The first few minutes that John spent in Louise's little house were full
of acute and vivid interest. From the moment of his first meeting with
Louise upon the moonlit Cumberland road, during the whole of that next
wonderful morning until their parting, and afterward, through all the
long, dreaming days and nights that had intervened, she had remained a
mystery to him. It was amazing how little he really knew of her. During
his journey to town, he had sat with folded arms in the corner of his
compartment, wondering whether in her own environment he would find her
easier to understand.
He asked himself that question again now, as he found himself in her
drawing-room, in a room entirely redolent of her personality. Their
meeting at the theater had told him nothing. She had gratified his
sentiment by the pleasure she had shown at his unexpected appearance,
but his understanding remained unsatisfied.
The room that he was so eagerly studying confirmed his cloudy
impressions of its owner. There was, for a woman's apartment, a curious
absence of ornamentation and knickknacks. The walls were black and
white, an idea fantastic in its way, yet carried out with extreme
lightness in the ceiling and frieze. The carpet was white; the
furniture, of which there was very little, of the French period before
the rococo type, graceful in its outline, rather heavy in build, and
covered with old-rose colored chintz. There were water-colors upon the
wall, an etching or two from a Parisian studio, and some small
black-and-white fantasies, puzzling to John, who had never even heard
the term Futurist, yet in their way satisfactory.
There was a small-sized grand piano, which seemed to have found its way
almost apologetically into a remote corner; a delightful open fireplace
with rough, white tiles, and an old-fashioned brass box, in which was
piled a little heap of sweet-smelling wood blocks. A table, drawn up to
the side of one of the easy chairs, was covered with books and
magazines, some Italian, a few English, the greater part French; and
upon a smaller one, close at hand, stood a white bowl full of pink
roses. Their odor was somehow reminiscent of Louise, curiously sweet and
wholesome--an odor which suddenly took him back to the morning when she
had come to him from under the canopy of apple-blossom.
He drew a little sigh of contentment as he rose to his feet and walked
to the window. The room charmed him. It was wonderful that he should
find it like this. His heart began to beat with pleasure even before the
opening of the door announced her presence. She came in with Sophy, who
at once seated herself by his side.
"We have been making plans," Louise declared, "for disposing of you for
the rest of the day."
John smiled happily.
"You're not sending me away, then? You're not acting this evening?"
"Not until three weeks next Monday," she replied. "Then, if you are
good, and the production is not postponed, you may seat yourself in a
box and make all the noise you like after the fall of the curtain. These
are real holidays for me, except for the nuisance of rehearsals. You
couldn't have come at a better time."
Sophy glanced at the clock.
"Well," she said, "I must show my respect to that most ancient of adages
by taking my departure. I feel--"
"You will do nothing of the sort, child," Louise interrupted. "I want to
interest you in the evolution of Mr. Strangewey."
"I don't feel that I am necessary," Sophy sighed. "Perhaps I might take
him off your hands some evening when you are busy."
"On this first evening, at any rate," Louise insisted, "we are going to
be a truly harmonious party of three."
"Of course, if you really mean it," Sophy remarked, resuming her seat,
"and if I sha'n't make an enemy for life of Mr. Strangewey, I should
love to come, too. Let's decide what to do with him, Louise."
For a moment the eyes of the two others met. Louise looked swiftly away,
and John's heart gave a little leap. Was it possible that the same
thought had been in her mind--to spend the evening quietly in that
little room? Had she feared it?
"We must remember," Louise said calmly, "that a heavy responsibility
rests upon us. It is his first night in London. What aspect of it shall
we attempt to show him? Shall we make ourselves resplendent, put on our
best manners and our most gorgeous gowns, and show him the world of
starch and form and fashion from the prince's box at the opera? Or shall
we transform ourselves into Bohemians, drink Chianti at our beloved
Antonio's, eat Italian food in Soho, smoke long cigarettes, and take him
to the Palace? Don't say a word, Sophy. It is not for us to choose."
"I am afraid that isn't any choice," John declared, his face falling. "I
haven't any clothes except what you see me in."
"Hooray!" Sophy exclaimed. "Off with your smart gown, Louise! We'll be
splendidly Bohemian. You shall put on your black frock and a black hat,
and powder your nose, and we'll all go to Guido's first and drink
vermuth. I can't look the part, but I can act it!"
"But tell me," Louise asked him, "did you lose your luggage?"
"I brought none," he answered.
They both looked at him--Sophy politely curious, Louise more deeply
interested. He answered the inquiry in her eyes.
"You'll say, perhaps," he observed, "that living that quiet, half-buried
life up in Cumberland one should have no moods. I have them sometimes. I
was in Market Ketton, on my way to the hotel for lunch, when I heard the
whistle of the London Express coming in. I just had time to drive to the
station, leave the horse and dog-cart with a man I knew, and jump into
the train. I had no ticket or luggage."
They both stared at him.
"You mean," Louise demanded, "that after waiting all these months you
started away upon impulse like that--without even letting your brother
know or bringing any luggage?"
"That's exactly what I did," John agreed, smiling. "I had a sovereign in
my pocket when I had bought my ticket; and by the time I had paid for my
dinner on the train, and tipped the men--well, I hadn't a great deal
left to go shopping with. I stayed at the St. Pancras Hotel, and
telephoned to my solicitor before I got up this morning to have him
send me some money. The joke of it was," he went on, joining in the
girls' laughter, "that Mr. Appleton has been worrying me for months to
come up and talk over reinvestments, and take control of the money my
uncle left me; and when I came at last, I arrived like a pauper. He went
out himself and bought my shirt."
"And a very nice shirt, too," Sophy declared, glancing at the pattern.
"Do tell us what else happened!"
"Well, not much more," John replied. "Mr. Appleton stuffed me full of
money and made me take a little suite of rooms at what he called a more
fashionable hotel. He stayed to lunch with me, and I have promised to
see him on business to-morrow morning."
The two girls sat up and wiped their eyes.
"Oh, this is a wonderful adventure you have embarked upon!" Louise
exclaimed. "You have come quite in the right spirit. Now I am going to
change my clothes and powder my face, and we will go to Guido's for a
little vermuth, dine at Antonio's, and sit side by side at the Palace.
We shall have to take Sophy with us, but if you show her too much
attention I shall send her home. It is your first night here, Mr.
Strangewey, so I warn you that Sophy is the most irresponsible and
capricious of all my friends. She has more admirers than she knows what
to do with, and she disposes of them in the simplest way in the
world--by getting new ones."
Sophy made a grimace.
"Mr. Strangewey," she begged earnestly, "you won't believe a word she
says, will you? All my life I have been looking for a single and
steadfast attachment. Of course, if Louise wants to monopolize you, I
shall fall into the background, as I usually do; but if you think that
I am going to accept hints and let you go out to dinner alone, you are
very much mistaken. To-night, at any rate, I insist upon coming!"
Louise shook her head.
"We shall have to put up with her," she told John with a little grimace.
The door of the room was suddenly opened. The parlor maid stood at one
side.
"The Prince of Seyre, madam," she announced.
Louise nodded. She was evidently expecting the visit. She turned to
John.
"Will you come back and call for us here--say at seven o'clock? Mind,
you are not to bother about your clothes, but to come just as you are. I
can't tell you," she added under her breath, "how much I am looking
forward to our evening!"
Sophy sprang to her feet.
"Won't you drop me, please, Mr. Strangewey?" she asked. "Then, if you
will be so kind, you can pick me up again on your way here. You'll have
to pass where I live, if you are at the Milan. I must go home and do my
little best to compete."
Louise's frown was so slight that even John failed to notice it. Upon
the threshold they encountered the prince, who detained John for a
moment.
"I was hoping that I might meet you here, Mr. Strangewey," he said. "If
you are in town for long, it will give me great pleasure if I can be of
any service to you. You are staying at a hotel?"
"I am staying at the Milan," John replied.
"I will do myself the pleasure of calling upon you," the prince
continued. "In the meantime, if you need any service that a Londoner can
offer you, be sure to let me know. You will easily find my house in
Grosvenor Square."
"It is very kind of you indeed," John said gratefully.
Sophy made a wry face as the prince entered the drawing-room.
"Didn't some old Roman once write something about being afraid of Greeks
who brought gifts?" she asked, as they descended the stairs together.
"Quite right," John assented.
"Well, be careful!" she advised him. "That's all."
* * * * *
John handed Sophy into the taxi and took his place beside her.
"Where shall I put you down?" he asked.
"It's such a terribly low neighborhood! However, it's quite close to the
Milan--No. 10 Southampton Street."
John gave the address to the man, and they started off. They were
blocked in a stream of traffic almost as soon as they reached Hyde Park
Corner. John leaned forward all the time, immensely interested in the
stream of passers-by.
"Your interest in your fellow creatures," she murmured demurely, "is
wonderful, but couldn't you concentrate it just a little?"
He turned quickly around. She was smiling at him most alluringly.
Unconsciously he found himself smiling back again. A wonderful
light-heartedness seemed to have come to him during the last few hours.
"I suppose I am a perfect idiot," he admitted. "I cannot help it. I am
used to seeing, at the most, three or four people together at a time. I
can't understand these crowds. Where are they all going? Fancy every
one of them having a home, every one of them struggling in some form or
another toward happiness!"
"Do you know," she pronounced severely, "for a young man of your age you
are much too serious? Please commence your psychological studies
to-morrow. To-night we are going to have a really frivolous evening, you
and I--and Louise. If you want to be a great success during the next few
hours, what you have to do is to imagine that there are only two people
in the world beside yourself--Louise and I."
"I think I shall find that very easy," he promised, smiling.
"I am quite sure you could be nice if you wanted to," she continued.
"How much are you in love with Louise?"
"How much am I what?"
"In love with Louise," she repeated. "All the men are. It is a perfect
cult with them. And here am I, her humble companion and friend,
absolutely neglected!"
"I don't believe you are neglected at all," he replied. "You are too
much too--"
He turned his head to look at her. She was so close to him that their
hats collided. He was profuse in his apologies.
"Too what?" she whispered.
"Too attractive," he ventured.
"It's nice to hear you say so," she sighed. "Well, I have to get out
here. This is where I live, up on the fourth floor."
"How does one get there?" he inquired.
She looked at him quickly. There was a little catch in her breath.
"What do you mean?" she murmured.
"Didn't you say that I was to come and fetch you, and then we could go
on to Miss Maurel's together?"
"Of course," she assented slowly. "How stupid of me! Some day I'll show
you, but I know you would lose the way now. If you like, I'll come for
you--to the Milan."
"If you would really prefer it?"
"I am quite sure that I should," she decided. "There are about seven
turns up to my room, and I shall have to personally conduct you there
three or four times before you'll ever be able to find your way. I will
come as soon as I am ready, and then you can give me a cocktail before
we set out."
She disappeared with a little wave of the hand, and John drove on to his
destination. His rooms at the Milan were immensely comfortable and in
their way quite homelike. John made some small changes to his toilet and
was still in his shirt-sleeves, with hair-brushes in his hands, when
there came a ring at the bell. He answered it at once and found Sophy
standing outside. He gave a little start.
"I say, I'm awfully sorry!"
"What for, you silly person?" she laughed. "Which way is the sitting
room, please? Oh, I see! Now, please ring for the waiter and order me a
vermuth cocktail, and one for yourself, of course; and I want some
cigarettes. How clever of you to get rooms looking out upon the
Embankment! I wish they would light the lamps. I think the illuminated
arcs along the Embankment and past the Houses of Parliament is the most
wonderful thing in London. Don't please, look so terrified because you
haven't got your coat on! Remember that I have five brothers."
"I had no idea you would be here so soon," he explained, "or I would
have been downstairs, waiting for you."
"Don't be stupid!" she replied. "Please remember that when you are with
me, at any rate, you are in Bohemia and not Belgravia. I don't expect
such attentions. I rather like coming up to your rooms like this, and I
always love the Milan. I really believe that I am your first lady
visitor here."
"You most assuredly are!" he told her.
She turned away from the window and suddenly threw up her arms.
"Oh, I love this place!" she exclaimed. "I love the sort of evening that
we are going to have! I feel happy to-night. And do you know?--I quite
like you, Mr. Strangewey!"
She clasped the back of her chair and from behind it looked across at
him. She was petite and slender, with a very dainty figure. She wore a
black tailor-made costume, a simple, round-black hat with a long quill
set at a provoking angle, white-silk stockings, and black, patent shoes.
She was unlike any girl John had ever known. Her hair was almost golden,
her eyes a distinct blue, yet some trick of the mouth saved her face
from any suggestion of insipidity. She was looking straight into his
eyes, and her lips were curled most invitingly.
"I wish I knew more about certain things," he said.
She came round from behind the chair and stood a little nearer to him.
"What things?"
"You know," he said, "I am afraid there is no doubt about it that I am
most horribly in love with another woman. I have come to London because
of her. It seems to me that everything in life depends upon how she
treats me. And yet--"
"And yet what?" she asked, looking up at him a little wistfully.
"I feel that I want to kiss you," he confessed.
"Well, if you don't get it done before the waiter brings in those
cocktails, I shall scream!"
He took her lightly in his arms for a moment and kissed her. Then she
threw herself down in the easy chair and began to laugh softly.
"Oh, why didn't you come before?" she exclaimed. "Fancy Louise never
telling me about you!"
The waiter entered a few minutes later. He drew up a small round table
between them, placed the two wineglasses upon it, and departed
expeditiously. John took one of the glasses over to Sophy. She accepted
it and gave him her fingers to kiss.
"Dear man," she sighed, "I am getting much too fond of you! Go and sit
in your corner, drink your cocktail, and remember Louise. I love your
rooms, and I hope you'll ask me to lunch some time."
"I'll have a luncheon party to-morrow, if you like--that is, if Louise
will come."
She looked up at him quickly.
"Isn't Louise going to Paris?" she asked.
He set down the glass which he had been in the act of raising to his
lips.
"Paris? I didn't hear her say anything about it."
"Perhaps it is my mistake, then," Sophy went on hastily. "I only fancied
that I heard her say so."
There was a moment's silence. John had opened his lips to ask a
question, but quickly closed them again. It was a question, he suddenly
decided, which he had better ask of Louise herself.
"If she does go, I shall be very sorry," he said; "but I do not wish, of
course, to upset her plans. We must talk to her about it to-night. I
suppose we ought to go now."
Sophy walked with him to the door and waited while he took his hat and
gloves from the hat-stand. Suddenly she laid her hand upon his arm.
"If Louise goes to Paris," she whispered disconsolately, "I suppose
there will be no luncheon-party?"
For a single moment he hesitated. She was very alluring, and the
challenge in her eyes was unmistakable.
"I think," he said quietly, "that if Miss Maurel goes to Paris, I shall
return to Cumberland to-morrow."
He opened the door, and Sophy passed out before him. She had dropped her
veil.
* * * * *
They drove down the Strand toward Knightsbridge. For a time there was a
significant silence. Then Sophy raised her veil once more and looked
toward John.
"Mr. Strangewey," she began, "you won't mind if I give you just a little
word of advice? You are such a big, strong person, but you are rather a
child, you know, in some things."
"This place does make me feel ignorant," he admitted.
"Don't idealize any one here," she begged. "Don't concentrate all your
hopes upon one object. Love is wonderful and life is wonderful, but
there is only one life, and there are many loves before one reaches the
end. People do such silly things sometimes," she wound up, "just because
of a little disappointment. There are many disappointments to be met
with here."
He took her hand in his.
"Little girl," he said, "you are very good to me, and I think you
understand. Are you going to let me feel that I have found a friend on
my first evening in London?"
"If you want me," she answered simply. "I like you, and I want you to be
happy here; and because I want you to be happy, I want you to come down
from the clouds and remember that you have left your hills behind and
that we walk on the pavements here."
"Thank you," he whispered, "and thank you for what you have not said. If
I am to find sorrow here instead of joy," he added, a little grimly, "it
is better for me to stumble into the knowledge of it by myself."
"Your hills have taught you just that much of life, then?" Sophy
murmured.
X
The Prince of Seyre handed his hat and stick to the parlor maid and
seated himself upon the divan.
"I should be very sorry," he said politely, as the maid left the room,
"if my coming has hastened the departure of your visitors."
"Not in the least," Louise assured him. "They were leaving when you were
announced. Sophy and I are taking Mr. Strangewey to a Bohemian
restaurant and a music-hall afterward."
"Fortunate Mr. Strangewey!" the prince sighed. "But, forgive me, why not
a more dignified form of entertainment for his first evening?"
"The poor man has no clothes," Louise explained. "He came to London
quite unexpectedly."
"No clothes?" the prince repeated. "It is a long journey to take in such
a fashion. A matter of urgent business, perhaps?"
Louise shrugged her shoulders. She had risen to her feet and was busy
rearranging some roses in the bowl by her side.
"Mr. Strangewey has just come into a large fortune, as you know," she
said. "Probably there are many things to be attended to."
The prince made no further comment. He drew a tortoise-shell-and-gold
cigarette-case from his pocket.
"It is permitted that one smokes?" he inquired.
"It is always permitted to you," was the gracious reply.
"One of my privileges," he remarked, as he blew out the match; "in fact,
almost my only privilege."
She glanced up, but her eyes fell before his.
"Is that quite fair?"
"I should be grieved to do anything or to say anything to you that was
not entirely fair."
She crushed one of the roses to pieces suddenly in her hands and shook
the petals from her long, nervous fingers.
"To-day," she said, "this afternoon--now--you have come to me with
something in your mind, something you wish to say, something you are not
sure how to say. That is, you see, what Henri Graillot calls my
intuition. Even you, who keep all your feelings under a mask, can
conceal very little from me."
"My present feelings," the prince declared, "I do not wish to conceal. I
would like you to know them. But as words are sometimes clumsy, I would
like, if it were possible, to let you see into my heart, or, in these
days, shall I not say my consciousness? I should feel, then, that
without fear of misunderstanding you would know certain things which I
would like you to know."
She came over and seated herself by his side on the divan. She even laid
her hand upon his arm.
"Eugene," she expostulated, "we are too old friends to talk always in
veiled phrases. There is something you have to say to me. I am
listening."
"You know what it is," he told her.
"You are displeased because I have changed my mind about that little
journey of ours?"
"I am bitterly disappointed," he admitted.
She looked at him curiously and then down at her rose-stained fingers.
"That does not sound quite like you," she said. "And yet I ought to know
that sometimes you do feel things, even though you show it so little. I
am sorry, Eugene."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because I feel that I cannot take that journey."
"You mean that you cannot now, or that you cannot at any time?"
"I do not know," she answered. "You ask me more than I can tell you.
Sometimes life seems so stable, a thing one can make a little chart of
and hang up on the wall, and put one's finger here and there--'To-day I
will do this, to-morrow I will feel that'--and the next morning comes
and the chart is in the fire. I wish I understood myself a little
better, Eugene!"
"Self-understanding is the rarest of all gifts," the prince remarked.
"It is left for those who love us to understand us."
"And you?"
"I believe that I understand you better, far better, than you understand
yourself," he declared. "That is why I also believe that I am necessary
to you. I can prevent your making mistakes."
"Then prevent me," she begged. "Something has happened, and the chart is
in the fire to-day."
"You have only," he said, "to give your maid her orders, to give me this
little hand, and I will draw out a fresh one which shall direct to the
place in life which is best for you. It is not too late."
She rose from beside him and walked toward the fireplace, as if to touch
the bell. He watched her with steady eyes but expressionless face. There
was something curious about her walk. The spring had gone from her feet,
her shoulders were a little hunched. It was the walk of a woman who
goes toward the things she fears.
"Stop!" he bade her.
She turned and faced him, quickly, almost eagerly. There was a look in
her face of the prisoner who finds respite.
"Leave the bell alone," he directed. "My own plans are changed. I do not
wish to leave London this week."
Her face was suddenly brilliant, her eyes shone. Something electric
seemed to quiver through her frame. She almost danced back to her place
by his side.
"How foolish!" she murmured. "Why didn't you say so at once?"
"Because," he replied, "they have only been changed during the last few
seconds. I wanted to discover something which I have discovered."
"To discover something?"
"That my time has not yet come."
She turned away from him. She was oppressed with a sense almost of fear,
a feeling that he was able to read the very thoughts forming in her
brain; to understand, as no one else in the world could understand, the
things that lived in her heart.
"I must not keep you," he remarked, glancing at the clock. "It was very
late for me to call, and you will be wanting to join your friends."
"They are coming here for me," she explained. "There is really no hurry
at all. We are not changing anything. It is to be quite a simple
evening. Sometimes I wish that you cared about things of that sort,
Eugene."
He blew through his lips a little cloud of smoke from the cigarette
which he had just lit.
"I do not fancy," he replied, "that I should be much of a success as a
fourth in your little expedition."
"But it is silly of you not to visit Bohemia occasionally," she
declared, ignoring the meaning that lay beneath his words. "It is
refreshing to rub shoulders with people who feel, and who show freely
what they feel; to eat their food, drink their wine, even join in their
pleasures."
The prince shook his head.
"I am not of the people," he said, "and I have no sympathy with them. I
detest the _bourgeoisie_ of every country in the world--my own more
particularly."
"If you only knew how strangely that sounds!" she murmured.
"Does it?" he answered. "You should read my family history, read of the
men and women of my race who were butchered at the hands of that
drunken, lustful mob whom lying historians have glorified. I am one of
those who do not forget injuries. My estates are administered more
severely than any others in France. No penny of my money has ever been
spent in charity. I neither forget nor forgive."
She laughed a little nervously.
"What an unsympathetic person you can be, Eugene!"
"And for that very reason," he replied, "I can be sympathetic. Because I
hate some people, I have the power of loving others. Because it pleases
me to deal severely with my enemies, it gives me joy to deal generously
with my friends. That is my conception of life. May I wish you a
pleasant evening?"
"You are going now?" she asked, a little surprised.
He smiled faintly as he raised her fingers to his lips. She had made a
little movement toward him, but he took no advantage of it.
"I am going now."
"When shall I see you again?" she inquired, as she came back from
ringing the bell.
"A telephone-message from your maid, a line written with your own
fingers," he said, "will bring me to you within a few minutes. If I hear
nothing, I may come uninvited, but it will be when the fancy takes me.
Once more, Louise, a pleasant evening!"
He passed out of the door, which the parlor maid was holding open for
him. Crossing to the window, Louise watched him leave the house and
enter his waiting automobile. He gave no sign of haste or
disappointment. He lit another cigarette deliberately upon the pavement
and gave his orders to the chauffeur with some care.
As the car drove off without his having once glanced up at the window,
she shivered a little. There was a silence which, it seemed to her,
could be more minatory even than accusation.