To My Darling: A Collection of Short Stories

Lord James Dacre considered himself to be extremely well placed at the Hindon's dinner party, and he settled himself down in his seat at the table with a delightful feeling that circumstances were turning out well for him that evening. In the first place, he was well aware that the Hindons kept a first-rate chef, and, to use his own vernacular, "did you extremely well"; and this certainly counted for something in his feeling of beautitude.

Then he had successfully avoided two of the greatest bores in the room, one of whom was very deaf and the other exceedingly greet, and both of whom were only asked, so he surmised, because they were excellent bridge players.

Dacre had found himself let in for sitting next to them at the last two dinners he had attended that week, and he felt he realy could not put up with it again. These reasons for gratification were, however, rather negative than positive, and would not have put him into such an exceedingly good temper had it not been for a third reason, which was, that he found himself sitting next to one of the very prettiest girls he had ever seen.

So pretty was she that his lordship found himself wondering that he had never heard of her before. Her dark brown hair waved round her face in quite a nymph-like way, while the lines of her young cheeks and throat would have inspired the brush of Lord Leighton.

Dacre fought against an inclination to stare, but by dint of inherited good manners, however, he succeeded, appearing, as usual, indifferent and imperturbable.

When the soup was half over, he considered himself at liberty to throw out a casual remark, to which the fair one responded with a dimpling smile, talking to him so naturally that she accomplished the difficult feat of making him forget even her beauty in her charm.

As the long, tedious dinner progressed on its way, they became quite friendly, and she told him a host of different things about herself, which, she evidently thought, might interest him, or, pherpas, being very childish she did not think of the effect at all.

As a matter of act, he found them extremely interesting -- not that the things she said were important in themselves, save for a kind of subtle sympathy, which seemed to spring up at once between them. She told him, for instance, that among a host of other things, that she liked dogs and couldn't bear cats, that she hated leaving a ball before three o'clock, that she had a brother called Jack who had just taught her to play bridge and who seemed to her to be altogether perfect, and that she was terribly afraid that this paragon might be called to South Africa.

And Jim Dacre looked into her lovely eyes, and was deeply interested in all these trivialities and in the future of the brother Jack whom he had never seen.

The dinner ended at last, to the infinite regret of the greedy old woman, Lady Featherley, whom "Lord Jim," as he was commonly called, had successfully avoided, and to the joy of all the other bridge players, who were longing to get to their game; and a move was made upstairs.

Dacre tried very hard, on the arrangement of the tables, to become the partner of his unknown friend; but his designs in that direction were instantly frustrated by his hostess, who promptly annexed him on his entry into the drawing-room, and insisted on being his partner.

There was no help for it, but the sight of the curly brown head at a distant table distracted his attention. He played less well than usual, and they lost considerably. Several times during the evening he fancied he heard slight altercations at the other table and Lady Featherley's voice raised in rude and unpleasant tones. She was a bad loser, and became exceedingly disagreeable when the game went against her.

Dacre grew extremely bored, and was thankful when at length some sleep person discovered that it was one o'clock, and chairs began to be moved back. During this move, Lady Featherley's grumbling tones were again heard from the other side, and Dacre, listening with anxious ears, fancied he distinguished the voice of his charmer in answer.

"If you give me your address," said the soft voice, which trembled as it spoke, "I'll send you a check tomorrow."

Louder than ever rose Lady Featherley's tones in reply. Dacre turned to his cousin and hostess for enlightenment.

"What's all this about?" he asked impatiently.

Mrs. Hindon yawned as she shuffled the cards together.

"Oh, that silly girl, Lettice Grey, has been losing. It's so stupid of her when has not a brass farthing; and old Lady Featherley is furious, because she thinks she won't get paid. As far as that goes, I don't care if she isn't. Tiresome old thing. She always makes a row. I wish I hadn't asked her."

"What were the points?" asked Lord Jim.

"Oh, shilling points, I believe."

Dacre's adieux were extremely hurried. He had caught sight of the tail of a white gown vanishing round the door, and, leaving the groups still discussing the game, he hurried after it. Hurrah! For a moment the coast was clear. The pompous butler and a yawning footman were standing on the steps, looking for four-wheelers, while she was alone in the vestibule, between the inner and outer halls.

As he reached her, he saw to his horror and amazement that she was sobbing, and, forgetting etiquette and slender acquaintance, he hurried to her side.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, isn't it awful?" she said. "I thought I understood the game so well, but oh -- oh ---"

"You've lost?" said Dacre, more as one stating a fact than asking a question.

She fixed him with a pair of horror-stricken eyes.

"I've lost twenty-four pounds," said she, "to Lady Featherley, and I haven't ten shillings in the world!"

There was not a moment to be lost. Already the voices of the rest of the party could be heard on the landing. Dacre was a man of action, and in less time than it takes me to write it he pressed three bank notes into her hand.

"I want you to owe it to me instead of to her," he said. "You shall pay it to me in one year, two years, ten years -- when you like."

As he spoke he was writing, and then he pressed a card into her trembling hand.

"I've written her address on the back of my own card," he continued hurriedly. "Post the money to her the first thing tomorrow, and everything else is just as if it had never happened."

She gazed piteously at him. her lips parted; she was about to speak. Dacre felt the urge to lean in and kiss her, but the opportunity passed.

"Your cab, miss," said the butler.

She faltered, hesitated, saw that functionary's stony gaze fixed on her, gave him piteously grateful look, which seemed to beg forgiveness for her lack of speech, and hurried down the steps.

She hurried into th ecab, and she hurried out of his life, and that was the maddening part of it. And yet it would have been easy for Dacre, one might think, to mount again the shallow stairs and to extract her address from the hostess. Yes, easy enough in the doing, but impossible to do. As he reflected on the storm of ridicule which would be raised by his question, he felt at once that it was impossible. There was only one link between them --- the debt she owed him, and, though he would gladly have released her, yet he welcomed the slender link that held them together.

Dacre's was not a very introspective nature; it did not occur to him that this was what is called "Love at first sight." He merely felt that on the dull horizon of his life a new interest had arisen. She seemed to draw him on from the dull, meaningless trivialities which formed his life towards that world of secret meanings and of fairy imaginings which are hidden in a woman's smile.

and now the light seemed suddenly quenched and misty; but would it only rise again he was conscious he would follow it to the ends of the earth, whether it turned out to be emptiness of a mocking will-o'-the-wisp or the lode-star of a home.