The Swindler, Ethel May Dell [distant reading TXT] 📗

hands that shook a little. Her face was turned away from him.
He waited for a few seconds; then, as she still remained silent, he spoke.
"What is this last obstacle, Mrs. Denvers?"
She answered him with her head bent, her fingers still fluttering the papers before her.
"You," she said, in a low voice. "You yourself."
"Me!" said Lord Ronald, in evident astonishment.
She nodded without speaking.
"But--I'm sorry," he said pathetically, "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you. I am not famed for my wits, as you know."
She laughed at that, unexpectedly and quite involuntarily; and though she was instantly serious again the laugh served to clear away some of her embarrassment.
"Oh, but you are absurd," she said, "to talk like that. No dull-witted person could ever have done what you have been doing lately. Major Fletcher himself told me that day we went to Farabad that it needed sharp wits to pose as a native among natives. He also said--" She paused suddenly.
"Yes?" said Lord Ronald.
She glanced round at him momentarily.
"I don't know why I should repeat it. It is quite beside the point. He also said that it entailed a risk that no one would care to take unless--unless there was something substantial to be gained by it."
"Well, but there was," said Lord Ronald vaguely.
"Meaning my safety?" she questioned.
"Exactly," he said.
She became silent; but she fidgeted no longer with her papers. She was making up her mind to take a bold step.
"Lord Ronald," she said at last, "I am going to ask you a very direct--a horribly direct--question. Will you answer me quite directly too? And--and--tell me the truth, even if it sounds rather brutal?"
There was an unmistakable appeal in her voice. With an effort she wheeled in her chair, and fully faced him. But she was so plainly distressed that even he could not fail to notice it.
"What is it?" he said kindly. "I will tell you the truth, of course. I always do."
"You promise?" she said, very earnestly.
"Certainly I promise," he said.
"Then--you must forgive my asking, but I must know, and I can't find out in any other way--Lord Ronald, are you--are you in love with me?"
She saw the grey eyes widen in astonishment, and was conscious of a moment of overwhelming embarrassment; and then, slow and emphatic, his answer came, banishing all misgiving.
"But of course I am," he said. "I thought you knew."
She summoned to her aid an indignation she was far from feeling; she had to cloak her confusion somehow. "How could I possibly know?" she said. "You never told me."
"I asked you to marry me," he protested. "I thought you would take the other thing for granted."
She stood up abruptly, turning from him. It was impossible to keep up her indignation. It simply declined to carry her through.
"You--you are a perfect idiot!" she said shakily. And on the words she tried to laugh, but only succeeded in partially smothering a sob.
"Oh, I say!" said Lord Ronald. He got up awkwardly, and stood behind her. "Please don't take it to heart," he urged. "I shouldn't have told you, only--you know--you asked. And it wouldn't make any difference, on my honour it wouldn't. Won't you take my word for it, and give me a trial?"
"No," she said.
"Why not?" he persisted. "Don't you think you are rather hard on me? I shall never take a single inch more than you care to allow."
She turned upon him suddenly. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes were wet, but she no longer cared about his seeing these details.
"What did you mean?" she demanded unexpectedly, "by saying to me that those fight hardest who fight in vain?"
He was not in the least disconcerted.
"I meant that though you might send me about my business you would not quite manage to shake me off altogether."
"Meaning that you would refuse to go?" she asked, with a quiver that might have been anger in her voice.
"Meaning," he responded quietly, "that though you might deny me yourself, it might not be in your power to deny me the pleasure of serving you."
"And is it not in my power?" she asked swiftly.
He was looking at her very intently.
"No," he said in his most deliberate drawl. "I don't think it is."
"But it is," she asserted, meeting his look with blazing eyes. "You cannot possibly enter my service without my consent. And--and--I am not going to consent to that mad scheme of yours."
"No?" he said.
"No," she repeated with emphasis. "You yourself are the obstacle, as I said before. If--if you had not been in love with me, I might have considered it. But--now--it is out of the question. Moreover," her eyes shot suddenly downwards, as though to hide their fire, "I shall not want that sort of protector now."
"No?" he said again, very softly this time. He was standing straight before her, still closely watching her with that in his eyes that he had never permitted there before.
"No!" she repeated once more, and again brokenly she laughed; then suddenly raised her eyes to his, and gave him both her hands impetuously, confidingly, yet with a certain shyness notwithstanding. "I--I am going to marry again after all," she said, "if--if you will have me."
"My dear," said Lord Ronald, very tenderly, "I always meant to!"

* * * * *


Her Hero

I
THE AMERICAN COUSIN

"My dear child, it's absurd to be romantic over such a serious matter as marriage--the greatest mistake, I assure you. Nothing could be more suitable than an alliance with this very eligible young man. He plainly thinks so himself. If you are so unreasonable as to throw away this magnificent chance, I shall really feel inclined to give you up in despair."
The soft, drawling accents fell with a gentle sigh through the perfumed silence of the speaker's boudoir. She was an elderly woman, beautiful, with that delicate, china-like beauty that never fades from youth to age. Not even Lady Raffold's enemies had ever disputed the fact of her beauty, not even her stepdaughter, firmly though she despised her.
She sat behind the tea-table, this stepdaughter, dark and inscrutable, a grave, unresponsive listener. Her grey eyes never varied as Lady Raffold's protest came lispingly through the quiet room. She might have been turning over some altogether irrelevant problem at the back of her mind. It was this girl's way to hide herself behind a shield of apparent preoccupation when anything jarred upon her.
"I need scarcely tell you what it would mean to your father," went on the soft voice. "Ever since poor Mortimer's death it has fretted him terribly to think that the estates must pass out of the direct line. Indeed, he hardly feels that the present heir belongs to the family at all. The American branch has always seemed so remote. But now that the young man is actually coming over to see his inheritance, it does seem such a Heaven-sent chance for you. You know, dear, it's your sixth season. You really ought to think seriously of getting settled. I am sure it would be a great weight off my mind to see you suitably married. And this young Cochrane is sure to take a reasonable view of the matter. Americans are so admirably practical. And, of course, if your father could leave all his money to the estates, as this marriage would enable him to do, it would be a very excellent arrangement for all concerned."
The girl at the tea-table made a slight--a very slight--movement that scarcely amounted to a gesture of impatience. The gentle drone of her stepmother's voice was becoming monotonous. But she said nothing whatever, and her expression did not change.
A faintly fretful note crept into Lady Raffold's tone when she spoke again.
"You're so unreasonable, Priscilla. I really haven't a notion what you actually want. You might have been a duchess by this time, as all the world knows, if you had only been reasonable. How is it--why is it--that you are so hard to please?"
Lady Priscilla raised her eyelids momentarily.
"I don't think you would understand, Charlotte, if I were to tell you," she said, in a voice of such deep music that it seemed incapable of bitterness.
"Some ridiculous sentimentality, no doubt," said Lady Raffold.
"I am sure you would call it so."
A faint flush rose in the girl's dark face. She looked at her stepmother no longer, but began very quietly and steadily to make the tea.
Lady Raffold waited a few seconds for her confidence, but she waited in vain. Lady Priscilla had retired completely behind her shield, and it was quite obvious that she had no intention of exposing herself any further to stray shots.
Her stepmother was exasperated, but she found it difficult to say anything more upon the subject in face of this impenetrability. She could only solace herself with the reflection that the American cousin, who had become heir to the earldom and estates of Raffold, would almost certainly take a more common-sense view of the matter, and, if that were so, a little pressure from the girl's father, whom she idolised, would probably be sufficient to settle it according to her desires.
It was so plainly Priscilla's duty to marry the young man. The whole thing seemed to be planned and cut out by Providence. And it was but natural that Ralph Cochrane should see it in the same light. For it was understood that he was not rich, and it would be greatly to his interest to marry Earl Raffold's only surviving child.
So Lady Raffold reasoned to herself as Priscilla poured out the tea in serious silence, and she gradually soothed her own annoyance by the process.
"Come," she said at length, breaking a long silence, "I should think Ralph Cochrane will be in England in ten days at the latest. We must not be too formal with him as he is a relation. Shall we ask him to luncheon on the Sunday after next?"
Priscilla did not at once reply. When at length she looked up, it was with the air of one coming out of a reverie.
"Oh, yes, if you like, Charlotte," she said, in her deep, quiet voice. "No doubt he will amuse you. I know you always enjoy Americans."
"And you, my dear?" said Lady Raffold, with just a hint of sharpness in her tone.
"I?" Again her stepdaughter paused a little, as if collecting her thoughts. "I shall not be here," she said finally. "I have decided to go down to Raffold for midsummer week, and I don't suppose I shall hurry back. It won't matter, will it? I often think that you entertain best alone. And I am so tired of London heat and dust."
There was an unconscious note of wistfulness in the beautiful voice, but its dominant virtue was determination.
Lady Raffold realised at once to her unspeakable indignation that protest was useless.
"Really, Priscilla," was all she found to say, "I am amazed--yes, amazed--at your total lack of consideration."
But Priscilla was quite unimpressed.
"You won't have time to miss me," she said. "I don't think any one will, except, perhaps, Dad; and he always knows where to find me."
"Your father will certainly not leave town before the end of the season," said Lady Raffold, raising her voice slightly.
"Poor dear Dad!" murmured Priscilla.


II
THE ROMANCE OF HER LIFE

"And so I escaped. Her ladyship didn't like it, but it was worth a tussle."
Priscilla leaned