The House by the Lock Part 5

"Miss Cunningham!" I exclaimed. "You have made nothing of your pain, but I know that you are ill--that you are suffering."

"I am very foolish," she answered, in a low, unsteady voice. "It isn't my ankle--though, of course, that hurts a little--but I think It must be the shock, which I didn't realise at first. I felt quite bright until a moment ago, but suddenly I am all weak and trembling. The truth is, Mr.

Stanton, I wasn't fit to be out this morning, especially alone, and I didn't come simply from sheer bravado, as you might think, and for the sake of doing what I'd been told not to do. I--I felt as though I _must_ be out in the air, and in motion. I didn't sleep last night, and I didn't eat any breakfast this morning, which may partly account for this silliness of mine, perhaps. I thought I should feel better out of doors, but it seems that nothing in the world can do me any good.

Everything I attempt must always end in disaster, and--oh, Mr. Stanton, I am so very, very unhappy and miserable!"

To my amazement and distress, she covered her face with her little gloved hands, and broke into a storm of sobbing.

CHAPTER VII

Friends

It was all I could do to resist the impulse to take the small trembling hands in my own, to touch the bowed head with its glory of shimmering ripples, to break into pa.s.sionate words which must have alarmed her, and put an end to my chance of winning her, perhaps for ever.

But to a certain extent I was able to control myself.

"What can I say--what can I do?" I stammered. "If there was only some way in which it might be possible for me to help you."

"Ah, if--if!" she echoed, desolately. "Don't you think it strange that, though we scarcely know each other--though this is only our second meeting, and quite by chance, I turn to you with such a confession? I am ashamed now"--and she impetuously dashed her tears away with a toy of a handkerchief. "But the words spoke themselves before I could stop them.

You see, I have no one to talk to--no one to advise me. I think I must be the loneliest girl in all this big preoccupied world."

"I should have thought you would have more friends than you could keep within bounds," I said, hotly.

"Friends? Has anyone many friends? I have plenty of acquaintances, but I think no friends. Let us not talk of this any more, though, Mr. Stanton.

I have forgotten myself."

"Forgive me--I can't obey you," I protested. "Just one word. As you said, this is only our second meeting, and I have no right to ask a favour of you, yet I am going to do it. I beg of you, as I never begged anything before, that you will forget how short a time we have known each other, and that you will take me for a friend--a friend in the truest and best sense of that good, much-abused word. I swear to you that you would find me loyal."

She looked up at me in the sweetest way, with eyes that glistened through a sheen of tears.

"I believe that I should find you so," she answered, falteringly. "And, oh, how I do need a friend--though you may think _me_ disloyal to say that, when I have a home with those who--have meant to be kind to me." Her eyes had dropped, but now she raised them again and met mine earnestly. "Yes," she exclaimed--"yes, I _will_ have you for a friend."

"Then won't you begin by making use of me at once?" I pleaded with an eagerness I could no longer disguise.

"I--am I not making use of you now? Ah, I know what you mean! You mean I am to tell you the things which I have let you see are troubling me? But much as I need help and advice, _could_ I do that now, so soon? You must already think me a very strange girl--half mad perhaps. Well, I have had almost enough of late to drive me mad. Some time, in a few days maybe, when we know each other a little better, I----But the man is stopping. We have come to the doctor's you spoke of, I suppose?"

I neither blessed the cabman nor the doctor at that moment. Still less did I do so afterwards, knowing that, if we had not been interrupted then, it might well have happened that the whole course of our two lives had been changed.

However, there was nothing to be done but ascertain if the eminent man was at home, and able to give his attention to a somewhat urgent case.

The poor girl, too, was evidently suffering, and in a highly nervous state, and it would have been cruel, now that the opportunity had presented itself, to keep her for a single instant from the restoratives doubtless at hand.

Dr. Byrnes was to be seen. I introduced Miss Cunningham to him, described the accident, and left him to do what he could for the injured ankle. Afterwards I had still the joy of driving to Park Lane with her in antic.i.p.ation.

I was only called when Dr. Byrnes was ready to send his patient away.

"Do you know what was the first thing that this young lady did before I had time to begin my ministrations?" he jocularly enquired, and though the girl looked up at him with imploring eyes, he persisted. "Why, she fainted away, and if she had to do it, she couldn't have chosen a more proper occasion. There I was, with all the known remedies at hand, and I proceeded to use them, with the most satisfactory results, as you may see. I don't think you will have any further trouble in going home; and now that she has been well dosed and well bandaged, the best thing she can do is to eat a hearty luncheon."

Once again settled in the cab, we were but a few moments' drive from Sir Walter Tressidy's house in Park Lane, as I knew to my intense regret.

With wily forethought, however, I suggested going somewhat out of our way to the establishment of a certain bicycle manufacturer and mender, who would send for Miss Cunningham's machine, and repair it before the accident it had met with could be conjectured by those not supposed to know.

Try as I would I could not induce her to continue the conversation which had been broken short. The brief interval that had pa.s.sed since then had severed the threads of intense emotion which had for the moment united us, and she, evidently repenting her frankness, was visibly ill at ease.

It was only at the door that her manner warmed a little towards me again.

"Yes, I believe I am quite all right," she said, in answer to a question. "I shall not even have a suspicion of a limp." She held out her hand to me, and did not try to draw it away, though I grasped it rather longer and more tightly than conventionality might have approved.

"You will come--soon--to see Lady Tressidy and--me?" she asked, softly.

"I thought of calling to-morrow afternoon. May I?"

"I shall be glad--very glad. Never shall I forget your kindness to me to-day. Don't think me any more--odd--than you can help. Good-bye."

Before I could begin to tell her how impossible it would be to think any save the most reverent thoughts of her she was gone, and a cloud seemed suddenly to darken my sky.

CHAPTER VIII

An Announcement

I would have given a year of my life to know what was the trouble and anxiety which so wrought upon Karine Cunningham. She was young, and it might be that her youth and her s.e.x caused her mentally to exaggerate what was in reality a trifle; yet, even with my slight knowledge of her, I could not believe this to be the case.

Many conjectures pa.s.sed in review before me, but that which seemed to carry with it most weight of reason was the idea that her guardian and his wife were attempting to coerce her into some course which was distasteful to her. Naturally, the thought of an objectionable lover occurred to me, and made my blood run the faster through my veins. I could not forgive the unknown and possible for being a lover, even though he were to her an objectionable one.

I longed for the next day to come that I might see the beautiful girl again, but scarcely in the same way that I had longed for it before.

There could be no repet.i.tion of the half confidences of to-day, the suggestions of friendship (friendship--what a mockery!), the adorable glances which meant trust, and a grat.i.tude which I had not deserved.

Lady Tressidy would unfortunately be present. My visit would ostensibly be paid to her. Already I began to dislike her and fancy that her conduct towards the young girl entrusted to her care must have been mysteriously atrocious.

No, I could not expect much from the call, having been blessed with an unexpected glimpse of heaven which it could not give back to me again.

Still, I thought of little else until the coming of the very earliest hour at which I could show myself in Park Lane on the following day.

Yes, Lady Tressidy was at home, vouchsafed a solemn footman. My name was announced, and I scarcely ventured to lift my eyes on entering the drawing-room, lest they should tell me that Karine was not there.

Perhaps she was ill. Indeed, it seemed only too likely that she should be so. I wondered I had not mentally confronted that probability before.

There were a number of guests a.s.sembled in the room, it seemed to me, despite the fact that everybody who was anybody was supposed to be spending the Christmas season far away in other people's country houses.

At length, when I had had a few words with my hostess, the crowd resolved itself into a dozen persons at most, and seeing Karine at a far end of the room surrounded by three or four vacuous-looking young men, I desperately resolved to outstay everybody.

I had scarcely more than a glance and a smile from Miss Cunningham, and then I found myself obliged to talk with simulated amiability to a semi-young woman who was anxious I should know how often she had heard of me and my "travels," and that she had read the two or three books I had been idiot enough to write. Half an hour went by. I had been pa.s.sed on to other ladies, who seemed to my prejudiced eyes to bear an astonishing family likeness, both in mind and face, to the first of the series. Three or four people had gone. One or two new ones had come in, but at last I had had the good fortune to escape from the latest on my list of acquaintances.

I could still see Karine. She had got rid of one of her adorers, but had a couple yet in hand, and it appeared to me that she would not be sorry to bid them adieu.

At all events, her face was pale as a lily petal held against the light, her sweet lips drooped wistfully at the corners, and I thought she spoke but seldom. 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?"