C. N. Williamson & A. N. Williamson: 30+ Murder Mysteries & Adventure Novels (Illustrated). Charles Norris Williamson
The smile with which she had greeted me had been fleeting, and even as it lingered there had been an expression in her large soft eyes which it galled me that I should be too dull to read. It had seemed to say, "Something has happened since I saw you last. Why did you offer me your friendship, when it was too late to give me any help?"
No doubt, I told myself, this was but a morbid fancy of mine. If I could have known the true motive of the glance I should have interpreted what appeared like unutterable sadness as mere boredom.
Instead of the earnest appeal or reproach, I imagined at most the eyes intended to say, "I have talked long enough with these stupid men, none of whom have minds above cricket or football. Relieve me of them, please."
But I had not even been able to do that, though I had tried, for as I attempted to oust the boldest of the group in my own favour, Lady Tressidy had swept across the room, with sharp rustling of silken linings and satin skirts, to claim me for an introduction to "an old friend who had longed for years to know me."
At length, however, as I said, I had contrived an escape, and was finding my way towards Karine, when, before I had reached her, I saw her start, staring past me with a white, frozen look on her face that for the moment blotted out much of its innocent youthfulness and beauty.
She was gazing in the direction of the door, with dark, dilated eyes, and lips tightly closed in a line of scarlet that faded to palest pink.
It was as though into the midst of the gossip and laughter and brilliant light had crept a spectre which she alone could see. Some such look I had seen in the eyes of a dove which had been offered up as food for a constrictor. Involuntarily I turned and glanced behind me.
No name had been announced, though I had heard the opening and closing of the door, and now, as I faced round in that direction, I saw that Sir Walter Tressidy and Carson Wildred had come in together.
Evidently this was not Wildred's first entrance, for like Sir Walter, he had neither hat nor stick. He moved forward by his companion's side with the unmistakably-assured air of the friend of the house, and I instinctively understood that he had lunched with the Tressidys, and since that time had been closeted on some business of importance with his host.
Unreasoningly, I hated him for his privileges. With more of reason, I hated him because I believed the look I had seen for a single instant on Karine Cunningham's face was connected with his presence.
That look was gone now. When I removed my eyes from Wildred, and turned again to her, her delicate, spiritual profile only was visible. Her head was graciously inclined towards the monocled youth who stood nearest her. She appeared no longer to see Wildred or Sir Walter Tressidy.
I was determined that the former should not approach her (as he seemed inclined to do) if I could prevent it.
I hurried to her accordingly, and shut her away from the room, with a pair of broad shoulders, and with an air of monopolising her which I should not have dared at any other time to assume. But was I not her friend? Had I not the right to protect her, if I could, from all that I believed to be distasteful to her?
Presently, the callow youths, whose claims I had hardly considered, seemed to melt away, and I was left alone with her. People were going, and it was getting late, no doubt, but I did not yet mean to follow their example. After all–despite my dismal presages–it did appear that I was to have her for at least a moment or two to myself.
I had kept my word. I had outstayed them all–all but Carson Wildred.
"Have you quite recovered from yesterday's accident?" I asked, glad to share even so insignificant a secret with her.
"Yes, oh, yes!" She spoke hurriedly, and her eyes had moved to the distant group near the fireside–Lady Tressidy, Carson and Sir Walter.
"You haven't reconsidered your promise that I should be your friend?"
She turned to me quickly, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. "So many things in my life, though it is not so very long as yet, have come to me too late. Even–my friends–sometimes."
Before I could beg her to tell me what she meant, Lady Tressidy had called her name, and she sprang up obediently. I followed suit, of course.
"Come here, my dear girl. Mr. Stanton, this is quite a momentous day for us, and I can't resist the temptation to take you into our circle and our confidence," said the elder woman, graciously. "It is just settled that this sweet adopted child of ours is to leave us–and at short notice too. She and Mr. Wildred are going to be married."
Chapter IX.
Too Late!
"Too late!" the words that Karine had just spoken echoed in my ears like a knell of doom.
For a few tremendous seconds that seemed endless I stood paralysed by Lady Tressidy's announcement, unable to speak. Then I turned and looked at Karine. Her eyes seemed to have been waiting for mine, and for an instant I held them with my gaze, until they fell, and veiled the answer mine had asked, with long shadowy lashes.
Never, I thought, as my thirsty eyes drank in the beauty that was not for me, could there have been another woman so wholly lovely, so altogether desirable. I could have fallen on my knees before her, to touch the hem of her dainty gown with my lips, and cry out my love and longing for her. But instead I was called upon to say something civil, and therefore hypocritical, to the newly-engaged pair, and then, as soon as decency would permit my escape, to go out from her presence for ever, and face the black loneliness of my darkened life.
Only a few days had passed since first I had seen the beauty of her face, but already she dominated my every thought, and I knew that there was no hope of surcease from the aching pain of having lost her.
Had I been obliged to stand by and see her give herself to any other man than Carson Wildred, it seemed to me that the blow would have been more bearable. But with my almost unreasoning aversion for and distrust of him, the thought of a marriage between these two was like the sacrifice of fair virgins to the foul, blood-dripping jaws of the mythical Minotaur.
Slight as was our actual acquaintance, when measured by mere time, it appeared the maddest conceit on my part to believe for a moment that had I come earlier into her life I might have made a difference. But, mad as it was, I did so believe. Some voice within me, which would not be stilled or brook contradiction, cried aloud that I might have won her love, that she might have been mine, that only some devilish tangle of circumstances had circumvented the fate which originally had meant that we two should be all in all to one another.
It was perhaps the hardest task I had ever been forced to perform when after that ominous pause, which doubtless seemed far more prolonged to me than to the others, I held out my hand, as I was expected to do, taking Miss Cunningham's ice-cold fingers in mine, and wishing her happiness.
Then I was obliged to turn to Wildred, in whose eyes I saw, or fancied I saw, a malicious light of comprehension and triumphant defiance. But his hand I would not take.
"It is hardly necessary to congratulate you," I said haltingly. "You are one of the most fortunate men in the world."
"And the most undeserving?" It was he who added the words, as though he had read them in my own mind; and there was a slight, sarcastic rising inflection of the voice at the end of the sentence, as if he put it to me as a question.
Of course, I vouchsafed him no answer, unless he found it in my eyes, which have ever been telltales. But in that moment I would have laid down my life could I have wrenched from my memory that episode of his history, the secret of which it mercilessly withheld from me.
I have a dim recollection of saying something more or less conventional to Sir Walter and Lady Tressidy, and then, at last, I got away.
I had fancied that not to have her face before my eyes, that not to endure the pang of