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

would be, if I were any one else."
Suddenly the smile came back and drew afresh the kindly, humorous lines about his eyes.
"She seems to remember me rather well," he murmured. "She certainly was a jolly little kid."


III
THE LADY IN DISTRESS

The afternoon sunlight streamed golden through the cathedral as Cecil Rivington passed into its immense silence. He moved with quiet and leisurely tread; it was not his way to hurry. The great clock was just booming the hour.
There were not many people about. A few stray footsteps wandered through the stillness, a few vague whispers floated to and fro. But the peace of the place lay like a spell, a dream atmosphere in which every sound was hushed.
Rivington passed down the nave till he reached the central space under the great dome. There he paused, and gazed straight upwards into the giddy height above him.
As he stood thus calmly contemplative, a light step sounded on the pavement close to him, and a low voice spoke.
"Oh, here you are! It's good of you to be so punctual."
He lowered his eyes slowly as if he were afraid of giving them a shock, and focussed them upon the speaker.
"I am never late," he remarked. "And I am never early."
Then he smiled kindly and held out his hand.
"Hullo, Chirpy!" he said. "It is Chirpy, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is Chirpy. But I never expected you to remember that."
"I remember most things," said Rivington.
His pale eyes dwelt contemplatively on the girl before him. She was very slim and young, and plainly very nervous. There was no beauty about Ernestine Cardwell, only a certain wild grace peculiarly charming, and a quick wit that some people found too shrewd. When she laughed she was a child. Her laugh was irresistible, and there was magic in her smile, a baffling, elusive magic too transient to be defined. Very sudden and very fleeting was her smile. Rivington saw it for an instant only as she met his look.
"Do you know," she said, colouring deeply. "I thought you were much older than you are."
"I am fifty," said Rivington.
But she shook her head.
"It is very good of you to say so."
"Not at all," smiled Rivington. "You, I fancy, must be about twenty-one. How long since the bull episode?"
"Oh, do you remember that, too?" She uttered a faint laugh.
"Vividly," said Rivington. "I have a lively memory of the fleetness of your retreat and the violence of your embrace when the danger was over."
She laughed again.
"It was years and years ago--quite six, I should think."
"Quite, I should say," agreed Rivington. "But we have met since then, surely?"
"Oh yes, casually. But we are not in the same set, are we? Some one once told me you were very Bohemian."
"Who was it? I should like to shoot him!" said Rivington.
At which she laughed again, and then threw a guilty glance around.
"I don't think this is a very good place for a talk."
"Not if you want to do much laughing," said Rivington. "Come along to the tea-shop round the corner. No one will disturb us there."
They turned side by side, and began to walk back. The girl moved quickly as though not wholly at her ease. She glanced at her companion once or twice, but it was not till they finally emerged at the head of the steps that she spoke.
"I am wondering more and more how I ever had the impertinence to do it."
"There's no great risk in asking a poor relation to do anything," said Rivington consolingly.
"Ah, but I did it without asking." There was an unmistakable note of distress in her quick rejoinder. "I was at my wits' end. I didn't know what on earth to do. And it came to me suddenly like an inspiration. But I wish I hadn't now, with all my heart."
Rivington turned his mild eyes upon her.
"My dear child, don't be silly!" he said. "I am delighted to be of use for a change. I don't do much worth the doing, being more or less of a loafer. It is good for me to exercise my ingenuity now and then. It only gets rusty lying by."
She put out her hand impulsively and squeezed his.
"You're awfully nice to me," she said. "It's only a temporary expedient, of course. I couldn't ask you first--there wasn't time. But I'll set you free as soon as I possibly can. Have people been talking much?"
"Rather! They are enjoying it immensely. I have had to go ahead like steam. I've even engaged a best man."
She threw him a startled look.
"Oh, but----"
"No, don't be alarmed," he said reassuringly. "It's best to take the bull by the horns, believe me. The more fuss you make at the outset, the quicker it will be over. People will be taking us for granted in a week."
"You think so?" she said doubtfully. "I can't think what mother will say. I don't dare think."
"Is your mother away, then?"
"Yes, in Paris for a few days. I couldn't have done it if she had been at home. I don't know quite what I should have done." She broke off with a sudden shudder. "I've had a horrid fright," she said again.
"Come and have some tea," suggested Rivington practically.


IV
A COUNCIL OF WAR

They had tea in a secluded corner, well removed from all prying eyes. Gradually, as the minutes passed, the girl's manner became more assured.
When at length he leaned his elbows on the table and said, "Tell me all about it," she was ready.
She leaned towards him, and dropped her voice.
"You know Mr. Dinghra Singh? I'm sure you do. Every one does."
"Yes, I know him. They call him Nana Sahib at the clubs."
She shuddered again.
"I used to like him rather. He has a wicked sort of fascination, you know. But I loathe him now; I abhor him. And--I am terrified at him."
She stopped. Rivington said nothing. There was not much expression in his eyes. Without seeming to scan very closely, they rested on her face.
After a moment, in a whisper, she continued:
"He follows me about perpetually. I meet him everywhere. He looks at me with horrid eyes. I know, without seeing, the instant he comes into the room."
She paused. Rivington still said nothing.
"He is very rich, you know," she went on, with an effort. "He will be Rajah of Ferosha some day. And, of course, every one is very nice to him in consequence. I never was that. Don't think it! But I used to laugh at him. It's my way. Most men don't like it. No Englishmen do that I know of. But he--this man--is, somehow, different from every one else. And--can you believe it?--he is literally stalking me. He sends me presents--exquisite things, jewellery, that my mother won't let me return. I asked him not to once, and he laughed in my face. He has a horrible laugh. He is half-English, too. I believe that makes him worse. If he were an out-and-out native he wouldn't be quite so revolting. Of course, I see my mother's point of view. Naturally, she would like me to be a princess, and, as she says, I can't pick and choose. Which is true, you know," she put in quaintly, "for men don't like me as a rule; at least, not the marrying sort. I rather think I'm not the marrying sort myself. I've never been in love, never once. But I couldn't--I could not--marry Dinghra. But it's no good telling him so. The cooler I am to him the hotter he seems to get, till--till I'm beginning to wonder how I can possibly get away."
The note of distress sounded again in her voice. Very quietly, as though in answer to it, Rivington reached out a hand and laid it over hers.
But his eyes never varied as he said:
"Won't you finish?"
She bent her head.
"You'll think me foolish to be so easily scared," she said, a slight catch in her voice. "Most women manage to take care of themselves. I ought to be able to."
"Please go on," he said. "I don't think you foolish at all."
She continued, without raising her eyes:
"Things have been getting steadily worse. Last week at Lady Villar's ball I had to dance with him four times. I tried to refuse, but mother was there. She wouldn't hear of it. You know"--appealingly--"she is so experienced. She knows how to insist without seeming to, so that, unless one makes a scene, one has to yield. I thought each dance that he meant to propose, but I just managed to steer clear. I felt absolutely delirious the whole time. Most people thought I was enjoying it. Old Lady Phillips told me I was looking quite handsome." She laughed a little. "Well, after all, there seemed to be no escape, and I got desperate. It was like a dreadful nightmare. I went to the opera one night, and he came and sat close behind me and talked in whispers. When he wasn't talking I knew that he was watching me--gloating over me. It was horrible--horrible! Last night I wouldn't go out with the others. I simply couldn't face it. And--do you know--he came to me!" She began to breathe quickly, unevenly. The hands that lay in Rivington's quiet grasp moved with nervous restlessness. "There was no one in the house besides the servants," she said. "What could I do? He was admitted before I knew. Of course, I ought to have refused to see him, but he was very insistent, and I thought it a mistake to seem afraid. So I went to him--I went to him."
The words came with a rush. She began to tremble all over. She was almost sobbing.
Rivington's fingers closed very slowly, barely perceptibly, till his grip was warm and close. "Take your time," he said gently. "It's all right, you know--all right."
"Thank you," she whispered. "Well, I saw him. He was in a dangerous--a wild-beast mood. He told me I needn't try to run away any longer, for I was caught. He said--and I know it was true--that he had obtained my mother's full approval and consent. He swore that he wouldn't leave me until I promised to marry him. He was terrible, with a sort of suppressed violence that appalled me. I tried not to let him see how terrified I was. I kept quite quiet and temperate for a long time. I told him I could never, never marry him. And each time I said it, he smiled and showed his teeth. He was like a tiger. His eyes were fiendish. But he, too, kept quiet for ever so long. He tried persuasion, he tried flattery. Oh, it was loathsome--loathsome! And then quite suddenly he turned savage, and--and threatened me."
She glanced nervously into Rivington's face, but it told her nothing. He looked merely thoughtful.
She went on more quietly.
"That drove me desperate, and I exclaimed, hardly thinking, 'I wouldn't marry you if you were the only man in the world--which you are not!' 'Oh!' he said at once. 'There is another man, is there?' He didn't seem to have thought that possible. And I--I was simply clutching at straws--I told him 'Yes.' It was a lie, you know--the first deliberate lie I think I have ever told since I came to years of discretion. There isn't another man, or likely to be. That's just the trouble. If there were, my mother wouldn't be so angry with me for refusing this chance of marriage, brilliant though she thinks it. But I was quite desperate. Do you think it was very wrong of