THE LAST CARD
Saltash dined alone that night. He was in a restless mood and
preoccupied, scarcely noticing what was put before him, pushing away the
wine untasted. In the end he rose from the table almost with a gesture of
disgust.
"I'm going to smoke on the ramparts," he said to the decorous butler who
waited upon him. "If anyone should call to see me, let them wait in the
music-room!"
"Very good, my lord! And where would you like to take coffee?" enquired
the man sedately.
Saltash laughed. "Not on the ramparts--emphatically. I'll have mercy on
you to that extent. Put it on the spirit-lamp in the music-room, and
leave it! You needn't sit up, any of you. I'll put out the lights."
"Very good, my lord."
The man withdrew, and Saltash chose a cigar. An odd grimace drew his
features as he lighted it. He had the look of a man who surveys his last
card and knows himself a loser. Though he went out of the room and up
the great staircase to the music-room with his head up and complete
indifference in his carriage, his eyelids were slightly drawn. He did not
look as if he had enjoyed the game.
A single red lamp lighted the music-room, and the long apartment looked
dim and ghostly. He stood for a moment as he entered it and looked round,
then with a scarcely perceptible lift of the shoulders he passed straight
through to the curtain that hung before the door leading to the turret.
The darkness of the place gaped before him, and he turned back with a
muttered word and recrossed the room. There were Persian rugs upon the
floor, and his feet made no sound. He went to the mantel-piece and,
feeling along it, found a small electric torch. The light of it flared
before him as he returned. The door yielded to his touch and swung shut
behind him. He passed into vault-like silence.
The stone steps gave back the sound of his tread as he mounted, with
eerie, wandering echoes. The grey walls glimmered with a ghostly
desolation around him. Halfway up, he stopped to flick the ash from his
cigar, and laughed aloud. But the echoes of his laughter sounded like
voices crying in the darkness. He went on more swiftly, like a phantom
imprisoned and seeking escape. The echoes met him and fell away behind
him. The loneliness was like a curse. The very air felt dead.
He reached the top of the turret at last, and the heavy door that gave
upon the ramparts. With a sound that was almost a gasp, he pushed it
open, and passed out into the open air.
A full moon was shining, and his acres lay below him--a wonderful picture
in black and silver. He came to the first gap in the battlements, mounted
the parapet, and stood there with a hand resting on each side.
The wash of the sea came murmurously through the September silence.
His restless eyes flashed hither and thither over the quiet scene, taking
in every detail, lingering nowhere. The pine trees stirred in the
distance below him, seeming to whisper together, and an owl hooted with a
weird persistence down by the lake. It was like the calling of a human
voice--almost like a cry of distress. Then it ceased, and the trees were
still again.
The spell of the silence fell like the falling of a curtain. The
loneliness crept about his heart.
He took the cigar from his mouth and spoke, ironically, grimly.
"There is your kingdom, Charles Rex!" he said.
He turned with the words and leaped down upon the narrow walk between the
battlements. The owl began to call again, but the desolation remained. He
paced forward with his hands behind him, his head bent. No one could see
him here. The garment of mockery could be flung aside. He was like a
prisoner tramping the stone walls from which he could never escape.
He paused once to toss away his cigar, but he did not look out again over
the fair prospect of his lands. He was looking at other things, seeing
the vast emptiness of a life that had never been worth while stretching
behind and before him. Like a solitary traveller pausing in the heart of
the desert, he stood to view the barrenness around him.
He had travelled far, had pursued many a quest with ardour; but the
ardour had all gone out of him now. Only the empty solitude remained. He
had lived a life of fevered variety, he had drunk deep of many waters;
but he had never been satisfied. And now it seemed to him that all he had
ever looked upon, all he had ever achieved, was mirage. Nothing of all
that he had ever striven for was left. The fruit had turned to ashes in
his mouth, and no spring remained whereat to quench his thirst.
Perhaps few men have ever realized the utter waste of wickedness as
Charles Rex realized it that night. He met it whichever way he turned. To
gratify the moment's whim had ever been his easy habit. If a generous
impulse had moved him, he had gratified that also. But it had never been
his way to sacrifice himself--until a certain night when a child had come
to him, wide-eyed and palpitating like a driven bird, and had sought
shelter and protection at his hands.
That, very curiously, had been the beginning of a new era in his life. It
had appealed to him as nothing had ever appealed before. He had never
tasted--or even desired--the Dead Sea fruit again. Something had entered
his being on that night which he had never been able to cast out, and all
other things had been dwarfed to insignificance.
He faced the fact as he paced his castle walls. The relish had gone out
of his life. He was gathering what he had sown, and the harvest was
barren indeed.
Time passed; he walked unheeding. If he spent the whole night on the
ramparts, there was no one to know or care. It was better than tossing
sleepless under a roof. He felt as if a roof would suffocate him. But
sheer physical weariness began to oppress even his elastic frame at last.
He awoke to the fact that he was dead tired.
He sat down in an embrasure between the battlements, and drifted into the
numb state between waking and sleeping in which visions are born. For a
space nothing happened, then quite suddenly, rising as it were out of
a void, a presence entered his consciousness, reached and touched his
spirit. Intangibly, but quite unmistakably, he was aware of the summons,
of a voice that spoke within his soul.
He lifted his head and looked about him. Emptiness, stark emptiness, was
all he saw. Yet, in a moment, as though a hand had beckoned, he arose.
Without a backward glance he traversed the distance that lay between
him and the turret-door. He went through it into utter darkness, and in
utter darkness began the descent.
A shaft of moonlight smote through a slit in the stone wall as he rounded
the corner of the stair. It lay like a shining sword across his path, and
for a second he paused. Then he passed over it, sure-footed and
confident, and plunged again into darkness. When he reached the end of
the descent, he was breathing heavily, and his eyes were alight with a
strange fire. He pulled upon the door and put aside the thick curtain
with the swift movements of a man who can brook no delay. He passed into
the long, dim room beyond with its single red lamp burning at the far
end. He prepared to pass on to the door that led out upon the gallery and
so to the grand staircase. But before he had gone half-a-dozen paces he
stopped. It was no sound that arrested, no visible circumstance of any
sort. Yet, as if at a word of command, he halted. His quick look swept
around the room like the gleam of a rapier, and suddenly he swung upon
his heel, facing that still, red light.
Seconds passed before he moved again. Then swiftly and silently he walked
up the room. Close to the lamp was a deep settee on which the spots of a
leopard skin showed in weird relief. At one end of the settee, against
the leopard skin, something gold was shining. Saltash's look was fixed
upon it as he drew near.
He reached the settee treading noiselessly. He stood beside it, looking
down. And over his dark face with its weary lines and cynical mouth, its
melancholy and its bitterness, there came a light such as neither man nor
woman had ever seen upon it before. For there before him, curled up like
a tired puppy, her tumbled, golden hair lying in ringlets over the
leopard skin, was Toby, asleep in the dim, red lamplight.
For minutes he stood and gazed upon her before she awoke. For minutes
that strange glory came and went over his watching face. He did not stir,
did not seem even to breathe. But the fact of his presence must have
pierced her consciousness at last, for in the end quite quietly,
supremely naturally, the blue eyes opened and fixed upon him.
"Hullo!" said Toby sleepily. "Time to get up?"
And then, in a moment, she had sprung upright on the couch, swift dismay
on her face.
"I--I thought we were on the yacht! I--I--I never meant to go to sleep
here! I came to speak to you, sir. I wanted to see you."
He put a restraining hand upon her thin young shoulder, and his touch
vibrated as with some unknown force controlled.
"All right, Nonette!" he said, and his voice had the same quality; it was
reassuring but oddly unsteady. "Sorry I kept you waiting."
She looked at him. Her face was quivering. "I've had--a hell of a time,"
she said pathetically. "Been here hours--thought you'd never come. Your
man--your man said I wasn't to disturb you."
"Damn the fool!" said Saltash.
She broke into a breathless laugh. "That's--that's just what I said. But
I thought--I thought perhaps--you'd rather--rather I waited." She
shivered suddenly. "I don't like this place. Can you take me somewhere
else?"
He bent lower, put his hand under her elbow and helped her to her
feet. She came up from the couch with a spring, and stood before him,
half-daring and half-shy.
Saltash kept his hold upon her arm, and turned her towards the wall
beside the tall mantel-piece. She went with him readily enough, watching,
eager-eyed, as he stretched his free hand up to the oak panelling.
"Now I'm going to find out all your secrets!" she said boyishly.
"Not quite all," said Saltash.
There came the click of a spring and the panel slid to one side, leaving
a long, narrow opening before them. Toby glanced up at him and, with a
small, nestling movement, slipped within the circle of his arm. It
tightened upon her in an instant, and she laughed again, a quivering,
exultant laugh.
"I'm glad you've come," she said.
They paused on the edge of darkness, but there was no hesitation about
Toby. She was all athrill with expectancy. Then in a flash the room
before them was illuminated, and they entered.
It was a strange chamber, panelled, built in the shape of a cone. A glass
dome formed its roof, and there was no window besides. The lights were
cunningly concealed behind a weirdly coloured fresco of Oriental figures.
But one lamp alone on a small table burned with a still red glow. This
lamp was supported on the stuffed skin of a hooded cobra.
Toby's eyes were instantly drawn towards it. They shone with excitement.
Again she glanced up at the man beside her.
"What a wonderful place!"
"Better than the music-room?" suggested Saltash.
"Oh, yes, far better." Her shining eyes sought his. "It might be your
cabin on the yacht."
He stretched a hand behind him and again the spring clicked. Then he drew
her forward. They trod on tiger skins. Everywhere were tiger skins, on
the floor and on a deep low settee by the table which was the only other
furniture the room possessed. Toby was clinging to the arm that held her,
clinging very closely. There was unspoken entreaty in her hold. For there
was something about Saltash at the moment, something unfamiliar and
unfathomable that frightened her. His careless drollery, his two-edged
ironies, were nought to her; but his silence was a barrier unknown that
she could not pass. She could only cling voicelessly to the support he
had not denied her.
He brought her to the settee and stood still. His face was strangely
grim.
"Well--Toby?" he said.
She twisted in his hold and faced him, but she kept his arm wound close
about her, her hand tight gripped on his. "Are you--angry with me for
coming?" she asked him quiveringly. "I--had to come."
He looked down into her eyes. "_Bien, petite!_ Then you need--a friend,"
he said.
Her answering look was piteous. "I need--you," she said.
One of the old gay smiles flashed across his face. He seemed to challenge
her to lightness. The grimness went out of his eyes like a shadow.
"And so you have come, _ma mignonette_, at the dead of night--at the risk
of your reputation--and mine--"
Toby made an excruciating grimace, and broke impulsively in upon him. "It
wasn't the dead of night when I started. I've been waiting hours--hours.
But it doesn't matter. I've found you--at last. And you can't send me
away now--like you did before--because--because--well, I've no one to go
to. You might have done it if you'd come down earlier. But you can't do
it--now." Her voice thrilled on a high note of triumph. "You've got to
keep me--now. I've come--to stay."
"What?" said Saltash. He bent towards her, looking closely into her face.
"Got to keep you, have I? What's that mean? Has Bunny been a brute to
you? I could have sworn I'd made him understand."
She laughed in answer. "Bunny! I didn't wait to see him!"
"What?" Saltash said again.
She reached up a quick, nervous hand and laid it against his breast. Her
eyes, wide and steadfast, never flinched from his. "I've come--to stay,"
she repeated. And then, after a moment, "It's all right. I left a note
behind for Bunny. I told him I wasn't going back."
He caught her hand tightly into his. His hold was drawing her, and she
yielded herself to it still with that quivering laughter that was somehow
more eloquent than words, more piteous than tears.
Saltash spoke, below his breath. "What am I going to do with you?" he
said.
Her arms reached up to him suddenly. Perhaps it was that for which she
had waited. "You're going--to keep me--this time," she told him
tremulously. "Oh, why did you ever send me away--when I belonged to
you--and to no one else? You meant to give me my chance? What chance have
I of anything but hell and damnation away from you? No, listen! Let me
speak! Hear me first!" She uttered the words with passionate insistence.
"I'm not asking anything of you--only to be with you. I'll be to you
whatever you choose me to be--always--always. I will be your valet, your
slave, your--plaything. I will be--the dust under your feet. But I must
be with you. You understand me. No one else does. No one else ever can."
"Are you sure you understand yourself?" Saltash said.
His arms had closed about her. He was holding her in a vital clasp. But
his restless look did not dwell upon her. It seemed rather to be seeking
something beyond.
Toby's hands met and gripped each other behind his neck. She clung to him
with an almost frenzied closeness.
"You can't send me away!" she told him brokenly. "If you do, I shall die.
And I'm asking such a little--such a very little."
"You don't know what you're asking, child," he said, and though he held
her fast pressed to him his voice had the sombre ring of a man who
battles with misgiving. "You have never known. That's the hell of it."
"I do know!" she flung back almost fiercely. "I know--all I need to
know--of most things. I know--very well--" her breath came quickly, but
still her eyes remained upraised--"what would have happened--what was
bound to happen--if the yacht had never gone down. I wasn't afraid then.
I'm not now. You're the only man on this earth that I'd say it to. I hate
men--most men! But to you--to you--" a sudden sob caught her voice, she
paused to steady it--"to you I just want to be whatever you're needing
most in life. And when I can't be that to you any longer--I'll just drop
out--as I promised--and you--you shall never know a thing about it.
That I swear."
His look came swiftly to her. The blue eyes were swimming in tears. He
made a sudden gesture as of capitulation, and the strain went out of his
look. His arms tightened like springs about her. He spoke lightly,
jestingly.
"_Bien!_ Shall I tell what you shall be to me, _mignonne_?" he said, and
smiled down at her with his royal air of confidence.
She trembled a little and was silent, realizing that he had suddenly
leapt to a decision, fearing desperately what that decision might be. His
old baffling mask of banter had wholly replaced the sombreness, but she
was aware of a force behind it that gripped her irresistibly. She could
not speak in answer.
"I will tell you," he said, and his dark, face laughed into hers with a
merriment half-mischievous, half-kindly. "I am treading the path of
virtue, _mignonne_, and uncommon lonely I'm finding it. You shall relieve
the monotony. We will be virtuous together--for a while. You shall be--my
wife!"
He stooped with the words and ere she knew it his lips were on her own.
But his kiss, though tender, was as baffling as his smile. It was not the
kiss of a lover.
She gasped and shrank away. "Your--wife! You--you--you're joking! How
could I--I--be your wife?"
"You and none other!" he declared gaily. "Egad, it's the very thing for
us! Why did I never think of it before? I will order the state-coach at
once. We will go to town--elope and be married before the world begins
to buzz. What are you frightened at, sweetheart? Why this alarm? Wouldn't
you rather be my wife than--the dust beneath my feet?"
"I--I don't know," faltered Toby, and hid her face from the dancing
raillery in his eyes.
His hold was close and sheltering, but he laughed at her without mercy.
"Does the prospect make you giddy? You will soon get over that. You will
take the world by storm, _mignonne_. You will be the talk of the town."
"Oh, no!" breathed Toby. "No, I couldn't!"
"What?" he jested. "You are going to refuse my suit?"
She turned and clung to him with a passionate, even fierce intensity, but
she did not lift her face again to his. Her voice came muffled against
his breast. "I could never refuse you--anything."
"_Eh, bien!_ Then all is well!" he declared. "My bride will hold her own
wherever she goes, save with her husband. And to him she will yield her
wifely submission at all times. Do you know what they will say--all of
them--when they hear that Charles Rex is married at last?"
"What?" whispered Toby apprehensively.
He bent his head, still laughing. "Shall I tell you? Can't you guess?"
"No. Tell me!" she said.
He touched the soft ringlets of her hair with his lips. "They will say,
'God help his wife!' _mignonne_. And I--I shall answer 'Amen'."
She lifted her face suddenly and defiantly, her eyes afire. "Do you know
what I shall say if they do?" she said.
"What?" said Saltash, his own eyes gleaming oddly.
"I shall tell them," said Toby tensely, "to--to--to go to blazes!"
He grimaced his appreciation. "Then they will begin to pity the husband,
_chérie_."
She held up her lips to his, childishly, lovingly. "I will be good," she
said. "I will be good. I will never say such things again."
He kissed the trembling lips again, lightly, caressingly. "Oh, don't be
too good!" he said. "I couldn't live up to it. You shall say what you
like--do what you like. And--you shall be my queen!"
She caught back another sob. Her clinging arms tightened. "And you will
be--what you have always been," she said--"my king--my king--my king!"
In the silence that followed the passionate words, Charles Rex very
gently loosened the clinging arms, and set her free.
PART IV
CHAPTER I
THE WINNING POST
"I never thought it would be like this," said Toby.
She spoke aloud, though she was alone. She stood at an immense window on
the first floor of a busy Paris hotel and stared down into the teeming
courtyard below. Her fair face wore a whimsical expression that was half
of amusement and half of discontent. She looked absurdly young, almost
childish; but her blue eyes were unmistakably wistful.
Below her seethed a crowd of vehicles of every description and the babel
that came up to her was as the roar of a great torrent. It seemed to
sweep away all coherent thought, for she smiled as she gazed downwards
and her look held interest in the busy scene even though the hint of
melancholy lingered. There was certainly plenty to occupy her, and it was
not in her nature to be bored.
But yet at the opening of a door in the room behind her, she turned very
swiftly, and in a moment her face was alight with ardent welcome.
"Ah! Here you are!" she said.
He came forward in his quick, springy fashion, his odd eyes laughing
their gay, unstable greeting into hers. He took the hands she held out to
him, and bending, lightly kissed them.
"Have you been bored? _Mais non!_ I have not been so long gone. Why are
you not still resting, _chérie_, as I told you?"
She looked at him, and still--though her eyes laughed their gladness--the
wistfulness remained. "I am--quite rested, _monseigneur_. And the
tiredness--quite gone. And now you are going to take me to see the sights
of Paris?"
"Those of them you don't know?" suggested Saltash.
She nodded. "I don't know very many. I never went very far. I was
afraid."
He twisted his hand through her arm, and his fingers closed upon her
wrist. "You are not afraid--with me?" he questioned.
Her eyes answered him before her voice. "Never, _monseigneur_."
"Why do you call me that?" said Saltash.
She coloured at the abrupt question. "It suits you."
He made his monkeyish grimace, and suddenly dropped his eyes to the
blue-veined wrist in his grasp. "Are you happy, _mignonne_?" he asked
her, still obviously in jesting mood.
Toby's eyes dropped also. She mutely nodded.
"The truth, Nonette?" His look flashed over her; his tone was imperious.
She nodded again. "I always tell you--the truth."
He began to laugh. "_Mais vraiment_! I had not thought that likely. Then
you do not want to leave me--yet?"
"Leave you!" Her eyes came up to his in wide amazement. "I!"
"We have been married three days," he reminded her, with comically
working brows. "And I--have I not already begun to leave you--to neglect
you?"
"I--I--I never expected--anything else," stammered Toby, suddenly
averting her face.
He patted her cheek with careless kindliness. "How wise of you, my dear!
How wise! Then you are not yet--sufficiently _ennuyée_ to desire to leave
me?"
"Why--why do you ask?" questioned Toby.
There was a species of malicious humour about him that made her uneasy.
Saltash in a mischievous mood was not always easy to restrain. He did not
immediately reply to her question, and she turned with a hint of panic
and tightly clasped his arm.
"It is--you who are--_ennuyé_!" she said, with piteous eyes upraised.
He flicked her cheek with his thumb, his odd eyes gleaming. "Not so,
_Miladi_ Saltash! For me--the game is just begun. But--should you desire
to leave me--the opportunity is yours. A knight has arrived to the
rescue--a very puissant knight!"
"A knight!" gasped Toby, trembling. "Ah! Tell me what you mean!"
His look was openly mocking. "A knight in gaiters!" he told her
lightly. "A knight who bears--or should bear--a horsewhip in place of
a sword--that is, if I know him aright!"
"Jake!" she gasped incredulously.
He laughed afresh. "Even so! Jake! Most worthy--and most obtrusive! What
shall we do with him, lady mine? Slay him--or give him a feed and send
him home?"
She stared at him, aghast. "You--you--you are joking!" she stammered.
"I always joke when I am most serious," Saltash assured her.
"Oh, don't!" She clung closer to his arm. "What shall we do? He--he can't
do anything, can he? We--we--we really are married, aren't we?"
Saltash's most appalling grimace fled like a hunted goblin across his
face. "Married? Heavens, child! What more do you want? Haven't you seen
it--actually seen it--in our greatest London daily? And can a London
daily lie? You may have dreamed the wedding, but that paragraph--that
paragraph--it takes a genius of the first literary degree to dream a
paragraph, though it may only need quite an ordinary fool to write it!
Why, what is the matter? What is it? Did you see something? Not a mouse?
Not a beetle? I prithee, not a beetle!"
For Toby had suddenly hidden her face against his shoulder and there was
actual panic in the clinging of her arms. He laid a hand upon her head,
and patted it lightly, admonishingly.
She did not speak for a second or two, only gulped with desperate effort
at self-restraint. Then, at length, in a muffled voice, "Don't let him
take me away!" she besought him shakily. "You--you--you've promised to
keep me--now."
"But, of course I'm keeping you," said Saltash. "It's what I did it for.
It's the very essence of the game. Cheer up, Nonette! I'm not parting
with any of my goods, worldly or otherwise, this journey."
"You are sure?" whispered Toby. "Sure?"
"Sure of what?" He bent swiftly, and for a second, only a second, his
lips touched her hair.
"Sure you--don't--want to?" came in a gasp from Toby, as she burrowed a
little deeper.
"Oh, that!" Saltash stood up again, and his face was sardonic, for the
moment almost grim. "Yes, quite sure of that, my dear. Moreover,--it will
amuse me to meet the virtuous Jake on his own ground for once. A new
sensation, Nonette! Will you help me to face him? Or do you prefer the
more early-Victorian _rôle_ of the lady who retires till the combat is
over and then emerges to reward the winner?"
She lifted her head at that, and uttered a scoffing little laugh,
withdrawing herself abruptly from his support. Her pointed chin went up
with a hint of defiance. All signs of agitation were gone. "I'll stay and
help you," she said.
He made her an elaborate bow. "Then we will ring up the curtain. I
congratulate you, madam, upon your spirit. I trust the interview will not
try your fortitude too far. Remember, should your feminine ears be
shocked by anything that may pass between us, it is up to you to retire
at any moment."
Toby's blue eyes caught sudden fire. She broke into an unexpected
chuckle. "I do not think I am likely to retire for that reason,
_monseigneur_," she said. "Where is he? How did you know he was coming?"
"Because he is already here," said Saltash. "I passed him at the office,
making enquiries. He had his back to me, but there is no mistaking that
bull-neck of his. Ah!" He turned his head sharply. "I hear a step
outside! Sit down, _mignonne_! Sit down and be dignified!"
But Toby's idea of dignity was to sit on the corner of the table and
swing one leg. If any apprehension lingered in her mind, she concealed it
most successfully. She looked like an alert and mischievous boy.
There came a knock at the door, and for a moment her eyes sought Saltash.
He grinned back derisively, and pulled out his cigarette-case.
"_Entrez!_" he called.
The door opened with a flourish. A waiter entered with a card.
Saltash barely looked at him. His eyes flashed beyond to the open
doorway. "You can come in," he remarked affably. "We've been expecting
you for some time."
Jake entered. His square frame seemed to fill the space between the
door-posts. He was empty-handed, but there was purpose--grim purpose--in
every line of him.
Saltash dismissed the waiter with a jerk of the eyebrows. He was utterly
unabashed, amazingly self-assured. He met Jake's stern eyes with cheery
effrontery.
"Quite like old times!" he commented. "The only difference being, my good
Jake, that on this occasion I have reached the winning-post first."
Jake's look went beyond him to the slight figure by the table. Toby was
on her feet. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were wide and defiant. He
regarded her steadily for several seconds before, very deliberately, he
transferred his attention to Saltash, who nonchalantly awaited his turn,
tapping the cigarette on the lid of his case with supreme indifference.
Jake spoke, his voice soft as a woman's, yet strangely dominating. "I
should like two minutes alone with you--if you can spare them."
Saltash was smiling. His glance shot towards Toby, and came back to Jake
with a certain royal arrogance that held its own without effort. "In
other words, you wish--Lady Saltash--to leave us?" he questioned easily.
"I'm not going," said Toby quickly, with nervous decision.
Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her. She stood as one strung
to the utmost limit of resistance.
Jake did not again look at her. His eyes were upon Saltash, and they
never wavered. "Alone with you," he repeated, with grim insistence.
Saltash regarded him curiously. His mouth twitched mockingly as he put
the cigarette between his lips. He held out the case to Jake in mute
invitation.
Jake's look remained fixed. He ignored the action, and the case snapped
shut in Saltash's hand with a sharp sound that seemed to denote a
momentary exasperation. But Saltash's face still retained the monkey-like
expression of calculated mischief habitual to it.
"Bunny with you?" he enquired casually, producing a match-box.
"No." Very quietly came Jake's answer. "I have come to see you--alone."
Saltash lighted his cigarette, and blew a careless cloud of smoke. "Are
you proposing to shoot me?" he asked, after a pause.
"No," said Jake grimly. "Shooting's too good for you--men like you."
Saltash laughed, and blew another cloud of smoke. "That may be why I have
survived so long," he remarked. "I don't see the horsewhip either. Jake,
my friend, you are not rising to the occasion with becoming enthusiasm.
Any good offering you a drink to stimulate your energies?"
"None whatever," said Jake, still very quietly. "I don't go--till I have
what I came for--that's all. Neither do you!"
"I--see!" said Saltash.
An odd little gleam that was almost furtive shone for a second in his
eyes and was gone. He turned and crossed the room to Toby.
"My dear," he said, "I think this business will be more quickly settled
if you leave us."
She looked at him piteously. He took her lightly by the arm, and led her
to a door leading to an adjoining room. "By the time you have smoked one
cigarette," he said, "I shall be with you again."
She turned with an impulsive attempt to cling to him. "You'll--keep me?"
she said, through trembling lips.
He made a royal gesture that frustrated her with perfect courtesy. "Are
you not my wife?" he said.
He opened the door for her, and she had no choice but to go through. She
went swiftly, without another glance, and Saltash closed the door behind
her.
CHAPTER II
THE VILLAIN SCORES
"Now, sir!" said Saltash, and turned. His tone was brief; the smile had
gone from his face. He came to Jake with a certain haughtiness, and stood
before him.
Jake squared his shoulders. "So--you've married her!" he said.
"I have." There was a note of challenge in the curt rejoinder. Saltash's
brows were drawn.
"I should like to see--proof of that," Jake said, after a moment.
"The devil you would!" Again the hot gleam shone in the odd eyes. Saltash
stood for a second in the attitude of a man on the verge of violence.
Then, contemptuously, he relaxed.
He lounged back against the mantel-piece and smoked his cigarette. "The
devil you would, Jake!" he said again, in a tone so different that the
words might have been uttered in another language. "And why--if one be
permitted to ask?"
"I think you know why," Jake said.
"Oh, do I? You virtuous people are always the first to suspect evil."
Saltash spoke with deliberate cynicism. "And suppose the marriage is not
genuine--as you so politely hint--what then, my worthy Jake? What then?"
Jake faced him unwaveringly. "If not," he said, "she goes back with me."
Saltash's eyes suddenly flashed to his, but he did not alter his
position. "Sure of that?" he asked casually.
"Sure!" said Jake.
"And if I refuse to part with her? If she refuses to go?"
"Either way," said Jake immovably.
"And why?" Saltash straightened suddenly. "Tell me why! What in hell has
it got to do with you?"
"This," said Jake. "Just the fact that she's a girl needing protection
and that I--can give it."
"Are you so sure of that?" gibed Saltash. "I think you forget, don't you,
that I was her first protector? No one--not even Bunny--could have got
near her without my consent."
"She was your find right enough," Jake admitted. "I always knew
that--knew from the first you'd faked up a lie about her. But I hoped--I
even believed--that you were doing it for her sake--not your own."
"Well?" flung Saltash. "And if I was?"
"And if you were," said Jake, "it was a thing worth doing--worth sticking
to. Bunny is a respectable citizen. He'd have married her--made her
happy."
Saltash's mouth twisted. "Bunny had his chance--missed it," he said.
"He'll know better next time. I'm not troubling about Bunny. He didn't
deserve to win."
"And so you decided to play him a damn trick and cut him out?" said Jake.
Saltash snapped his fingers. "I did my best for him, but I couldn't push
him through against his will. Why didn't he come after her when he found
she had gone? Didn't he know where to look?"
"Just because he knew," said Jake.
Saltash moved abruptly. "Damnation! You shall have what you've come for.
If seeing is believing--then you shall believe--that even Charles
Burchester can protect a girl at a pinch from the snares of the
virtuous!" He pulled an envelope from an inner pocket, and flung it with
a passionate gesture upon the table in front of Jake.
Jake's eyes, red-brown and steady, marked the action and contemplated him
thereafter for several silent seconds. Then, at length, very slowly.
"Maybe--after all--I don't need to see, my lord," he said. "Maybe--I've
made a mistake."
He spoke with the utmost quietness, but his manner had undergone a
change. It held a hint of deference. He made no move to touch the
envelope upon the table.
Saltash's brows went up. "Satisfied?" he questioned curtly.
"On that point, yes." Jake continued to look at him with a close and
searching regard.
"Not on all points?" Saltash flicked the ash from his cigarette with a
movement of exasperation.
Jake turned and slowly walked to the window. There fell a silence between
them. He stood staring down upon the scene that Toby had gazed upon a
little earlier, but he saw nothing of it. The hardness had gone out of
his face, and a deep compassion had taken its place.
Saltash continued to smoke for several restless seconds. Finally, he
dropped the end of his cigarette into a tray and spoke.
"Anything more I can do for you?"
Jake wheeled in his massive way, and came back. "Say!" he said slowly.
"I'm kind of sorry for that little girl."
Saltash made an abrupt movement that passed unexplained. "Well?" he said.
Jake faced him squarely. "If I'd been at home," he said, "this would
never have happened. Or if it had happened--if it had happened--" He
paused.
"You'd have made a point of coming to the wedding?" suggested Saltash.
Jake passed the suggestion by. "I'd have known how to deal with it,
anyway. Now, it seems, it's too late."
Saltash took up the envelope from the table, and returned it to his
pocket. "I believe you'd have been better pleased if I hadn't married
her," he observed.
Jake shook his head. "I'd be better pleased--maybe--if I knew for certain
what you did it for."
"My good Jake. I don't go in for aims and motives," protested Saltash.
"Call it a marriage of convenience if you feel that way! It's all the
same to me."
Jake's brows contracted. "I'd give a good deal not to call it that," he
said.
Saltash laughed. "Call it what you like--a whim--a fancy--the craze of
the moment! You needn't waste any sentiment over it. I'm sorry about
Bunny, but, if he hadn't been an ass, it wouldn't have happened. You
can't blame me for that anyhow. You did the same thing yourself."
"I!" The red-brown eyes suddenly shone. "I don't follow you," said Jake
deliberately.
"You married your wife to deliver her from--a fate you deemed
unsuitable." Saltash's teeth showed for a moment in answer to the gleam
in Jake's eyes. "You did it in an almighty hurry too."
"But--damn it--she needed protection!" Jake said. "And--at least--I loved
her!"
Saltash bowed. "Hence your motive was an entirely selfish one. My
wife--_au contraire_--is quite unhampered by a husband's devotion. I have
never made love to her--yet. I have only--protected her."
He paused, and suddenly the old monkey-like look of mischief flashed back
into his face.
"I lay claim to the higher virtue, Jake," he said. "Heaven alone knows
how long it will last. I've never scored over you before, but on this
occasion--" He stopped with a careless wave of the hand.
"Yes," Jake said. "On this occasion--you've got me beat. But--I didn't
fight for my own sake, nor yet for the off chance of downing you, which I
own would have given me considerable pleasure once. It was for the
child's sake." An unwonted note of entreaty suddenly sounded in his
voice. "I don't know what your game is, my lord; but she's yours now--to
make--or break. For God's sake--be decent to her--if you can!"
"If I can!" Saltash clapped a sudden hand upon Jake's shoulder, but
though the action was obviously a kindly one, it held restraint as well.
"Do you think I don't know how to make a woman happy, Jake? Think I
haven't studied the subject hard enough? Think I'm a fool at the game?"
Jake looked him straight in the face. "No. I don't think you a fool, my
lord," he said. "But I reckon there's one or two things that even you may
have to learn. You've never yet made any woman permanently happy. There's
only one way of doing that. Bunny would have done it--and won out too.
But you--I'm not so sure of you."
"Oh, Bunny would have won out, would he?" Saltash's hand closed like a
trap upon Jake's shoulder. There was a challenging quality in his smile.
Jake nodded. "Yes. Bunny's got the real stuff in him. Bunny would have
put her happiness before his own always. He would have given her the love
that lasts. It's the only thing worth having, after all."
"Well?" The challenge became more marked upon the swarthy face. The smile
had vanished. "And you think I am incapable of that?"
"I haven't said so," Jake said sombrely.
"But it's up to me to prove it?" There was a certain insistence in
Saltash's tone, albeit a mocking spirit looked out of his eyes.
Jake faced it unwaveringly for several seconds. Then: "Yes. I reckon it
is up to you," he said, and turned deliberately away. "I'm going now."
"All right." Saltash's hand fell. "I give you credit for one thing,
Jake," he said. "You haven't offered to take her off my hands. For that
piece of forbearance I congratulate you. Do you want to see her before
you go?"
"Not specially," said Jake.
Saltash's eyes followed him with a look half-malicious, half-curious.
"Nor to send her a message?" he questioned.
"No." Jake's tone was brief.
"You're not wanting to offer her a safe harbour when her present
anchorage fails her?" jested Saltash.
Jake turned at the door as one goaded. "When that happens," he said very
deliberately. "I guess she'll be past any help from me, poor kid!"
Saltash's black brows descended. He scowled hideously for a moment. Then,
"I congratulate you again," he said coolly. "You are just beginning to
see things--as they are."
Jake made a brief sound that might have indicated contempt and opened the
door. He went out with finality, and Saltash listened to the tread of his
retreating feet with a grin of sheer cynical triumph.
"So," he said lightly, "the villain scores at last!"
But as he turned towards the other room, the cynicism passed from his
face. He stood for a moment or two motionless at the door; then broke
into a careless whistle and opened it.
CHAPTER III
A WIFE IS DIFFERENT
"Has he gone?" said Toby eagerly. She came into the room with a swift
glance around. "What did he say? What did he do? Was he angry?"
"I really don't know," Saltash said, supremely unconcerned. "He went.
That's the main thing."
Toby looked at him critically. "You were so quiet, both of you. Was there
a row?"
"Were you listening?" said Saltash.
She coloured, and smiled disarmingly. "Part of the time--no, all the
time. But I didn't hear anything--at least not much. Nothing that
mattered. Are you angry?"
He frowned upon her, but his eyes reassured. "I told you to smoke a
cigarette."
"I'm sorry," said Toby meekly. "Shall I smoke one now?"
He pinched her ear. "No. We'll go out. You've got to shop. First though,
I've got something for you. I'm not sure you deserve it, but that's a
detail. Few of us ever do get our deserts in this naughty world."
"What is it?" said Toby.
Her bright eyes questioned him. She looked more than ever like an eager
boy. He pulled a leather case out of his pocket and held it out to her.
"Oh, what is it?" she said, and coloured more deeply. "You
haven't--haven't--been buying me things?"
"Open it!" said Saltash, with regal peremptoriness.
But still she hesitated, till he suddenly laid his hands on hers and
compelled her. She saw a single string of pearls on a bed of blue velvet.
Her eyes came up to his in quick distress.
"Oh, I ought not to take them!" she said.
"And why not?" said Saltash.
She bit her lip, almost as if she would burst into tears. "Monseigneur--"
"Call me Charles!" he commanded.
His hands still held hers. She dropped her eyes to them, and suddenly,
very suddenly, she bent her head and kissed them.
He started slightly, and in a moment he set her free, leaving the case in
her hold. "_Eh bien!_" he said lightly. "That is understood. You like my
pearls, _chérie_?"
"I love--anything--that comes from you," she made low reply. "But
these--but these--I ought not to take these."
"But why not?" he questioned. "May I not make you a present? Are you
not--my wife?"
"Yes." More faintly came Toby's answer. "But--but--but--a wife is
different. A wife--does not need--presents."
"_Mais vraiment!_" protested Saltash. "So a wife is different!
How--different, _mignonne_?"
He tried to look into the downcast eyes, but she would not raise them.
She was trembling a little. "Such things as these," she said, under her
breath, "are what a man would give to--to--to the woman he loves."
"And so you think they are unsuitable for--my wife?" questioned Saltash,
with a whimsical look on his dark face.
She did not answer him, only mutely held out the case, still without
looking at him.
He stood for a second or two, watching her, an odd flame coming and going
in his eyes; then abruptly he moved, picked up the pearls from their
case, straightened them dexterously, and clasped them about her neck.
She lifted her face then, quivering and irresolute, to his. "And I can
give you--nothing," she said.
He took her lightly by the shoulders, as one who caresses a child. "_Ma
chérie_, you have given me already much more than you realize. But we
will not go into that now. We will go to the shops. Afterwards, we will
go out to Fontainebleau and picnic in the forest. You will like that?"
"Oh, so much!" she said, with enthusiasm.
Yet there was a puzzled look of pain in her eyes as she turned away, and
though she wore his pearls, she made no further reference to them.
They went forth into the streets of Paris and Toby shopped. At first she
was shy, halting here and hesitating there, till Saltash, looking on,
careless and debonair, made it abundantly evident that whatever she
desired she was to have, and then like a child on a holiday she flung
aside all indecision and became eager and animated. So absorbed was she
that she took no note of the passage of time and was horrified when at
length he called her attention to the fact that it was close upon the
luncheon-hour.
"And you must be so tired of it all!" she said, with compunction.
"Not in the least," he assured her airily between puffs of his cigarette.
"It has been--a new experience for me."
Her eyes challenged him for a moment, and he laughed.
"_Mais oui, madame!_ I protest--a new experience. I feel I am doing my
duty."
"And it doesn't bore you?" questioned Toby, with a tilt of the chin.
His look kindled a little. "If we were on board the old _Night Moth_,
you'd have had a cuff for that," he remarked.
"I wish we were!" she said daringly.
He flicked his fingers. "You're very young, Nonette."
She shook her head with vehemence. "I'm not! I'm not! I'm only
pretending. Can't you see?"
He laughed jestingly. "You have never deceived me yet, _ma chère_,--not
once, from the moment I found you shivering in my cabin up to the
present. You couldn't if you tried."
Toby's blue eyes suddenly shone with a hot light. "So sure of that?" she
said quickly. "You read me--so easily?"
"Like a book," said Saltash, with an arrogance but half-assumed.
"I cheated you--once," she said, breathing sharply.
"And I caught you," said Saltash.
"Only--only because--I meant you to," said Toby, under her breath.
He raised his brows in momentary surprise, and in a flash she laughed and
clapped her hands. "I had you there, King Charles! You see, you are but a
man after all."
He gave her a swift and piercing glance. "And what are you?" he said.
Her eyes fell swiftly before his look; she made no reply.
They returned to the hotel and lunched together. The incident of the
morning seemed to be forgotten. Jake's name was not once mentioned
between them. Toby was full of gaiety. The prospect of the run to
Fontainebleau evidently filled her with delight.
She joined Saltash in the vestibule after the meal, clad in a light blue
wrap they had purchased that morning.
He went to meet her, a quick gleam in his eyes; and a man to whom he had
been talking--a slim, foreign-looking man with black moustache and
imperial--turned sharply and gave her a hard stare.
Toby's chin went up. She looked exclusively at Saltash. Her bearing at
that moment was that of a princess.
"The car is ready?" she questioned. "Shall we go?"
"By all means," said Saltash.
He nodded a careless farewell to the other man, and followed her, a smile
twitching at his lips, the gleam still in his eyes.
"That man is Spentoli the sculptor," he said, as he handed her into the
car. "A genius, Nonette! I should have presented him to you if you had
not been so haughty."
"I hate geniuses," said Toby briefly.
He laughed at her. "_Mais vraiment!_ How many have you known?"
She considered for a moment, and finally decided that the question did
not require an answer.
Saltash took the wheel and spun the little car round with considerable
dexterity. "Yes, a genius!" he said. "One of the most wonderful of the
age. His work is amazing--scarcely human. He paints too. All Paris raves
over his work--with reason. His picture, 'The Victim'--" he looked at her
suddenly--"What is the matter, _chérie_? Is the sun too strong for you?"
Toby's hand was shielding her eyes. Her lips were trembling. "Don't
wait!" she murmured. "Don't wait! Let's get away! I am all right--just a
little giddy, that's all."
He took her at her word, and sent the car swiftly forward. They passed
out into the crowded thoroughfare, and in a moment or two Toby leaned
back, gazing before her with a white, set face.
Saltash asked no question. He did not even look at her, concentrating all
his attention upon the task of extricating himself as swiftly as possible
from the crush of vehicles around them.
It was a day of perfect autumn, and Paris lay basking in sunshine; but
Saltash was a rapid traveller at all times, and it was not long before
Paris was left behind. But even when free from the traffic, he did not
speak or turn towards his companion, merely gave himself to the task
of covering the ground as quickly as possible.
In the end it was Toby who spoke, abruptly, boyishly. "By jingo! You can
drive!"
Saltash's face showed its own elastic grin. "You like this?"
"Rather!" said Toby with enthusiasm.
She threw off her silence and plunged forthwith into careless chatter--a
mood to which he responded with the utmost readiness. When at length they
ran into the shade of the forest, they were both in the highest spirits.
They had their tea in a mossy glade out of sight of the road. The sun was
beginning to slant. Its rays fell in splashes of golden green all about
them.
"Just the place for a duel!" said Saltash appreciatively.
"Have you ever fought a duel?" Toby looked at him over the picnic-basket
with eyes of sparkling interest.
She had thrown aside her hat, and her fair hair gleamed as if it gave
forth light. Saltash leaned his shoulders against a tree and watched her.
"I have never fought to kill," he said. "Honour is too easily
satisfied in this country--though after all--" his smile was suddenly
provocative--"there are very few things worth fighting for, Nonette."
Her eyes flashed their ready challenge. "Life being too short already?"
she suggested.
"Even so," said Charles Rex coolly.
Toby abruptly bent her head and muttered something into the
picnic-basket.
"What?" said Saltash.
She pulled out a parcel of cakes and tossed them on to the ground.
"Nothing!" she said.
He leaned forward unexpectedly as she foraged for more, and gripped the
small brown hand.
"Tell me what you said!" he commanded.
She flung him a look half-frightened, half-daring. "I said there was only
one cup."
She would have released her hand with the words, but his fingers
tightened like a spring. "_Pardonnez-moi!_ That was not what you said!"
She became passive in his hold, but she said nothing.
"Tell me what you said!" Saltash said again.
A little tremor went through Toby. "Can we do--with only one cup?" she
asked, not looking at him, her eyelids flickering nervously.
"Going to answer me?" said Saltash.
She shook her head and was silent.
He waited for perhaps ten seconds, and in that time a variety of
different expressions showed and vanished on his ugly face. Then, just as
Toby was beginning to tremble in real trepidation, he suddenly set her
free.
"We have drunk out of the same glass before now," he said. "We can do it
again."
She looked at him then, relief and doubt struggling together in her eyes.
"Are you angry?" she said.
His answering look baffled her. "No," he said.
She laid a conciliatory hand upon his arm. "You are! I'm sure you are!"
"I am not," said Saltash.
"Then why aren't you?" demanded Toby, with sudden spirit.
The monkeyish grin leapt into his face. "Because I know what you said,"
he told her coolly. "It is not easy--you will never find it easy--to
deceive me."
She snatched her hand away. Her face was on fire. "I said you did not
make the most of life," she flung at him. "And it's true! You don't! You
don't!"
"How do you know that?" said Saltash.
She did not answer him. Her head was bent over the basket. She threw out
one thing after another with nervous rapidity, and once, as he watched
her, there came a faint sound that was like a hastily suppressed sob.
Saltash got to his feet with disconcerting suddenness and walked away.
When he returned some minutes later with a half-smoked cigarette between
his lips, she was sitting demurely awaiting him, the picnic ready spread.
He scarcely looked at her but he flicked her cheek as he sat down, and in
a moment she turned and smiled at him.
"I have found another cup," she said.
"So I see," said Saltash, and before she could realize his mood he picked
it up and flung it at the trunk of a tree some yards away. It shivered in
fragments on the moss, and Toby gasped and stared at him wide-eyed.
He laughed in his careless fashion at her amazement. "Now we shall drink
out of one cup!" he said.
"Was that--was that--why you did it?" she stammered breathlessly.
He blew a cloud of smoke into the air with a gesture of royal
indifference. "Even so,--_madame_!" he said. "One does these things--with
a wife. You see, a wife--is different."
"I--I see," said Toby.
CHAPTER IV
THE IDOL OF PARIS
It was dark when they returned to the hotel, but Paris shone with a
million lights. The hotel itself had a festive air. There were flowers in
all directions, and a red carpet had been laid upon the steps.
"Rozelle Daubeni is expected," said Saltash.
"Who?" Toby stopped short in the act of descending. Her face shone white
in the glare. A moment before she had been laughing but the laugh went
into her question with a little choked sound. "Who did you say?" she
questioned more coherently.
"Mademoiselle Daubeni--the idol of Paris. Never heard of her?" Saltash
handed her lightly down. "She is coming to a dance in the great _salon_
tonight. You shall see her. She is--a thing to remember."
Toby gave a quick shiver. "Yes, I have heard of her too much--too much--I
don't want to see her. Shall we dine upstairs?"
"Oh, I think not," said Saltash with decision. "You are too retiring, _ma
chère_. It doesn't become--a lady of your position."
He followed her towards the lift. The vestibule was full of people,
laughing and talking, awaiting the coming of the favourite. But as the
girl in her blue cloak went through, a sudden hush fell. Women lifted
glasses to look at her, and men turned to watch.
Saltash sauntered behind her in his regal way, looking neither to right
nor left, yet fully aware of all he passed. No one accosted him. There
were times when even those who knew him well would have hesitated to do
so. He could surround himself with an atmosphere so suavely impersonal as
to be quite impenetrable to all.
It surrounded him now. He walked like a king through a crowd of
courtiers, and the buzz of talk did not spring up again till he was out
of sight.
"So you do not want to see _le premiere danseuse du siècle!_" he
commented, as he entered the sitting-room of their suite behind Toby.
She turned, blue eyes wide with protest in her white face. "Do you wish
me to see her, my lord? That--woman!"
He frowned upon her suddenly. "Call me Charles! Do you hear? We will play
this game according to rule--or not at all."
"You are angry," Toby said, and turned still whiter.
He came to her, thrust a quick arm about her. "I am not angry,
_mignonne_, at least not with you. But you must take your proper place. I
can't keep you in hiding here. Those gaping fools downstairs--they have
got to understand. You are not my latest whim, but a permanent
institution. You are--my wife."
She shivered in his hold, but she clung to him. "I don't feel like--a
permanent institution," she told him rather piteously. "And when you are
angry--"
"I am not angry," said Saltash, and tweaked her ear as though she had
been a boy. "But--whether you feel like it or not--you are my wife, and
you have got to play the part. _C'est entendu, n'est-ce-pas?_"
"Whatever you wish," said Toby faintly.
He set her free. "You must look your best tonight. Wear blue! It is your
colour. I shall present Spentoli to you. And tomorrow he will want to
paint you."
Toby stiffened. "That--_canaille_!" she said.
He looked at her in surprise. "What is the matter with you tonight,
Nonette? You are hating all the world."
Her blue eyes blazed. "I don't want to meet Spentoli," she said. "He has
an evil eye. You--you--I look to you to--to--to protect me."
"My good child!" said Saltash.
He turned aside to light a cigarette, and there was a pause. But Toby
still stood rigid, as it were on guard. He spoke again after a moment,
and his voice was kind though it had a certain dominant quality also.
"Nonette, you need not be afraid when you are with me. I shall protect
you. Now go and dress! When you are ready, come to me for inspection! And
remember! You are to look your best tonight."
He turned with the last words and looked at her. His brows went up as he
realized her attitude--the tense resistance of the slight figure
withstanding him.
But it was only for a moment or two that the girl maintained her stand.
At sight of the look that leaped to his eyes, her own were swiftly
lowered. She drew back from him.
"I will do--whatever you wish," she said again nervously. "You know
that."
"Yes, I know that," said Saltash with his quick grimace. "You have my
sympathy, Nonette. Now go, _ma chère_, go!"
She went from his presence like a small hunted animal.
Saltash shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down again to the vestibule.
The crowd had grown. They were watching the great entrance-door
expectantly for the coming of the celebrated dancer. Saltash called for a
drink, and mingled with the throng.
The Italian, Spentoli, came up presently and joined him. "I am hoping,"
he said, "that you will presently give me the great honour of presenting
me to your bride."
Saltash looked at him. Spentoli was one of the very few men for whom he
entertained respect. The Italian's work had always held an immense
attraction for his artistic soul, and he had never troubled to disguise
the fact.
"My wife is young and shy," he said, after a moment. "I will present
you--some day, Spentoli, but it may not be yet."
"This is her first visit to Paris?" questioned Spentoli.
"Not her first. But she does not know Paris well." Saltash spoke
carelessly. "I am not showing her everything at once. I think that is a
mistake."
"That is true," agreed Spentoli. "The freshness of youth is gone all too
soon. But she will be superbly beautiful in a few years' time. Will you
permit me to congratulate you on the excellence of your choice?"
Saltash grimaced. "Do we ever choose?" he said. "Do we not rather receive
such gifts as the gods send us in more or less of a grudging spirit?"
Spentoli smiled. "I did not think you would marry one so young," he said.
"She has the athletic look of a boy. She reminds me--"
"Of a picture called 'The Victim' by one--Spentoli!" Saltash's voice was
suave. "A cruel picture, _mon ami_, but of an amazing merit. I have seen
the likeness also. Where did you get it?"
The Italian was still smiling, but his eyes were wary.
"From a little circus-rider in California," he said. "A child--an imp of
a child--astonishingly clever--a wisp of inspiration. Yes, a girl of
course; but she had all the lines of a boy--the perfect limbs of an
athlete. I took her from her circus. I should have paid her well had she
remained with me. But before the picture was finished, she was tired. She
was a little serpent--wily and wicked. One day we had a small discussion
in my studio--oh, quite a small discussion. And she stuck her poison-fang
into me--and fled." Spentoli's teeth gleamed through his black moustache.
"I do not like these serpent-women," he said. "When I meet her again--it
will be my turn to strike."
"Our turn so seldom comes," said Saltash lazily, his eyes wandering to
the door. "Mademoiselle Rozelle for instance would hold her own against
any of us."
"Ah! Rozelle!" Spentoli's face changed magically. "But she is
beautiful--and without venom--a rose without a thorn!"
Saltash's mouth twitched mockingly. "And without a heart also?" he
suggested.
"She is all heart!" cried Spentoli, with flashing eyes.
Saltash laughed aloud. "That also is sometimes a drawback, _mon ami_. I
gather she is the attraction who has drawn you here."
"She draws all the world," said Spentoli.
And with that he sprang to his feet, for there was a general stir in the
vestibule, such as might herald the coming of a queen. In a moment the
buzz of voices died down, and a great silence fell. Saltash remained
seated, a certain arrogance in his pose, though his eyes also watched the
door.
There came the sound of a laugh--a clear, ringing laugh, childishly,
irresistibly gay--and a figure in blue came in through the marble
pillars. As a queen they had prepared for her, and as a queen she
entered--a being so exquisite, so goddess-like, that every breath was
drawn in wonder.
She looked around her with eyes that shone like sapphires. Her red lips
were parted. She had the expectant look of girlhood, yet her beauty had a
quality unknown to youth. And it was to that quality, almost unknown to
himself, that Saltash did homage as he rose.
Her look flashed across to him, comprehended his action, and laughed open
triumph. Then with a suddenness almost too swift to follow, she turned to
a man who had entered behind her and softly spoke.
Saltash's eyes went to the man, and he drew a low whistle between his
teeth. It was well known that Rozelle Daubeni never travelled without an
escort; but this man--this man--He was tall and broad, and he carried
himself with a supreme contempt for his fellow-men. He did not look at
Saltash, did not apparently even see the hushed crowd that hung upon
every movement of that wonderful woman-creature who took the world by
storm wherever she went.
He was superbly indifferent to his surroundings, gazing straight before
him with the eyes of a Viking who searches the far horizon. He walked
with the free swing of a pirate. And as the woman turned her dazzling
face towards him, it was plain to all that she saw none but him in that
vast and crowded place.
He was by her side as they moved forward, and they saw her lightly touch
his arm, with an intimate gesture, as though they were alone. Then the
whole throng broke into acclamations, and the spell was broken. She saw
them all again, and laughed her gracious thanks. The great hall rang with
their greeting as she passed through, but no one sought to detain her and
she did not pause.
Later, she would give them all they desired, but her moment had not
arrived. So she went on to the great curving staircase, side by side with
her fair-bearded Viking, still laughing like a happy child who looks for
the morrow.
As she rounded the curve of the stair, she snatched a red rose from her
breast and threw it down to her worshippers below. It was aimed at
Saltash, but it fell before Spentoli, and he caught and held it with wild
adoration leaping in his eyes. As he pressed it to his lips, he was
sobbing.
"_Mon ami_," said Saltash's voice behind him, maliciously humorous, "you
have stolen my property. But--since I have no use for it--you may keep
it."
Spentoli looked at him with burning eyes. "Ah! You may laugh!" he said,
in a fierce undertone. "You are--without a soul."
"Isn't it better to laugh?" queried Saltash. "Did you expect a blow in
the face?"
Spentoli glared for a moment, and recovered himself. "Do you know what
they are saying of her?" he said. "They say that she is dying. But it is
not true--not true! Such beauty as that--such loveliness--could never
die!"
The cynical lines in Saltash's face deepened very perceptibly. He
shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
"Who is the man with her?" demanded Spentoli. "I have never seen him
before--the man with the face of a Dane. Do you know him?"
"Yes, I know him," said Saltash.
"Then who is he? Some new lover?" There was suppressed eagerness in the
question. Spentoli's eyes were smouldering again.
Saltash was looking supremely ironical. "Perhaps new," he said. "More
likely--very old. His name is Larpent, and he is the captain of my
yacht."
CHAPTER V
THE DANCE OF DEATH
"We will watch from the gallery," said Saltash.
Toby looked up at him with quick gratitude. "There won't be so many
people there," she said.
He frowned at her, but his look was quizzical. "But everyone will know
that Lady Saltash is present--with her husband," he said.
She slipped a persuasive hand on to his arm. "King Charles," she said,
"let us leave Paris!"
"Bored?" said Saltash.
Her face was slightly drawn. "No--no! Only--" she paused; then suddenly
flashed him her swift smile--"let it be as you wish!" she said.
He flicked her cheek in his careless, caressing way. "Shall I tell you
something, _mignonne_? We are going--very soon."
Her eyes shone, more blue than the frock she wore She stooped impulsively
and touched his hand with her lips, then, as though she feared to anger
him, drew quickly away.
"Shall we go on the yacht?" she asked, eagerness half-suppressed
in her voice.
"Yes," said Saltash, and he spoke with finality, even with a certain
grimness.
Toby's face lighted up for a second, and then clouded again. She glanced
at him doubtfully. "If Paris amuses you--" she ventured.
"Paris does not amuse me," said Saltash emphatically. "Have a cigarette,
_ma chère_, while I go and dress."
"Can I help you dress?" said Toby, with a touch of wistfulness. "I have
put everything ready."
His odd eyes flashed her a smile. "Not here, _chérie_, not now.
Perhaps--when we get on a yacht again--"
He was gone, leaving the sentence unfinished, leaving Toby looking after
him with the wide eyes of one who sees at last a vision long desired. She
stretched out both her arms as the door closed upon him and her lips
repeated very softly the words that he had last uttered.
"Perhaps--when we got on a yacht again--"
When they went down to the great _salle-à-manger_ a little later, her
face was flushed and her smile ready, though she glanced about her in a
shy, half-furtive fashion as they entered. They found a secluded table
reserved for them in a corner, and her eyes expressed relief. She shrank
into it as if she would make herself as small as possible. Again no one
accosted them though a good many looked in their direction. Saltash was
far too well known a figure to pass unnoticed in any fashionable crowd.
But the general attention did not centre upon them. That was absorbed by
a far greater attraction that night.
She sat at the end of the room like a queen holding her court, and beside
her sat the Viking, stern-faced and remote of mien, as supremely isolated
as though he sat with her on a desert island. He spoke but seldom, and
then to her exclusively. But when he spoke, she turned to him the radiant
face of the woman who holds within her grasp her heart's desire.
She was superbly dressed in many-shaded blue, and jewels sparkled with
every breath she drew. Above her forehead, there nestled in the gold of
her hair a single splendid diamond that burned like a multi-coloured
flame. She was at the acme of her triumph that night. Of all who knew
her, there was not one who had seen her thus. They watched her almost
with bated breath. She was like a being from another world. She
transcended every expectation of her.
The band played only dance-music, by her desire, it was said; but such
music as wrought irresistibly upon the senses and emotions. She was
preparing her audience for what should follow. Throughout the meal,
excitement was steadily rising. There was almost a feeling of delirium in
the air.
Before the bulk of diners had finished, she rose to go. Her cavalier rose
with her, flinging her gauzy wrap of blue and gold over his arm. It was
the signal for a demonstration. In a moment a youth with eyes ablaze
with adoration sprang on to a table in the centre of the vast room with a
glass of red wine held high.
"A Rozelle! A Rozelle!"
The cry went up to the domed roof in a great crescendo of sound, and
instantly the place was a pandemonium of shouting, excited figures. They
crowded towards the table at which the _danseuse_ still stood. And just
for a second--one fleeting second--her eyes showed a curious fear. She
stood almost as one at a loss. Then in a flash her irresolution was gone.
Her beautiful face smiled its own inimitable smile. The music of her
laughter rang silvery through the tumult. She made a dainty gesture of
acceptance, of acknowledgment, of friendly appreciation; then lightly she
turned to go.
Her companion made a path for her. He looked as if he could have hewn his
way through a wall of rock at that moment, and his uncompromising bearing
gained him respect. No one attempted to gainsay him.
They were gone almost before they realized that their idol had not spoken
a word to them. The moment was past, and the excitement died down to a
buzz of talk.
"An amazing woman!" said Saltash.
Toby glanced at him, and said nothing. She had watched the whole episode
from her corner with eyes that missed nothing; but she had not spoken a
word.
He bent suddenly towards her. "Drink some wine, _chérie_! You are pale."
She started a little at the quick peremptoriness of his speech. She
lifted her glass to drink, and splashed some of the wine over. He leaned
farther forward, screening her from observation.
"Go on! Drink!" he said, with insistence, and in a moment his hand closed
upon hers, guiding the wine to her lips.
She drank obediently, not meeting his look, and he took the glass from
her, and set it down.
"Now we will go. Are you ready?"
She rose, and he stood aside for her. As she passed him, his hand closed
for an instant upon her bare arm in a grasp that was close and vital. She
threw him a quick, upward glance; but still she said no word.
They passed out through the throng of diners almost unobserved, but in
the corridor Spentoli leaned against a pillar smoking a long, black
cigar. He made no movement to intercept them, but his eyes with their
restless fire dwelt upon the girl in a fashion that drew her own
irresistibly. She saw him and slightly paused.
It was the pause of the hunted animal that sees its retreat cut off, but
in an instant Saltash's voice, very cool, arrogantly self-assured,
checked the impulse to panic.
"Straight on to the lift, _ma chère_! See! It is there in front of you.
There will be no one in the gallery. Go straight on!"
She obeyed him instinctively as her habit was, but in the lift she
trembled so much that he made her sit down. He stood beside her in
silence, but once lightly his hand touched her cheek. She moved then
swiftly, convulsively, and caught it in both her own. But the next moment
he had gently drawn it free.
The gallery that ran round three sides of the great _salon_ was deserted.
There was only one point at the far end whence a view of the stage that
had been erected for the dancer could be obtained. Towards this Saltash
turned.
"We shall see her from here," he said.
The place was but dimly illumined by the flare of the many lights
below--two great crystal candelabra that hung at each end being left
unlighted. Under one of these was a settee which Saltash drew forward to
the balcony.
"No one will disturb us here," he said. "We can smoke in peace."
He offered her his cigarette-case, but she refused it nervously, sitting
down in a corner of the settee in the crouched attitude of a frightened
creature seeking cover. The band was playing in the _salon_ now, and
people were beginning to crowd in.
Saltash leaned back in his corner and smoked. His eyes went to and fro
ceaselessly, yet the girl beside him was aware of a scrutiny as
persistent as if they never left her. She sat in silence, clasping and
unclasping her hands, staring downwards at the shining stage.
Very soon the _salon_ was full of people, and the lights were lowered
there while on the stage only a single shaft of blinding violet light
remained, shooting downwards from the centre. Toby's eyes became fixed
upon that shaft of light. She seemed to have forgotten to breathe.
The band had ceased to play. There fell a potent silence. The multitude
below sat motionless, as if beneath a spell. And then she came.
No one saw her coming. She arrived quite suddenly as though she had slid
down that shaft of light. And she was there before them dancing, dancing,
like a winged thing in the violet radiance. Not a sound broke the
stillness save a single, wandering thread of melody that might have come
from the throat of a bird, soft, fitful, but half-awake in the dawning.
The violet light was merging imperceptibly into rose--the unutterable
rose of the early morning. It caught the dancing figure, and she lifted
her beautiful face to it and laughed. The gauzy scarf streamed out from
her shoulders like a flame, curving, mounting, sinking, now enveloping
the white arms, now flung wide in a circle of glittering splendour.
A vast breath went up from the audience. She held them as by magic--all
save one who leaned back in his corner with no quickening of the pulses
and watched the girl beside him sitting motionless with her blue eyes
wide and fixed as though they gazed upon some horror from which there was
no escape.
The rose light deepened to crimson. She was dancing now in giddy circles
like a many-coloured moth dazzled by the dawn. The melody was growing.
Other bird-voices were swelling into sound--a wild and flute-like music
of cadences that came and went--elusive as the laughter of wood-nymphs in
an enchanted glade. And every one of that silent crowd of watchers saw
the red light of dawn breaking through the trees of a dream-forest that
no human foot had ever trod.