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Lost Leader, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Book 1 - Chapter 5. The Hesitation Of Mr. Mannering |
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_ BOOK I CHAPTER V. THE HESITATION OF MR. MANNERING The peculiar atmosphere of the room, heavy with the newest perfume from the Burlington Arcade, and the scent of exotic flowers, at no time pleasing to him, seemed more than usually oppressive to Mannering as he fidgetted about waiting for the woman whom he had come to see. He was conscious of a restless longing to open wide the windows, take the flowers from their vases, throw them into the street, and poke out the fire. The little room, with all its associations, its almost pathetic attempts at refinement, its furniture which reeked of the Tottenham Court Road, was suddenly hateful to him. He detested his presence there, and its object. He was already in a state of nervous displeasure when the door opened. The girl who entered seemed in a sense as ill in accord with such surroundings as himself. She was plainly dressed in black, her hair brushed back, her complexion pale, her eyes brilliant with a not altogether natural light. She regarded him with a curious mixture of fear and welcome. The latter, however, triumphed easily. She came towards him with out-stretched hand and a delightful smile. "You;--so soon again!" she exclaimed. "Were there--so many mistakes?" Mannering's face softened. He was half ashamed of his irritation. He answered her kindly. "Scarcely any, Hester," he answered. "Your typing is always excellent." Her anxiety was only half allayed. "There is nothing else wrong?" she demanded, breathlessly. "Nothing whatever," he assured her. "Where is your mother?" She sat down. The light died out of her face. "Out!" she answered. "Gone to Brighton for the day. What do you want with her?" "Nothing," he answered, gravely. "I only wanted to know whether we were likely to be interrupted." "She will not be in for some time," the girl answered. "She is almost certain to stay down there and dine." He nodded. "Hester," he asked, "do you know any one--a man named Borrowdean? Sir Leslie Borrowdean?" She shook her head a little doubtfully. "I have heard mother speak of him," she said. "He is a friend of hers, then?" "She met him at a supper party at the Savoy a few weeks ago," she answered. "And since?" "I believe so! She talks about him a great deal. Why do you ask me this?" "I cannot tell you, Hester," he said, gravely. "By the bye, do you think that she is likely to have mentioned my name to him?" The girl flushed up to her eyebrows. "I--I don't know! I am sorry," she faltered. "You know what mother is. If any one asked her questions she would be more than likely to answer them. I do hope that she has not been making mischief." He left her anxiety unrelieved. For some few moments he did not speak at all. Already he fancied that he could see the whole pitiful little incident--Borrowdean, diplomatic, genial, persistent, the woman a fool, fashioned to his own making; himself the sacrifice. Yet the meaning of it all was dark to him. She moved over to his side. Her eyes and tone were full of appeal. She sat close to him, her long white fingers nervously interlocked. "I am afraid of you. More afraid than ever to-day," she murmured. "You look stern, and I don't understand why you have come." "To see you, Hester," he answered, with a sudden impulse of kindness. "Ah, no!" she interrupted, choking back a little sob. "We both know so well that it is not that. It is pity which brings you, pity and nothing else. You know very well what a difference it makes to me. If I have your work to do, and a letter sometimes, and see you now and then, I can bear everything. But it is not easy. It is never easy!" "Of course it is not," he assented. "Hester, have you thought over what I said to you last time I was here?" She shook her head. "What is the use of thinking?" she asked, quietly. "I could not leave her." "You mean that she would not let you go?" Mannering asked. "No! It is not that," the girl answered. "Sometimes I think that she would be glad. It is not that." He nodded gravely. "I understand. But--" "If you understand, please do not say any more." "But I must, Hester," he persisted. "There is no one else to give you advice. I know all that you can tell me, and I say that this is no fitting home for you. Your mother's friends are not fit friends for you. She has chosen her way in life, and she will not brook any interference. You can do no good by remaining with her. On the contrary, you are doing yourself a great deal of harm. I am old enough to be your father, child. Wise enough, I hope, to be your adviser. You shall be my secretary, and come and live at Blakely." A faint flush stole into her anaemic. One realized then that under different conditions she might have been pretty. Her face was no longer expressionless. "You are so kind," she said, softly. "I shall always like to think of this. And yet--it is impossible." "Why?" She hesitated. "It is difficult to explain," she said. "But my being here makes a difference. I found it out once when I went away for a week. Some of--of mother's friends came to the house then whom she will not have when I am here. If I were away altogether--oh, I can't explain, but I would not dare to go." Mannering seemed to have much to say--and said nothing. This queer, pale-faced girl, with her earnest eyes and few simple words, had silenced him. She was right--right at least from her own point of view. A certain sense of shame suddenly oppressed him. He was acutely conscious of his only half-admitted reason for this visit. He had argued for himself. It was his own passionate desire to free himself from associations that were little short of loathsome which had prompted this visit. And then what he had dreaded most of all happened. As they sat facing one another in the silent, half-darkened room, Mannering trying to bring himself into accord with half-admitted but repugnant convictions, she watching him hopelessly, the tinkle of a hansom bell sounded outside. The sudden stopping of a horse, the rattle of a latchkey, and she was in the room. Mannering rose to his feet with a little exclamation. The woman stood and looked in upon them. She wore a pink cloth gown, a flower-garlanded hat, a white coaching veil, beneath which her features were indistinguishable. She brought with her a waft of strong perfume. Her figure was a living suggestion of the struggle between maturity and the corsetiere. Before she spoke she laughed--not altogether pleasantly. "You here again!" she exclaimed to Mannering. "Upon my word! I'm not a ghost! Hester, go and see about some tea, and a brandy and soda. Billy Foa brought me up on his motor, and I'm half choked with dust." The girl rose obediently and quitted the room. The woman untwisted her veil, drew out the pins from her hat, and threw both upon the sofa. Then she turned suddenly upon Mannering. "Look here," she said, "the last twice you've been here you seem to have carefully chosen times when I am out. I don't understand it. It can't be that you want to see that chit of a girl of mine. Why don't you come when I ask you? Why do you act as though I were something to be avoided?" Mannering rose to his feet. "I came to-day without knowing where you were," he answered, "but I will admit that I wished to see Hester." "What for?" "I have asked her to come and live at Blakely with my niece and myself. She is an excellent typist, and I require a secretary." The woman looked at him angrily. Without her veil she displayed features not in themselves unattractive, but a complexion somewhat impaired by the use of cosmetics. The powder upon her cheeks was even then visible. "What about me?" she asked, sharply. Mannering looked her steadily in the face. "I do not think," he said, "that such a life would suit you." She was an angry woman, and she did not become angry gracefully. "You mean that I'm not good enough for you and your friends in the country. That's what you mean, isn't it? And I should like to know, if I'm not, whose fault it is. Tell me that, will you?" Mannering flinched, though almost imperceptibly. "I meant simply what I said," he said. "Blakely would not suit you at all. We have few friends there, and our simple life would not attract you in the slightest. With Hester it is different. She would have her work, in which she takes some interest, and I believe the change would be in every way good for her." "Well, she shan't come," the woman said, throwing herself into a chair, and regarding him insolently. "I'm not going to live all alone--and be talked about. Don't stare at me like that, Lawrence. I'm the child's mother, am I not?" "It is because you are her mother," he said, quietly, "that I thought you might be glad to find a suitable home for her." "What's good enough for me ought to be good enough for her," she answered, doggedly. Mannering was silent for a moment. This woman seemed to belong to a different world from that with whose denizens he was in any way familiar. Years of isolation, and a certain epicureanism of taste, from which necessity had never taken the fine edge, had made him a little intolerant. He could see nothing that was not absolutely repulsive in this woman, whose fine eyes were seeking even now to attract his admiration. She was making the best of herself. She had chosen the darkest corner of the room, and her pose was not ungraceful. Her skirts were skilfully raised to show just as much as possible of her long, slender foot, with the patent shoes and silver buckles. She knew that her ankles were above reproach, and her dress becoming. A dozen men had paid her compliments during the day, yet she knew that every admiring glance, every whispered word which had come to her to-day, or for many days past, would count for nothing if only she could pierce for a single moment the unchanging coldness of the man who sat watching her now with the face of a Sphynx. A slow tide of passion welled up in her heart. Was not he a man and free, and was not she a woman? It was not much she asked from him, no pledge, no bondage. His kindness only, she told herself, was all she craved. She wanted him to look at her as other men looked at her. Who was he that he should set himself on a pedestal? Perhaps he had grown shy from the rust of his country life, the slow drifting apart from the world of men and women. Perhaps--she rose swiftly to her feet and crossed the room. _ |
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