upon her still rankled and it had hardened her nature not a little.

So things went on until she was within two months of twenty-one, and then one morning she came face to face with Captain Blair as she was coming out of the house where she lived. Although it was longer than two years since he had seen her and she had altered a lot, he recognised her instantly and she realised she had reddened furiously as he held out his hand.

"What, little Christine!" he exclaimed eagerly. "Why how you've grown and how nice you look! I've often wondered what had become of you and tried to find out where you had gone. What are you doing with yourself?"

Christine told him. She was half sorry to have met him and yet at the same time half pleased. He was so genuinely delighted to see her and he looked so distinguished and so brimming over with the happiness of life. He made her feel lonely all at once.

He insisted on walking with her to her place of business, chatting gaily all the while. He told her another book of his had been published and it was a great success; also that very shortly he was going exploring again, having been commissioned to lead an expedition into Tibet. Before parting, he had wrung from her a rather reluctant promise to come out to dinner with him at the Apollo that night. He wanted to call for her at her house, but she would not hear of it and, instead, arranged to meet in the foyer of the restaurant. Remembering Ransome's warnings, she was determined he would not set foot in her apartments under any pretext.

All day long she felt nervous, wondering if she were being foolhardy in meeting him and if it were "the first step" on the road to misfortune. She was a friendless, inexperienced, young girl and he, what Ransome had called, a hard-bitten seasoned man of the world. But no, she told herself, she was a woman now and quite able to protect herself. Then, as the thought ran through her, she seemed to hear the warning of the dead man, "All women think that."

From being just nervous, she became really worried and, eventually, it was a relief to her when the time came when she was actually to meet him, and she would be able to put things to the test. She would dine with him, have a pleasant evening, and then say good-bye, making no arrangement to meet him again.

When, however, he came up smilingly to her, so courtly and so respectful, she thought what a little fool she'd been. There was nothing harmful about him. He had found her living a lonely life, was sorry for her, and wanted to give her a little happiness. That was all.

She enjoyed the meal immensely. She knew she looked nice and could see that her cavalier approved of her. There was the beautifully lighted room, the gay and smiling company all around them, the bright music of the orchestra and the delicious things they had to eat. They had champagne to drink and she felt the unaccustomed wine going to her head. The Captain wanted her to have another glass, but she refused although he proffered it several times.

Dinner over, they left the restaurant and he remarked carelessly:

"Now I'll take you to see my curios. I have some most interesting ones at my flat," but she declined so resolutely that he did not press her. "Very well then," he said, "we'll go to the pictures."

Later, he took her home in a taxi and in the darkness he felt for her hand and retained it gently. A delicious thrill went through her, but she was relieved he did not attempt to kiss her. She knew she would not have been able to resist.

That night it was a long while before she could get off to sleep and she tossed and tossed, at one moment filled with the most happy thoughts and, the next, angry with herself that she should be letting such thoughts take possession of her. All in those few hours of that evening she had been awakened from her maiden indifference and she realised she was trembling upon the brink of a new world.

They met again two evenings later and then followed three weeks of the happiest time Christine had ever had. Blair took her out to dinner almost every other evening and to pictures and theatres. On the Sundays he drove her out in his car into the country, but always he behaved most correctly to her and never attempted any closer familiarity than to hold her hand when the opportunity occurred. Gradually, she lost all fear of him and realised she was hopelessly in love.

On the third Sunday he kissed her for the first time and for the moment it was as if Heaven had opened wide its gates for her. It was in Richmond Park when it occurred. They had alighted from the car and wandered off a little way among the high bracken and the trees. Suddenly, as if only then realising that they were alone, they looked at each other smilingly and instantly she was in his arms, with both of them kissing passionately.

It lasted barely a minute, for they heard voices and laughter and some children with adults came into view. They returned without speaking to the car and then, sitting there before driving away, Blair asked her to marry him.

"And we'll be married at once, darling," he said when she had whispered a trembling consent. "There is no need for us to wait. We'll have a most lovely honeymoon before I go to the East, and then I'll take you with me in about six weeks from now."

At the prospect of so much happiness she was too overcome to speak, and he went on quickly:

"Now you're not of age for a month and there'd be a lot of fuss and bother before we could be married here. So we'll fly over to Paris one morning and be married there the same afternoon. Now what about next week, say Thursday?"

She was swept off her feet by his masterful authority, and agreed to everything. Accordingly, the next day she left her situation, giving as her excuse that her mother was ill in the South of France and she must go to her at once.

As arranged, on the Thursday they flew to Paris, reaching their hotel just before lunch, and at his direction she registered her name under his as Christine Mary Blair.

"It will not be the exact truth for only a few hours, sweetheart," he laughed, "and, if I go out directly after we've lunched, I'll be back by three o'clock at latest with the licence."

Some last breath of precaution stirring in her, Christine did not follow the luggage up to the room. "No, dear," she said. "I'll wait here in the lounge until we go to the registry office."

She smiled. "I want to be a quite respectable young woman up to the last."

After lunch, however, when he had gone off to make all arrangements for the marriage, she thought she might as well go up to their room and unpack. He had said he would be gone quite an hour and so she knew she would have plenty of time.

The unpacking soon over, and, feeling tired and inclined to have a headache with the early rising and all the excitement of her first journey in an aeroplane, she lay down upon the bed, as she intended for a few minutes rest. She closed her eyes to shut out the light and the next thing she knew was her lover waking her up by kissing her gently on the lips. She started, blushed smilingly in her dismay and then, throwing her arms round his neck, returned his kiss with a long passionate one.

Their lips at length apart, still kneeling by the bed, he stroked her face fondly and said, "Look here, darling, there's a great disappointment for us both. I find we can't get married here in this wretched country without a fortnight's domicile. No, don't look so frightened, sweetheart. It'll be quite all right. We can go straight across to Switzerland where they tell me the law is not so strict. If you insist, although I'm very tired and we shall have to sit up all the way as I find all the sleeping-berths are booked, we'll go by this evening's express." He spoke haltingly. "Or, if you'd prefer it, we can occupy separate rooms to-night."

Although decidedly uneasy at the delay, of course she neither insisted nor took the preference he offered her. After all, it was only a matter of a few hours, she told herself, and she knew she could trust him. He was much too fond of her to stoop to any deceit. So, seeing he looked so genuinely distressed, she pulled down his face to hers to comfort him.

Thus passed from her Christine's maidenhood, with the passing blessed by no rite or ceremony of Mother Church or sanctioned by any enactment of the Law. A cynic might here remark that such happenings are ten thousand times more common than the world pretends to know.

They did not go to Switzerland the next day, or indeed, the day after that. Instead, they waited until the Sunday when Blair told her the trains were much less crowded.

Arriving at last in Geneva, another disappointment awaited them, for they learnt there that the Swiss laws were even more stringent than the French ones, four instead of two weeks' domicile being required before a marriage could take place.

"It's no good, darling," said Blair. "There's no help for it. We'll have to go back to Paris and get it fixed up there," but they did not return for two days and then only upon Christine's almost tearful insistence. Blair would have liked to stay longer in the Swiss capital and pursue his luck at the casino.

Back again in Paris they went together to the office to arrange for the marriage in the fortnight's time. Christine was now supremely happy and let herself go in all the joy of youth. Blair was a devoted lover, lavishing every kindness upon her, and she wondered how she could ever have had any doubt about him. She was sure the dead Ransome had been quite wrong in his estimation of her husband-to-be's character.

Two days before they were going to be married Blair said he had some most important business to transact which would occupy him all the afternoon until dinner-time. He said he hated leaving her alone, but insisted she should go out and enjoy herself. So he conducted her to a theatre for a matinée and made sure she had got a good seat before he left her.

Christine enjoyed the play immensely, but returning to the hotel about six o'clock was disappointed he was not in the lounge, waiting for her. She expected that he would be in the room changing for dinner. However, she did not see him there when she opened the door and then, suddenly, her eyes fell upon an envelope, placed prominently upon the dressing-table and addressed to her, in his hand-writing.

Very puzzled, she opened it quickly, and in two seconds the whole world was rocking round her and a burst like thunder breaking in her ears.

He had written to say that he was leaving her.

She read the first line and then looked round the room in horror. Yes, his suitcase had gone, his comb and brushes, his shoes and the big box of cigarettes from which he used to fill his case, his shaving set and his pyjamas! God, was it possible, or was it only a dreadful dream?

With widely dilated eyes she read down the letter. It was unsigned.

"Sweetheart, I am leaving, you," it began.

"It is best for you, as I know I should make you a bad husband. For one thing I am much too fond of pretty faces. So, better a few fleeting days of regret and disappointment now than a whole life of unhappiness tied to me. I know you have some money with you, but I have paid the hotel bill up until tomorrow and enclose here £50 in English banknotes. I am off to South America next week, and it is no good you trying to follow me. Good-bye, little Christine. It was very sweet while it lasted, but all good things come to an end in time. The best of luck to you."

She was cold in horror and her brain would not function properly. She had to read the letter three times before she could take it in fully. Then for many minutes she sat staring into vacancy.

God, what a vile and heartless man he was! And she had loved him so! She pulled herself up quickly. No, she could not have loved him at all, for real love could not have passed so quickly into the hate and loathing she now felt! It was passion only which had been so bewildering her! She had never had a lover before and the physical novelty and attraction had been like some deep opiate dream.

She gritted her beautiful little teeth fiercely together. Well, she was done with him and she would not cry about it! She would not give way! She would face the consequences bravely!

Ah God! the consequences! She shivered in her terror. Why, she might even be going to have a child! She might be going to bear that brute a baby who would be his image and grow up vile and cruel as he was! All her life she might be burdened by the shame he had brought upon her!

She moistened her dry lips with her tongue and with a great effort pulled herself resolutely together. She must map out exactly what she was going to do and be prepared to face any troubles as they came. If she did find the worst was going to happen—and she would know it very soon—was there not a way of escape for a girl in such a position as hers? She was in a strange country where no one knew her! She had some money and surely money would buy anything?

Her eyes fell upon the banknotes Blair had enclosed in the letter and she sprang up in a fury to tear them into pieces. Suddenly, however, she stopped short and smiled a cold grim smile. "My wages!" she murmured with a catch in her breath. "Of course, my wages payment for services rendered!" Tears welled into her eyes again. "Oh, Uncle, Uncle, why didn't I take more notice of what you were always telling me? Really, I am on the way to becoming a bad woman, now!"

The next day she moved from the expensive hotel at which they had been staying and went to a much cheaper one, registering now in her maiden name. She had become firm in her resolve to remain in Paris until she knew for certain what might be going to happen to her and then, if she found she had to, go to a doctor without any delay.

She had meant to wait a week or two before consulting anyone, but the anxiety began to prey upon her nerves. Added to that, she had got a sore throat, and so she made up her mind to see a doctor at once. She was helped to this decision by chancing to notice a very kindly-looking old man, with white hair and carrying a professional bag, come out of a house with a doctor's nameplate upon the door in a street close near to the hotel. She guessed rightly he must be the doctor himself, Dr. Charles Antoine, whose name she saw on the plate.

So she went to see him that afternoon, giving her name as that of a married woman. She found him quite as kind and sympathetic as he had looked and she told him nervously the tale she had prepared all ready.

"It is not a bad throat you have, Madame," he said, "and a gargle and a tonic may soon put it right. It will not make any difference to you if you are as you suspect." He went on smilingly. "The world wants more little ones, and when yours comes—" he bowed gallantly, "I am sure it will be a very beautiful baby."

Christine felt on the verge of tears and her voice choked. "But you don't understand the position, Monsieur," she said, flushing painfully. "I'm not, as I made out, a married woman. I'm a single girl and in a most desperate position." Then, taking in anew the kindness she saw in his face, she burst out impulsively with the whole story.

He tut-tutted several times and was obviously most sorry for her. "And you've only been living with him for less than three weeks!" he exclaimed. "What a shameful man he must be!"

He spoke with the utmost kindness. "Now I'll give you the medicine and you go straight back to your hotel and put yourself to bed. I'll call in tomorrow and see how you are. No, no, don't meet your trouble before it comes. Just wait and see."

He came the next day and several succeeding days, until Christine was feeling quite well and at last completely relieved in her mind.

"You've been fortunate, Mademoiselle," he said in bidding her a final good-bye, "and let it be a lesson to you." He regarded her thoughtfully. "All my experience of life tells me you are a good girl. So, in future be very careful how you trust any man. Good-bye. I shall always be pleased to see you again if you are not feeling quite up to the mark. Don't hesitate to come to me."

Although Christine had resolved not to go back to London at all, but to remain in Paris and get work there, she decided to take a good holiday first to recover from the shock she had been through. Speaking the language as she did, almost like a native, and with the experience she had gained in her last place, she was confident someone would employ her. She would, however, aim high and not take on any employment, except under promising conditions. Thank goodness, with the money she had in hand, she could afford to take her time.

As for men, she was done with them for ever. She could see that, in this world, it was everyone for himself or herself, and in future she would act accordingly. She would be hard as nails in all her dealings with everyone.