The Lonely House (Lowndes)/Chapter 17

HERE is nothing else to be done, Angelo. I regret the necessity as much as you do.”

It was the day after Lily's delightful drive with Beppo, and the words floated out to where she was sitting in the late morning sunshine. They were uttered by the Countess, whose sitting-room window was open.

The Count's low answer to his wife's observation took Lily somewhat by surprise, for he spoke with much more feeling than she had yet heard him display.

“I will not sully my lips by telling you the kind of information about Monte Carlo the old brute expected me to give him.”

“All the more do I ask you to do this for the sake of our Beppo. His whole future depends on it.”

“If I do as you wish, Lily will have to accompany me.”

The Count uttered these words in a slow, hesitating voice.

The girl had no wish to act as eavesdropper, so she called out: “Is there anything I can do for you, Uncle Angelo?”

The Countess appeared at the window. She was flustered and looked annoyed.

“The truth is,” she exclaimed volubly, “that Beppo is in business relations with a Dutch gentleman. The matter concerns a British affair in which they are both interested, and we think you may be useful in assuring the Dutchman that things in England are going on quite well. You came so lately from London, and we think this person will take your word, when he would not take ours—” she waited a few moments, then said firmly, “I should like you to go now, so will you put on that pretty new coat and skirt? Then you can accompany Uncle Angelo to the Condamine.”

Lily hurried into the house, and a few minutes later the Countess was walking across the lawn to see them off.

“Do not say anything of this matter to Beppo,” she said anxiously.

And Lily answered: “Of course I won't, Aunt Cosy.” But she spoke very coldly. She could not forgive the Countess Polda for having opened her letter.

The two ill-assorted companions went down the hill together in absolute silence. Count Polda was always a man of few words. But at last:

“I shall be asking my friend, Mr. Vissering, to supper to-night,” he said suddenly. “I shall be obliged, Lily, if you would refrain from mentioning the fact that you will be out this evening. He is very fond of English people, and I do not know that he would come if he thought that he was only to be alone with your Aunt Cosy and myself.”

Lily felt just a little uncomfortable. Not for the first time she told herself that foreigners seem to have a curious dislike to telling the truth.

But the girl had many things to fill her mind just now. In a sense she was sorry that Beppo Polda was going back to Rome in two days, for she had enjoyed seeing even a little glimpse of the brilliant, amusing world of Monte Carlo in his company. Also she felt flattered at his obvious admiration and liking for herself. Nothing could be nicer than the way Beppo had behaved to her yesterday, and she resented M. Popeau's hints and insinuations very much indeed.

These desultory thoughts passed to and fro through Lily Fairfield's mind during the longish walk, and she was suddenly surprised to find herself and the Count in a part of the Condamine where she had never been before.

Was it here that Uncle Angelo's business friend lived? Yes, for at last they stopped in front of a large, old-fashioned house, across which was written in large, black letters, “Utrecht Hotel.”

Walking through the open door into a small hall lit by a skylight, Count Polda shook hands in a friendly way with a respectable-looking woman who sat at a desk making out an account.

“Is Mr. Vissering in, Madame Sansot?” he asked. And the woman said, “Yes, I believe so, Monsieur le Comte. But I will go and see.”

The woman came back after a few moments. “Mr. Vissering is very busy writing in his room,” she said. “He begs Monsieur le Comte to call another time.”

“Will you please take him up this card?” said Count Polda.

He went up to the desk where the woman had been sitting and dipped a pen in the ink. Lily could not help seeing that on the card, on which was engraved, above “Count Polda,” an elegant little coronet, he wrote the words: “I have brought with me Miss Lily Fairfield, my young English niece, whom you will perhaps be pleased to meet.”

Again the woman went off, and when she came back she exclaimed, “He will be down in two or three minutes. Please come this way!”

She showed the visitors into a dingy little back room, where there were three deep armchairs and a number of cane-bottomed chairs. On two marble-topped tables were ash-trays and match-boxes. The windows were shut, and the room smelt musty. What a strange place in which to receive visitors!

Before leaving the room the woman came close up to the Count and said in a low voice:

“Does Monsieur le Comte know anything about Mr. Vissering? We find him a very curious kind of gentleman! He insists on paying every day, and he is so mean—he scrutinises every sou in the account! Yet we know that he has a very large sum of money always on his person. That is not safe in a place like Monte Carlo, and my husband has begged him again and again to leave his money in our safe. But he is very suspicious.”

“I know even less about him than you do,” answered the Count amiably. ”'But I am not surprised at what you tell me. A certain type of nouveau riche either spends too much or too little. I know very little of your client. You will remember that you yourself introduced him to me.”

“Yes, and I'm very grateful to Monsieur le Comte for the trouble he took. But as a client Mr. Vissering has disappointed us very much!” She waited a moment. “Was Monsieur le Comte able to get the card of admission he desired so much to possess? Fancy a man of that wealth not being able to get into the Club!”

“That was simply because Mr. Vissering did not already belong to a club in his own country. He is very old-fashioned, as you know, but there is no harm in him.”

The woman looked dubiously at Lily. “Ah, Monsieur le Comte, you do not know the things that I know! But there—I will say nothing.”

After Madame Sansot had left them the Count turned to Lily: “This fellow Vissering is truly a queer kind of man,” he muttered. “He was one of the war profiteers of Holland. That makes him feel he has the right to be insolent. You must not notice his odd manner.”

Lily smiled.

“Of course I won't, Uncle Angelo!”

Those who love Lily Fairfield hope that she will live to a good old age, but however long she lives she will never, never forget that shabby little smoking-room of the Utrecht Hotel. And yet what happened there did not seem at the time so very remarkable, memorable, or strange—it was simply very disagreeable and unexpected.

After they had been waiting there perhaps in all five minutes, the door opened, and a huge old man walked into the room. Lily told herself that he looked like a big, shaggy Newfoundland dog—only not so nice! What was impressive about the stranger was a look of age wedded to that of great vitality. His ugly, powerful face bore a strange expression of hesitancy and expectation.

Count Polda bowed, coldly and distantly.

“As I was passing by, I thought, Mr. Vissering, that I would come in and convey to you an invitation from my wife. The Countess will be very pleased if you will come and spend this evening with us.”

There was a pause. By way of answer the old man came close up to where his visitors were standing. He did not even glance at the Count, but he stared at Lily, and there was something so searching in that bold, hard, measuring look that the girl's own eyes fell before it.

“So this is your niece, Monsieur le Comte?” he said at last, speaking French with a strong, gutteral accent.

“Yes,” replied the Count, rather nervously. “This is Miss Lily Fairfield, my English niece.”

Then the old Dutchman broke into English.

“Is it true,” he asked the girl abruptly, “that the Count is your uncle?”

If it came to the point, it was, of course, not true. But Lily told herself quickly that what she was or was not did not concern this odious old man.

“I am on a visit to my aunt, the Countess Polda,” she said quietly.

“Then Madame la Comtesse is English?” asked Mr. Vissering.

That question Lily did not feel called upon to answer. And the Count interposed: “I shall be grateful if you will speak French. I learnt English as a young man, but it is not a language with which I am familiar.”

And then the old Dutchman turned again to Lily, and, speaking this time in French, and with a kind of ogreish look and familiar intonation, which she found very unpleasant and disconcerting, he exclaimed:

“I asked you that question, Mademoiselle, because, as a matter of fact, I inquired of my good new friend here, Count Polda, whether he knew any charming young ladies in Monte Carlo with whom I might make acquaintance. I am on the look-out for a little wife.”

Lily stared at him. What an extraordinarily, disagreeable, ridiculous old man! And what a very odd kind of joke to make to a girl he had only met a few moments ago!

“I have always admired young English ladies very much,” went on the strange old fellow, “and I have here before me a perfect specimen.” He bowed.

It was an ungainly bow, a kind of imitation of the Count's elegant and graceful salute.

“My niece,” interposed Count Polda quickly, “has just come from London, and she has much that is interesting to say about her happy, prosperous country.”

“There are not many Dutchmen in London,” said Mr. Vissering grimly. “Before the war Germans were preferred.” He laughed harshly. “As for us, we have always preferred France to England.”

And then Lily, feeling that the time had come when she must say something to help Uncle Angelo, suddenly remarked, a little timidly, and yet firmly too:

“I wonder, Monsieur, if you are acquainted with a Dutch gentleman named Baron van Voorst? He is the only Dutchman I have ever met.”

And then, to her surprise, and to the Count's relief, there came a distinct change over the old man. He drew a long breath.

“I have not met him,” he said, again speaking in English, but in a very different and a far more courteous tone. “The Baron is certainly a very distinguished man; one of our best-known statesmen. Do I understand you to say that you are personally acquainted with him?”

“Yes,” said Lily, feeling—she could not have told you why—a little less uncomfortable. “I know him and his family quite well. He had his daughter with him—a girl about my own age—and they both said they hoped I would go some day to Holland; in fact, they asked me to go and stay with them there next spring to see the tulips in flower.”

Here Count Polda intervened with what Lily could not help feeling was a rather uncalled-for, and snobbish, interruption:

“My niece, Miss Fairfield, comes of a very good English family,” he observed pompously.

“People of good family are but human after all,” said the old man disagreeably. “Does Mademoiselle frequent the Casino?”

He was certainly speaking more pleasantly, but, still, there was a curious note in his voice—a note to which Lily was very unaccustomed, that of a certain contemptuous familiarity.

“I've only been in the Rooms once,” she said quietly.

“And did Mademoiselle play?”

Lily laughed. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “Of course I played—and I won too! But my bag was stolen.”

There was a long pause, and then all at once Mr. Vissering exclaimed: “I beg of you to sit down! Forgive my rudeness for not having invited you to do so before.”

Count Polda hesitated. He looked at Lily, as if wishing to discover how she felt. But she, on her side, was only anxious to do what would best further Uncle Angelo's and Beppo's business relations with this unpleasant, eccentric old man. So she sat down on one of the cane-bottomed cairs [sic], and Mr. Vissering let himself fall heavily into one of the armchairs.

“Well,” he said, “is it a bargain? Am I to have the company of Miss Fairfield this afternoon in the Rooms? If so, I will bring with me a pretty gold purse containing a thousand francs, and I will give her a lesson in gambling.”

The Count answered for the now astonished and indignant Lily.

“I am sorry, but that is impossible! My niece has an engagement this afternoon. Meanwhile, I recall to your memory my wife's invitation. We hope you will do us the pleasure of coming up to La Solitude for supper. We are simple people, but I think you would enjoy an evening in the pure air.”

The old man seemed to be hesitating. “I do not know how I should find your house,” he said at last. “I should not care to take a taxi. Once you are in a taxi you are no longer your own master! I am one of those men who believe in their own good right arm, as our friends the Germans used to say. I like to carry my fortune—or as much of it as I have with me—on my person.

“There need be no question of a taxi,” said the Count quickly. “I've been offered the loan of a motor by a friend. I will call at the garage on my way home and arrange to fetch you. The same motor will, of course, bring you back. You will be put to no expense.”

“Ah, that is better! And you will bring our charming young friend here to fetch me?”

The Count shook his head. “I will fetch you, Mr. Vissering. Mademoiselle will be with my wife, waiting to greet you at La Solitude.”

“Did you say dinner would be at seven o'clock?” asked the old man. “It is my habit to lunch early, therefore I am hungry by seven.”

“It shall certainly be seven—or even half-past six, if you prefer it,” said the Count courteously.

“No, seven will do. I shall expect you here at half-past six. Oh—and a word more. I was much gratified the other day by your kindly giving me a card of admission to the Club. But I have not cared to use it, being alone. Would you mind coming down with me there to-night, and acting as my introducer?”

“I, being a Monegasque, have no right to enter the Club,” said the Count. “But I have many friends, any one of whom would be charmed to introduce you. I will see one of them, the Marchese Pescobaldi, about the matter at once on leaving here.”

“I thank you,” said Mr. Vissering slowly.

“And now we must be going home, Lily,” said the Count in a relieved tone. “Your aunt will be expecting us.”

The girl got up. Somehow she felt she did not want that strange old man even to touch her hand. She bowed distantly.

He accompanied them into the hall. “Till to-night, then,” he said in French. Then, breaking into English, he exclaimed, “And do not forget—do not forget what I told you just now, my fair young lady!”

“What you told me just now?” repeated Lily uncomfortably. Did he mean that ridiculous proposal that he should take her to the Casino and give her money to gamble with?

“That I am on the look-out for a dear little wife!”

Lily made no answer to this peculiar remark. She tried to smile, but when she got out in the street she took a deep breath. She had felt as if stifled in that frowsy little smoking-room.

“What a brute, eh?” exclaimed the Count, after they had walked a few yards in silence. “You must forgive me, my dear Lily, for having exposed you to that low fellows vulgar joking!”

“I've never met such an extraordinary man,” said the girl hesitatingly. “His manner was so odd. Do you think that he is a little mad?”

“He is an eccentric,” said the Count shortly.

“I can't imagine why he wants to belong to the Club.”

“He is, as you say in England, a snob,” observed the Count drily.

“And do you really think he will be useful to Beppo?” asked Lily.

“I know he will be,” replied the Count grimly.

Then he fell into one of his long silences.

“Have you not forgotten, Uncle Angelo, the message to the Marchese?” asked Lily at last. “I mean about Mr. Vissering and the Club.”

“I have thought the matter over,” said the Count gravely, “and I do not feel I can propose such a plan to the Marchese. Mr. Vissering would be out of place in the Club.

“You also said something about a car for to-night,” said Lily.

“I have changed my mind about that too. I do not care to ask favours of people. I shall take one of those nice taxis that look like a private car, from one of the hotels.”

When they were within sight of La Solitude, he asked suddenly: “Are you going out with Beppo and the Pescobaldis this afternoon?”

“No,” said Lily. “There would not be room for me in the car. The Marchesa has asked some people they know in the hotel to go with them. Beppo said they meant to start early this morning, but they will be back in ample time for dinner, of course. I am to be at the Hidalgo Hotel at a quarter to seven.”

“And what time will you be home?” asked the Count. He turned and looked at Lily as he spoke. She was surprised, for he never seemed to take the slightest interest in her comings or goings.

“Beppo wants me to have supper with him and his friends after the performance. They kindly suggest bringing me back, as Aunt Cosy would not like me to return alone so late.”

“Then we cannot expect you home till after eleven?”

“I fear it will be twelve o'clock, Uncle Angelo. But Cristina is going to sit up for me. It is very kind of her to do so.”

She waited, and then added, a little shyly: “I am so very fond of Cristina, Uncle Angelo!”

“You are right to be that,” he said feelingly. “She is a most excellent woman.”

“She is so fond of Beppo,” said Lily.

“Yes—yes, indeed; she could not love him more if she were his own mother! There is nothing—nothing that Cristina would not do for my Beppo”

There came a tone of real emotion into the Count's voice, and the girl, looking round at him, told herself how very strange it was that the same man could be so frank and so deceitful, so cold in manner and at the same time such a devoted father. He now looked curiously pale and puffy, as well as very, very tired.

“I wish Beppo could have stayed on in Monte Carlo a little longer,” she said kindly.

The Count looked at her fixedly. “I hope,” he said slowly, “that Beppo will stay in Monte Carlo for a considerable time.”

Lily was surprised to hear him say this. Surely Beppo was going back to Rome at once? His own and his friends rooms at the Hotel Hidalgo were already let to another set of people from two days hence.