The Making of a Soul Part 17

Appearing to notice nothing, she began to make conversation, discoursing gently on various unimportant topics until Toni grew more like herself; and when at length Mrs. Anstey rose to go she had completely won Toni's grateful heart.

Toni took leave of her visitors regretfully, and readily promised to return the visit as soon as possible; and then she and f.a.n.n.y accompanied them to the door to see them comfortably settled in the big grey car.

Barry was driving, Olive sitting beside him; and the girl turned and waved a kindly hand as the car began to glide down the avenue in the afternoon sunshine.

"My! Isn't she pretty!" Miss Gibbs' admiration was sincere. "And that blue bonnet of hers was a dream--must have cost pounds!"

"I think Mrs. Anstey is beautiful," said Toni, rather dreamily, gazing after the car. "I don't wonder Miss Lynn is so devoted to her. She is just my ideal of a lady."

"Better than that other stuck-up cat," said f.a.n.n.y rather viciously. "And as for that maypole of a daughter, she's nothing but a gawk."

"Oh, don't let's go in there!" Toni laid a hand on her cousin's arm as f.a.n.n.y turned towards the dining-room. "I don't want to see the tea-table any more! Fan, wasn't it _horrible_ when they came first?"

"Well, they were a bit sticky," said f.a.n.n.y frankly. "But n.o.body seemed to care! Mr. Raymond was just making game of them all the time."

"Well, don't let's think of them," said Toni, shaking herself as though freeing her shoulders from an incubus. "We'll go on the river for an hour, Fan, and then you shall see the house."

The programme was carried out successfully, and beneath f.a.n.n.y's affectionate chatter Toni regained the spirits she had lost. She took her cousin on the river, returning in time to see the old house before the summer darkness fell; and after a very satisfactory little dinner Miss Gibbs departed, highly pleased with her entertainment.

Owen was not to be home till nearly midnight, and Toni decided not to sit up. Indeed, she was tired, and it was barely ten o'clock when she went upstairs to bed. Something was troubling her, too; and as she walked slowly down the long gallery, lighted only by the Ten Little Ladies, she was asking herself a question which, in spite of its humorous form, held a hint of tragedy.

"Shall I have to tell Owen everything--how rude she was and what an idiot I felt? Must I really tell him about--about the _shrimps_?"

She paused, looking about her as though seeking an answer to her question, which held indeed a significance which she dimly understood.

But the Ten Little Ladies had no reply to give her; and with a sigh Toni pa.s.sed on and entered her own room in silence.

CHAPTER X

Fairly late that night Barry Raymond jumped off his motorcycle at the gate of the bungalow known locally as the Hope House. It was a perfect June night, and as he unlatched the gate Barry heard a nightingale singing its love-song to the moon, the deliciously pure notes ringing across the river with a fascinating, almost unearthly, effect.

The garden of the bungalow was full of sleeping flowers, and their fragrance stole gently out like a tender welcome to Barry as he strode up the path between their ranks, pale-coloured in the moonlight, though full of rich, glowing colour beneath the sun.

Another welcome greeted him in a moment. There was a low, deep-toned bark, a white streak of something advancing in a hurtling flash, and then, as the great Borzoi discovered the visitor to be a friend, she dropped into a welcoming march, waving her plumy tail the while.

"Halloa, Olga, old girl! Where's your boss?"

He was not far off, having been warned of the approach of his friend, and in another moment the two men were shaking hands cordially.

"By Jove, Barry, it's good to see you again!" There was no mistaking the pleasure in the tone. "I thought you'd be looking me up--someone told me you were staying down here."

"Yes--only for three days, worse luck. I'm with the Ansteys--you know Miss Lynn is Mrs. Anstey's niece, and she is there too."

"I see. Well, come in and have a peg." He led the way hospitably through the green door into the bungalow, and a minute later the two were seated cosily in the little living-room, which looked oddly attractive in the lamplight.

Olga, the wolfhound, followed them in as a matter of course, and when her master had mixed drinks for himself and his visitor, and had taken his seat, she lay down beside him, her long nose resting on her paws, while she blinked sleepily in the mellow light.

"Well, Barry, how goes the world? Cheerily, eh?"

"With me? Yes." He took a pull at his gla.s.s, "I'm A 1, and so is Olive."

"Work going ahead? I hear the _Bridge_ is making its way."

"Rather!" He spoke enthusiastically. "The next number will be out in a few days, and it's better than ever."

"Good! Of course Rose is an excellent man for the job. If he can't make it go, no one can. By the way, he's come to live down here, as I daresay you know."

"Yes." Barry spoke slowly, and lighted a cigarette rather thoughtfully.

"As a matter of fact, Jim, that's partly why I've come to see you at this unholy hour."

"Better now than never!" said his host genially. "But I don't think I quite understand you."

"No." For a moment Barry said nothing more, and the other man looked at him a little oddly.

He himself was worth looking at, in spite of the shabbiness which betrayed either a bachelor habit of mind, or a lofty disdain for the trappings of life. A man of about forty-one, his face was a curious mixture of youth and age, of experience and of idealism. His big, bright eyes and curving mouth betokened enthusiasm, fire, a kindly philosophy; while the lines upon his forehead and the grey streaks in his abundant hair seemed to speak of deeper things. Life had indeed graven with its chisel lines and marks ineffaceable. It was the face of one who had suffered deeply, who had pa.s.sed through more than one saddening experience. In repose one would have said the man was serious, grave to a fault; but when he smiled, it was the face of youth--ardent, eager, irresponsible--that the beholder saw before him.

It was a queer, baffling, contradictory face altogether. Only one thing about it was certain, and that was written so plainly thereon that even a child might read.

It was a face one could trust. Whatever might be the nature of the tragic experience which had whitened the crisp locks and drawn the heavy lines on the broad brow, there was something so gentle, so straightforward, so kindly about the whole man that none could doubt his sincerity, his trustworthiness. And side by side with the lines drawn by sorrow there were other lines betokening laughter, those fine lines at the corners of the eyes which are born from mirth, and even though they take away from youth's first unlined smoothness, give value and perspective to the countenance.

For the rest, he was fairly tall, though he stooped somewhat; and he walked always with a quick, impetuous step, until such times as memory, or some other quality, came to life, and gave a queer, dragging effect to his usually swift tread.

"Well?" It was the host who spoke, and Barry recalled his scattered thoughts with an effort and remembered the cause on which he was enlisted.

"Well, it's about Rose's wife that I want to speak to you." Barry looked searchingly at his friend, and reading in the bright eyes nothing of the cheap cynicism with which some men might have greeted the announcement, he went on quickly. "The fact is, she wants someone to give her a helping hand."

"Someone--apart from her husband?"

"Yes. You see, she's only a kid and a jolly pretty one. Looks like a schoolgirl----?"

"Stay a moment." Herrick laid down his pipe. "Is Mrs. Rose a little dark girl, with very bright eyes and a lot of black hair?"

"That's she. You've met her, then?"

"Well, not exactly. Fact is, I have seen a young woman answering to that description wandering on the towing-path early in the morning once or twice; and I was a little puzzled to know who she might be."

"Well, that's Mrs. Rose. Now the fact is"--Barry grew red suddenly as he realized that his interference was quite unauthorized--"I think she wants a friend, someone to look after her a bit."

"Why? Is she ... er ... what _is_ she?"

"She is very young." Barry spoke deliberately now, having made up his mind to proceed. "And although she is a perfect little lady in her way"--thus unconsciously endorsing Kate's verdict--"she has never been used to the sort of life she will have to lead down here. To tell the truth--I know it's safe with you, Jim--she was our typist in the office before her marriage."

"I see. And Rose fell in love with her?"

"Y ... yes." Even to Herrick, Barry could not give away the secret of Owen's proposal. "Anyway, he married her, and brought her here; and to-day I was witness to a curious little scene in her house."