marrying self-made men, for the sake of money. Thenoble family of Southleigh had many such _mesalliances_ amongst itsaristocratic records.
But it was a relief to find Stella herself under no delusions concerningthe young man in question. He did not think it possible she could, butas diplomatically as was possible, she admitted that Mr Dutton was notwhat is, technically called, a gentleman.
"He is the only relative with whom I am on speaking terms," she added,after a pause, "for reasons of which I have already given you a hint.And I think I have grown rather to look forward to his visits."
Her observant eyes noticed a quick stiffening in his manner. She couldguess his thoughts. How was it possible for a refined young woman toever look forward to the visits of a person like Mr Dutton, cousinthough he might be?
"You, of course, have heaps of relations; you can pick and choose," shewent on, as if eager to explain to his fastidious taste her tolerationof a man, so obviously the denizen of an inferior world. "You cannot, Idaresay, imagine the loneliness of a girl of my age, debarred, throughno fault of her own, from the society of her own kith and kin." Herewas an opportunity to engage her in personal talk. He had not hoped shewould take him into her confidence on his first visit.
He leaned forward, and there was an eager note in his voice. "I formedan idea of you in the first few moments of our acquaintance, that youwere not happy, that you were, in a sense, isolated, and that you hadknown more of sorrow than joy in your short life."
She mused a moment, and then answered him in grave tones:
"You were quite right. I feel it is the impression I must convey toeither friend or stranger, an impression I shall always convey. For, ifa great and overwhelming happiness were to come to me to-morrow, I couldnever forget the past years of sadness."
"But, surely, you must have some happy memories? There were gleams ofbrightness in your childhood?"
"No," she said, and there was a fierce vehemence in her voice. "Theywere the most miserable--an indifferent mother, a careless father, aroof and a shelter, food and clothing sufficient, if not in abundance,but no home, as it is understood by more fortunate children."
"And when that home, or the wretched pretence of it, was broken up, youwere thrown upon the mercy of the world," he questioned, "with nokindred, no friends to stretch out a helping hand?"
"Our relatives had long before ceased to take any interest in thedaughter of a ruined gambler. I was thrown, in a certain sense, on themercy of the world. But for a small pittance, which my father could notdeprive me of, I should have starved, for he left nothing behind him butdebts."
She was not, then, absolutely penniless. Something had been saved fromthe wreck. He wondered if Esmond knew this. And yet, if she told acomparative stranger this at their first real interview, she must havetold him, who seemed to be on the footing of a friend of the house.
"I had no real friends," she went on; "but in the course of a wanderinglife--when my father owed too much in one place he removed to another--Ihad picked up a few acquaintances. With these I made a home, on andoff, for longer or shorter periods."
"And you have come to anchor here with Mrs L'Estrange, who is yourcousin, one of the few relatives who did not visit the sins of thefathers on the children."
Her voice was a little scornful. "The cousinship is a very distant one.And, as she is an inveterate gambler herself, but more lucky than myfather, she could hardly look upon gambling in another as a deadly sin."He nodded his head in agreement. He did not want to talk himself, forfear he should interrupt the flow of her reminiscences; she wasevidently in a confidential mood this afternoon.
"I saw her a few times when quite a child, and then she vanished likethe others. A couple of years ago, we met in Devonshire at the house ofa mutual acquaintance. She seemed to take a fancy to me. In the end,she proposed that I should, for the present, make my home with her. Shehas only one interest in life, _play_. She is a very lazy woman. Shehates writing the briefest note, and housekeeping is abhorrent to her.I attend to her correspondence, I order the dinner and look after theservants. I am not exactly eating the bread of charity," she concludedwith a little mirthless laugh, "because I give some work in exchange formy food. My own little pittance provides me with clothes."
He wondered what the little pittance represented in annual hard cash.She was dressed quietly but in good taste, and he was judge enough ofwoman's apparel to know that the material of her dress was expensive.On her slender fingers glittered a few valuable rings, heirloomsprobably saved from the clutches of the gambling father. She did notconvey the impression of poverty, but perhaps she was clever, and knewhow to make the best of a small income.
There was a long silence, and it almost seemed as if she had forgottenhis presence. For she sat with a musing look in her beautiful eyes, herthoughts evidently in the past, conjuring up Heaven knows how manypainful memories.
Then she came back to herself, and turned to him with an apologeticsmile. "I am afraid I have bored you to tears with my stupid personalhistory, but I will finish by telling you one little thing that mayamuse you."
He protested, of course, that he had not been in the least bored, onlytoo painfully interested.
"Well, I am not a person easily crushed, and although a physical cowardand frightened of raids and thunderstorms, I am not a moral one. When Ibegan to review my position, I tried to hit upon some way of makingmoney."
Was she fond of money, he wondered? Well, perhaps, like most women, shewanted money to buy herself pretty things. There was nothing unusual inthat.
"When I was a schoolgirl, I was supposed to show some artistic talent; Igot several prizes. So I set to work and painted some half-a-dozensmall things, in what I conceived to be a popular style, and took themround to as many dealers. In a week my hopes were shattered. Onestraightforward creature told me frankly that they just attained theschoolgirl level of excellence, but that I should never become anartist. It was not in me."
"A crushing blow, indeed," said Spencer sympathetically.
"I then turned to writing. Here, at any rate, was a profession thatrequired no previous painful training, only powers of observation, someimagination, and a certain fluency of expression. I wrote some shortstories which I thought good, which I still think good. Historyrepeated itself. I sent them to a dozen editors, one after another. Inevery case, they were declined with thanks."
"I daresay they were quite good, and they were not taken because youdidn't happen to be in the ring," was Spencer's consoling comment.
"Well," she exclaimed brightly, "there is an end of my reminiscences forto-day. Let us talk of anything and everything else. Have you seen MrEsmond lately? He has not been near us since the night he came withyou."
Shortly afterwards he took his leave, he had stayed unconsciously longas it was.
"I shall come again soon, if I may, to listen to some morereminiscences," he said, as he shook hands. And she had given himpermission, with the brightest of smiles.
He had not learned half as much as he wanted, but he had gatheredsomething. The bounder cousin was the son of a self-made man, a_parvenu_. And Stella Keane was not absolutely penniless, she hadenough money to buy herself clothes. Did Tommy Esmond know as much asthis? And if he did, why had he not said so?
CHAPTER TWELVE.
Although unsuspicious by nature, Guy Spencer had mixed much in the worldand seen a good deal of life. Attracted as he was by the charmingStella, there was a something about the atmosphere of that flat inElsinore Gardens which created an unfavourable impression.
Of Mrs L'Estrange's antecedents there was no question. She was a womanof good family, she could produce chapter and verse for her ancestors.And yet, why was she not in a better environment?
Clearly, she was on the downward slope. But was there anythingremarkable in that? Heaps of members of aristocratic families were inthe same sort of predicament, from various causes, through certaincircumstances.
Had he not
received a letter a few days ago from the daughter of awell-known earl, imploring him for a loan of ten pounds, for the sake ofold friendship?
The writer was some twenty years his senior, and she had tipped him whenhe was at Eton. She now dated her letter from a suburb in the extremewest of Kensington. If she, with all her advantages of birth andconnection, had fallen by the wayside, why not a comparatively obscureperson like Mrs L'Estrange?
It was very easy to see it. Mrs L'Estrange was of a Bohemiantemperament, and probably a great spendthrift. She had madeconsiderable inroads into whatever fortune she originally possessed, andhad developed into an adept card-player, with a view to supplementingthe little income that was left to her.
And Stella Keane, that beautiful, sad girl, with the tragic history ofworthless parents behind her, was the