The Golden Face Part 24

Though Otley was often at her house in Mount Street, and frequently met Lord Drumone's fair-haired and rather effeminate son there, Peggy's mother never dreamed they were in love. Both were extremely careful to conceal it, and in their efforts they had been successful.

The orchestra was at the moment playing that plaintive Hungarian gypsy air, Bela's _Valse Banffy_, that sweet, weird song of the Tziganes which one hears everywhere along the Danube from Vienna to Belgrade.

"Look here, Charlie," said the girl, much perturbed at what she had recognized in his handsome countenance. "Tell me, Old Thing, what's the matter?"

"Matter--why, nothing!" he replied, laughing. "I was only thinking."

And he looked around upon the smart crowd of Parisians who were laughing and chatting.

"Of what?"

He hesitated for a second. In that hesitation the girl who loved him so fondly, and who preferred him to old Drumone's son and a t.i.tle, realized that he had some heavy weight upon his mind, and quickly she resolved to learn it, and try to bear the burden with him.

Since her return from China, with all its Asiatic mysteries, its amus.e.m.e.nts, and its quaint Eastern life, she had had what she declared to be a "topping" time in London. Her beauty was remarked everywhere and her sweet charm of manner appealed to all. Her mother, who had returned from her exile in the Far East, went everywhere, while her father, a hard, austere Colonial official who had browsed upon reports, and regarded all natives of any nationality or culture as mere "blacks," was one of those men who had never been able to a.s.similate his own views with those of the nation to which he had been sent as British representative. He was a hide-bound official, a man who despised any colored race, and treated all natives with stern and unrelenting hand. Indeed, the Colonial Office had discovered him to be a square peg in a round hole, and at Whitehall they were relieved when he went into honorable retirement.

"Do tell me what's the matter, dear," whispered the girl across the table, hoping that the pair seated near them did not know English.

"The matter! Why, nothing," again laughed the handsome young man.

"Have a liqueur," and he ordered two from the waiter. "I can't think what you've got into your head to-night regarding me, Peggy. I was only reflecting for a few seconds--on some business."

"Grave business--it seems."

"Not at all. But we men who have to earn our living by business have to think overnight what we are to do on the morrow," he said airily, as he handed his cigarette-case to her and then lit the one she took.

"But Charlie--I'm certain there's something--something you are concealing from me."

"I conceal nothing from you, dearest," he answered, looking across the little table straight into her fine dark eyes. Then again he bent towards her and whispered very seriously: "Do you really love me, Peggy?"

In his glance was a tense eager expression, yet upon his face was written a mystery she could not fathom.

"Why do you ask, dear?" she said. "Have I not told you so a hundred times. What I have said, I mean."

"You really mean--you really mean that you love me--eh?" he whispered in deep earnestness as he still bent to her over the table, his eyes fixed on hers. And he drew a long breath.

"Yes," she answered. "But why do you ask the question in that tone?

How tragic you seem!"

"Because," and he sighed, "because your answer lifts a great weight from my mind." Then, after a pause, he added: "Yet--yet, I wonder----"

"Wonder what?"

"Nothing," he answered. "I was only wondering."

"But you really are tantalizing to-night, my dear boy," she said. "I don't understand you at all."

"Ah! you will before long. Let's go out into the lounge," he suggested. "It's growing late."

So, having drained their two gla.s.ses of triple sec, they pa.s.sed out into the big palm-lounge, which is so popular with the Parisians after the play.

Peggy and her parents had come to Paris in mid-December to do some shopping. Before she had been exiled to China, Lady Urquhart's habit was to go to Paris twice each year to buy her hats and gowns, for she was always elegantly dressed, and she took care that her daughter should dress equally well.

Indeed, the gown worn by Peggy that night was one of Worth's latest creations, and her cloak was an expensive one of the newest _mode_.

They were staying at the Continental when Charlie, who had some business in Paris on behalf of his firm, had run over for three days really to meet in secret the girl he loved. That night Peggy had excused herself to her mother, saying that she was going out to Neuilly to dine with an old schoolfellow--a little matter she had arranged with the latter--but instead, she had met Charlie at Voisin's, and they had been to the theater together.

Peggy, amid the exuberant atmosphere of Paris with its lights, movement and gaiety--the old Paris just as it was before the war--naturally expected her lover to be gay and irresponsible as she herself felt. Instead, he seemed gloomy and apprehensive. Therefore the girl was disappointed. She thought a good deal, but said little.

Though the distance between the Volnay and the Rue de Rivoli was not great, Charlie ordered a taxi, and on the way she sat locked in his strong arms, her lips smothered with his hot, pa.s.sionate kisses, until they parted.

Little did she dream, however, the bitterness in her lover's heart.

Next morning at eleven o'clock, as Peggy was coming up the Avenue de l'Opera, she pa.s.sed the Bra.s.serie de la Paix, that popular cafe on the left-hand side of the broad thoroughfare, the place where the Parisian gets such exquisite dishes at fair prices. Charlie was seated in the window, as they had arranged, and on seeing her, he dashed out and joined her.

"Well?" she asked. "How are you to-day? Not so awfully gloomy, I hope."

"Not at all, dearest," he laughed, for his old nonchalance had returned to him. "I've been full of business since nine o'clock. I have an appointment out at La Muette at two, and I'll have to get back to London to-night."

"To-night!" she echoed disappointedly. "We don't return till next Tuesday."

"I have to be back to see my people about some cars that can't be delivered for another six weeks. There's a beastly hitch about delivery."

"Well," said the girl, as they walked side by side in the cold, bright morning. The winter mornings are always bright and clearer in Paris than in London. "Well, I have some news for you, dear."

"What news?" he asked.

"Lady Teesdale has asked us up to Hawstead, her place in Yorkshire. In her letter to mother this morning she mentions that she is also asking you."

"Me?"

"Yes. And, of course, you'll accept. Won't it be ripping? The Teesdales have a lovely old place--oak-paneled, ghost-haunted, and all that sort of thing. We've been there twice. The Teesdales'

shooting-parties are famed for their fun and merriment."

"I know Lady Teesdale," Otley said. "But I wonder why she has asked me?"

"Don't wonder, dear boy--but accept and come. We'll have a real jolly time."

And then they turned into the Boulevard des Italiens and idled before some of the shops.

At noon she was compelled to leave him and return to her mother. He put her into a taxi outside the Grand Hotel, and then they parted.

Before doing so, the girl said:

"What about next Wednesday? Shall we meet?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Very well," she exclaimed. "Wednesday at six--eh? I'll come up to your rooms. We can talk there. I don't like to see you so worried, dear. There's something you're concealing from me, I'm sure of it."

Then he bent over her hand in a fashion more courtly than the "Cheerio!" of to-day, and standing on the curb watched the taxi speed down the Rue de la Paix.

"Ah!" he murmured aloud, drawing a deep sigh. "Ah! If she only knew!--_if she only knew!_"