Juggernaut Part 35

"Captain Arthur Holliday, well known in Paris and in Cannes, is staying at Claridge's before sailing from Ma.r.s.eilles for South America, where he has important interests."

Esther lapsed into the vernacular of her adopted country.

"Well, what do you know about that?" she exclaimed, turning wide eyes on her companion. "So he is going, after all."

"So it appears. His Spanish friends have him in tow. I wish them joy."

Esther was silent, wondering if the thought in her mind had also occurred to Roger, namely that Holliday had at last given up hope that Sir Charles would die. She wondered, too, how the news would affect Lady Clifford. Perhaps, indeed, the latter had known days ago of his departure, in which case her violent emotional burst, as well as her illness, became more comprehensible.

They made a big circuit, and an hour and a half later turned homeward, approaching the house from a different direction. While still a little distance away they caught sight of a small Aberdeen terrier in the act of disappearing around the corner of a leafy avenue. The dog, red collar and all, had a familiar appearance.

"Can that be--why, yes, it is Tony!" cried Esther, recognising Lady Clifford's pet. "He must have slipped out. Here, Tony, Tony!"

The Aberdeen turned and bent upon her an inquiring eye, smiled coyly, dog fashion, wagged his brief tail, then, instead of coming closer, wheeled about and dashed off down the avenue.

"That's not like him," Roger said. "He's always such an obedient dog.

Tony, here, Tony!"

Tony, however, had a mind of his own. Paying no heed to Roger's whistle, he ran without stopping until he joined, far in the distance, two figures who were walking slowly in the opposite direction.

"He's evidently with someone," Roger remarked. "A man and a woman.

Can your long-sighted eyes see who they are?"

In the growing dusk it was not easy to tell, but there was something familiar in the big, heavy frame of the man.

"It looks like the doctor," Esther said, hesitating. "And I believe the woman is Lady Clifford."

As she spoke the pair separated, the woman went on, the dog following, and the man turned and came back along the avenue. It was the doctor, there was no doubt about it now.

"I have scarcely ever seen Therese out walking before. I wonder what has come over her?" Roger said as they quickened their pace again.

"What are you in such a hurry for? Don't you want the doctor to see you?"

"It isn't that; I only feel I'd like to be home first," Esther excused herself, not quite sure of her own reasons for trying to escape Sartorius's notice.

"Rubbish. You don't want him to see you with me. Now own up, my dear.

Isn't that true?"

"No, it isn't a bit true. That's too absurd!"

"Well, true or not, why should we mind? We are not the conspirators,"

Roger retorted lightly.

Somehow the word "conspirators," jokingly uttered, gave her a queer, uncomfortable feeling. There had been something about those two sauntering figures, so close together, that had emphasised the dim, instinctive notion she had had before of something between the pair.

Yet what was there strange in Lady Clifford's taking a short stroll with her private physician?

"More of my nonsense!" was Esther's mental comment as she put the matter determinedly out of mind.

It was much later in the afternoon, nearly six o'clock, when Lady Clifford returned in the Rolls. Esther heard her come upstairs and go to her room, but she did not see her, being busy making Sir Charles ready for the night. When it came time to take the old man's temperature she discovered her watch had stopped for want of winding.

She went into the boudoir to look at the clock on the mantelpiece there, throwing open the door, feeling sure the room was empty.

The next instant she heard herself murmuring "I beg your pardon!" as she retreated hastily, utterly flabbergasted by what she had seen.

Standing bolt upright on the hearthrug was Roger, his arms awkwardly embracing Lady Clifford, who leaned against him, her golden head pressed close to his shoulder, her eyes gazing up at him with every evidence of clinging affection.

What in heaven's name did it mean?

CHAPTER XXI

One of the habits of men most annoying to the opposite s.e.x is their reluctance to give explanations.

When one is eager to know the reasons why they did or failed to do a thing, instead of satisfying one's curiosity they go quietly away and say nothing. Women in the same position itch to justify, to excuse, to exonerate. Men keep silent and let one think what one pleases--a form of moral cowardice which remains at once their weakness and their strength.

Why Roger should not immediately hasten to explain the att.i.tude in which he had been discovered with Lady Clifford puzzled Esther and filled her with chagrin. Only a few hours before he had spoken of his stepmother with open dislike, yet here he was with his arms about her, her head against his breast. Perhaps, indeed, it was difficult to explain, yet he might at least try to do so. The evening pa.s.sed and he said no word.

At dinner Lady Clifford appeared a radiant vision in pale green georgette, a little transparent coat veiling the whiteness of her skin, her l.u.s.trous pearls heavy upon her white neck. She had an air of sweetness and frankness. Esther had never seen her so charming. She talked to Roger, asked his advice on various matters, and made herself so agreeable that her sister-in-law noticed it and was pleased. Yet, although an atmosphere of harmony prevailed, Roger did not look at ease. When his eye rested on Esther he withdrew it quickly, and with an air frankly shamefaced. What had happened? Had he experienced a change of heart, and was he feeling apologetic about it? If that was so, he need not, Esther reflected proudly. It was nothing to her. She applied herself to her dinner and refrained from paying the slightest attention to him.

When coffee was brought into the drawing-room, Roger drank his hastily and withdrew. A few minutes later she heard a car start outside and knew that he had taken himself off. In spite of herself she felt hurt.

It was a trifling thing to mind about, yet she did mind, and it was with a sense of blankness that she resigned herself to playing piquet with Miss Clifford.

On the chaise-longue in the circle of light from a rose-shaded lamp, Lady Clifford smoked tranquilly, her silver-shod feet in front of her, a fashion magazine spread on her lap. She seemed at peace with the world.

"What a relief, Therese, to think Charles is going on so well," the old lady remarked at the finish of a hand. "In a day or so he will have pa.s.sed the crisis. I feel so much easier in my mind."

"Ah, yes," Lady Clifford replied, looking up. "From now on I should think we have nothing to fear."

Just then the doctor entered from the hall, setting his empty coffee cup on a table.

"You are wrong when you speak of a 'crisis' in typhoid, Miss Clifford,"

he informed her. "The correct term is 'lysis,' which is quite a different thing from a crisis."

"Oh, well, you know what I mean, anyhow. I've always called it a crisis, all my life, but it shows how ignorant one is. At any rate, in a few days we may consider him out of danger, mayn't we?"

Sartorius shook his head with slight disparagement.

"I certainly trust so, Miss Clifford, but, frankly, no one can be sure.

If everything continues to go smoothly----"

"But why shouldn't it, doctor?" Lady Clifford asked quickly.

He shrugged his heavy shoulders in a weary fashion.

"My dear lady, I only want to warn you against over-optimism. One mustn't allow oneself to forget Sir Charles's age and the fact that he has been in bad health for some time. Weakened as he is now, any shock, however slight might do irreparable harm. However, there is no reason for alarm."

Miss Clifford sighed deeply, shuffling the cards over and over.