Читать книгу Queen of Hearts - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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Although Tom Gilchrist was inclined to bemoan the fate which had overtaken the woman of his heart, Maudie Vascombe's circumstances were not anything like as bad as the infatuated young man was inclined to make out. She had, of course, been born to better things and there had been a time when she and her brother had lived in the lap of luxury. But that was before the War, followed by a series of disastrous speculations, had reduced the head of the family to poverty and broken his heart. For though the elder Vascombe had been in business he was a member of a good old family, and his children had ruffled it with the best of them. It was, perhaps, fortunate that the crash came at a time when Ian Vascombe and his sister were old enough to realise their responsibilities. There was absolutely nothing saved out of the wreck, which meant that they were flung entirely on their own resources.

And Ian Vascombe, that young athletic god so highly appreciated in sporting circles, had not wasted his time in importuning his rich friends for some nominal occupation, but had turned his one talent to account. He had a flair for water colour painting and designing, so that almost from the start he had begun to make a living. Certain drawings of his in connexion with the latest production had brought him under the notice of a famous manager.

"These are devilish good, laddie," the great man had said. "You go on as you started and there is a jolly good living waiting for you. But if you take my advice, you will stick to the commercial side of Art. There will be plenty of time for big work later on. Meanwhile, I can give you a commission or two if you like to undertake it."

Which Ian had done gratefully. And then it occurred to him that if he could design theatrical costumes, it might be possible to do equally well in woman's sphere. So, with one of two original designs, he had boldly called on the famous modiste, Ninette, in her Bond Street establishment and shown her his work. And she, being an artist as well as a business woman, had recognised something like genius in her own line, so that henceforward Ian knew that he had a comfortable living waiting for him at the end of his brush.

And, meanwhile, Maude had not been idle. There was not an atom of snobbishness in her nature, she had not the least desire to become a city typist at two pounds a week, or seek uncongenial secretarial work. She was naturally conscious of her own amazing physical charms, and her perfect manner and carriage did the rest.

"Why shouldn't I help, Ian?" she had asked. "You are making ten or twelve pounds a week and you are going to do better. But that is no reason why I should live upon you, and I am not going to. Besides, you may take it into your head to marry some of these days and then where should I be? Certainly not a burden on your establishment."

"What's the idea?" Ian had asked.

"Why shouldn't I go into Ninette's shop. I am certain she would give me a job if I offered myself."

"Not a doubt about that," Ian agreed. "Why you'd be the most beautiful mannequin in London."

And so it had come about. Because Ninette was something more than a clever business woman who was rapidly making a fortune. She was an artist to her finger tips and loved her work for its own sake. And when Maudie presented herself in all the freshness of her young beauty the highly strung and excitable Frenchwoman did not hesitate.

"Ma cherie," she said. "You are the assistant I 'ave been looking for all these years. Ze ideal figure, ze ideal face. I will give you more zan any other assistant in Bond Street, and you shall have a commission as well. Is zat a bargain? Yes, no. It is zat you agree?"

"I should jolly well think so," Maudie said.

And with that the bargain was completed. It was one that Maudie had had no cause to regret, save when she was in company with Tom Gilchrist who never ceased to mourn the fact that the girl of his heart had so far demeaned herself.

"But I have done nothing of the sort," Maudie pointed out. "I am getting an honest living in an honest way and, what is more, I am paying my share in the upkeep of this flat. If I didn't, Ian would never be able to afford his studio at the top of these buildings. Oh, don't be silly, Tom. If I were secretary to some member of Parliament or a governess or something dreadful of that sort you wouldn't mind in the least. And anyway, what business is it of yours?"

Gilchrist muttered something in reply. He was seated in the sitting room of the flat in Trinity Buildings on the evening of the Ascot Cup day, where he had come after dinner to try and induce Maudie to accompany him to some show. He had taken advantage of Ian's absence in the studio at the top of the block of flats where he was doing business with some customer to air the special grievance which Maudie was beginning to resent. He did not know how much the girl really cared for him, and she had been careful enough to disguise the full extent of her feelings with regard to himself.

"Well," Tom protested. "When you are going to marry a girl—I mean—oh, I dash it, you know what I mean."

"Yes, I dare say I do. But you listen to me, my boy. Let us be practical for a moment or two, and don't think me hard, Tom dear, because I am not. But I haven't forgotten those two bitter years that followed after Dad died. Two years of suffering and degradation and something like starvation in horrible lodgings in a mean street. That is a lesson I am not likely to forget. And if Ian had not been the man he is, heaven knows what might have become of us."

"Yes, but that is all over now," Tom pointed out. "You've got this nice little place here, and Ian getting on like anything. And yet you choose to sell your beauty in a fashion, and prance about in a Bond Street shop showing off fashions to a lot of women who are not fit to black your boots. And they treat you like dirt. Oh, I know they do. Of course, it is all petty, stupid jealously, but don't tell me you don't feel it."

"Not now," Maudie confessed. "I did at first, but what does it matter? I don't see any difference between myself and a popular actress, except that I don't get a quarter of her money. And suppose I gave up my job to oblige you. What then, I should like to know?"

Gilchrist flushed uncomfortably.

"I don't quite follow," he stammered.

"Oh, yes you do. How much better off should we be? I should be sponging on my brother for a living, which I should simply hate to do, and you, well, let's be plain, you couldn't marry me, Tom. You know what would happen if you did. You are absolutely dependent on your uncle for every penny you get, and if you told Sir Walter tomorrow that you were marrying Maudie Vascombe he would cut you off with the proverbial shilling. Oh, you need not shake your head, you know he would. He is a dear old man and he can be very charming when he likes, but he is as obstinate as the devil. He has already told me in as many words that he intends you to marry Mona Catesby. He won't die happily until he sees the estates back in the family through you. And all your talking and arguing won't make the slightest difference. I dare say you think you are the most unhappy of men, but you have a deal to be thankful for. Let sleeping dogs lie Tom, and make the best of it."

Before Gilchrist could respond, the door of the sitting room opened and Ian Vascombe came in. He was not alone, for with him came a tall, dark man, slant-eyed and bearded, with the suggestion of the Slav or Tartar about him. He was a man of more than middle age who carried his years easily and addressed himself to Maudie with an easy assurance which bespoke the thorough man of the world.

"Ah, Miss Vascombe," he said, in an accent that was almost, but not quite purely English. "How are you this evening? I do not come to intrude. But I have business with your brother which is now settled. He is a very clever artist, and there was a Japanese picture of mine that I wanted him to restore. And he has done the work very nicely indeed."

"This is Mr. Mortimer Heek," Ian exclaimed to Gilchrist. "He is a wealthy collector of Japanese water colours. You know the sort of things they paint on tissue paper. And Mr. Heek has honoured me by placing one or two in my hands for restoration. It is rather delicate work—"

"And my young friend has done it to perfection," the man called Heek replied.

"I have done my best," Ian said modestly. "But I think that the picture I have in Bond Street where the light is better than in the studio upstairs will please you still more, Mr. Heek. Any time you like to come round to Madame Ninette's, I shall be only too happy to show you how I am getting on with that particular picture. There is one bit of foreground about which I am rather doubtful, and I should hate to spoil it."

"Is that so?" Heek asked eagerly. "Then I come round to the establishment you speak of tomorrow morning and we will study the picture together. Good night, Miss Vascombe."

With that, the stranger bowed himself out and was seen no more. Gilchrist turned inquiringly to Ian.

"Rather a queer fish, isn't he?" he asked.

"Well, he is a bit of a mystery," Ian agreed. "But he seems too have any amount of money and he goes everywhere and if he pays me well, it is no business of mine."