CHAPTER XXVIII.

A DEADLOCK

Lady Wyndcliffe had returned from America and was staying for two days at the Myrtles.

Sibell had been compelled to describe to her aunt that unfortunate incident at the hotel in London, and how she had suddenly become parted from Brinsley. Etta became furious, and declared that the sole blame should be taken by Gretton.

“Gussie always was an ass! He ought to have known better,” cried the well-preserved woman, who, after a week in New York, where her friend had been buried, had hastened back to London, travelling, of course, in the name of Mrs. Wilcox. “I sympathize with you, my dear Sibell,” she went on. “Can’t you make it up with Brinsley?” she asked, puffing at her eternal cigarette, as they sat in the little drawing-room.

“He will not reply to any of my letters, nor will he consent to see me,” said the girl despondently. “He has a locum now at Golder’s Green, and has gone back to his mother’s.”

“H’m!” grunted the adventuress who bore such an honorable name. “Well, it’s rather natural, after all, isn’t it? No man would stand seeing with his own eyes his fiancée in _déshabille_ creeping out of a man’s bedroom at three o’clock in the morning, would he?”

“I suppose not. But he won’t hear the truth.”

“The truth, my dear Sibell, is pathetic. Owing to your own foolish action in going down to Gussie’s room at that hour, you’ve brought all this upon yourself. As far as I can see, your engagement has been entirely broken off, eh?”

“It has, no doubt,” said Sibell tearfully. “What am I to do, auntie? Do advise me.”

The dark-haired woman remained silent for a few moments in order to impress her niece. Then, looking her straight in the face very earnestly, said:

“There is only one thing to do, my dear. And I strongly advise it. Gussie is devoted to you--you know that well. He is frantic about you, and has written three letters to me. He loves you quite as well as Otway ever did. You’ve lost Otway--accept Gussie.”

“Never!” she cried, stamping her little foot in desperation. “I’ll never marry him!”

“But just pause for a moment. Don’t get into a temper, dear, because I want to give you sound advice. Gussie is very rich, and, with your own fortune, think what you both could do! In a moment you would figure in Society and move in the best circles, and, further,” she added, again pausing and remembering the clause of the will by which part of Henry Dare’s fortune would revert to Gordon Routh, “have you never thought that if you cared you need not live in that accursed Guest House? If you liked to marry Gussie you could forego this evil inheritance left you by your Uncle Henry.”

The point had never occurred to her, and, admitting it, she sat for a few minutes very calm and thoughtful.

“But I could never marry Mr. Gretton, auntie--never!” she declared at last. “I don’t love him--especially after that night at the Cecil!”

“Then all I can say is that you’re a silly little fool,” declared Lady Wyndcliffe. “I’ve met so many of your romantic temperament--girls I’ve taken round Society. But very soon romance gets knocked out of them by their daily disillusions, and they end by making marriages of convenience, and money makes up for what men call love.”

“You sneer at love, auntie,” cried the girl reproachfully.

“Indeed, I don’t, dear,” the woman replied. “I only say that the girl who marries for love nowadays suffers a silly martyrdom of jealousy, for in these hectic days a man is seldom, if ever, true to a woman, either before marriage or after.”

“Even though you have had wide experience, auntie, I refuse to believe it to be the general rule.” Then of a sudden, she remarked: “It’s a lovely afternoon. I’m going to take ‘Tiz-oh’ for a walk,” indicating her sweet little Pekingese, who, hearing his name, rose, stretched himself, and came waddling towards her.

Five minutes later the girl went forth into the glorious spring afternoon with her pet at her heels.

Already the beautiful Thames valley was clothed in its freshest green, the orchards were white with blossom, the birds in full song, and the sky cloudless as she swung along, a smart, well-set-up figure in her beige jumper-suit and close-fitting black hat.

From her usually bright, open countenance all the sunshine of life had died out. Pale, hollow-eyed, and despairing, her face gave a true index to her perplexed state of mind.

As she strode along blindly, she was reflecting upon her aunt’s suggestion that, Brinsley having forsaken her, she should at once accept Augustus Gretton’s offer, and take her place in Society with the smart house in Upper Brook Street which was Gussie’s.

As Etta had pointed out, with her artful insidiousness, Gussie was well-known in London, and already the Conservatives had tried three times--on account of his ability to contribute to the Party funds--to induce him to put up for a borough constituency. The Borough of Guildford was suggested, and after that Bournemouth, and then West Hartlepool. But man-about-town that he was, and gossiper at his club, with his perfect English--for indeed no better English is spoken than in a West End club--political bickering had never appealed to him.

As she swung along the long, damp road, stick in hand and her pet Pekingese beside her, she reflected deeply upon her position.

Brinsley, to whom she was devoted, whose every word had been her law, whose lips she had met in those hot, fevered caresses, whose hugs had thrilled her with a sensation that had become her delirium of delight, had now cast her aside as worthless, and had gone away.

She had now to decide whether to accept her uncle’s fortune and live alone in that ancient house of evil at Hampton Court, or live with Gretton as her husband, a mockery of life of up-to-date gaiety--a hollow sham such as many a girl might enjoy.

Which should she choose? As she went along that dull, muddy road in her thick golfing brogues and swinging her ash stick, she thought it all over.

Now and then “Tiz-oh” her Peke lagged behind, and she would whistle him to come to heel. In her walk she became self-absorbed. Her aunt had put before her the most difficult of all the problems in her young life.

She had passed the Ferry Hotel, that riverside resort so popular in summer, with its pretty lawn and landing-stage, which was usually so gay with its punts and riverside folk, yet on this early spring afternoon was deserted and forlorn.

At the door stood a youngish, clean-shaven man in a dark blue rain-coat, erect and smart, with something of the appearance of a ship’s officer. His grey felt hat was set at an angle, and as she passed, he was so entirely engaged in lighting his cigarette in the wind that he scarcely looked up at her. The glance was only a momentary one, but sufficient to cause him to become the more intent upon lighting his cigarette.

Sibell, in her distracted state, did not give the young fellow another glance, but continued down the road. He was no doubt one of the many Thames lovers who, year in and year out, stay at the Ferry.

The young man turned back into the hotel, and, on second thoughts, entered the coffee-room and ordered his tea. Then he took up an old illustrated paper and began to read.

Just as the neat waitress brought in the tray, heavy footsteps were heard descending the stairs, and into the room came a man who had been staying there for the past three days, taking long walks about the country-side, a hale and hearty old gentleman named Mr. Herbert Smee, who came from Northampton, and was a retired leather merchant.

“Nice afternoon, sir!” cheerily exclaimed the younger man, whose name was Gleeson, and who was a commercial traveller. “I was just going for a stroll, but thought I’d first have my tea.”

“So am I,” replied the rather short old man. “May I come out with you?”

“Certainly,” was the younger man’s reply, for Mr. Smee had, during the two days they had been fellow-guests there, struck him as an extremely intelligent and well-informed old fellow, possessed of a vast amount of learning. His business, he understood, had taken him abroad a great deal, especially to the East and to the centres of the trade in hides.

After tea they strolled out together, when, in about half an hour, they met Sibell with her dog returning. As she passed, the younger man gave her an inquiring glance, but at the same time he kept a watchful eye upon his companion’s grey face. The elder man, though he pretended not to notice her, had turned somewhat pale, and then halted for a moment in pretence of searching his pockets for his pipe, but in reality in order to recover himself from that unexpected meeting, which young Gleeson had so cleverly engineered.

Presently they returned to the pleasant little village, passing beyond their hotel, and continued on for a further quarter of an hour, when, from the gate of the Myrtles, there emerged Sibell, accompanied by her aunt, who wore a handsome fur coat, both women walking in their direction.

The men were discussing a film which both had seen in London, when Gleeson suddenly interrupted the other by saying:

“Here comes a very handsome woman. Don’t you think so? I wonder who she is?”

“Who knows?” grunted the old man, whose face clouded instantly, and his watchful companion was intrigued to notice his disguised anxiety to avoid her.

After another twenty minutes or so they returned to the Ferry, where, in the hour before dinner, they sat smoking and gossiping.

Meanwhile at the Myrtles Etta Wyndcliffe, who had suddenly remembered an engagement in London, was busily packing in order to leave directly after dinner.

The presence at Cookham of that little old fellow and his companion had alarmed her.

She had recognized the stranger staying at the Ferry as Albert Ashe’s mysterious friend, a Mr. Pearson.

What was he doing at Cookham? That was the point which puzzled her. And who was the smart, alert man who appeared to be his bosom friend?

Before ten o’clock that night she was at Paddington, and, having taken a room at the Great Western Hotel in the name of Mrs. Wilcox, she at once drove to Ashe’s rooms in St. James’s.

Having previously telephoned from her room in the hotel, she found the man anxiously awaiting her.

In a few quick, breathless sentences she told him of her encounter, while he stood aghast.

“What the devil is he doing down there? Why?” he cried, surprised. “And who can his companion be? Suppose Sibell has recognized him?”

“She hasn’t. They’ve never met. Unless she remembers him at Cannes.”

“By Jove! They must never meet, eh? We had one damned narrow escape with the dear, departed Rupert. We don’t want to risk a second.”

“I’ve been persuading Sibell to marry Gussie,” said the woman, casting off her furs wearily. “She’s an obdurate little simpleton, for any other girl but her would jump at the chance, thereby giving us all the commission we want and making everybody happy, even doddering old Gordon himself. But life is so full of disappointments, annoyances, and--well, narrow escapes, eh? my dear Albert!”

“And how does the girl take it?” asked the ex-butler, as he helped himself to a drink from the decanter on the sideboard.

“Resentful at first, but, after due reflection, she’s rather inclined to change her views. We must not allow her to make it up with Otway at all costs,” the woman added.

“That she’ll never do. I’ve made friends with the doctor who is looking after his practice, a fellow named Lancaster, and you bet I gave the young lady a great character for honesty. I saw that my words sank in, and I know he’ll let out what he has learnt from a reliable source--myself. I urged him to keep the secret, but he’s a blithering young idiot, and I know he’ll tell Otway at the first opportunity.”

“That’s all very well, Albert. But things are rapidly coming to a crisis. Where do we really stand?”

“We stand in with Gordon, don’t we?--not with old Pearson, surely.”

“I don’t know so much about that. He might very easily be in the cart with all three of us if we’re not very careful, you know! It’s a desperate game we are now playing!”

“There! You’ve got the wind up again--you silly fool!” said the man.

“Why do you say that? I didn’t have it on that terrible voyage to New York! I played the game--That you must admit.”

“Then play it again,” urged the man, with a weird grin. “We’ve gone so far, and we can’t turn back now. Sibell must marry Gussie Gretton--she has to--or, by heaven, we shall both be up at the Old Bailey. So the future is up to you. Up to you! You hear that?” he cried in a hard, decisive voice.

The woman placed her hands over her ears to shut out his fierce and unholy demands.