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The Woman Of His Dream
by
It was hard to refuse this petitioner, so warmly fascinating was she. Mademoiselle, who, it was well known, never accepted any invitations, hesitated for the first time–and was lost.
“If I came just for that one evening then, Gwen, you would not press me to stay longer?”
“Bless you, no!” declared Gwen. “I’ll drive you to the station myself in Mummy’s car to catch the first train next morning, if you’ll come. And I’ll make Reggie come too. You’ll just love Reggie, cherie. He’s my exact ideal of what a man ought to be–the best friend I have, next to you. Well, it’s a bargain then, isn’t it? You’ll come and help dance with the kids–you promise? That’s my own sweet cherie! And now you mustn’t grizzle here in the dark any longer. I believe my cab is at the door. Come down and see me off, won’t you?”
Yet again she was irresistible. They went out together, hand in hand, happy child and lonely woman, and the door of the deserted class-room banged with a desolate echoing behind them.
II
It was ten days later, on a foggy evening, in the end of the year, that Reginald Carey alighted at a small wayside station, and grimly prepared himself for a five-mile trudge through dark and muddy lanes to his destination.
The only conveyance in the station yard was a private motor car, and his first glance at this convinced him that it was not there to await him. He paused under the lamp outside to turn up his collar, and, as he did so, a man of gigantic breadth and stature, wearing goggles, came out of the station behind him and strode past. He glanced at Carey casually as he went by, looked again, then suddenly stopped and peered at him.
“Great Scotland!” he exclaimed abruptly. “I know you–or ought to. You’re the little newspaper chap who saved my life at Magersfontein. Thought there was something familiar about you the moment I saw you. You remember me, eh?”
He turned back his goggles impetuously, and showed Carey his face.
Yes; Carey remembered him very well indeed, though he was not sure that the acquaintance was one he desired to improve. He took the proffered hand with a certain reserve.
“Yes; I remember you. I don’t think I ever heard your name, but that’s a detail. You came out of it all right, then?”
“Oh, yes; more or less. Nothing ever hurts me.” The big man’s laugh had in it a touch of bitterness. “Where are you bound for? Come along with me in the car; I’ll take you where you want to go.” He seized Carey by the shoulder, impelling him with boisterous cordiality towards the vehicle. “Jump in, my friend. My name is Coningsby–Major Coningsby, of Crooklands Manor–mad Coningsby I’m called about here, because I happen to ride straighter to hounds than most of ’em. A bit of a compliment, eh? But they’re a shocking set of muffs in these parts. You don’t live here?”
“No; I am down on a visit to my cousin, Lady Emberdale. She lives at Crooklands Mead. I’ve come down a day sooner than I was expected, and the train was two hours late. I’m Reginald Carey.” He stopped before the step of the car. “It’s very good of you, but I won’t take you out of your way on such a beastly night. I can quite well walk.”
“Nonsense, man! It’s no distance, and it isn’t out of the way. I’ve only just motored down to get an evening paper. You’re just in time to dine with me. I’m all alone, and confoundedly glad to see you. I know Lady Emberdale well. Come, jump in!”
Thus urged, Carey yielded, not over-willingly, and took his seat in the car.
Directly they started, he knew the reason for his companion’s pseudonym, for they whizzed out of the yard at a speed which must have disquieted the stoutest nerves.