This House to Let

Desultory conversation, the irresponsible chatter of the drawing-room kind, was almost impossible under the circumstances. And although Miss Keane did her best to assume a brave front, it was easy to see that she was inwardly quivering. At every roar of the guns, she shivered all over, and her cheek alternately flushed and then grew deadly pale with her inward terror.

“Poor child,” whispered Spencer to his companion; “she must be a bundle of nerves. Every second, she is experiencing the pangs of death in anticipation. By the way, the gallant Desmond doesn’t seem to have troubled himself much about her. If I hadn’t taken her forcibly away, I believe she would be rooted to that chair now.”

Esmond shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, a chap like Desmond doesn’t know the meaning of fear, and he can’t understand the sensation in others. The other woman took possession of him, and dragged him away. No doubt, he thought she was following. Mrs L’Estrange, so far as I can judge, would never think of anything but number one.”

And as Spencer’s glance stole to the fair face, he felt a strange feeling of pity for her. The poignant happenings of the last few moments had revealed to him her loneliness, the tragedy of her dependence upon others. In a supreme moment of peril, she, who ought to have lovers and friends by the score, was left by herself, and thrown upon the compassion of a stranger.

An anxious half-hour passed, and then messengers came down with tidings of a reassuring nature. The raiders had been driven off, after inflicting considerable damage. Gay London was free to pursue its natural course of pleasure.

At once the tension was relaxed. Drooping forms resumed an erect carriage, the roses bloomed again in the pale cheeks of the women. There was a flutter, a stir. They all moved away from the refuge which had been so welcome, and now had become unbearable.

In the hall they encountered the Colonel, cool and collected, as if he were on parade, Mrs L’Estrange fluttering and full of protestations.

“Oh, my poor Stella! I have been distracted about you. Why did you not follow us? I thought you were close behind us all the time, till we got to one of these abominable cellars, and looked back to find you were missing.”

The Colonel pulled at his moustache a little nervously.

“I shall never forgive myself, Miss Keane, not to have assured myself you were with us at the start. I would have come back to search for you, but Mrs L’Estrange was in such a nervous state I could not leave her.” Miss Keane answered him very coldly, and to her cousin she did not vouchsafe any reply.

“Please do not apologise. It was a question of sauve qui peut. Fortunately, I found some kind friends who took compassion on a forlorn damsel, shaking and terror-stricken.” She turned to Mrs L’Estrange. “Mr Esmond is, of course, an old friend. But you do not know Mr Spencer who got to me first.”

Mrs L’Estrange was quite equal to the occasion; she extended her perfectly-gloved hand with an air of effusive cordiality.

“A thousand thanks to you both. My darling Stella was fortunate in finding such protectors. We are both terrible cowards, I don’t know which is the greater.”

“I, without question,” flashed out Miss Keane. “Otherwise I should have had the sense to scurry away like yourself. We were both frightened rabbits, but you could run to a place of safety while I stood paralysed.”

Mrs L’Estrange turned away the awkward thrust with a charming smile. “I have made up my mind to one thing,” she remarked with an air of conviction. “Never, so long as the War lasts, will I dine out of my own home. This night’s experience has taught me a lesson. I don’t want a second one.”

At this juncture, Tommy Esmond interposed. “I was going to bring my friend Spencer round to you to-night. But I suppose you feel a bit too shattered, eh? You would like to get home and rest.”

“Oh dear, no!” replied the lady vivaciously. “I never alter my habits for anything or anybody. Let us all go along at once. I will go with Colonel Desmond. You and Mr Spencer can continue your charge of Stella.” But Guy had a small duty to perform. “I think if you will excuse me, I will join you a little later. I want to go round to inquire after my uncle and cousin. He is a very old man, and I should like to know he is quite safe.”

So it was arranged. The others drove off to Mrs L’Estrange’s flat, and Spencer, finding he would have some time to wait for a taxi, walked to Carlton House Terrace, where Lord Southleigh had his town house.

The footman who opened the door informed him that his lordship and Lady Nina were still in the dining-room with a small party. The earl had taken it all very calmly, and his daughter, who, unlike poor Stella Keane, was a young woman of remarkable courage, had not been disturbed at all.

“Are they alone, Robert?”

“No, sir, two old friends of his lordship’s came to dinner to-night and are still with them. But, of course, they will be glad to see you.”

However, his duty being performed, and learning that all was satisfactory, Spencer thought he might, as well get along to the flat. He had been strangely attracted by the beautiful girl, whom even her obvious terror and lack of self-control could not deprive of her charm.

“No, I won’t come in. Tell them I called round to make sure they were all safe. And say to her ladyship I will look in to-morrow afternoon about tea-time.”

He went into his club for a few moments to see if there were any letters, and half an hour later was at Mrs L’Estrange’s door.

She occupied the first floor of an imposing block of flats, recently erected in one of the semi-fashionable quarters of London. She might not be in very affluent circumstances, as Esmond had hinted, but she would have to pay a very handsome rent for her abode.

The door was opened by a decorous-looking butler, with the air of one who had served in good families. A man passed out as Spencer entered. He was a good-looking young fellow of about twenty-five, in khaki. Spencer knew him well by sight as the eldest son and heir of a rich brewer.

His face did not wear a very happy expression. It did not require a Sherlock Holmes to surmise that his visit had been an expensive one, and that he was hurrying away to avoid further temptation.

In the centre of a rather spacious hall, Stella Keane and Tommy Esmond stood chatting.

She greeted the newcomer with a bright and friendly smile. She no longer looked pale, in fact he thought there was a slight suspicion of rouge on the fair cheeks. She was too good-looking to need the aid of art, but perhaps she wanted to conceal the ravages inflicted on her beauty by that terrible time at the “Excelsior.”

“You are not very long after us. I conclude you found your friends were quite safe.”

She had gathered from the garrulous Tommy what she had not known before, that Spencer was next in succession to the earldom, also that Lord Southleigh had a very pretty daughter, who was an accomplished young sportswoman, a daring rider to hounds, an adept at golf, fishing, and other pastimes of a strenuous nature.

She had pricked up her ears at mention of the cousin. Artfully she pumped Tommy as to whether there was any tender feeling between the relatives.

But Tommy could give no information on this point. Spencer was a very reticent man about his private affairs, he explained. Personally, he should not consider him particularly susceptible to female influence. But he had heard that the old earl, who had a shockingly weak heart, and was likely to go off at any moment, would have viewed a marriage between the cousins with favour.

She mused over his words. He did not think him particularly susceptible to female influence. And yet she was sure there was admiration, open, undisguised admiration, in the glances he had bestowed upon her to-night. He was evidently not deeply in love with his pretty sporting cousin, or she would have been Mrs Guy Spencer before now, assuming, of course, that she was ready to obey her father’s wishes.

It was after a short silence that Miss Keane put a somewhat abrupt question to him: “Are you fond of play, Mr Spencer? Everybody is who comes here.”

“Not really. I am a very lukewarm gambler. I don’t mind a little flutter now and then, as a diversion. I always enjoy a small gamble at Monte Carlo, for example, but I never get carried away. When I have lost enough, I stop. Nothing could induce me to stake another sou.”

“Can you stop as easily when you are winning? That, I fancy, is where the self-control comes in. But I think I am rather glad you are not one of the infatuated ones. I was brought up in an atmosphere of gambling.”

There was a pathetic shadow in the beautiful brown eyes as she spoke. Spencer’s interest in her, a girl he had only known for a couple of hours, quickened. The glance he turned on her was full of sympathy, although he did not utter a word. It said as plainly as if he had spoken: “Tell me more about yourself, you will find an attentive listener.”

“My father and mother were both desperate gamblers. They staked and lost everything they had at cards, on the race-course, at Monte Carlo. My poor cousin, Mrs L’Estrange, has the same fever in her veins.”

Now that he had invited her confidence, he was a little embarrassed by it. He did not know her well enough to condole with her. By way of relieving the tension, he uttered a few trite remarks on the subject of gambling generally.

“Very sad when people are bitten by it to that extent. In my small experience, and I am only speaking of cards, I have found that, at the end of twelve months, you leave off pretty well where you started, good players or bad. You lose a hundred this week, you win a hundred the next, and so on, and so forth. If you are a good player, you get bad cards; if a duffer, you get good cards. And so the bad player has a pretty even chance with his more skilful opponent.”

Miss Keane threw aside her momentary sadness, and laughed at his scientific exposition.

“You have evidently thought it all out,” she said brightly. “But please don’t inflict these cheerful theories on my cousin. She is a most tragic being when she loses. She thinks herself, and I believe is, one of the most scientific bridge-players in England, and she cannot be brought to understand why the duffers should have a look in.”

At this juncture Tommy Esmond interposed. It may have occurred to him that they were wasting precious time. They had come here for the special purpose of gambling.

“What do you say to joining the others? We are in the very temple of gambling, and I know my young friend would like a little flutter.”

“Certainly. When I last peeped in, Amy looked the spirit of despair. I think she must have been losing heavily.”

She turned to lead the way, but at that instant the door bell rang, and she halted, in readiness to greet the visitor, whoever it might be; and there entered a florid-looking, stout man, who advanced towards her with effusion, and both hands outstretched.

“My dear Stella, I have been thinking of you ever since the raid began; I know how terribly you suffer when they are on. And I knew you were dining out to-night. I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound. I came round here the moment I could get away.” Miss Keane flushed slightly as he took her hands and wrung them impressively to show his gratitude at her escape from peril. Tommy Esmond had given him a cool nod. But she felt Spencer’s calm, critical gaze upon this ebullient expression of young English manhood.

It was not so much what he said, as his manner of saying it. Bounder was written all over him, in his appearance, his manners, his gestures.

She answered him very briefly, almost curtly, as if she were administering a cold douche. Then the flush deepened as she turned to Spencer.