TROUBLE BREWING
Through the winding lanes, between the tall hedges, honeysuckle
wreathed and starred with wild roses, out onto the broad main road,
Sabatini's great car sped noiselessly on its way back to London.
They seemed to pass in a few moments from the cool, perfumed air of
the country into the hot, dry atmosphere of the London suburbs.
Almost before they realized that they were on their homeward way,
the fiery glow of the city was staining the clouds above their
heads. Arnold leaned a little forward, watching, as the car raced on
to its goal. This ride through the darkness seemed to supply the
last thrill of excitement to their wonderful day. He glanced towards
Ruth, who lay back among the cushions, as though sleeping, by his
side.
"You are tired?"
"Yes," she answered simply.
They were in the region now of electric cars--wonderful vehicles
ablaze with light, flashing towards them every few minutes, laden
with Sunday evening pleasure seekers. Their automobile, however,
perfectly controlled by Sabatini's Italian chauffeur, swung from one
side of the road to the other and held on its way with scarcely
abated speed.
"You have enjoyed the day?" he asked.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He saw the shadows, and
wondered.
"Of course," she whispered.
His momentary wonder at her reticence passed. Again he was leaning a
little forward, looking up the broad thoroughfare with its double
row of lights, its interminable rows of houses growing in importance
as they rushed on.
"It is we ourselves who pass now along the lighted way!" he
exclaimed, holding her arm for, a moment. "It is an enchanted
journey, ours, Ruth."
She laughed bitterly.
"An enchanted journey which leads to two very dreary attic rooms on
the sixth floor of a poverty-stricken house," she reminded him. "It
leads back to the smoke-stained city, to the four walls within which
one dreams empty dreams."
"It isn't so bad as that," he protested.
Her lips trembled for a moment; she half closed her eyes. An impulse
of pain passed like a spasm across her tired features.
"It is different for you," she murmured. "Every day you escape. For
me there is no escape."
He felt a momentary twinge of selfishness. Yet, after all, the great
truths were incontrovertible. He could lighten her lot but little.
There was very little of himself that he could give her--of his
youth, his strength, his vigorous hold upon life. Through all the
tangle of his expanding interests in existence, the medley of
strange happenings in which he found himself involved, one thing
alone was clear. He was passing on into a life making larger demands
upon, him, a life in which their companionship must naturally
become a slighter thing. Nevertheless, he spoke to her reassuringly.
"You cannot believe, Ruth," he said, "that I shall ever forget? We
have been through too much together, too many dark days."
She sighed.
"There wasn't much for either of us to look forward to, was there,
when we first looked down on the river together and you began to
tell me fairy stories."
"They kept our courage alive," he declared. "I am not sure that they
are not coming true."
She half closed her eyes.
"For you, Arnold," she murmured. "Not all the fancies that were ever
spun in the brain of any living person could alter life very much
for me."
He took her hand and held it tightly. Yet it was hard to know what
to say to her. It was the inevitable tragedy, this, of their sexes
and her infirmity. He realized in those few minutes something of how
she was feeling,--the one who is left upon the lonely island while
the other is borne homeward into the sunshine and tumult of life.
There was little, indeed, which he could say. It was not the hour,
this, for protestation.
They passed along Piccadilly, across Leicester Square, and into the
Strand. The wayfarers in the streets, of whom there were still
plenty, seemed to be lingering about in sheer joy of the cooler
night after the unexpected heat of the day, the women in light
clothes, the men with their coats thrown open and carrying their
hats. They passed down the Strand and into Adam Street, coming at
last to a standstill before the tall, gloomy house at the corner of
the Terrace. Arnold stepped out onto the pavement and helped his
companion to alight. The chauffeur lifted his hat and the car
glided away. As they stood there, for a moment, upon the pavement,
and Arnold pushed open the heavy, shabby door, it seemed, indeed, as
though the whole day might have been a dream.
Ruth moved wearily along the broken, tesselated pavement, and paused
for a moment before the first flight of stairs. Arnold, taking her
stick from her, caught her up in his arms. Her fingers closed around
his neck and she gave a little sigh of relief.
"Will you really carry me up all the way, Arnie?" she whispered. "I
am so tired to-night. You are sure that you can manage it?"
He laughed gayly.
"I have done it many times before," he reminded her. "To-night I
feel as strong as a dozen men."
One by one they climbed the flight of stone steps. Curiously enough,
notwithstanding the strength of which he had justly boasted, as they
neared the top of the house he felt his breath coming short and his
heart beating faster, as though some unusual strain were upon him.
She had tightened her grasp upon his neck. She seemed, somehow, to
have come closer to him, yet to hang like a dead weight in his arms.
Her cheek was touching his. Once, toward the end, he looked into her
face, and the fire of her eyes startled him.
"You are not really tired," he muttered.
"I am resting like this," she whispered.
He stood at last upon the top landing. He set her down with a little
thrill, assailed by a medley of sensations, the significance of
which confused him. She seemed still to cling to him, and she
pointed to his door.
"For five minutes," she begged, "let us sit in our chairs and look
down at the river. To-night it is too hot to sleep."
Even while he opened his door, he hesitated.
"What about Isaac?" he asked.
She shivered and looked over her shoulder. They were in his room now
and she closed the door. On the threshold she stood quite still for
a moment, as though listening. There was something in her face which
alarmed him.
"Do you know, I believe that I am afraid to go back," she said.
"Isaac has been stranger than ever these last few days. All the time
he is locked up in his room, and he shows himself only at night."
Arnold dragged her chair up to the window and installed her
comfortably. He himself was thinking of Isaac's face under the
gaslight, as he had seen him stepping away from the taxicab.
"Isaac was always queer," he reminded her, reassuringly.
She drew him down to her side.
"There has been a difference these last few days," she whispered. "I
am afraid--I am terribly afraid that he has done something really
wrong."
Arnold felt a little shiver of fear himself.
"You must remember," he said quietly, "that after all Isaac is, in a
measure, outside your life. No one can influence him for either good
or evil. He is not like other men. He must go his own way, and I,
too, am afraid that it may be a troublous one. He chose it for
himself and neither you nor I can help. I wouldn't think about him
at all, dear, if you can avoid it. And for yourself, remember always
that you have another protector."
The faintest of smiles parted her lips. In the moonlight, which was
already stealing into the room through the bare, uncurtained window,
her face seemed like a piece of beautiful marble statuary, ghostly,
yet in a single moment exquisitely human.
"I have no claim upon you, Arnold," she reminded him, "and I think
that soon you will pass out of my life. It is only natural. You must
go on, I must remain. And that is the end of it," she added, with a
little quiver of the lips. "Now let us finish talking about
ourselves. I want to talk about your new friends."
"Tell me what you really think of them?" he begged. "Count Sabatini
has been so kind to me that if I try to think about him at all I am
already prejudiced."
"I think," she replied slowly, "that Count Sabatini is the strangest
man whom I ever met. Do you remember when he stood and looked down
upon us? I felt--but it was so foolish!"
"You felt what?" he persisted.
She shook her head.
"I cannot tell. As though we were not strangers at all. I suppose it
is what they call mesmerism. He had that soft, delightful way of
speaking, and gentle mannerism. There was nothing abrupt or new
about him. He seemed, somehow, to become part of the life of any one
in whom he chose to interest himself in the slightest. And he talked
so delightfully, Arnold. I cannot tell you how kind he was to me."
Arnold laughed.
"It's a clear case of hero worship," he declared. "You're going to
be as bad as I have been."
"And yet," she said slowly, "it is his sister of whom I think all
the time. Fenella she calls herself, doesn't she?"
"You like her, too?" Arnold asked eagerly.
"I hate her," was the low, fierce reply.
Arnold drew a little away.
"You can't mean it!" he exclaimed. "You can't really mean that you
don't like her!"
Ruth clutched at his arm as though jealous of his instinctive
disappointment.
"I know that it's brutally ungracious," she declared. "It's a sort
of madness, even. But I hate her because she is the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen here in life. I hate her for that, and I hate
her for her strength. Did you see her come across the lawn to us
to-night, Arnold?"
He nodded enthusiastically.
"You mean in that smoke-colored muslin dress?"
"She has no right to wear clothes like that!" Ruth cried. "She does
it so that men may see how beautiful she is. I--well, I hate her!"
There was a silence. Then Ruth rose slowly to her feet. Her tone was
suddenly altered, her eyes pleaded with his.
"Don't take any notice of me to-night, Arnold," she implored. "It
has been such a wonderful day, and I am not used to so much
excitement. I am afraid that I am a little hysterical. Do be kind
and help me across to my room."
"Is there any hurry?" he asked. "It hasn't struck twelve yet."
"I want to go, please," she begged. "I shall say foolish things if I
stay here much longer, and I don't want to. Let me go."
He obeyed her without further question. Once more he supported her
with his arms, but she kept her face turned away. When he had
reached her door he would have left her, but she still clutched his
arm.
"I am foolish," she whispered, "foolish and wicked to-night. And
besides, I am afraid. It is all because I am overtired. Come in with
me for one moment, please, and let me be sure that Isaac is all
right. Feel how I am trembling."
"Of course I will come," he answered. "Isaac can't be angry with me
to-night, anyhow, for my clothes are old and dusty enough."
He opened the door and they passed across the threshold. Then they
both stopped short and Ruth gave a little start. The room was lit
with several candles. There was no sign of Isaac, but a middle-aged
man, with black beard and moustache, had risen to his feet at their
entrance. He glanced at Ruth with keen interest, at Arnold with a
momentary curiosity.
"What are you doing here?" Ruth demanded. "What right have you in
this room?"
The man did not answer her question.
"I shall be glad," he said, "if you will come in and shut the door.
If you are Miss Ruth Lalonde, I have a few questions to ask you."