CHAPTER VIII

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“A BIT OF THE TRUTH.”

The Duchess of Avonmore was worried.

She had carried her point and walked off Tom Annesley’s children to her big town house in Park Lane. She had given Ravenel such dresses as her own nieces would have sold their souls for, had done her best to make each day more pleasant than the last, and the only result was that one fine morning she sat alone with Ravenel, absolutely at a loss.

Sir Thomas was perfectly happy, new clothes and a horse to ride having made his countenance to shine as the sun. But Ravenel! the poor duchess sighed.

The girl was pathetically grateful for the benefits showered on her, and showed a clinging affection for the duchess that came near to bringing the tears to that good woman’s eyes; but there was no happiness in her face. She went everywhere; she was gay as if by an effort that sapped her strength, for each day she grew paler, her lovely lips more hard set. There was neither elation nor triumph in her eyes when women envied her or men admired her.

“Most girls would be off their heads with pleasure,” reflected the duchess. “That woman must have broken her spirit somehow. I wish I could find out what ails her.”

Tommy could have enlightened her, but he had been sworn to keep his mouth shut. And in the dark the poor duchess did the very worst thing possible.

“Ravenel,” she said cheerfully, “here’s an invitation for you. Mrs. Murray wants you to lunch with her to-day. She is a great friend of mine--poor little woman! She will cheer you up.”

“I don’t need it,” with a grateful glance. She would rather have stayed with Tommy, but the duchess did not like her plans gainsaid.

Ravenel, getting out of the carriage at the door of Mrs. Murray’s small house in Eaton Place, stood on the doorstep just long enough for her pale-pink gown to catch the eye of a man lounging at a window in the opposite house.

“Humph!” said Lord Levallion curiously, “what’s the meaning of this? Nothing, I suppose, but that Grace Avonmore’s an idiot!”

He watched the girl in and rang for his servant.

“I’ll lunch up here, Lacy,” he said curtly, “and I’m not at home to visitors.”

At that moment Ravenel stood in a small room so full of flowers and pale silk cushions that she wondered why the duchess had said Mrs. Murray was poor. Even Ravenel Annesley saw the money that had been lavished in that luxurious drawing-room.

Mrs. Murray rose to greet her. She had every reason to oblige Lady Annesley by being civil to her stepdaughter. Sylvia was a poor friend and a good enemy, and Mrs. Murray’s footing in smart society was precarious enough. Little did the duchess imagine how much her countenance did for “Bob Murray’s poor wife.” Without it people might have said for “poor Bob Murray’s wife.”

“My dear Miss Annesley,” she said--and was nearly overwhelmed at the dazzling beauty of the girl--“this is too good of you. I have been longing to see you, but I have been so unlucky.”

“It is very kind of you to have me. The duchess is busy to-day,” and no one would have known the voice and manner for Ravenel’s.

Something in the air of the room seemed choking her, something cried loudly in her ear that the very pains of death lay waiting for her at the hands of this small, dainty woman with the clear blue eyes and pink cheeks.

“She is so energetic.” Mrs. Murray laughed wonderingly. “I don’t know how she does it. I hope you won’t be bored lunching alone with me. The duchess said we might go to Hurlingham afterward!”--where Mrs. Murray in the Avonmore carriage would sail serenely over her detractors.

“Whatever you like.” Ravenel looked at the slight figure of her hostess in an innocent fawn-colored gown, and wondered why she did not like her. Lord Levallion could have told her, but so far he had not shown himself on the Avonmore House horizon. She sat down at luncheon almost sullenly, and by degrees, in spite of herself, thawed. Few people had Hester Murray’s manner when she chose, and on her success with this listless, beautiful girl her future depended. Sylvia was viciously unscrupulous, and the trifle she asked should be done well.

Besides, it was amusing! Mrs. Murray hated girls, and this one looked at the rich appointments of the dining-room far too cleverly when her hostess murmured something about her small means.

“I don’t call this poor,” Ravenel said calmly. “You should see us at home.”

“Oh, I try not to look poor!” sweetly. “I really manage my poor Bob’s income very well. I am quite proud of my housekeeping.”

She had excellent reason, if drunken Bob Murray’s uncertain income paid the bills. Every one--but the duchess--knew it did not, but no one was clever enough to know just what did. If Sylvia were not pleased all London would know--and more besides. Mrs. Murray rose gracefully from the luncheon-table.

“It is a crime for you to be poor,” she said with pretty flattery, “for a middle-aged person like me it doesn’t so much matter; though I don’t know,” sighing. “Physical comfort makes up for a good many sorrows.”

“I don’t think so.” Ravenel, with every wish gratified and a raging pain at her heart, could not keep back the cry.

“You will some day,” musingly. “But, my dear girl, don’t let us moralize! I will go and put on my hat. Perhaps you can amuse yourself till I come back.”

There was a glass over the mantelpiece, and under it a long row of framed photographs. Mechanically, as soon as she was alone, Ravenel looked to see if her big black hat were straight. Even misery does not allow a girl to go about with a crooked hat.

But after the first glance at the crowded mantelshelf, where gold and silver and ivory frames jostled each other, she took no more thought to her apparel.

In front of her, staring her in the face, was a likeness of Adrian Gordon. She had no photograph of him and this strange woman had. The girl’s throat thickened--filled.

He had played with her, thrown her over, made her a laughing-stock to herself; yet his pictured face sickened her with longing. She could have followed him through the world, just to see him sometimes, never even asking to speak to him. In a passion of despair she seized the photograph and kissed it as she had never kissed Adrian Gordon in life.

“Adrian,” she whispered, “there must have been something I didn’t know to make you leave me like that! You didn’t really--Adrian!” The incoherent, senseless words left her shaking. She had no time to put down the photograph as Mrs. Murray came in, but stood with blazing cheeks and the living light of passion in her eyes, that had been so indifferent.

“Do you know him?” she said, caring for nothing but to hear whatever she could of him, even from a stranger.

Mrs. Murray laughed.

“Adrian--Captain Gordon--do you mean? He is very good-looking, isn’t he? Of course, I know him; do you?”

Ravenel turned and, very carefully, replaced the picture. Her back was toward her hostess, but her face was plain in the mirror. Her mouth felt so stiff she could scarcely speak.

“I know him--a little; he has gone to India, I think.”

“Yes; poor man, I fancy he had to! Mrs. Gordon,” airily, “is not a cheap luxury.”

“Mrs. Gordon!” the room swam. “Do you mean he was married?”

“It was a boyish madness, if he was; but Mrs. Gordon exists, I’m afraid. Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, say I told you; it would ruin him with Lord Levallion. She is very unhappy, and has been a frightful drain on Captain Gordon. But I must say it hasn’t prevented his enjoying himself. Poor Adrian is one of the most hopeless flirts I know. You won’t,” pleadingly, “say anything to Levallion?”

Ravenel looked at her. It was queer how cold she felt, and how passionless--now she knew why Adrian had not come.

“The ‘gay Gordons’ are a proverb, aren’t they?” she said, and found she could smile quite easily. “Captain Gordon is only an acquaintance of mine; you may be sure I shall not mention him to Lord Levallion, whom I barely know.” For a moment her manner staggered even Hester Murray, till she saw the girl’s face had grown haggard.

“One can’t tell all one knows,” she said lightly. “Shall we go out now?”

She was elated as she followed her guest to the carriage, for she had obliged Sylvia and not told one lie. Adrian had certainly given Mrs. Gordon money he could ill spare. And she knew Ravenel would never mention the subject to Levallion. It had been a good day’s work. But if Hester Murray had only known just what she had done at Sylvia’s bidding she would have cut off her right hand sooner than have meddled. If she had even known why Lord Levallion was looking at her from the opposite window, as she got into the carriage, would have given all she owned to undo her work.

“It’s time that child was looked after,” he reflected as the open carriage drove off. He had a dislike to seeing anything ill-treated that was odd in so hard a man; and Sylvia--“I think it’s time I took a hand in the game,” he said aloud. “And I do not consider Mrs. Murray a proper friend for the future Lady Levallion.”

And it might have been better for all concerned if Hester Murray could have heard him.

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