moth of night was turning into a butterfly of purest gold. The scarf
still floated about her like a gold-edged cloud. The giddy whirl was
over. She came to rest, poised, quivering in the light of the newly-risen
sun, every line of her exquisite body in the accord of a perfect
symmetry. Yes, she was amazing; she was unique. Wherever she went, the
spell still held. But to-night she was as one inspired. She did not see
her spellbound audience. She was dancing for one alone. She was as a
woman who waits for her lover.
In some fashion this fact communicated itself to her worshippers. They
guessed that somewhere near that dazzling figure the stranger whom no one
knew was watching. Insensibly, through the medium of the dancer, his
presence made itself felt. When that wonderful dance of the dawn was over
and the thunder of applause had died away, they looked around, asking who
and where he was. But no one knew, and though curiosity was rife it
seemed unlikely that it would be satisfied that night.
Up in the gallery Toby drew a deep breath as of one coming out of a
trance, and turned towards the man beside her. The light had been turned
on in the _salon_ below, and it struck upwards on her face, showing it
white and weary.
"So she has found another victim!" she said.
"It seems so," said Saltash.
She looked at him in the dimness. "Did you know that--that Captain
Larpent was with her?"
"No," said Saltash. He leaned forward abruptly, meeting her look with a
sudden challenge. "Did you?"
She drew back sharply. "Of course not! Of course not! What--what should I
know about her?"
He leaned back again without comment, and lighted another cigarette.
At the end of several seconds of silence, Toby spoke again, her locked
fingers pulling against each other nervously.
"I wonder--do you mind--if I go soon? I--I am rather tired."
The lights went out as she spoke, and Saltash's face became invisible. He
spoke quite kindly, but with decision, out of the darkness.
"After this dance, _ma chère_--if you desire it."
The music began--weird and mournful--and a murmur went round among the
eager watchers. It was her most famous dance--the dance of Death, the
most gruesome spectacle, so it was said, that any dancer had ever
conceived. She came on to the stage like the flash of an arrow, dressed
in black that glittered and scintillated with every amazing movement. And
then it began--that most wonderful dance of hers that all the world was
mad to see.
It was almost too rapid for the eye to follow in its first stages--a
fever of movement--a delirium indescribable--a fantasy painful to watch,
but from which no watcher could turn away. Even Saltash, who had taken
small interest in the previous dance, leaned forward and gave his full
attention to this, as it were in spite of himself. The very horror of it
was magnetic. They seemed to look upon a death-struggle--the wild fight
of a creature endowed with a fiery vitality against an enemy unseen but
wholly ruthless and from the first invincible.
Those who saw that dance of Rozelle Daubeni never forgot it, and there
was hardly a woman in the audience who was not destined to shudder
whenever the memory of it arose. It was arresting, revolting, terrible;
it must have compelled in any case. A good many began to sob with the
sheer nervous horror of it, yearning for the end upon which they were
forced to look, though with a dread that made the blood run cold.
But the end was such as no one in that assembly looked for. Just as the
awful ecstasy of the dance was at its height, just as the dreaded crisis
approached, and they saw with a gasping horror the inevitable final
clutch of the unseen enemy upon his vanquished victim; just as she lifted
her face in the last anguish of supplication, yielding the last hope,
sinking in nerveless surrender before the implacable destroyer, there
came a sudden flare of light in the _salon_, and the great crystal
candelabra that hung over the end of the gallery where the man and the
girl were seated watching became a dazzling sparkle of overwhelming
light.
Everyone turned towards it instinctively, and Toby, hardly knowing what
she did, but with the instinct to escape strong upon her, leapt to her
feet.
In that moment--as she stood in the full light--the dancer's eyes also
shot upwards and saw the sum young figure. It was only for a moment, but
instantly a wild cry rang through the great _salon_--a cry of agony so
piercing that women shrieked and trembled, hiding their faces from what
they knew not what.
In the flash of a second the light was gone, the gallery again in
darkness. But on the stage a woman's voice cried thrice: "Toinette!
Toinette! Toinette!" in the anguished accents of a mother who cries for
her dead child, and then fell into a tragic silence more poignant than
any sound--a silence that was as the silence of Death.
And in that silence a man's figure, moving with the free, athletic swing
of a sailor, crossed the stage to where the dancer lay huddled in the
dimness like a broken thing, lifted her--bore her away.
CHAPTER VI
THE NEW LOVER
Very late that night when all the crowds who had assembled to watch
Rozelle Daubeni had dispersed with awe-struck whisperings, two men came
down the great staircase into the empty vestibule and paused at the foot.
"You are leaving Paris again?" said Saltash.
The other nodded, his face perfectly emotionless, his eyes the eyes of a
sailor who searches the far horizon. "There is nothing to keep me here,"
he said, and absently accepted a cigarette from the case that Saltash
proffered. "I have always hated towns. I only came--" He stopped,
considered a moment, and said no more.
Saltash's eyes were upon him, alert, speculative, but wholly without
malice. "You came--because you were sent for," he said.
Larpent nodded twice thoughtfully, more as if in answer to some mental
suggestion than as if the words had been actually uttered. He struck a
match and held it for Saltash. Then, as he deliberately lighted his own
cigarette, between slow puffs he spoke: "There was only--one reason on
earth--that would have brought me."
"Yes?" said Saltash. He dropped into a chair with the air of a man who
has limitless leisure at his disposal, but his tone was casual. He did
not ask for confidence.
Larpent stood still gazing before him through the smoke with keen,
unwavering eyes.
"Only one reason," he said again, and still he seemed to speak as one who
communes with his inner soul. "She was dying--and she wanted me." He
paused a moment, and an odd tremor went through him. "After twenty
years," he said, as if in wonder at himself.
Saltash's look came swiftly upwards. "I've heard that before," he said.
"Those she caught she kept--always. No other woman was ever worth while
after Rozelle."
Larpent's hand clenched instinctively, but he said nothing.
Saltash went on in the same casual tone. "She never caught me, _mon ami_.
I met her too late in life--when I was beginning to get fastidious." His
monkey-like grin showed for a moment. "I appreciated her charm, but--it
left me cold."
"You never saw her in her first youth," said Larpent, and into his fixed
eyes there came a curious glow--the look of a man who sees a vision.
"What was she like then?" said Saltash.
Slowly the sailor answered him, word by word as one spelling out a
strange language. "She was like a butterfly that plays among the
flowers in the early morning. She had the look of a boy--the wide-open
eyes, the fearless way, the freedom, the daring. Her innocence--her
loveliness--" Something rose unexpectedly in his throat. He stopped and
swallowed hard. "My God! How lovely she was!" he said, in a strangled
voice.
Saltash got up in his sudden, elastic fashion. "Look here! You want a
drink. Sit down while I get you one!"
He was gone with the words, not waiting for the half-uttered remonstrance
that the other man sent after him.
Larpent stood staring heavily before him for a space, then turned with a
mechanical movement and dropped into a chair. He was sitting so, bent
forward, his hands clasped in front of him when Saltash returned. He had
the worn, grey look of a man tired out with hard travel.
Saltash poured out a drink and held it down to him. "Here's the stuff!
Drink, man! It'll put new life into you."
Larpent drank, still in that slow, mechanical fashion. But as he drained
the glass his eyes met Saltash's alert look and a faint, grim smile
crossed his haggard features.
"Don't let me spoil your holiday, my lord!" he said.
"Don't be a damn' fool!" said Saltash.
Larpent sat in silence for several seconds. Then in a more normal tone he
spoke again. "I had to come to her. God knows what made her want me after
all these years. But I couldn't refuse to come. I had her message two
days ago. She said she was alone--dying. So I came." He paused and wiped
his forehead. "I thought she had tricked me. You saw her as she was
to-night. She was like that--full of life, superb. But--I had come to
her, and I found I couldn't leave her. She wanted me--she wanted me--to
take her back." He got up, but not with any agitation, and began to pace
to and fro as though he paced a deck. "You will think me mad of course.
You never came under the spell. But I, I was first with her; and
perhaps it was fitting that I should be the last. Had she lived--after
to-night--I would have taken her away. She would never have danced again.
I would have taken her out of this damnable world that had dragged her
down. I'd have saved her somehow."
"You wouldn't," said Saltash. "It's like a recurrent fever. You'd never
have held her."
"I say I would." Larpent spoke deeply, but still without emotion. "I
could have done it--and no one else on earth. I tell you I was first with
her, and a woman doesn't forget the first. I had a power that no other
man ever possessed, or ever could possess. I was--her husband."
"What?" said Saltash.
Larpent paced on with bent head. "I was her husband. But I was at sea and
she was on shore. And so I lost her. She was not made to stand against
temptation. It came to her when I was on the other side of the world.
When I got back, she was gone. And I--I never followed her. The thing was
hopeless. She was that sort, you understand. It was first one and then
another with her. I dropped her out of my life, and let her go. I didn't
realize then--what I know now--that the power to rescue and to hold her
was mine. If I had, I might have gone after her. I can't say. But I was
too bitter at the time to feel it was worth while. I went back to the sea
and left her to work out her own damnation."
"And yet you loved her?" Saltash said, with a queer twist of the features
that was not of mirth.
"I loved her, yes. If I hadn't loved her I would never have come to her
when she called. That is love--the thing that doesn't die." A sudden
throb sounded in Larpent's voice. He paused for a moment in his walk,
then paced on. "You may laugh at it--call it what you will--but there is
a power on the earth that is stronger than anything else, and when that
power speaks we have got to obey. I didn't want to come. You think me a
damn fool for coming. But I had to. That's all there is to it."
"I don't think you any sort of a fool," Saltash threw in briefly. "You
did the only thing possible."
"Yes, the only thing. I came to her. If I hadn't come, she'd have
died--alone. But that alone wasn't why she sent for me--it was the
primary reason, but not the only one. There was another." Larpent ceased
his pacing and deliberately faced the man who stood listening. "You know
what happened to-night," he said. "That child--the scaramouch you picked
out of the gutter at Valrosa--Toby--do you realize--have you grasped--the
meaning of that yet?"
Saltash flung up his head with an arrogant gesture. "There is one thing
about her you have not grasped," he said. "But go on! I may as well hear
it."
Larpent went on steadily. "When I came to her yesterday she told me of a
child that had been born to her--a child she had loved but had been
unable to protect. It was a long story. Spentoli the Italian artist knows
it from beginning to end. You know Spentoli?"
"I know him," said Saltash.
"Spentoli is a blackguard," Larpent said, "the sort that is born, not
made afterwards. He has painted Rozelle over and over again. He raves
about her. He may be a genius. He is certainly mad. He wanted the child
for a model, and Rozelle could not prevent it. So she told me. I believe
she was dependent upon him at the time. She had been ill. She has been
ill for years with heart trouble. And so he had the child, but only for a
time. The girl had a will of her own and broke away, joined a circus in
California. He tracked her down, captured her again, tried to make a
slave of her. But she was like a wild creature. She stabbed him one night
and fled. That was Rozelle's trouble. She had never been able to hear of
her again. She begged me to find--and save her. I promised to do my best.
But--there was no need to search very far. To-night Spentoli pulled the
wires again. It was he who switched on that light. It was he who killed
Rozelle. The girl in the gallery with you--Toby--was her daughter--and
mine. You heard Rozelle cry out when she saw her. She never spoke again."
Larpent ceased to speak. He was no longer looking at Saltash. The far
vision seemed to have caught his gaze again. He stared beyond.
Saltash watched him with working brows. "Are you wanting to lay claim to
the girl?" he asked abruptly.
Larpent's face was grim. "I make no claim, my lord," he said. "But I have
sworn to do my best for her. I shall keep that oath of mine."
"Meaning?" said Saltash.
The sailor's look met his squarely. "You know what I mean," he said.
Saltash began to grin. "A fight to a finish, what? I'm sorry, _mon ami_.
But I've got you beaten at the start. Shall I tell you how you can best
keep that somewhat rash oath of yours?"
"Well?" The word fell brief and uncompromising. Larpent's face was as
carved granite.
Saltash thrust forth a sudden hand and took him by the shoulder. "Just by
effacing yourself, _mon vieux_," he said lightly. "Go back to _The Blue
Moon_, take her to Fairharbour, and await my orders there!"
It was carelessly, even jestingly, spoken, but a certain authority lurked
behind the words. Charles Rex knew how to assert his kingship upon
occasion, knew also how to temper it with the touch of friendship.
Larpent's look did not waver, but some of the grimness went from it.
Neither anger nor indignation had any place here. He continued to look
Saltash straight in the face.
"And that would be keeping my oath?" he said.
"Even so," said Saltash.
"You mean," Larpent spoke with slow emphasis, "that to leave her where
she now is, is to leave her in safe and honourable keeping?"
The old mocking smile gleamed in Saltash's eyes. "Yes, I mean that," he
said. "Do you believe me, Larpent?"
"Believe you, my lord?" Larpent seemed to hesitate.
The hand that held him moved with a hint of impatience. "I am asking,"
said Saltash royally, "if you consider that my protection is adequate
for--my wife."
"Your--wife!" Larpent started in sharp surprise. "Your wife, did you
say?"
Saltash broke into a chuckle and dropped his hand from his captain's
shoulder. "Yes, just that," he said. "You are behind the times, my
friend. Are you going to congratulate me? We were married four days ago."
Larpent's hand came out to him abruptly. "It's the best thing you've ever
done, my lord," he said. "And you will never regret it."
"What makes you say that?" said Saltash curiously.
Their hands gripped and fell apart. Larpent answered him in the brief
fashion of the man whose words are few. "Mainly because you loved her
enough to marry her when you could have had her without."
Saltash's laugh had the old derisive ring but there was no corresponding
gleam of mockery in his eyes as he turned carelessly aside. "What is this
thing called love?" he said.
CHAPTER VII
THE REFUGEE
It was by no means characteristic of Jake to linger on a quest which had
already proved fruitless but he was a man who possessed acquaintances in
almost all parts of the world, and Paris was no exception. For the rest
of the day after leaving Saltash he was philosophically occupied in
seeking out old friends. Eventually he dined at a restaurant and betook
himself to the station to catch the night train to Calais. It was all one
to Jake whether he travelled by night or by day, so wholly accustomed was
he to adapt himself to circumstances. Maud was wont to say with a smile
that the luxuries of decent living were utterly thrown away upon him. He
was a man who scarcely noticed physical discomfort. He could sleep under
practically any conditions.
Walking solidly down the platform, carrying his own baggage, his thoughts
were completely astray from his surroundings. They had reverted to the
memory of the girlish figure he had seen that morning seated on a table,
swinging one leg in studied nonchalance while every line was instinct
with defiance. Yes, she had defied him, but deep in her heart she had
feared--how she had feared!--that Saltash would fail to hold her against
him. Again, a deep compassion came over Jake, stirring the very depths
of him. Poor little girl, flung to and fro as flotsam in the cruel surf
of life's breakers! He had done his best to deliver her, but Fate had
been against him. Fate had ordained that she should be the victim of this
man's caprice, the slave of impulses which might or might not be her
destruction. It was as if he watched her trying to walk on a quicksand.
And he was powerless to help her. Saltash had defeated him, and he had no
insight into his motives. Unstable, baffling, irresponsible as a monkey
that swings from tree to tree, he had snatched his prize, and even Jake,
who knew him better than most, could only speculate as to whether he
would carry it high above disaster or tire and idly fling it away. Some
vagrant sense of honour seemed to have actuated him so far, but never
yet had he known such a motive to last for long. The man's face was
beyond him, too fantastic for comprehension. He recognized that he was
capable of greatness, but very few were the occasions on which he had
achieved it. If the motive power were lacking in this instance, Toby's
chances were indeed small.
He found an empty carriage and threw his belongings on to a seat. The
train was not a favourite one, and there would be no crowd. He had some
minutes to wait, and he lighted his pipe and began to pace the platform
unencumbered. A few travellers straggling by eyed him with some interest.
He was not a man to be passed unnoticed. The massive, thick-set shoulders
had a bull-dog strength that must have marked him in any crowd. His
height was unremarkable, but there was power in every dominant line of
him. He had the free carriage of one accustomed to the wide places of the
earth.
He took small note of his fellow-travellers, being engrossed in his own
thoughts. He wondered how Maud would regard the situation, and half
wished she had been with him to deal with it. For Maud possessed
undoubted influence over Saltash. He reflected that she was probably
the only person in the world who did.
He had strolled almost to the barrier and was in the act of turning
back when something--some impulse for which he could never afterwards
account--induced him to pause and take stock of the passengers passing
through. The train was almost due to start, and there was some slight
confusion and a quickening of feet on the platform. He realized that he
ought to be going back to his own carriage, but something stayed him. He
stood still, his keen eyes searching the hastening figures.
And so standing, in a moment his attention was focussed upon a girl in a
blue cloak who came towards him at a run evidently intent upon catching
the train. She passed him swiftly without seeing him, almost brushed
against him. And behind her came a dark man with black moustache and
imperial, following her closely with an air of proprietorship.
Jake wheeled in his tracks, for a second amazed out of all composure. But
an instant later he was in pursuit. He had had but a fleeting glimpse of
her face, and the blue cloak was quite unfamiliar to him; but there was
no mistaking the boyish freedom of her gait, the athletic swing of her as
she turned and leaped into a compartment that her companion opened for
her.
The black-browed Italian was in the act of following when Jake arrived.
The realization of another hand upon the door was the first intimation
that reached him of the Englishman's presence. He turned and looked
into a pair of red-brown eyes that regarded him with the utmost
steadiness as a quiet voice made slightly drawling explanation.
"This lady is a friend of mine," said Jake Bolton. "I should like a word
with her."
The Italian looked murderous for a moment, but he gave ground almost in
spite of himself. Perhaps the calm insistence of the other man's bearing
warned him at the outset of the futility of attempting any other course
of action; Jake was actually in the carriage before he could jerk out a
word of protest.
"_Sapristi!_ You go too far!" he blustered then. But Jake was already
confronting the girl who had started up at his coming, and stood facing
him white and shaken. He spoke, still quite quietly, even gently, but in
the tone that no delinquent ever heard unmoved.
"Say," he said, "are you playing the game?"
She put up a hand to her throat. His sudden coming had unnerved her, and
she had no words. But her quivering face and tragic eyes were more than
sufficient answer for Jake. He had dealt with sudden emergencies before,
and he treated this one with characteristic decision.
"You've no business here," he said, "and you know it. If you can't stick
to the man you've married, come home with me to Maud!"
She made a sharp gesture toward him, as if on the verge of falling, and
as sharply recovered herself. "Oh, I wish--how I wish I could!" she
breathed.
Jake's hand, perfectly steady, full of sustaining strength, closed with
authority upon her arm. "That's settled then," he said. "Come now!"
But at this point the Italian burst furiously in upon them with a flood
of unintelligible language that made all further speech impossible.
Jake glanced momentarily over his shoulder as if disturbed by the buzzing
of some insect, then with unruffled composure turned back to the girl.
His eyes looked straight into hers for perhaps ten seconds, then in the
same purposeful fashion he set her free and deliberately turned upon the
man who raged behind him.
As he did so, there came a shouting and banging of doors along the
platform, and the train began to move. Jake's massive shoulders braced
themselves. Without words he seized the raving Italian in a grip there
was no resisting, swept him, as a sudden gale sweeps a leaf, across
the compartment, sent him with a neat twist buzzing forth upon the
platform, and very calmly shut the door and came back.
Then there came a wild shriek of laughter from Toby, and she doubled up
in her corner with hysterical mirth, gasping and gasping for breath, till
he sat squarely down beside her and pulled her into the circle of his
arm.
"Easy, my girl! Easy!" he said. "We're not going to have an exhibition at
this stage. You keep a stiff upper lip till you feel better!"
But the stiff upper lip was rather painfully lacking on that occasion.
She very soon ceased to laugh, but for a long time thereafter she lay
sobbing and shuddering like a little terrified animal against his breast
while the train rushed on through the night.
He was very gentle with her. Jake's stock of patience was practically
limitless, and he and Toby had always had a certain comradeship between
them. But when she grew calmer at last he began to talk in the quiet,
direct fashion habitual to him.
"Say now! You've had a bit of a facer over this. But you needn't be
frightened. You're safe enough from that damned Italian anyway. And
you'll find me a better refuge than he is--if that's what you're
wanting."
She shivered and pressed closer. "You--don't know--what you're in for,"
she whispered piteously.
"That so?" said Jake, unmoved. "Well, maybe you'd like to enlighten me."
But Toby shook her head with a sob. "I couldn't! I just couldn't, Jake.
Do you mind?"
Jake considered the point with slightly drawn brows. "I guess there's no
hurry," he decided at length. "We'll get home first anyway. That's the
main point. You won't be sorry to get back to Maud, I take it?"
She answered him with a swift and passionate fervour that spoke more
clearly than any words of the anguish of her soul. "Oh, Jake, I wish I'd
died--I wish I'd died--before I left her!"
Jake's brows contracted more decidedly, but he said nothing further on
the subject. Only after a moment or two he patted her shoulder
reassuringly. "I'll take care of you," he said. "You go to sleep!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE TURNING-POINT
"You've brought her back!" said Bunny in amazement. "You've actually
brought her back! Here, Jake? Not here?"
"It was the only thing to do." said Jake between puffs at his pipe. "I'm
sorry on your account, but--well, you can keep out of her way."
Bunny's face was flushed. He stood on the hearth and stared down at Jake
with a troubled countenance. "But you won't be able to keep her," he
protested after a moment. "Charlie will come and get her away again--as
soon as he knows. He's such a wily devil."
"He does know," said Jake.
"He knows? Who told him?"
"I told him," said Jake.
"You told him! What the devil for? I don't understand you, Jake." Bunny's
tone had a touch of fierceness in it, almost of challenge.
Jake's eyes came up to him with absolute steadiness. "I told him," he
said deliberately, "because he is the one person who has a right to know.
He is her husband."
"I don't believe it!" said Bunny violently. "He'd never marry her! It was
a damn trick if he pretended to."
"No," Jake said, "it was not a trick. He has married her, and it's up to
him to make the next move."
"But what on earth for?" demanded Bunny. "What made him do such a thing?"
"God knows," said Jake, with a certain sombreness. "He did it. That's all
I know."
Bunny stamped round in a sudden fury and began to pace the room. "I
suppose he did it to defeat me! Did he actually think I should want her
after--after--"
"Bunny!" Swift and sharp as a whip-lash Jake's voice cut across the
words. "Stop that! Pull up and sit down!"
Bunny wheeled and came back in silence. His face was deadly pale, but he
sat down on the edge of the table by Jake's side.
Jake reached out a leisurely hand and gripped him by the knee. "Between
you and me, my son," he said, "I don't think you came into the reckoning
at all. I can't tell you exactly what happened, because I don't know, but
I'm pretty sure that Saltash married her from a somewhat stronger motive
than just to put you out of the running. As you say, he could have done
that without taking all that trouble. He's treated you damn badly, I
admit, but it's just possible he couldn't help himself, and anyway I
don't think he's hurt you seriously--except in the place where you keep
your pride."
"You think I didn't love her!" broke in Bunny, moving restlessly under
his hand.
Jake's eyes had the glimmer of a smile as he met the boy's hot look. "I
think you don't love her now anyway, Bunny," he said.
"You're quite right," said Bunny shortly. "I don't. I never want to see
her again--now I know what she is."
"You don't know," said Jake. "She has always been an unknown quantity to
you. That's why I've always felt doubtful about you. Guess you never
loved her quite enough, boy. That was your trouble."
"Didn't love her!" ejaculated Bunny.
Jake nodded. "Or you'd have understood her better--stood by her better."
"I'd have loved her fast enough if she'd loved me," protested Bunny. "But
that scoundrel always came first with her. I never had a chance."
"Oh yes, you had." Again the faint smile showed for an instant in the
elder man's eyes. "Not much of one, perhaps, but you had a chance. If
she'd been quite sure of you, she wouldn't have run away."
"Wouldn't she? Then she can't be very sure of Saltash either." Bunny
spoke with a certain gloomy triumph.
Jake blew forth a cloud of smoke and watched it rise thoughtfully. "I'm
waiting for Saltash," he said. "I've got him on test."
"You believe in him?" questioned Bunny contemptuously.
Jake's eyes remained fixed. "I believe," he said slowly, "that there
comes a turning-point in every man's life--whatever he's been--when he
either makes good or throws in his hand altogether. I've been through it
myself, and I know what it means. It's Saltash's turn now."
"Oh, rot, Jake!" Bunny turned on him with the old boyish admiration
shining in his eyes. "You--why, you've made good every time--just about
as often as Charlie has done the other thing."
"No." Jake spoke without elation. "I did make good, but I went through
hell first, and I very nearly failed. It may be the same with him. If
so--well, poor devil, he has my sympathy."
"You can't be sorry for a hound like Saltash!" remonstrated Bunny.
Jake turned squarely and faced him. "Well, there you're wrong, Bunny," he
said. "I reckon I'm sorrier for him than I am for you. You've got a clean
record, and you'll win out and marry Sheila Melrose. But Saltash--well,
he's got a damn heavy handicap, and if he pulls off this, it'll be one of
the biggest events I've ever seen. Say, what's the matter?"
Bunny had sprung to his feet. He stood looking at Jake with an expression
half-startled and half-indignant. "Jake--you beast! What made you say
that?" he demanded.
"What?" said Jake, and began to smile openly. "Well, guess it's pretty
near the mark, isn't it? I saw which way the wind was trying to blow some
time ago. Mean to say you didn't?"
Bunny swung upon his heel. "Confound you!" he said, and was silent for
several seconds.
Jake smoked imperturbably on. He knew all the workings of Bunny's mind
with the sure intuition of long intimacy. When finally the boy spoke
again without turning he almost knew what he would say.
"Think I'm--very despicable, Jake?"
The question had a shamed and sullen ring. Bunny's head was bent. He was
examining a little china figure on the mantelpiece with nervous
concentration.
Jake arose without fuss or preliminary, and pushed a brotherly arm round
the bent shoulders. "Guess you've never been that, sonny," he said very
kindly. "But--you take an old man's advice and go a bit slow! She'll
think all the better of you for it."
"She'll never look at me," muttered Bunny, gripping the hand that pressed
his shoulder without raising his eyes.
"Ho, won't she?" said Jake. "I've seen her look at you more than
once--and the old General too. Reckon they both thought you were throwing
yourself away on Toby, and maybe they had some reason to think so.
Anyway, she never was your sort. I seem to remember telling you so once."
"I was a fool," said Bunny, and then in a moment straightened himself
and looked Jake in the eyes. "It wasn't Toby's fault," he said with
abrupt generosity. "She didn't want to get engaged to me. I made her.
I knew--all along--she wasn't very keen. But I thought I loved her enough
to make it all right. I was wrong. I didn't."
"Beginning to know better?" suggested Jake, with a smile.
"Beginning to realize what a fool I've been," said Bunny ruefully. "You
don't think I've done for myself then? Think I've still got a chance?"
"Sure thing!" said Jake. "But go carefully. You've got a fence or two to
clear before you get home." He paused a moment, then gave him a kindly
hand-grip. "Say, Bunny," he said, "there's nothing despicable about
making a mistake. It's only when things go wrong and we don't play the
game that there's anything to be ashamed of. I've always been ready to
stake my last dollar that you'd never do that."
"Oh, man," Bunny said, in swift embarrassment, "that shows how much you
know about me!"
Jake stooped to knock out the ashes of his pipe in the fender. "What I
don't know about you, my son," he said, "ain't worth a donkey's bray, I
reckon, so you can shut your mouth on that! I'm going back to Maud now.
Any messages?"
"Yes." Bunny was standing up very straight; his eyes were shining. "Love
to Maud of course. I shan't come round at present. But tell Toby that
when I do, she needn't be worried over anything. We're all square. Tell
her that!"
"I will," said Jake. He turned to the door, then paused, looking back.
"And say!" he said. "Don't you butt in with Saltash! Just leave him to
manage his own fate! He's riding a bucking horse, but I've a notion he'll
yet make good--if he can."
"He's a rum devil," said Bunny. "All right. I shan't interfere."
After Jake had gone, he sat down and pulled a letter from his pocket. All
the lines of perplexity smoothed out of his boyish face as he read it. It
was the letter of a woman who had written because she wanted to write,
not because she had anything to say, and Bunny's eyes were very tender as
he came to the end. He sat for a space gazing down at the signature, and
at length with a gesture half-shamefaced he put it to his lips.
"Yes, I've been a fool, Sheila," he said softly. "But, thank heaven, I
was pulled up in time. And I shan't--ever--make that mistake again."
Which was perhaps exactly what the writer had meant him to say.
CHAPTER IX
LARPENT
"Shall we dig a deep, deep hole for you to lie in?" asked Eileen with
serious violet eyes upraised.
"And then cover you right up to your head so as you won't catch cold?"
chimed in Molly.
"Betty dig too! Betty dig too!" cried the youngest of the party with
zest. "Zite up over Auntie Toy's head!"
"What an excellent idea!" said Toby with resignation.
She sat down in the golden afternoon sunshine that flooded the beach, the
three children buzzing happily about her, and rested her chin on her
hands. The blue eyes that dwelt upon the misty horizon were very tired.
They had the heavy look of unshed tears, and all the delicate colour
was gone from her face. Her slight figure drooped pathetically. She sat
very still. All the elasticity of youth seemed to have gone out of her.
Once or twice a sharp sigh caught her that was almost like a sob.
Betty's shrill voice at her side recalled her from her dreams. "Betty
tired now, Auntie Toy. Betty tummin' to sit down."
She turned and took the child upon her lap with a fondling touch and
tender words. Betty pillowed a downy head against her neck and almost
immediately fell asleep. Eileen and Molly laboured on at their
self-imposed task in the autumn sunshine, and Toby returned to her
dreams.
Perhaps she also had begun to doze, for the day was warm and sound sleep
had forsaken her of late; when the falling of a shadow aroused her very
swiftly to the consciousness of someone near at hand whose approach she
had not heard. She controlled her quick start before it could awaken the
sleeping child, but her eyes as they flashed upwards had the strained,
panic-stricken look of a hunted animal. She made an almost involuntary
movement of shrinking and the blood went out of her lips, but she spoke
no word.
A man in a navy-blue yachting-suit stood looking down at her with
blue-grey eyes that tried to be impersonal but failed at that slight
gesture of hers.
"You needn't be afraid of me, heaven knows," he said.
"I'm not," said Toby promptly, and flung him her old boyish smile. "I
wasn't expecting just you at that moment, that's all. Sit down and talk,
Captain--if that's what you've come for!"
Apparently it was. He lowered himself to the sand beside her. But at
once--as by irresistible habit--his eyes sought the horizon, and he sat
and contemplated it in utter silence.
Toby endured the situation for a few difficult seconds, then took brisk
command. "Why don't you have a smoke?" she said. "You'd find it a help."
He put his hand mechanically into his pocket and took out his
cigarette-case. His eyes came back out of space as he did so, and rested
upon the fair-haired child in the girl's arms.
"So you've come back to the old job!" he said.
Toby nodded. "Yes. Jake's doing. I'm waiting to--to--to be divorced."
He made a slight movement of surprise, but his face remained inscrutable.
"You'll have to wait some time for that," he said.
Toby tilted her chin with a reckless gesture that was somehow belied by
the weariness of her eyes. "That wasn't what you came to talk about
then?" she suggested after a pause.
"No." Larpent's voice had a curious, almost deprecating quality. "I came
to bring you a message."
"A message!" She started slightly, and in a moment the defiance went out
of her attitude. She turned towards him. "Who--who is it from?"
Larpent's far-seeing eyes came gravely to meet her own. "From Rozelle
Daubeni," he said.
"Ah!" A quick shiver went through Toby. She averted her look. "I don't
want to hear it," she said.
"I've got to deliver it," said Larpent, with a hint of doggedness. "And
you've got to listen. But you needn't be afraid. It isn't going to make
any difference to you. The time has gone for that."
He paused, but Toby sat in silence, her face bent over Betty's fair head.
When he spoke again, his eyes had gone back to the quiet sea and the far
horizon. There was a hint of pathos about him, albeit his face was grim.
"It may have surprised you to see me in Paris with her," he said. "I'm
not the sort of man that runs after--that type of woman. But I went to
Rozelle because she was dying, and because once--long ago--she was my
wife."
A faint sound came from Toby, but still she did not speak or lift her
face.
Larpent went on steadily, unemotionally. "She went wrong--ran away--while
I was at sea. She was too young to be left alone. Afterwards--too late--a
child was born. She told me the night before she died that the child was
mine."
"Good God!" said Toby under her breath.
He went on, grimly monotonous. "I never knew of the child's existence. If
I had known, it might have made a difference. But it's too late now. She
wanted me to find and protect the child. I promised to do my best. And
when I found her, I was to tell her one thing. Rozelle prayed for her
child's forgiveness every day."
He ceased to speak, and there fell a silence, long and painful. The tide
was turning, and the soft wash of tiny breakers came up the sand. Sea and
sky mingled together, opalescent in the misty sunlight. The man's eyes
gazed without seeing. Toby's were full of tears.
He turned at last and looked at her, then, moved by what he saw, laid an
awkward hand upon her arm.
"I'm not asking anything from you," he said. "But I'd like you to know
I'd have done more--if I'd known."
She threw him a quick look, choking back her tears. "It--it--it's rather
funny, isn't it?" she said, with a little crack of humour in her voice.
"I'm--I'm very sorry. Captain Larpent."
"Sorry?" he said.
"For you," said Toby, with another piteous choke. "I've been foisted on
to you so often. And you--you've hated it so."
"That's the tragic part of it," said Larpent.
She brushed away her tears and tried to smile. "I wonder you bothered to
tell me," she said.
His hand closed almost unconsciously upon her arm. "I had to tell you,"
he said. "It's a thing you ought to know." He hesitated a moment, then
concluded with obvious effort. "And I wanted to offer you my help."
"Thank you," whispered Toby. "You--you--that's very--generous of you."
She gulped again, and recovered herself. "What do you want to do about
it?" she said.
"Do? Well, what can I do?" He seemed momentarily disconcerted by the
question.
Toby became brisk and business-like. "Well, you don't want to retire and
live in a cottage with me, do you? We shouldn't either of us like that,
should we?"
"There's no question of that now," said Larpent quietly. "Your home is
with your husband, not with me."
Toby flinched a little. "My home isn't anywhere then," she said. "When I
left him, it was--for good."
"Why did you leave him?" said Larpent.
Toby's lips set in a firm line, and she made no answer.
Larpent waited a few moments; then: "It's no matter for my interference,"
he said. "But it seems to me you've made a mistake in one particular. You
don't realize why he married you."
Toby made a small passionate movement of protest. "He ought not to have
done it," she said, in a low voice. "I ought not to have let him. I
thought I could play the part. I know now I can't. And--he knows it too."
"I think you'll have to play the part," Larpent said.
"No!" She spoke with vehemence. "It's quite impossible. He has been far
too good--far too generous. But it shan't go on. He's got to set me free.
If he doesn't--" she stopped abruptly.
"Well? If he doesn't?" Larpent's voice was unwontedly gentle, and there
was compassion in his look.
Toby's eyes avoided his. "I'll find--a way for myself," she said almost
inarticulately.
Larpent's fingers tightened again upon the thin young arm. "It's no good
fighting Fate," he said. "Why has it become impossible? Just because he
knows all about you? Do you suppose that--or anything else--is going to
make any difference at this stage? Do you imagine he would let you
go--for that?"
Toby's arm strained against him. "He'll have to," she declared
stubbornly. "He doesn't know all about me either---any more than you do.
And--and--and--he's never going to know."
Her voice shook stormily. She glanced about her desperately as if in
search of refuge. The child in her arms stirred and woke.
Larpent got up as if the conversation were ended. He stood for a moment
irresolute, then walked across to the two little girls digging busily a
few yards away.
Eileen greeted him with her usual shy courtesy. "Won't you wait a little
longer?" she said. "We've very nearly finished."
"Nearly finished," echoed Molly. "Isn't it a booful big hole?"
"What's it for?" asked Larpent.
Toby's voice answered him. She had risen and followed him. It had an odd
break in it--the sound of laughter that is mingled with tears. "They're
digging a hole to bury me in. Isn't it a great idea?"
He wheeled and looked at her. There was no sign of tears in the wide blue
eyes that met his own. Yet he put his hand on her shoulder with the
gesture of one who comforts a child.
"Before I go," he said, "I want to tell you something--something no one
has told me, but that I've found out for myself. There is only one thing
on this earth worth having--only one thing that counts. It isn't rank or
wealth or even happiness. It swamps the lot, just because it's the only
thing in God's creation that lasts. And you've got it. In heaven's name,
don't throw it away!"
He spoke with the simplicity and strength of a man who never wastes his
words, and having spoken, he released her without farewell and turned
away.
Toby stood quite motionless for several seconds, watching him; then, as
he did not look round, hurriedly she addressed the eldest child.
"Take care of Betty a moment, Eileen darling! I shall be back directly."
And with the words she was gone, like an arrow, in pursuit.
He must have heard her feet upon the sand, but he did not turn. Perhaps
his thoughts were elsewhere, for when at the quick pressure of her hand
on his arm he paused to look at her, she saw that his eyes were very sad.
"Well?" he said, with the glimmer of a smile. "Well,--Toinette?"
She clasped her two hands upon his arm, holding it very tightly, her face
uplifted. "Please--I want to thank you," she said breathlessly. "You have
been--so very good."
He shook his head. "I have done--nothing," he said. "Don't thank me!"
She went on with nervous haste. "And it does make a difference to me.
I--I--I'm glad I know, though it must have been--a great shock to you."
"It would have been a much worse shock if it had been anyone else," he
said.
"Would it? How nice of you!" Her lip trembled. "Well then, I'm glad it
wasn't." She began to walk on with him. "Do you mind telling me--did
you--did you--forgive her?"
"Yes," he said very quietly.
A quick shiver went through her. "Then I must too," she said. "At
least--I must try. She--she--I loved her once, you know, before I began
to understand."
"Everyone loved her," he said.
"But life is very difficult, isn't it?" she urged rather tremulously.
"Your life has been," he said.
She nodded. "One can't help--can't help--making mistakes--even bad
ones--sometimes."
"You've just made one," he said.
She faced him valiantly. "Ah, but you don't understand. You--you can't
throw away--what you've never had, can you--can you?"
"What you've got," he corrected gravely. "Yes, you can."
She flung out her hands with a wide gesture. "But I haven't got it! I
never had it! He took me out of pity. He never--pretended to love me."
"No," said Larpent, with grim certitude. "He isn't pretending this time."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, motionless. "Not pretending? What do you
mean? Please--what do you mean?"
He held out his hand. "Good-bye!" he said abruptly. "I mean--just that."
Her lips were parted to say more, but something in his face or action
checked her. She put her hand into his. "Good-bye!" she said.
He held her hand for a moment, then, moved by some hint of forlornness in
the clear eyes, he bent, as he had bent at the Castle on that summer
evening weeks before, and lightly touched her forehead with his lips.
"Oh, that's nice of you," said Toby quickly. "Thank you for that."
"Don't thank me for anything!" said Larpent. "Play a straight game,
that's all!"
And with the words he left her finally, striding away over the sand with
that careless sailor's gait of his, gazing always far ahead of him out to
the dim horizon. Perhaps as long as he lived his look would never again
dwell upon anything nearer.
CHAPTER X
IN THE NAME OF LOVE
"It's been--a funny game," said Saltash, with a wry grimace. "We've both
of us been so damned subtle that it seems to me we've ended up in much
the same sort of hole that we started in."
"But you're not going to stay in it," said Maud.
He turned and looked down at her, one eyebrow cocked at a comic angle.
"_Ma belle reine_, if you can help us to climb out, you will earn my
undying gratitude."
She met his look with her steadfast eyes. "Charlie, do you know that
night after night she cries as if her poor little heart were broken?"
Saltash's eyebrow descended again. He scowled hideously. "_Mais
pourquoi?_ I have not broken it. I have never even made love to her."
Maud's face was very compassionate. "Perhaps that is why. She is so
young--so forlorn--and so miserable. Is it quite impossible for you to
forgive her?"
"Forgive her!" said Saltash. "Does she want to be forgiven?"
"She is fretting herself ill over it," Maud said. "I can't bear to see
her. No, she has told me nothing--except that she is waiting for you to
throw her off--to divorce her. Charlie, you wouldn't do that even if you
could!"
Saltash was silent; the scowl still upon his face.
"Tell me you wouldn't!" she urged.
His odd eyes met hers with a shifting gleam of malice. "There is only one
reason for which I would do that, _ma chère_," he said. "So she has not
told you why she ran away with my friend Spentoli?"
Maud shook her head. "She does not speak of it at all. I only know that
she was unspeakably thankful to Jake for protecting her from him."
"Ah!" Saltash's teeth showed for an instant. "I also am grateful to Jake
for that. He seems to have taken a masterly grip of the situation. Is he
aware that he broke Spentoli's arm, I wonder? It was in the papers,
alongside the tragic death of Rozelle. 'Fall of a Famous Sculptor from a
Train.' It will keep him quiet for some time, I hear, and has saved me
the trouble of calling him out. I went to see him in hospital."
"You went to see him!" Maud exclaimed.
Saltash nodded, the derisive light still in his eyes. "And conveyed my
own condolences. You may tell _la petite_ from me that I do not propose
to set her free on his account. He is not what I should describe as a
good and sufficient cause."
"Thank heaven for that!" Maud ejaculated with relief.
"Amen!" said Saltash piously, and took out his cigarette-case.
She watched him with puzzled eyes till the cigarette was alight and he
smiled at her through the smoke, his swarthy face full of mocking humour.
"Now tell me!" she said then, "how can I help you?"
He made a wide gesture. "I leave that entirely to your discretion, madam.
As you may perceive, I have wholly ceased to attempt to help myself."
"You are not angry with her?" she hazarded.
"I am furious," said Charles Rex royally.
She shook her head at him. "You're not in earnest--and it wouldn't help
you if you were. Besides, you couldn't be angry with the poor little
thing. Charlie, you love her, don't you? You--you want her back?"
He shifted his position slightly so that the smoke of his cigarette did
not float in her direction. His smile had a whimsical twist. "Do I want
her back?" he said. "On my oath, it's hard to tell."
"Oh, surely!" Maud said. She rose impulsively and stood beside him.
"Charlie," she said, "why do you wear a mask with me? Do you think I
don't know that she is all the world to you?"
He looked at her, and the twisted smile went from his face. "There is
no woman on this earth that I can't do without," he said. "I learnt
that--when I lost you."
"Ah!" Maud's voice was very pitiful. Her hand came to his. "But
this--this is different. Why should you do without her? You know she
loves you?"
His fingers closed spring-like about her own. A certain hardness was in
his look. "If she loves me," he said, "she can come back to me of her own
accord."
"But if she is afraid?" Maud pleaded.
"She has no reason to be," he said. "I have claimed nothing from her. I
have never spoken a harsh word to her. Why is she afraid?"
"Have you understood her?" Maud asked very gently.
He made an abrupt movement as though the question, notwithstanding the
absolute kindness of its utterance, had somehow an edge for him. The next
moment he began to laugh.
"Why ask these impossible riddles? Has any man ever understood a
woman? Let us dismiss the subject! And since you are here, _ma belle
reine_,--you of all people--let us celebrate the occasion with a
drink!--even if it be only tea!"
His eyes laughed into hers. The western light was streaming in across the
music-room. They stood together in the turret beyond Saltash's piano,
where she had found him pouring out wild music that made her warm heart
ache for him.
She had come to him with the earnest desire to help, but he baffled her
at every turn, this man to whom once in the days of her youth she had
been so near. She could not follow the complex workings of his mind. He
was too quick to cover his feelings. His inner soul had long been hidden
from her.
Yet the conviction persisted that if any could pass that closed door that
he kept so persistently against all comers, it would be herself. She had
once possessed the key, and she could not believe that it was no longer
in her power to turn it. He would surely yield to her though he barred
out all beside.
Perhaps he read her thoughts, for the laugh died out of his eyes, melting
into the old tender raillery that she remembered so well.
"Will you drink with me?" he said. "You have actually stooped to enter
my stronghold without your bodyguard. Will you not honour me still
further--partake of my hospitality?"
She smiled at him. "Of course I will have tea with you with pleasure,
Charlie. Didn't you realize I was waiting to be asked?"
"You are very gracious," he said, and crossed the room to ring a bell.
She remained in the western turret, looking out over the beech woods that
blazed golden in the sun to the darker pine-woods beyond.
"What a paradise this is!" she said, when he joined her again.
His restless eyes followed hers without satisfaction. A certain moodiness
had come upon him. He made no answer to her words.
"Why doesn't Bunny come up to see me?" he asked suddenly. "He knows I am
here."
She looked at him in surprise. "Are you expecting him?"
He nodded with a touch of arrogance. "Yes. Tell him to come! I shan't
quarrel with him or he with me. Is he still thirsting for my blood? He's
welcome to it if he wants it."
"Charlie!" she protested.
He turned from her and sat down at the piano. His fingers began to caress
the keys, and then in a moment the old sweet melody that he had played to
her in the long ago days came softly through the room. Her lips formed
the words as he played, but she made no sound.
"There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate.
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near!'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late!'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear!'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait!'"
"She is certainly very late," commented Charles Rex quizzically from the
piano. "And the lily is more patient than I am. Why don't you sing, Maud
of the roses?"
She started a little at his voice, but she did not answer. She could not
tell him that her throat was dumb with tears.
He played softly on for a space, then as the old butler entered with a
tea-tray, he abruptly left the piano to wait upon her. He made her sit in
the window-seat and presently sat down himself and talked of indifferent
things. She did not attempt to bring him back to the matter in hand. She
knew him too well for that. If he chose to be elusive, no power on earth
could capture him.
But she had a strong feeling that he would not seek to elude her wholly.
He might seem to trifle, as a monkey swinging idly from bough to bough,
but he had an end in view, and ultimately he would reach that end,
however circuitous the route.
He surprised her eventually by the suddenness with which he pounced upon
it. He had turned the talk upon the subject of his new yacht, and very
abruptly he announced his intention of going round the world in her.
"Not alone?" she said, and then would have checked the words lest they
should seem to ask too much.
But he answered her without a pause. "Yes, alone. And if I don't come
back, Bunny can marry Toby and reign here in my stead. That is, if he
isn't an infernal fool. If he is, then Toby can reign here alone--with
you and Jake to take care of her."
"But, Charlie, why--why?" The words leapt from Maud in spite of her.
He frowned at her whimsically. "They've always cared for one another.
Don't you know it? It's true she put me in a shrine and worshipped me for
a time, but I couldn't live up to it. _Figurez-vous, ma chère!_ Myself--a
marble saint!"
"You never understood her," Maud said.
He shrugged his shoulders and went lightly on. "Oh, she was ready enough
to offer me human sacrifice, but that wasn't enough for me. Besides, I
didn't want sacrifice. I have stood between her and the world. I have
given her protection. But it was a free gift. I don't take anything
in exchange for that." An odd note sounded in his voice, as of some
emotion suppressed. He leaned back against the window-frame, his hands
behind his head. "That wasn't what I married her for. I tried to prove
that to her. I actually thought--" the old derisive grin leapt across his
face--"that I could win her trust like any ordinary man. I failed of
course--failed hideously. She never expected decent treatment from me.
She never even began to trust me. I was far too heavily handicapped
for that. And so--as soon as the wind changed--the boat capsized."
"What made the wind change?" Maud asked gently.
He looked across at her, the baffling smile still in his eyes. "The gods
played a jest with us," he said. "It was only a small jest, but it turned
the scale. She fled. That was how I came to realize I couldn't hold her.
I had travelled too fast as usual, and she couldn't keep up. Well," he
unlocked his hands and straightened himself, "it's up to Bunny now. I'll
let her go--to him."
"My dear!" Maud said.
He laughed at her with the old half-caressing ridicule. "That shocks you?
But why--if they love each other? Haven't I heard you preach the gospel
of love as the greatest thing on earth? Didn't you once tell me that I
had yet to learn the joy--" his smile twisted again--"the overwhelming
joy--of setting the happiness of another before one's own? This thing can
be done quite simply and easily--as I suggested to you long ago. She has
only to go away with him, and I do the rest. A moral crime--no more. Yes,
it is against your code of course. But consider! I only stand to lose
that which I have never possessed. For the first time in my life, I
commit a crime in the name of--love!"
He laughed over the word; yet even through the scoffing sound there came
a ring of pain. His face had a drawn look--the wistfulness of the monkey
that has seen its prize irrevocably snatched away.
Maud rose quickly. There was something in his attitude or expression that
she could not bear. "Oh, you are wrong! You are wrong!" she said. "You
have the power to make her love you. And you love her. Charlie, this
thing has not been given you to throw away. You can't! You can't!"
He made a sharp gesture that checked her. "My dear Maud," he said, "there
are a good many things I can't do, and one of them is this. I can't hold
any woman against her will--no, not if she were my wife ten times over. I
wouldn't have let her go to Spentoli. But Bunny is a different matter. I
have Jake's word for it that he will make her a better husband than I
shall. If Bunny wants to know all about her past--her parentage--he can
come to me and I can satisfy him. Tell him that! But if he really loves
her--he won't care a damn--any more than I do."
"Ah!" Maud said.
She stood a moment, looking at him, and in her eyes was that mother-look
of a love that understands. She held out her hand to him.
"Thank you for telling me, Charlie," she said. "Good-bye!"
He held her hand. "What have I told you?" he asked abruptly.
She shook her head. "Never mind now! You have just made me understand,
that's all. I will give your message to Bunny--to them both. Good-bye!"
He stooped in his free, gallant way to kiss her hand. "After all," he
said, "I return to my old allegiance. It was you, _chère reine_, who
taught me how to love."
She gently freed her hand and turned to go. "No," she said. "I think it
was God who taught you that."
For the second time Charles Rex failed to utter the scoffing laugh she
half-expected. The odd eyes looked after her with a kind of melancholy
irony.
"To what purpose?" he said.
CHAPTER XI
THE GIFT OF THE GODS
A chill wind blew across the ramparts bringing with it the scent and the
sound of the sea. There was no moon in the sky tonight, only the clouds
flying over the stars, obscuring and revealing them alternately, making
their light weirdly vague and fitful. Across the park an owl called
persistently, its eerie hoot curiously like the cry of a human voice
through the rustling night. The trees were murmuring together down by the
lake as though some mysterious news were passing to and fro among them.
And once more, alone on his castle walls, Saltash paced restlessly up and
down.
It was his last night at Burchester, so he told himself, for many a year
to come. The fever for change was upon him. He had played his last card
and lost. It was characteristic of the man to turn his back upon his
losses and be gone. His soul had begun to yearn for the wide spaces,
and it was in answer to the yearning that he had come up to this eagle's
eyrie a second time. He could not be still, and the feeling of walls
around him was somehow unbearable. But he expected no vision tonight. He
walked in darkness.
Down in the harbour his yacht was waiting, and he wondered cynically what
whim kept him from joining her. Why was he staying to drain the cup to
the dregs--he who had the whole world to choose from? He had sent his
message, he had made his sacrifice--at what a cost not even Maud would
ever know. It was the first voluntary sacrifice he had ever made, he
reflected ironically, and he marvelled at himself to find that he cared
so much. For, after all, what was it he had sacrificed? Nothing worth
having, so he told himself. He had possessed her childish adoration, but
her love--never! And, very curiously, it was her love that he had wanted.
Actually, for the first time in his life, no lesser thing had appealed to
him. Jaded and weary with long experience, he owned now to a longing for
that at which all his life long he had scoffed. The longing was not to be
satisfied. He was to go empty away. But yet the very fact that he had
known it had in some inexplicable fashion purified him from earthly
desires. He had as it were reached up and touched the spiritual, and that
which was not spiritual had crumbled away below him. He looked back upon
the desert through which all his life he had travelled, and saw only
sand.
The sound of the turret-door banging behind him recalled him to his
surroundings. He awoke to the fact that the wind was chill, and that a
drift of rain was coming in from the sea. With an impatient shrug he
turned. Why was he lingering here like a drunken reveller at a table
of spilt wine? He would go down to his yacht and find Larpent--Larpent
who had also loved and lost. They would go out on the turn of the
tide--the two losers in the game of life--and leave the spilt wine behind
them.
Impulsively he strode back along the ramparts. The game was over, and he
would never play again; but at least he would face the issue like a man.
No one, not even Larpent, should ever see him flinch. So he reached
the turret-door, and came abruptly to a halt.
It was no vision that showed her to him, standing there in her slender
fairness, wrapt in a cloak that glimmered vaguely blue in the glimmering
starlight. Her face was very pale, and he saw her frightened eyes as she
stood before him. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and she spoke
no word at all.
The door was shut behind her, and he saw that she was trembling from head
to foot.
He stood motionless, within reach of her, but not touching her. "Well?"
he said.
She made a curious gesture with her clasped hands, standing before him as
she had stood on board his yacht on that night in the Mediterranean when
she had come to him for refuge.
"I've come," she said, in a voice that quivered uncontrollably, "to tell
you something."
Saltash did not stir. His face was in shadow, but there was a suggestion
of tension about his attitude that was not reassuring. "Well?" he said
again.
She wrung her hands together with a desperate effort to subdue her
agitation, and began again, "I've come--to tell you something."
"Something I don't know?" he questioned cynically.
She nodded. "Some--some--something you don't want to know. It--it was
Maud made me come."
That moved him a little. That piteous stammer of hers had always touched
his compassion. "Don't fret yourself, _ma chère_!" he said. "I know all
there is to know--all about Rozelle--all about Larpent--all about
Spentoli."
"You--you don't know this," said Toby. "You--you--you don't know--why I
ran away from you--in Paris!"
"Don't I?" he said, and she heard the irony of his voice. "I have an
agile brain, my child. I can generally jump the gaps pretty
successfully."
She shook her head with vehemence. "And how do you know about Spentoli?"
she demanded suddenly. "Who told you that?"
"The man himself," said Saltash.
"Ah! And what did he tell you?" A note of fierceness sounded in her
voice. She seemed to gather herself together like a cornered animal
preparing to make a wild dash for freedom.
Saltash made her a queer, abrupt bow, and in so doing he blocked the way
before her so that she could only flee by the way she had come. "He told
me nothing that I did not know before," he said, "nothing that your own
eyes had not told me long ago."
"What do you mean?" breathed Toby, pressing her clasped hands tightly to
her breast. Her eyes were still upraised to his; they glittered in the
dimness.
Saltash answered her more gently than was his wont. "I mean that I know
the sort of inferno your life had been--a perpetual struggle against odds
that were always overwhelming you. If it hadn't been so, you would never
have come to me for shelter. Do you think I ever flattered myself that
that was anything but a last resource--the final surrender to
circumstance? If I had failed you--"
"Wait!" Toby broke in tensely. "You're right in some things. You're
wrong there. It's true I was always running away--as soon as I was old
enough to realize the rottenness of life. Spentoli tried to ruin me,
but I dodged him, and then--when he trapped me--the hell-hound--I did my
best--to murder him!" The breath suddenly whistled through her teeth. "I
tried to stab him to the heart. God knows I tried! But--I suppose it
wasn't in the right place, for I didn't get there. I left him for
dead--I thought he was dead--till that day in Paris. And ever since--it's
been just a nightmare fight for life--and safety. I'd have tried some
other dodge if you hadn't found me. I was not quite down and out. But
you--you made all the difference. I had to go to you."
"And why?" said Charles Rex.
She rushed on regardless of question. The flood-gates were open; she was
hiding nothing from him now.
"You came. If you'd been an angel from heaven, you couldn't have been
more wonderful. You helped me--believed in me--gave me always--the
benefit of the doubt--made a way of escape for me--made life
possible--even--even--beautiful!" She choked a little over the word. "I
offered you just everything. I couldn't help it. You were the only man in
the world to me. How could I help worshipping you? You--you--you were
always so splendid--so--so great. You made me--you made me realize--that
life was worth having. You made me--believe in God." She broke into
sudden wild tears. "And you didn't love me enough even to take the little
I had to give! I didn't want you to marry me. I never dreamt of such a
thing. I had kept myself from harm, but I knew very well I wasn't fit to
be your wife. Only--I loved you so. And when I knew that Bunny was
turning against me--would never believe in me--I just couldn't help
turning to you again. And then--and then--you went and married me!" She
wrung her hands tragically. "I ought not to have let you. God will never
forgive me for it. I don't deserve to be forgiven. But I loved you--I
loved you!"
She covered her face and sobbed.
Saltash reached out a hand and took her by the shoulder. "Nonette!
Nonette!" he said, in a voice that was strangely uncertain. "Don't cry,
child! Don't cry!"
She drew herself away from him. "Don't--don't! I don't want you to. I
just came to tell you--that's all--in case you should think I ever--cared
for--Bunny. Maud says--you ought to know that. We only--only--played
together. We never--really--loved each other. I wasn't his sort--or he
mine. He doesn't want me back. I wouldn't go if he did. I ran away--with
that damn cur Spentoli--to give you a chance--to drop me. I couldn't
face you after you knew everything. You'd never loved me, and I'd tricked
you too badly. I knew you'd want to get free. Why didn't you start in and
get a divorce? Why didn't you? Why didn't you?"
She suddenly lifted her face, storming the words, electrified as it were
by the wild force of her passion. Again he reached a hand towards her,
but she eluded him with a desperate gesture.
"No! No! Don't touch me! Don't touch me! I can't bear it! I'm going now!
I'm going right away. You'll never see me again--never hear of me. And
you'll be free! Do you understand? You'll be quite free. I'll keep that
promise I made to you. It won't be difficult. No one shall ever know
how--and only you--you who never even pretended to love me--will be able
to guess why."
She turned about with the words, and wrenched furiously at the door
behind her. In another moment she would have been gone. But in that
moment Saltash moved, perhaps more swiftly than he had ever moved in
his life before, and in a flash he had her in his arms.
She fought for her freedom then like a terrified animal, twisting this
way and that, straining with frenzied effort to escape. And when, his
hold encompassing her, he broke down her resistance, pressing her
indomitably closer and closer till she lay powerless and palpitating
against his breast, she burst into agonized tears, beseeching him,
imploring him, to set her free.
"Why should I?" he said, still holding her. "Don't you know yet that it's
the very last thing I mean to do?"
"You must! Oh, you must!" she cried back. "You can't--you--you
can't--hold me--against my will!"
"That's true," said Saltash, as if struck by something. "And are you
capable of leaving me--against mine?" His hold relaxed with the words,
and instantly she sprang away from him--sprang like a fleeing bird upon
the low parapet beside them, and in a second was sliding out upon the
narrow ledge that surrounded the great stone buttress of the turret.
"Hell!" ejaculated Saltash, and gave a great leap as if he would pursue
her, then with abrupt effort checked himself.
He stood with one foot on the parapet, and watched her, and in the vague
starlight his eyes burned with the old mocking devilry behind which he
had so long sheltered his soul.
"So you think you'll get away from me that way, do you?" he said, and
laughed his gibing laugh. "Well, you may try. Either stay there till
you've had enough--or throw yourself over! I'll get you in any case."
She came to a stand, her hands spread out on each side of her, her eyes
turning back to him across the awful space that yawned between. Sheer
depth was below her, but she did not seem aware of it.
"I will throw myself over," she said with tense purpose, "unless you
promise--unless you swear--to let me go."
He laughed again, but there was no mirth in the glittering eyes that
looked back at her, neither mirth nor dismay, only the most arrogant and
absolute mastery that she had ever encountered.
"I promise nothing," he said, "except that one way or the other I'm going
to have you. You can take your choice. You can sink or swim. But you
won't get away. There is a bond between us that you can't break, however
hard you try. Fling yourself over if you think it's worth it? And before
you get to the bottom I shall be with you. I'll chase you through the
gates of Hades. I've travelled alone far enough. For the future--we go
together. That I swear to God!"
Across the abyss he flung his tremendous challenge, the laugh still on
his lips and in his eyes the blazing derision that mocks at fate.
And as she heard it, the girl's heart suddenly failed her. She began to
tremble. Yet, even so, she made a last desperate bid for pride and
freedom.
She clutched at the cold stones on each side of her with nerveless,
quivering fingers. "There is--no bond between us!" she gasped forth
piteously. "There never--never has been!"
He flung back the words like a missile, unerring, blindingly direct. "No
bond between us! Good God! Would I follow you through death if there were
not?" And then suddenly, with an amazing change to tenderness that leapt
the void and enchained her where she stood:--"Toby--Toby, you little
ass--don't you know I've loved you from the moment _The Night Moth_
struck?"
There was no questioning the truth of those words. A great sob broke from
Toby, and the tension went out of her attitude. She stood for a few
seconds with her head raised, and on her face the unutterable rapture of
one who sees a vision. Then, with sharp anguish, "I can't come back!" she
cried like a frightened child. "I'm going to fall!"
Saltash straightened himself. His forehead was wet, but he did not pause
for a moment. "I'm coming to you," he said. "Keep as you are and I'll
give you a hand to hold!"
She obeyed him as one dazed into submission. Blindly she waited, till
with a monkey-like agility, he also had traversed that giddy ledge to
where she stood. His fingers met and gripped her own.
"Now," he said, "come with me and you are safe! You can't fall. My love
is holding you up."
She heard the laugh in his voice, and her panic died. Mutely she yielded
herself to him. By the strength of his will alone, she left the abyss
behind. But when he lifted her from the parapet back to safety, she cried
out as one whom fear catches by the throat, and fainted in his arms.
* * * * *
Out of a great darkness, the light dawned again for Toby. She opened her
eyes gasping to find that the scene had changed. She was lying upon
tiger-skins in Saltash's conical chamber, and he, the king of all her
dreams, was kneeling by her side.
That was the first thing that occurred to her--that he should kneel.
"Oh, don't! Oh, don't!" she said quickly. "I am not--not Maud."
He regarded her humorously, but the old derisive lines were wholly gone
from his dark face. His eyes held something that was unfamiliar,
something that made her quiver with a quick agitation that was not
distress.
"So I am only allowed to kneel to Maud!" he said.
She tried to meet his look and, failing, hid her face. "I--I know
you have always loved her," she murmured rather incoherently. "You
couldn't--you couldn't--pretend to--to--to really love anyone
else--after Maud!"
There fell a brief silence, and she thought the beating of her heart
would choke her. Then there came the touch of his hand upon her head, and
its wild throbbing grew calmer.
"No," he said, and in his voice was a new deep note unknown to her. "I am
not pretending, Nonette."
The light touch drew her as it were magnetically. With a swift, impulsive
movement she raised herself, gave herself to him, hiding her face still
more deeply against his breast.
"But you--you--you couldn't really love me!" she whispered like an
incredulous child. "You sure you do?"
His arms went round her, holding her fast. He made no other answer.
Saltash, the glib of tongue and ready of gibe, was for once speechless in
the presence of that which has no words.
She nestled closer to him as a little furry animal that has found its
home. Her incredulity was gone, but she kept her face hidden. "But why
didn't you tell me before?" she said.
He bent his black head till his lips reached and rested against her hair.
"Nonette," he said, "you told me that I had made you believe in God."
"Yes?" she whispered back rather breathlessly. "Yes?"
"That's why," he said. "You got me clean through my armour there. Egad,
it made me a believer too. If I'd failed you after that--well, He'd have
been justified in damning me, body and soul!"
"But you couldn't!" she protested. "You couldn't fail me!"
His dark face twisted with the old wry grimace. "I've failed a good many
in my time, Nonette. But--no one ever trusted me to that extent. You
practically forced me--to prove myself."
A little gasp of relief came from Toby. She spoke with more assurance.
"Oh, was that it? You were just trying--to be good?"
"Just--trying!" said Saltash.
"You still trying?" asked Toby, a little curious note of laughter in her
voice.
"I shan't keep on much longer," he returned, "unless I get what I want."
"There'd be a blue moon if you did!" remarked Toby impudently.
Saltash raised his head abruptly. "By Jupiter! There is one!" he said.
"Let's go to her!"
Toby's face shot upwards in a moment. "Where?"
Her eyes sought the skylight above them and the dim mysterious blue of
the night. His came down to her in a flash, dwelt upon her, caressed her,
drew her.
She turned sharply and looked at him. "Charles Rex!" she said
reproachfully.
He took her pointed chin and laughed down at her. His eyes, one black,
one grey, shone with a great tenderness, holding hers till they widened
and shone back with a quick blue flame in answer.
Then: "As I was saying," remarked Charles Rex royally "when I was
interrupted some six months ago--I have never yet refused--a gift from
the gods."
"But you've taken your time over accepting it, haven't you?" said Toby,
with a chuckle.
He bent to her. "Let's go!" he said again.
THE END