The Wheel of Love/Chapter 8

that evening Miss Bellairs was not observed—and Deane watched her very closely—to address a word to Charlie Ellerton; even ‘good-night’ was avoided by a premature disappearance and unexpected failure to return. Perhaps it was part of the same policy of seclusion which made her persuade Lady Deane to travel to Paris with her in one compartment and relegate the men to another—a proposal which the banished accepted by an enthusiastic majority of two to one. The General foresaw an infinity of quiet naps and Deane uninterrupted smoking; Charlie alone chafed against the necessary interruption of his bold campaign, but, in face of Dora’s calm coldness of aspect, he did not dare to lift up his voice.

Lady Deane was so engrossed in the study—or the search for opportunities of study—of sides of life with which she was unfamiliar as to be, for the most part, blind to what took place immediately around her. General Bellairs himself (who vaguely supposed that some man might try to make love to his daughter five years hence, and thereupon be promptly sent off with a flea in his ear) was not more unconscious than she that there was, had been, or might be anything, as the phrase runs, ‘between’ the two junior members of the party. Lady Deane had no hints to give and no questions to ask; she seated herself placidly in a corner and began to write in a large note-book. She had been unwillingly compelled to ‘scamp’ Marseilles, but, as she wrote, she found that the rough notes she was copying, aided by fresh memory, supplied her with an ample fund of material. Alternately she smiled contentedly to herself, and gazed out of the window with a preoccupied air. Clearly a plot was brewing, and the author was grateful to Dora for restricting her interruptions to an occasional impatient sigh and the taking up and dropping again of her Tauchnitz.

With the men tongues moved more.

“Well, General,” said Deane, “what’s Miss Dora’s ultimatum about your staying in Paris?”

Charlie pricked up his ears and buried his face behind La Vie Parisienne.

“You’ll think me very weak, Deane,” rejoined the General, with an apologetic laugh, “but I’ve promised to go straight on if she wants me to.”

“And does she?”

“I don’t know what the child has got in her head, but she says she’ll tell me when she gets to Paris. We shall have a day with you anyhow; I don’t think she’s so set on not staying as she was, but I don’t profess to understand her fancies. Still, as you see, I yield to them.”

“Man’s task in the world,” said Deane. “Eh, Charlie? What are you hiding behind that paper for?”

“I was only looking at the pictures.”

“Quite enough too. You’re going to stay in Paris, aren’t you?”

“Don’t know yet, old fellow. It depends on whether I get a letter calling me back or not.”

“Hang it, one might as well be in a house where the shooting turns out a fraud. Nobody knows that he won’t have a wire any morning and have to go back to town. My wife’ll be furious if you desert her, General.”

“Oh, I hope it won’t come to that.”

“I hope awfully that I shall be able to stay,” said Charlie, with obvious sincerity.

“Then,” observed Deane with a slight smile, “if the General and Miss Bellairs leave us you can take my wife about.”

“I should think you might take her yourself,” and he gently kicked Deane. He was afraid of arousing the General’s dormant suspicions.

It was late at night when they arrived in Paris, but the faithful Laing was on the platform to meet them, and received them with a warm greeting. While the luggage was being collected by Deane’s man, they stood and talked on the platform. Presently the General, struck by a sudden thought, asked:

“I suppose nothing came for us at Cannes, oh, Laing? You said you’d bring anything on, you know.”

Laing interrupted a pretty speech which he was trying to direct into Dora’s inattentive ears.

“Beg pardon, General?”

“No letters for any of us before you left Cannes?”

“No, Gen—” he began, but suddenly stopped. His mouth remained open and his glass fell from his eye.

The General, not waiting to hear more than the first word, had rushed of to hail a cab and Deane was escorting his wife. Dora and Charlie stood waiting for the unfinished speech.

The end came slowly and with a prodigious emphasis of despair.

“Oh, by Jove!”

“Well, Mr. Laing?” said Dora.

“The morning you left—just after—there were two telegrams.”

“For me?” said each of his auditors.

“One for each of you, but”

“Oh, give me mine.”

“Hand over mine, old chap.”

“I—I haven’t got ’em.”

“What?”

“I—I’m awfully sorry, I—I forgot ’em.”

“Oh, how tiresome of you, Mr. Laing!”

“Send ’em round first thing to-morrow, Laing.”

“But—but I don’t know where I put ’em. I know I laid ’em down. Then I took ’em up. Then I put ’em—where the deuce did I put ’em? Here’s a go, Miss Bellairs! I say, I am an ass!”

No contradiction assailed him. His victims glared reproachfully at him.

“I must have left them at Cannes. I’ll wire first thing in the morning, Miss Bellairs; I’ll get up as soon as ever the office is open. I say, do forgive me.”

“Well, Mr. Laing, I’ll try, but”

“Laing! Here! My wife wants you,” shouted Sir Roger, and the criminal, happy to escape, ran away, leaving Dora and Charlie alone.

“They must have been from them,” murmured Dora.

“No doubt; and that fool Laing”

“What has he done with them?”

“Lit his pipe with them, I expect.”

“Oh, what shall we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What—what do you think they said, Mr. Ellerton?”

“How can I tell? Perhaps that the marriage was off!”

“Oh!” escaped from Dora.

“Perhaps that it was going on.”

“It’s worse than ever. They may have asked for answers.”

“Probably.”

“And they won’t have written here!”

“Sure not to have.”

“And—and I shan’t know what to do. I—I believe it was to say he had broken off the marriage.”

“Is the wish father to the thought?”

The lights of the station flickered, but Charlie saw, or thought he saw, a hasty unpremeditated gesture of protest.

“Dolly!” he whispered.

“Hush, hush! How can you now—before we know?”

“The cab’s waiting,” called Deane. “Come along.”

They got in in silence. The General and the Deanes went first, and the three young people followed in a second vehicle. It was but just twelve, and the boulevards were gay and full of people.

Suddenly, as they were near the Opera, they saw the tall figure of an unmistakable Englishman walking away from them down the Avenue de l’Opéra. Dora clutched Charlie’s arm with a convulsive grip.

“Hullo, what’s the—” he began, but a second pinch enforced silence.

“See that chap?” asked Laing, pointing to the figure. “He’s at my hotel.”

“Is he?” said Dora in a faint voice.

“Yes, I’ve got a good deal of amusement out of him. He oughtn’t to be out so late though, and by himself, too!”

“Who is it?” asked Charlie.

“I don’t know his name.”

“And why oughtn’t he to be out?”

“Because he’s on his honeymoon,”

“What?” cried Dora.

“Just married,” explained Laing. “Wife’s a tallish girl, fair, rather good-looking; looks standoffish though.”

“You—you’re sure they’re married, Mr. Laing?” gasped Dora, and Charlie, in whom her manner had awakened a suspicion of the truth, also waited eagerly for the reply.

“What, Miss Bellairs?” asked Laing in surprise.

“Oh, I mean—I mean you haven’t made a mistake?”

“Well, they’re together all day, and nobody’s with them except a lady’s-maid. I should think that’s good enough.”

With a sigh Dora sank back against the cushions. They were at the hotel now; the others had already entered, and, bidding Laing a hearty good-night, Dora ran in, followed closely by Charlie. He did not overtake her before she found her father.

“Well, Dolly,” said the General, “there’s no letter.”

“Oh,” cried Dolly, “I’ll stay as long as ever you like, papa.”

“That’s right,” said Deane. “And you, Charlie?”

Charlie took his cue.

“A month if you like.”

“Capital! Now for a wash—come along, Maud—and then supper!”

Dora lingered behind the others, and Charlie with her. Directly they were alone, he asked:

“What does it all mean?”

She sat down, still panting with agitation.

“Why—why, that man we saw—the man Mr. Laing says is on his honeymoon, is—is”

“Yes, yes?”

“Mr. Ashforth!”

“Dolly! And his wife! By Jove! It’s an exact description of Mary Travers!”

“The telegrams were to say the marriage was to be at once.”

“Yes, and—they’re married!”

“Yes!”

A short pause marked the astounding conclusion. Then Charlie came up very close and whispered:

“Are you broken-hearted, Dolly?”

She turned her face away with a blush.

“Are you, Dolly?”

“I’m very much ashamed of myself,” she murmured. “Oh, Mr. Ellerton, not just yet!” and in deference to her entreaty Charlie had the grace to postpone what he was about to do.

When the supper was ready Sir Roger Deane looked round the table inquiringly.

“Well,” said he, “what is it to be?”

“Champagne—champagne in magnums!” cried Charlie Ellerton, with a ringing laugh.