Chapter 9

He recognized the force, almost the passion, which trembled in her tone, and he at once abandoned the subject. He remained talking with her however. It was easy for him to see that she desired to be agreeable to him. They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face.

"Mr. Ennison," he said, "it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela's table. Anna, do you not see that the Countess is sitting alone?"

She rose, and flashed a quick smile upon Ennison behind her husband's back.

"You must come and see me some afternoon," she said to him.

He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. On the way home he was still thoughtful. He turned in at the club. They were talking of "Alcide," as they often did in those days.

"She has improved her style," someone declared. "Certainly her voice is far more musical."

Another differed.

"She has lost something," he declared, "something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the 'Ambassador's.' I don't know what you'd call it--a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. She sings better perhaps. But I don't think she lays hold of one so."

"I will tell you what there is about her which is so fetching," Drummond, who was lounging by, declared. "She contrives somehow to strike the personal note in an amazing manner. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. Yet you catch her eye--you can't seem to escape from it. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself."

"And if you are a millionaire like Drummond," someone remarked, "you send round a note and ask her to come out to supper."

"In the present case," Drummond remarked, glancing across the room, "Cheveney wouldn't permit it."

Ennison dropped the evening paper which he had been pretending to read. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth.

"Cheveney wouldn't have anything to say about it, as it happens," he remarked, a little grimly. "Ungracious little beast, I call her. I don't mind telling you chaps that except on the stage I haven't set eyes on her this side of the water. I've called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won't see me. Rank ingratitude, I call it."

There was a shout of laughter. Drummond patted him on the shoulder.

"Never mind, old chap," he declared. "Let's hope your successor is worthy of you."

"You fellows," Ennison said quietly, "are getting a little wild. I have known Miss Pellissier as long as any of you perhaps, and I have seen something of her since her arrival in London. I consider her a very charming young woman--and I won't hear a word about Paris, for there are things I don't understand about that, but I will stake my word upon it that to-day Miss Pellissier is entitled not only to our admiration, but to our respect. I firmly believe that she is as straight as a die."

Ennison's voice shook a little. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders.

"I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate," someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. "You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn't she? and she herself must be drawing no end of a good screw here. I always say that it's poverty before everything that makes a girl skip the line."

Ennison escaped. He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. On his way he made a slight divergence from the direct route and paused for a moment outside the flat where Anna was now living. It was nearly one o'clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. A man came out, and walking recklessly, almost cannoned into Ennison. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short.

"It's Ennison, isn't it?" he exclaimed. "What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?"

Ennison looked at him in surprise.

"I might return the compliment, Courtlaw," he answered, "by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man."

Courtlaw was pale and dishevelled. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna's windows.

"What do you think of that farce?" he exclaimed bitterly. "You are one of those who must know all about it. Was there ever such madness?"

"I am afraid that I don't understand," Ennison answered. "You seem to have come from Miss Pellissier's rooms. I had no idea even that she was a friend of yours."

Courtlaw laughed hardly. His eyes were red. He was in a curious state of desperation.

"Nor am I now," he answered. "I have spoken too many truths to-night. Why do women take to lies and deceit and trickery as naturally as a duck to water?"

"You are not alluding, I hope, to Miss Pellissier?" Ennison said stiffly.

"Why not? Isn't the whole thing a lie? Isn't her reputation, this husband of hers, the 'Alcide' business, isn't it all a cursed juggle? She hasn't the right to do it. I----"

He stopped short. He had the air of a man who has said too much. Ennison was deeply interested.

"I should like to understand you," he said. "I knew Miss Pellissier in Paris at the 'Ambassador's,' and I know her now, but I am convinced that there is some mystery in connexion with her change of life. She is curiously altered in many ways. Is there any truth, do you suppose, in this rumoured marriage?"

"I know nothing," Courtlaw answered hurriedly. "Ask me nothing. I will not talk to you about Miss Pellissier or her affairs."

"You are not yourself to-night, Courtlaw," Ennison said. "Come to my rooms and have a drink."

Courtlaw refused brusquely, almost rudely.

"I am off to-night," he said. "I am going to America. I have work there. I ought to have gone long ago. Will you answer me a question first?"

"If I can," Ennison said.

"What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier's flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. Why? What is she to you?"

"I was there by accident," Ennison answered. "Miss Pellissier is nothing to me except a young lady for whom I have the most profound and respectful admiration."

Courtlaw laid his hand upon Ennison's shoulder. They were at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill.

"Take my advice," he said hoarsely. "Call it warning, if you like. Admire her as much as you choose--at a distance. No more. Look at me. You knew me in Paris. David Courtlaw. Well-balanced, sane, wasn't I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I'm pretty near being one now, and it's her fault. I've loved her for two years, I love her now. And I'm off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I'll thank the Lord for it."

He strode away and vanished in the gathering fog. Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared.

"I'm d----d if I understand this," he said thoughtfully. "I never saw Courtlaw with her--never heard her speak of him. He was going to tell me something--and he shut up. I wonder what it was."

_Chapter XVIII_

ANNABEL AND "ALCIDE"

Lady Ferringhall lifted her eyes to the newcomer, and the greeting in them was obviously meant for him alone. She continued to fan herself.

"You are late," she murmured.

"My chief," he said, "took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away."

She nodded.

"I am bored," she said abruptly. "This is a very foolish sort of entertainment. And, as usual," she continued, a little bitterly, "I seem to have been sent along with the dullest and least edifying of Mrs. Montressor's guests."

Ennison glanced at the other people in the box and smiled.

"I got your note just in time," he remarked. "I knew of course that you were at the Montressor's, but I had no idea that it was a music hall party afterwards. Are you all here?"

"Five boxes full," she answered. "Some of them seem to be having an awfully good time too. Did you see Lord Delafield and Miss Anderson? They packed me in with Colonel Anson and Mrs. Hitchings, who seem to be absolutely engrossed in one another, and a boy of about seventeen, who no sooner got here than he discovered that he wanted to see a man in the promenade and disappeared."

Ennison at once seated himself.

"I feel justified then," he said, "in annexing his chair. I expect you had been snubbing him terribly."

"Well, he was presumptuous," Annabel remarked, "and he wasn't nice about it. I wonder how it is," she added, "that boys always make love so impertinently."

Ennison laughed softly.

"I wonder," he said, "how you would like to be made love to--boldly or timorously or sentimentally."

"Are you master of all three methods?" she asked, stopping her fanning for a moment to look at him.

"Indeed, no," he answered. "Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner. It needs cultivating, I think."

His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box.

"That sounds so uncouth," she murmured. "I detest amateurs."

"I will buy books and a lay figure," he declared, "to practise upon. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?"

"For Heaven's sake no," she declared. "I would rather put up with your own efforts, however clumsy. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. At second hand it would be unendurable."

He leaned towards her.

"Is that a challenge?"

She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels.

"Why not? It might amuse me."

Somewhat irrelevantly he glanced at the next few boxes where the rest of Mrs. Montressor's guests were.

"Is your husband here to-night?" he asked.

"My husband!" she laughed a little derisively. "No, he wouldn't come here of all places--just now. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn't."

"You know," he said with some hesitation, "that your sister is singing."

She nodded.

"Of course. I want to hear how she does it."

"She does it magnificently," he declared. "I think--we all think that she is wonderful."

She looked at him with curious eyes.

"I remember," she said, "that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. Have you seen much of her lately?"

"Nothing at all," he answered.

The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. She was watching him intently.

"Do you know," she said, "that every one is remarking how ill you look. I too can see it. What has been the matter?"

"Toothache," he answered laconically.

She looked away.

"You might at least," she murmured, "have invented a more romantic reason."

"Oh, I might," he answered, "have gone further still. I might have told you the truth."

"Has my sister been unkind to you?"

"The family," he declared, "has not treated me with consideration."

She looked at him doubtfully.

"You promised faithfully to be there," he said slowly. "I loathe afternoon concerts, and----"

She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. Her fingers rested upon his.

"You were really at Moulton House," she exclaimed penitently. "I am so sorry. I had a perfect shoal of callers. People who would not go. I only arrived when everybody was coming away."

A little murmur of expectation, an audible silence announced the coming of "Alcide." Then a burst of applause. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. Then she sang.

Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. She forgot Anna's sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister's shoulders. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. Anna was singing as she used to sing. She was _chic_, distinguished, unusual. What right had she to call herself "Alcide"? It was abominable, an imposture. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. He forgot Annabel's idle attempts at love-making, all the _cul-de-sac_ gallantry of the moment. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips.

Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. Their conversation became stilted. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks.

"She is marvellously clever," he said.

"She appears to be very popular here," she remarked.

"You too sing?" he asked.

"I have given it up," she answered. "One genius in the family is enough." After a pause, she added, "Do you mind fetching back my recalcitrant cavalier."

"Anything except that," he murmured. "I was half hoping that I might be allowed to see you home."

"If you can tear yourself away from this delightful place in five minutes," she answered, "I think I can get rid of the others."

"We will do it," he declared. "If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper."

"Don't imperil my reputation before I am established," she answered, smiling. "Afterwards it seems to me that there are no limits to what one may not do amongst one's own set."

"I am frightened of Sir John," he said, "but I suggest that we risk it."

"Don't tempt me," she said, laughing, and drawing her opera-cloak together. "You shall drive home with me in a hansom, if you will. That is quite as far as I mean to tempt Providence to-night."

* * * * *

Again on his way homeward from Cavendish Square he abandoned the direct route to pass by the door of Anna's flat. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. Her sister had told him that it was true. Anna was married. After all, she was a consummate actress. Her recent attitude towards him was undoubtedly a pose. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. There was no longer any risk in association with her. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. He slackened his pace as he reached the flat. The windows were still darkened--perhaps she was not home yet. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold.

Then a hansom drove up, and his heart gave a great leap. She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. A young man turned to pay the cabman. Then she saw him.

"Mr. Ennison," she exclaimed, "is that really you?"

There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. She held out her hand frankly. She seemed honestly glad to see him.

"How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!" she remarked gaily. "Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?"

He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. He saw now that it was merely a boy.

"This is Mr. Sydney Courtlaw--Mr. Ennison," she said. "You are coming in, aren't you, Sydney?"

"If I may," he answered. "Your coffee's too good to refuse."

She led the way, talking all the time to Ennison.

"Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you," she said. "I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. I did not even know where to write and thank you."

"I have been abroad," he said. "The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. I had to go at a moment's notice."

"I am glad that you have a reasonable excuse for not having been to see me," she said good-humouredly. "Please make yourselves comfortable while I see to the coffee."

It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. A woman indeed this to love and be loved, beautiful, graceful, gay. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. There were cakes and sandwiches--for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air.

Ennison stood by her side. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. She felt a new warmth in her blood, a strange sense of elation crept over her. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. She glanced into her companion's face, and she saw there strange things. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano.

"I am sure," she said, "that you mean to stay until you are turned out. Do you see the time?"

"I may come and see you?" Ennison asked, as his hand touched hers.

"Yes," she answered, looking away. "Some afternoon."

_Chapter XIX_

"THIS IS NOT THE END"

"I said some afternoon," she remarked, throwing open her warm coat, and taking off her gloves, "but I certainly did not mean to-day."

"I met you accidentally," he reminded her. "Our ways happened to lie together."

"And our destinations also, it seems," she added, smiling.

"You asked me in to tea," he protested.

"In self-defence I had to," she answered. "It is a delightful day for walking, but a great deal too cold to be standing on the pavement."

"Of course," he said, reaching out his hand tentatively for his hat, "I could go away even now. Your reputation for hospitality would remain under a cloud though, for tea was distinctly mentioned."

"Then you had better ring the bell," she declared, laughing. "The walk has given me an appetite, and I do not feel like waiting till five o'clock. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun. Would you mind drawing them back?"

Ennison sprang up, but he never reached the curtains. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. A little exclamation of surprise escaped Ennison. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry.

"You!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here? How dare you come to my rooms!"

The man stepped into the middle of the room. The last few months had not dealt kindly with Mr. Montague Hill. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness.

"Why not?" he exclaimed. "I have the right to be here. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. I did not reckon upon--him."

He pointed to Ennison, who in his turn looked across at Anna.

"You wish me to stay?" he asked, in a low tone.

"I would not have you go for anything," she answered.

"Nevertheless," Hill said doggedly, "I am here to speak to you alone."

"If you do not leave the room at once," Anna answered calmly, "I shall ring the bell for a policeman."

He raised his hand, and they saw that he was holding a small revolver.

"You need not be alarmed," he said. "I do not wish to use this. I came here peaceably, and I only ask for a few words with you. But I mean to have them. No, you don't!"

Ennison had moved stealthily a little nearer to him, and looked suddenly into the dark muzzle of the revolver.

"If you interfere between us," the man said, "it will go hardly with you. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. I have the right also to throw you out."

Ennison obeyed Anna's gesture, and was silent.

"You can say what you have to say before Mr. Ennison, if at all," Anna declared calmly. "In any case, I decline to see you alone."

"Very well," the man answered. "I have come to tell you this. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. We were properly married, and the certificate is at my lawyer's. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. I know that you were disappointed because I did not turn out to be the millionaire. Perhaps I deceived you about it. However, that's over and done with. I'll make any reasonable arrangement you like. I don't want to stop your singing. You can live just about how you like. But you belong to me--and I want you."

He paused for a moment, and then suddenly continued. His voice had broken. He spoke in quick nervous sentences.

"You did your best to kill me," he said. "You might have given me a chance, anyway. I'm not such a bad sort. You know--I worship you. I have done from the first moment I saw you. I can't rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. I want you. I've got to have you, and by God I will."

He took a quick step forward. Anna held out her hand, and he paused. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.

"Listen," she said. "I have heard these things from you before, and you have had my answer. Understand once and for all that that answer is final. I do not admit the truth of a word which you have said. I will not be persecuted in this way by you."

"You do not deny that you are my wife," he asked hoarsely. "You cannot! Oh, you cannot."