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A Prince of Sinners, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Part 3 - Chapter 3. The Singular Behaviour Of Mary Scott |
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_ PART III CHAPTER III. THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MARY SCOTT The looking-glass was, perhaps, a little merciless in that clear north light, but Mary's sigh as she looked away from it was certainly unwarranted. For, as a matter of fact, she had improved wonderfully since her coming to London. A certain angularity of figure had vanished--the fashionable clothes which Mr. Bullsom had insisted upon ordering for her did ample justice to her graceful curves and lithe buoyant figure. The pallor of her cheeks, too, which she had eyed just now with so much dissatisfaction, was far removed from the pallor of ill-health; her mouth, which had lost its discontented droop, was full of pleasant suggestions of humour. She was distinctly a very charming and attractive young woman--and yet she turned away with a sigh. She was twenty-seven years old, and she had been unconsciously comparing herself with a girl of eighteen. She drew down one of the blinds and set the tea-tray where she could sit in the shadow. She was conscious of having dressed with unusual care--she had pinned a great bunch of fragrant violets in her bosom. She acknowledged to herself frankly that she was anxious to appear at her best. For there had come to her, in the midst of her busy life--a life of strenuous endeavour mingled with many small self-denials--a certain sense of loneliness--of insufficiency--a new thing to her and hard to cope with in this great city where friends were few. And last night, whilst she had been thinking of it, came this note from Brooks asking if he might come to tea. She had been ashamed of herself ever since. It was maddening that she should sit waiting for his coming like a blushing schoolgirl--the colour ready enough to stream into her face at the sound of his footstep. He came at last--a surprise in more ways than one. For he had abandoned the blue serge and low hat of his daily life, and was attired in frock coat and silk hat--his tie and collar of a new fashion, even his bearing altered--at least so it seemed to her jealous observation. He was certainly looking better. There was colour in his pale cheeks, and his eyes were bright once more with the joy of life. Her dark eyes took merciless note of these things, and then found seeing at all a little difficult. "My dear Mary," he exclaimed, cheerfully--he had fallen into the way of calling her Mary lately "this is delightful of you to be in. Do you know that I am really holiday-making?" "Well," she answered, smiling, "I imagined that you were not on your way eastwards." "Where can I sit? May I move these?" He swept aside a little pile of newspapers and books, and took possession of the seat which she had purposely appropriated. "The other chairs are so far off, and you seem to have chosen a dark corner. Eastwards, no. I have been at the office all the morning, and we have bought the property in Poplar Grove and the house in Bermondsey. Now I have finished for the day. Doctor's orders." "If any one has earned a holiday," she said, quietly, "you have. There is some cake on the table there." "Thanks. Well, it was hard work at first. How we stuck at it down at Stepney, didn't we? Six in the morning till twelve at night. And then how we rushed ahead. It seems to me that we have been doing nothing but open branches lately." "I wonder," she said, "that you have stood it so well. Why don't you go away altogether for a time? You have such splendid helpers now. "Oh, I'm enjoying myself," he answered, lightly, "and I don't care to be out of touch with it all." "You enjoy contrasts," she remarked. "I saw your name in the paper this morning as one of Lady Caroom's guests last night." He nodded. "Yes, Lady Caroom has been awfully good to me, and I seem to have got to know a lot of pleasant people in an incredulously short time." "You are a curious mixture," she said, looking at him thoughtfully. "Of what?" he asked, passing his cup for some more tea. "Of wonderful self-devotion," she answered, "and a genuine and natural love of enjoyment. After all, you are only a boy." "I fancy," he remarked, smiling, "that my years exceed yours. "As a matter of fact they don't," she answered, "but I was not thinking of years, I was thinking of disposition. You have set going the greatest charitable scheme of the generation, and yet you are so young, so very young." He laughed a little uneasily. In some vague way he felt that he had displeased her. "I never pretended," he said, "that I did not enjoy life, that I was not fond of its pleasures. It was only while my work was insecure that I made a recluse of myself. You, too," he said, "it is time that you slackened a little. Come, take an evening off and we will dine somewhere and go to the theatre." How delightful it sounded. She felt a warm rush of pleasure at the thought. They would want her badly at Stepney, but "This evening?" she asked. "Yes. No, hang it, it can't be this evening. I'm dining with the Carooms--nor to-morrow evening. Say Thursday evening, will you?" Something seemed suddenly to chill her momentary gush of happiness. "Well," she said, "I think not just yet. We have several fresh girls, you know--it is a bad time to be away. Perhaps you will ask me later on." He laughed softly. "What a funny girl you are, Mary. You'd really rather stew in that hot room, I believe, than go anywhere to enjoy yourself. Such women as you ought to be canonized. You are saints even in this life. What can be done for you in the next?" Mary bit her lip hard, and she bent low over the tea-cups. In another moment she felt that her self-control must go. Fortunately he drifted away from the subject. "Very soon," he said, "we must all have a serious talk about the future. The management is getting too big for me. I think there should be a council elected--something of the sort must be done, and soon." "That," she remarked, "is what Mr. Lavilette says, isn't it?" He looked at her with twinkling eyes. "Oh, you needn't think I'm being scared into it," he answered. "All the same, Lavvy's right enough. No one man has the right to accept large subscriptions and not let the public into his confidence." "Lavilette doesn't believe in our anonymous subscriptions, does he?" she asked. "No! He's rather impudent about that, isn't he? I suppose I ought really to set him right. I should have done so before, but he went about it in such an offensive manner. Well, to go on with what I was saying. You will come on the council, Mary?" "I? Oh, surely not!" "You will! And, what is more, I am going to split all the branches up into divisions, and appoint superintendents and manageresses, at a reasonable salary. And you," he concluded, "are going to be one of the latter." She shook her head firmly. "No! I must remain my own mistress." "Why not? I want to allot to you the work where you can do most good. You know more about it than any one. There is no one half so suitable. I want you to throw up your other work come into this altogether, be my right hand, and let me feel that I have one person on the council whom I can rely upon." She was silent for a moment. She leaned back in her chair, but even in the semi-obscurity the extreme pallor of her face troubled him. "You must remember, too," he said, "that the work will not be so hard as now. Lately you have given us too much of your time. Indeed, I am not sure that it is not you who need a holiday more than I." She raised her eyes. "This is--what you came to say to me?" "Yes. I was anxious to get your promise." There was another short silence. Then she spoke in dull even tones. "I must think it over. You want my whole time, and you want to pay me for it." "Yes. It is only reasonable, and we can afford it. I should draw a salary myself if I had not a little of my own." She raised her eyes once more to his mercilessly, and drew a quick little breath. Yes, it was there written in his face--the blank utter indifference of good-fellowship. It was all that he had come to ask her, it was all that he would ever ask her. Suddenly she felt her heart throbbing in quick short beats-her cheeks burned. They were alone--even her little maid had gone out. Why was he so miserably indifferent? She stumbled to her feet, and suddenly stooping down laid her burning cheeks against his. "Kingston," she said, "you are so cruel--and I am so lonely. Can't you see that I am miserable? Kiss me!" Brooks sat petrified, utterly amazed at this self-yielding on the part of the last woman in this world whom he would ever have thought capable of anything of the sort. "Kiss me--at once." He touched her lips timorously. Then she sprang away from him, her cheeks aflame, her eyes on fire, her hair strangely ruffled. She pointed to the door. "Please go--quickly." He picked up his hat. "But, Mary! I--" "Please!" She stamped her foot. "But--" "I will write. You shall hear from me to-morrow. But if you have any pity for me at all you will go now--this moment." He rose and went. She heard him turn the handle of the door, heard his footsteps upon the stone stairs outside. She counted them idly. One, two, three, four now he was on the next landing. She heard them again, less distinctly, always less distinctly. Then silence. She ran to the window. There he was upon the pavement, now he was crossing the road on his way to the underground station. She tore at her handkerchief, waved it wildly for a moment--and then stopped. He was gone--and she. The hot colour came rushing painfully into her cheeks. She threw herself face downwards upon the sofa. _ |
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