"Go back to the house which has the honour of being my home, change my clothes, hurry breathlessly to South Audley Street, and inform Lady Henry that her costume can"t be found. She will then, in desperation, decide to send a note to _The Daily Beacon_, which, my prophetic soul whispers, she will order me to take."
"Shall you go?"
"Out of the house, yes--never, never to return, for my work there is done. But not to the office of _The Beacon_. Lady Henry"s box shall be sent to her by parcel post to-morrow morning, and Mrs. Randall"s cheque will be in the coat pocket. That will surprise her a little, but it won"t matter to me; for, after having called here for my cheque, I think I"ll take the two o"clock train for the Continent. I shall have plenty of money to enjoy myself, and I feel I need a change of air."
"You are wonderful!" repeated Sir Edmund Foster.
CHAPTER XI--Kismet and a V.C.
"Now, where on earth have I seen that girl before?" Joan Carthew asked herself.
It was at Biarritz, where she was enjoying, as she put it to herself, a well-earned holiday; and she was known at her hotel, and among the few acquaintances she had made, as the Comtesse de Merival, a young widow with plenty of money. She was a Comtesse because it is easy to say that one has married a sprig of foreign n.o.bility, without being found out; she was a widow because it is possible for a widow to be alone, unchaperoned, and to amuse herself without ceasing to be _comme il faut_.
Joan had amused herself a great deal during the six weeks since she had left England, and the cream of the amus.e.m.e.nt had consisted in inventing a romantic story about herself and getting it believed. It was as good as acting in a successful play which one has written for oneself.
At the present moment she was walking on the _plage_, pleasantly conscious that she was one of the prettiest and best-dressed women among many who were pretty and well-dressed. Then a blonde girl pa.s.sed her, a blonde girl who was new to Biarritz, but who, somehow, did not seem new to Joan"s retina. Her photograph was somewhere in the book of memory, and, oddly enough, it seemed to have a background of sea and blue sky, as it had to-day.
The girl was pretty, as a beautifully dressed, golden-haired doll in a shop window is pretty. She was also exceedingly "good form," and she was vouched for as a young person of importance by a remarkably distinguished-looking old man who strolled beside her.
They turned, and in pa.s.sing the "Comtesse" for the second time, the girl looked full in Joan"s face, with a lingering gaze such as a spoiled beauty often directs upon a possible rival.
Then, all in an instant, Joan knew.
"Why," she reminded herself, "it"s the girl I saw at Brighton--the girl I envied. I know it is she. That"s eight years ago, but I can"t be mistaken."
Somehow this seemed an important discovery. If Joan, a miserable, overworked slavey of twelve, nursing her tyrant"s baby, had not been bitten with consuming jealousy of a child no older but a thousand times more fortunate than herself, she might have gone on indefinitely as a slavey, and might never have had a career.
The little girl at Brighton had looked scornfully from under her softly drooping Leghorn hat at the shabby child-nurse, and a rage of resentment had boiled in Joan"s pa.s.sionate young heart. Now, the tall girl at Biarritz looked with half-reluctant admiration from under an equally becoming hat at the Comtesse de Merival, who was more beautiful and apparently quite as fortunate as she. Nevertheless the old scar suddenly throbbed again, so that Joan remembered there had once been a wound; and she knew that she had no grat.i.tude for the girl to whom, indirectly, she owed her rise in the world.
Joan was usually generous to women, even when she had no cause to love them, for, with all her faults, there was nothing of the "cat" in her nature; yet, to her surprise, she felt that she would like to hurt this girl in some way. "What a brute I must be!" she said to herself. "I didn"t know I was so bad. Really I mustn"t let this sort of thing grow on me, otherwise I shall degenerate from a highwayman (rather a gallant one, I think) into a cad, and I should lose interest in foraging for myself if I were a cad."
As she thought this, the girl and her companion were joined by a man.
Joan glanced, then gazed, and decided that he was the most interesting man to look at whom she had ever seen in her life. Not that he was the handsomest, as mere beauty of feature goes, but he was of exactly the type which Joan and most women admire at heart above all others.
One did not need to be told, to know that he was a soldier. As he stood talking to his friends, with his hat off, and the sun chiselling the ripples of his close-cropped hair in bronze, his head towered above those of the other men who came and went. His face was bronze, too, of a lighter shade, blending into ivory half way up the forehead, and his features were strong and clear-cut as a bronze man"s should always be.
He wore no moustache or beard, and his mouth and chin were self-reliant, firm, and generous, but Joan liked his eyes best of all. As she pa.s.sed slowly, they met hers for a second, and their clear depths were brown and bright as a Devonshire brook when the noonday sun shines into it.
It was only for a second that the man"s soul looked at her from its windows, but it was long enough to make her sharply realise two facts.
One, that she was far, far beneath him; the other, that he was the only man in the world for her.
"To think that _that_ girl should know him, and I not!" she said to herself rebelliously. "He is miles too good for me, but he"s more miles too good for her, because she hasn"t any soul, and I have, even though it"s a bad one. Again, after all these years, that girl pa.s.ses through my life, taking with her as she goes what I would give all I own, all I might ever gain, to have. It"s Kismet--nothing less."
"_Ah, Comtesse, bon jour_!" murmured a voice that Joan knew, and then it went on in very good English, with only a slight foreign accent: "You are charming to-day, but you do not see your friends. They must remind you of their existence before they can win a bow."
"I have just seen some one who was like a ghost out of the past,"
returned Joan, with a careless smile for the handsome, dark young man who had stopped to greet her.
"What!" his face lighted up. "You know that young lady you were looking at? That is indeed interesting, and I will tell you why, presently, if you will let me. If you would but introduce me--at all events, to the father. The rest I can do for myself."
"I don"t know her," said Joan, "although an important issue of my life was a.s.sociated with the girl. I can"t even give you her name."
"I can do as much as that for you," said the Marchese Villa Fora. "She is a Miss Violet Ffrench, and the old man is her father, General Ffrench. Not only is she one of the greatest beauties, but one of the greatest heiresses in England."
"Ah!" said Joan, "no wonder you are interested."
"No wonder. But what good does that do to me, since I have not the honour of her acquaintance, and since she is to marry that great, bronze statue of a fellow?"
A pang shot through Joan"s heart, and she was ashamed because it was a jealous pang. "She is to marry him! How do you know that, since you are not acquainted with her?"
"It is an open secret. I saw the father and daughter in Paris three weeks ago, and fell in love at first sight--ah! you may laugh. You Englishwomen cannot understand us Latins. It is true that I proposed to you, but you would not take me, and my heart was soon after caught in the rebound. It is very simple."
"You thought that you fell in love with me at first sight, too; at least, you said so, and without any introduction except picking up my purse when I dropped it in the Champs elysees."
"I got an introduction afterwards."
"Yes, a lady who was staying at my hotel."
"At all events, she vouched for me. She has known my family for years, in Madrid."
"She warned me against you, Marchese. She said that you were a fortune-hunter, and that you fancied I was rich. When you had proposed, and I had told you frankly that my fortune was but silver-gilt, warranted to keep its colour for a few years only, you were very much obliged to me for refusing you, as it saved you the trouble of jilting me afterwards. You are still more obliged to me now that you have met a genuine heiress who has all other desirable qualifications as well."
"You are cruel," exclaimed Villa Fora, to whose style of good looks reproaches were becoming. "Cannot a man love twice? What does it matter to the heart whether there has been an interval of weeks or of years? I am madly in love with Miss Ffrench, and as you promised to be my friend if I would "talk no more nonsense," I have no hesitation in confessing it to you. I followed her here from Paris, and arrived only this afternoon. She is at the Hotel Victoria; therefore, so am I."
"So am I, but not "therefore,"" cut in Joan. "And the--the man you say she is to marry?"
"Colonel Sir Justin Wentworth? He is at the Grand. But he has come for her. I know the whole story--I have it from a gossiping old lady who is _au courant_ with every one"s affairs if they are worth bothering with; and she does not make mistakes. She has told me that General Ffrench was the guardian of this Sir Justin, that the father--a baronet--was his dearest friend. The match has been an understood thing ever since Wentworth was eighteen and the girl five; for there is quite thirteen years" difference in their ages."
"Then he is about thirty-four or five," said Joan thoughtfully.
"Yes, but in that I am not interested. The awful part for me is that the girl is now of age, and the obstacle of her youth no longer prevents the marriage. Any day the worst may happen. If I could only meet her, I might have a chance to undermine the cold, bronze statue, even though he has a great reputation as a soldier, and is a V.C. But how to manage an introduction? The father has the air of a mediaeval dragon."
Joan"s heart said: "The man is not a cold statue," but aloud she remarked: "I see now why you hoped that I knew Miss Ffrench. You wanted _me_ to manage it. Well, perhaps I can, even as it is. I have undertaken more difficult things and succeeded."
"Oh, if you would! But why should I hope it, since you have nothing to gain?"
Joan dropped her eyes and did not answer.
"Yet you will try?" pleaded Villa Fora.
"Yet I will try, on one condition. You must be a connection of the late Comte de Merival."
"Your husband!"
Joan smiled as she nodded.