Anna the Adventuress

Annabel rose and followed her sister from the room. A maidservant held the front door open. Anna sent her away.

“Annabel,” she said brusquely. “Listen to me.”

“Well?”

“Sir John came to me – that you know – and you can guess what I told him. No, never mind about thanking me. I want to ask you a plain question, and you must answer me faithfully. Is all that folly done with – for ever?”

Annabel shivered ever so slightly.

“Of course it is, Anna. You ought to know that. I am going to make a fresh start.”

“Be very sure that you do,” Anna said slowly. “If I thought for a moment that there was any chance of a relapse, I should stop here and tell him the truth even now.”

Annabel looked at her with terrified eyes.

“Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. I am really in earnest. I would not have him know – now – for the world.”

“Very well,” Anna said. “I will believe you. Remember that he’s not at all a bad sort, and to speak frankly, he’s your salvation. Try and let him never regret it. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way. Be a good wife to him. You can if you will.”

“I promise,” Annabel declared. “He is very kind, Anna, really, and not half such a prig as he seems.”

Anna moved towards the door, but her sister detained her.

“Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said. “It was such a surprise to see you. I thought that you loved Paris and your work so much.”

A momentary bitterness crept into Anna’s tone.

“I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. I had to ask Mr. Courtlaw for his true verdict, and he gave it me. I have given up painting.”

“Anna!”

“It is true, dear. After all there are other things. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. Only of course I must begin something else at once. That is why I came to London.”

“But what are you going to do – where are you going to live?” Annabel asked. “Have you any money?”

“Lots,” Anna answered laconically. “Never mind me. I always fall on my feet, you know.”

“You will let us hear from you – let us know where you are, very soon?” Annabel called out from the step.

Anna nodded as she briskly crossed the pavement.

“Some day,” she answered. “Run in now. There’s a hansom coming round the corner.”

Anna sat back in her cab, but found it remain stationary.

“Gracious!” she exclaimed to herself. “I don’t know where to go to.”

The cabman, knocking with the butt end of his whip upon the window, reminded her that he was in a similar predicament.

“Drive towards St. Pancras,” she directed, promptly. “I will tell you when to stop.”

The cab rumbled off. Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets. It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital.

Chapter VIII

“WHITE’S”

Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. Inside was Anna, leaning a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth – the desire to understand and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself.

Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window.

“Please stop, cabman,” she ordered.

The man pulled up. It was not a difficult affair.

“Is this Montague Street, W.C.?” she asked.

The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not.

“Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. “I want to find an address.”

The man contented himself with a nod. Anna rummaged about in her dressing-case, and finally drew out a letter. On the envelope was written —

    Sydney Courtlaw, Esq.,
    13, Montague St.

She put her head out of the window.

“Number 13, please, cabman.”

“We’ve come past it, miss,” the man answered, with a note of finality in his gruff voice.

“Then turn round and go back there,” she directed.

The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. After a certain amount of manœuvring, however, he was induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.”

Anna promptly alighted with the letter in her hand. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. The rest of his attire was nondescript.

“Does Mr. Courtlaw, Mr. Sydney Courtlaw, live here, please?” Anna asked him.

“Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. “Generally gets here about seven.”

Anna hesitated, and then held out the letter.

“I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said. “It is from his brother in Paris. Say that I will call again or let him know my address in London.”

The young man accepted the letter and the message, and seemed about to close the door when a lady issued from one of the front rooms and intervened. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. She addressed Anna with a beaming smile and a very creditable mixture of condescension and officiousness. Under the somewhat trying incandescent light her cheeks pleaded guilty to a recent use of the powder puff.