Chapter Twenty Five. The Sacrifice.

For Elma the world held no future. Though surrounded by every luxury in that magnificent Park Lane mansion, the millionaire home that was the most notable in all London’s modern houses, her only thoughts were of her father and of her lover Roddy.

She hated that fat, beady-eyed but elegantly-dressed man whom Mr Harrison had introduced to her father, and who was now so openly making love to her. His words and his manner were alike artificial. The feminine mind is always astute, and she knew that whatever he said was mere empty compliment. She saw upon his lips the sign of sensuousness, a sign that no woman fails to note. Sensuousness and real love are things apart, and every woman can discriminate them. Men are deceivers. Women may, on the other hand, allure, and be it said that the vampire woman like Freda Crisp is ever with us.

In the life of London, of Paris, or of New York, the vampire woman in society plays a part which is seldom suspected.

They are in a class by themselves, as was Freda Crisp. The vampire woman is the popular term for a woman who lives by preying upon others; men usually, but upon her own sex if occasion demands.

Freda Crisp, though few of the characters in this human drama of love and cupidity had suspected her, was a case in point. She was a type that was interesting. As a girl of eighteen everyone admired her for her charm of manner, her conversational gifts and her bright intellect, which was marred only by a rather too lively imagination, and a tendency to romance so ingeniously that no one ever knew if she told the truth or not.

Her career was abnormal, and yet not stranger than that of some others in these post-war days.

At nineteen she had been to prison for swindling. Physically she was wonderfully fascinating, but her chief characteristic was an absence of all real affection and moral feeling. Even as a girl she could profess passionate love for those from whom she expected profit and gain; but misfortune and death, even of those nearest her, would leave her quite unmoved.

She was a perfect type of the modern adventuress. She could act well, and at times would shed tears profusely if she thought it the right thing at the moment.

As she grew older her unrestrained coquetry threw her into the vicious adventurous circle of which Gordon Gray was the master and moving spirit. She threw in her lot with him. On board a transatlantic liner on which she went for a trip to New York an officer fell a victim to her charms, and supplied her with money that was not his. His defalcations were discovered, and he committed suicide to escape disgrace.

That was the first unpleasant incident in her career after meeting Gray. There were many afterwards. She was a woman whose sole aim was to see and enjoy life. Without heart and without feeling, active, not passive in her love-making, she, like many another woman before her, aspired to power and influence over men, and many an honourable career was wrecked by her, and much gain had gone into the joint pockets of Gordon Gray and herself.

Purcell Sandys had been ruined. She knew it, and laughed.

She sat in Gray’s rooms in St. James’s smoking a cigarette before going to dine at a restaurant, and was discussing the situation.

“Really, my dear Gordon,” she said, puffing the smoke from her lips, “you are wonderful! You have the whole affair in your hands. We shall both make a fortune over this concession. The whole thing is as easy as falling off a log, thanks to you.”

“It hasn’t been so easy as you think, my dear Freda, that I can assure you,” he replied. “But I think we are now on a fair way towards bringing off our coup. The one great thing in our favour is old Homfray’s death. He knew far too much. At any moment he might have given us away. He was the one person in the whole world whom I feared.”

“And you were a fool to defy him by selling that petty bit of property at Totnes,” said the handsome woman.

“No, Freda, I wasn’t. I did it to prove that I defied him. When one man defies another it causes the defied to think. That is why I did it. I knew his secret—a secret that no parson could face in his own parish. And if he dared to say a word against me I should have told what I knew to the bishop.”

“Would the bishop have believed you?”

“Of course. He had only to look up the date of the criminal trial, then old Homfray, who knew so much of our little business, would have had to face the music. No, Freda, the old sky-pilot was too cute for us. He dared not face the music.”

“But the girl, Elma Sandys? She’s a good sort and—well, Gordon, I tell you, I’m a bit sorry for her.”

“I’m not. You and I will part for a bit, and I’ll marry her. By so doing I’ll gain a fortune, and then after a time I’ll come back to you, old girl. I won’t desert you—I promise that!”

“But would you really come back?” asked the woman, after a pause.

The stout man put his big hand upon hers and, looking into her eyes, said, “I swear it. We’ve been in tight corners before, Freda. Surely you can trust me in this—eh? It means big money for both of us, and no further worry for you.”

“I don’t know that I can trust you, Gordon,” the woman said, looking him straight in the face.

“Bah! you’re jealous of the girl!” And he laughed. “She’s only a slip of a thing who doesn’t count.”

“But you’ve taken a fancy to her.”

“I have, and I mean to marry her. Nothing can prevent that.”

“I could,” snapped the woman.

“Yes. But you won’t, my dear Freda. If you did—well, you’d forgo all the money that will very soon be yours.”

“Arthur stands in with us.”

“Well, I suppose we shall have to give him a little bit. But he’ll have to be satisfied with a few hundreds.”

“He expects a quarter share.”

“He’ll have to go on expecting,” laughed her companion. ”‘Guinness’ always expects more than he’s entitled to. It is a complaint of his.”

“And if you married this girl, do you think you would be happy, Gordon?”

“Happy? I’m not seeking happiness, my dear girl. I’m after money.”

“But can’t it be managed without your marriage to Elma?”

“No, it can’t,” he declared. “That’s one of my conditions to old Sandys. Naturally the girl is thinking of her lover. But she’ll soon see that he’s deceived her, and then she’ll learn to forget him.”

“I doubt it. I know the temperament of young girls of Elma’s stamp.”

“You’re jealous. I repeat!” he said with sarcasm. “Fancy! Your being jealous of Elma! Am I so good-looking and such an Adonis—eh?”

“You’re anything but that,” she replied sharply. “But you see, Gordon, you’ve taught me never to trust a soul, not even yourself. And I don’t. Once you marry that girl you will become a rich man and try to shake me off. But,”—and a fierce expression showed in the woman’s eyes—“but I’ll watch that you don’t. I can say a lot, remember.”

“And I can also,” the man laughed, with a careless air, “but I won’t, and neither will you, my dear girl. Silence is best for both of us.”

“You can carry out the business without marrying Elma,” Freda urged. “You have taken every precaution against accident, and the ruin of Sandys has made everything possible. What would Mr Sandys say if he knew that the amiable Mr Rex Rutherford was one of the men to whom Sir Charles Hornton lost that big sum at cards three nights before he killed himself?”

Gray drew a long breath.

“Well,” he said with a bitter smile, “I don’t suppose he’d feel very friendly towards me. But the driving of Sir Charles into a corner was, I foresaw, one of the chief points in our game. Sandys is ruined, and I’m the good Samaritan who comes forward at the opportune moment and brings salvation.”

“Clever,” declared the woman, “devilish clever! But you always are, Gordon. You are wonderful.”

“In combination with yourself, my dear Freda. I’m no good without you,” he declared. “So don’t exhibit these foolish fits of jealousy. I’ve made up my mind to marry Sandys’ daughter, for it will improve my prestige. When I’ve had enough of her, I shall simply leave her and we will rejoin forces again,” he added callously. And then together they went out to dine at the Ritz.

That same evening Elma sat in her room, with the hazy London sunset fading over the Park, confused and wondering.

Surely Roddy would not tell her a lie! She took out his scribbled note and re-read it, as she had done a dozen times before. It was a plain and straightforward assertion, and yet the man Rutherford had produced the concession granted to him, properly authenticated and officially sealed.

Where was Roddy? Was it really possible, as Rutherford had suggested, that he was in hiding, not daring to come forward now that his lie was proved? She could not bring herself to believe it. And yet why had he so suddenly gone to Farncombe for one night and then taken train to Guildford and disappeared?

On the previous day she had been down to Guildford by train from Waterloo, and had made inquiries of the porters and in the booking-office and elsewhere regarding Roddy, whom one or two of the railway servants—knew, but without avail. Roddy had been seen waiting out in the station yard by a clerk in the parcel office. That was all the information she could gather. Therefore, after a cup of coffee at the tea-shop in the old-fashioned High Street, she had returned to London.

That evening as she sat pondering, pale and nervous, her maid came into her room and she roused herself wearily. Then she put on a plain little black dinner-frock and went downstairs to the dining-room, where her father, pale-faced and rather morose, awaited her.

Hughes, surprised at his master’s sudden gravity, served the meal with his usual stateliness, begotten of long service with the Earl.

With the footman and Hughes present father and daughter could exchange no confidences. So they hurried over their meal, and found relief when they were back in the library and alone.

“I’m utterly puzzled, dad,” declared the girl; “I can get no news of Roddy. I’m certain that he would never write that letter and deceive me about the concession. It is his—I’m positive.”

“But, my dear child, how can it be? I have read the translation of Rutherford’s concession. All is in order. It revokes any other permit that has ever been given. It is a firm and unassailable contract.”

“I don’t care what it is,” declared the girl. “Roddy would never deceive me. I know his father’s death has greatly upset him, but he is still in possession of all his faculties.”

“But his mental condition was bad, you will remember,” remarked her father.

“It was. But he is quite well again. I know he would never mislead me, dad!” And she fondled Tweedles, who, barking for recognition, had placed his front paws upon her knees.

“Of course,” said Mr Sandys, humouring her, “you love Roddy and, of course, believe in him. It is after all but natural, my child.”

“Yes, dad. You know that I love him. He is so honest, so upright, so true, that I feel confident, though the evidence seems against him, that he has not told a lie. He is the victim of circumstances,” the slim girl said, as she stood before the fire with the little dog in her arms.

“But unfortunately, dear, he does not come forward,” her father said. “Is it not his place to be here after writing you that letter concerning the concession? If he had been granted it, surely he would have come direct to me with it! Homfray is no fool. He knows that I could develop the scheme in the City within a few hours. Therefore why is he not here?”

“He is prevented.”

“How do we know that? He may be prevented—or he may fear to come.”

“You are not generous towards him, dad,” the girl protested.

“I’m generous, my dear—most generous,” replied the ruined man. “I like Roddy Homfray. His poor father’s sudden death was, I fear, a great blow to him, and especially so as he has scarcely entirely recovered from that very strange adventure of his which narrowly cost him his life. But in the present circumstances we must face hard facts. He has written to you making an assertion which he has not substantiated, and which is disproved by the official document which Rex Rutherford has placed in my hands.”

The girl, still confident in her lover’s bona fides, shook her head.

“There will be ample explanation one day, dad. I’m certain of it,” she declared. “I am indeed confident that Roddy has not written to me a deliberate lie.”

Next day passed, but young Homfray made no sign. Again Elma telephoned to Farncombe, and yet again came the reply that her lover had not returned. His silence puzzled her greatly. Could it be really true that his concession only existed in his own imagination? She loved him too well to think ill of him. Now that she was as poor as he was there could be no barrier to their marriage. Her magnificent home would be swept away, the Towers would be sold again, and her father made bankrupt.

She was again standing alone at the window of her room looking across the Park, where the trees were clearly showing the autumn tints.

Her face was pale and haggard, her clenched hands trembling.

“No, no!” she whispered hoarsely. “I alone can save dad from ruin and bankruptcy. I alone! And I must do it!”

That evening, just after Hughes had brought in the tea, her father being in the City, the old man reappeared saying that Mr Rutherford had called.

She held her breath, then, with an effort, she gave permission for him to be shown in.

The stout, beady-eyed man, in perfect-fitting clothes and a dangling monocle, crossed the carpet, smiling, with hand outstretched. The girl asked him to be seated, and poured him out a cup of tea. Her thoughts were of Roddy, but she strove to crush them down. Her brain was awhirl, for she knew that only by her own sacrifice could her beloved father be saved.

Presently, when they had chatted about other things, Rutherford returned to the point and bluntly asked whether she had reconsidered her decision.

“Yes, Mr Rutherford, I have,” she replied very slowly in a deep, tense voice. “You are prepared to assist my father under a certain condition. That I accept.”

“Then you will marry me!” he cried, with triumph in his eyes, as he jumped up and seized her hand. Then she felt his hot breath upon her cheek and shrank from his embrace.

When he left she went to her room and, locking the door, gave way to another paroxysm of grief.

At nine o’clock that night Rutherford called again and told Mr Sandys of Elma’s acceptance.

The old man stood staggered.

“Elma has done this for your sake, Mr Sandys,” Rutherford said. “And, after all, it is a marriage of convenience, as so many are. Both our positions will be improved by it, yours and mine, for this concession will mean big money to both of us.”

Mr Sandys could not reply. His thoughts held him speechless. Elma had sacrificed herself to save him from ruin!

But where was Roddy Homfray? That was a problem which neither father nor daughter could solve.

Two days later Elma and her father went down to Farncombe Towers, Mr Sandys having already taken preliminary steps for the purpose of floating the Emerald Mines of Morocco. There were rumours in the City concerning it, and a great deal of interest was being taken in the scheme in very influential quarters.

Rex Rutherford had not before been to Farncombe, therefore he was now invited. Now that old Norton Homfray was dead he accepted, and spent most of the time rambling with Elma either in the gardens, the park, or the surrounding woods, though she did all in her power to avoid his loathsome caresses.

Elma, unknown to Rutherford, managed to call at the Rectory. On inquiring of Mrs Bentley regarding Roddy, the old woman explained that he had returned from abroad, slept one night there, and had gone out next day and had not come back. She knew that he had gone to Guildford, but that was all.

“And there’s been a young lady here wanting to see him, miss.”

“A young lady! Who?”

“She’s a Miss Manners.”

“Miss Manners!” Elma echoed. “Describe her.”

The woman did so, and Elma stood open-mouthed.

“She was here again three days ago,” Mrs Bentley added. “And she seems so eager to see Mr Roddy.”

“I must see Miss Manners,” Elma shouted to the deaf old woman. “You have no idea where she lives, I suppose?”

“No. I think she comes from London.”

“Well, next time she comes let me know at once. Or better, bring her up to the Towers to see me. It is most important that I should see her.”

Mrs Bentley promised, and Elma, returning to the Towers, told her father of Edna’s reappearance. Old Mr Sandys was equally surprised and equally eager to meet her. Where, they wondered, had she been all those months. He telephoned at once to the boarding-house in Powis Square, Bayswater, at which she had lived before her sudden disappearance, but could obtain no news of her whereabouts.