EXPECTATION
Lynton Hora felt more uneasiness than he would have acknowledged at
Guy's failure to communicate with him. Nor did the daily reports
with which Cornelius Jessel supplied him do anything to allay his
disquietude. These would have furnished entertainment for the
Commandatore had they related to anybody but Guy. Indeed, the
shadow-man's matter-of-fact chronicle of the day-by-day doings of a
young man in love would have been food for mirth to the mildest cynic.
"Took G.'s shaving water at seven. D----d me because he scraped himself
shaving. Said I hadn't stropped the razors properly. As soon as he
was up he went into the garden and helped Miss Challys syringe the
rose trees. They went into breakfast together. After breakfast he sent
me down to the village to see if some music he had ordered for Miss
Challys had arrived. When I got back, found he had gone out in the boat
with Miss Challys for a sail. Did not come back until dinner-time.
Saw them come home. They had been alone together all day. Heard the
Captain say to Mrs. M., 'We shall not have to wait very long now for an
announcement.' She answered, 'They hardly seem to remember that there's
anybody else in the world....'"
But Lynton Hora was not amused by the report as he would have been
had Guy taken him into his confidence respecting what was obviously
an affair of the heart. He knew Guy well enough to be aware that he
was always in deadly earnest in any pursuit in which he was engaged,
and he dreaded the influence which a pure, straightforward woman
might have upon him. If Meriel Challys had been the sort of woman who
amused herself by luring a man on to a declaration, he would have been
delighted at Guy's infatuation, the lesson would have been good for
him. But he could not lull his forebodings by any such narcotic.
He saw Guy drifting away from him, throwing overboard the whole cargo
of criminal philosophy which had been so carefully provided for him,
at the bidding of a mere girl. He had no fear for himself. Guy might
recant the faith in which he had been brought up, but Lynton Hora did
not for a moment imagine that the recantation would be accompanied by
any treachery towards himself. Loyalty was a distinguishing feature of
Guy's nature. He would never reveal anything which would injure the man
whom he looked upon as father. The Commandatore felt perfectly safe on
that point, so long as Guy should not learn, nor even suspect, that
he, Lynton Hora, was not his father--the Commandatore did not pursue
the thought, though he foresaw the possibility and had provided what
he thought would be a complete defence against any trouble to himself
through the awakening of such a suspicion. Lynton Hora left as little
as possible to chance, and ordinary caution had led him to anticipate
the possibility of the discovery of Guy's real parentage, even though
the possibility was of the remotest.
But it was not only the question of danger to himself which
troubled him. It was the thought that Guy would no longer be his son.
All those years he had spent in moulding the boy's mind had not been
without effect on Lynton Hora. Unknowingly he had given away what
he did not know that he possessed. It was in reality a real human
affection for his foster child which made him so perturbed. Cold as
he had always been in his outward demeanour, he had learned, when Guy
had departed to chambers of his own, that without him life had somehow
suddenly ceased to interest him. The fanatical priest rearing the
victim for sacrifice upon the altar of an unappeasable deity suddenly
realised that he had learned to love the proposed victim. Yet, rather
than he should fall under the influence of the man whom he looked upon
as his bitterest enemy, he would have sacrificed the victim even if he
should eternally regret the oblation.
He did not, it is true, anticipate such necessity. He allowed for
Guy's youth. Youth was ever impressionable and romantic, changing in
its fancy, and ever amenable to the mutable feminine. Once let him
be removed from the presence of Meriel Challys and Hora thought that
Guy might be weaned from his obvious infatuation. Indeed, there was a
probability that his romantic imaginings might be turned to account.
The young man, floundering out of his depths in the quicksands of
romantic imaginings, might be easily captured by the wiles of a really
clever woman.
Hora set himself earnestly to work to tutor Myra in the part he
destined her to play in the recalling of Guy. He did so entirely by
suggestion. He had taken her away from London, telling her that she
needed sea air to restore the roses of her complexion, if she wished
to be beautiful in Guy's eyes when she returned to town. Then,
when away, he continued, day by day, hour by hour almost, to sting her
emotions. His sneers were all directed at the virtuous woman; never
had Myra found him so entertaining. He excited her imagination by the
books he brought her to read, tales of passionate surrender, memoirs of
the courts of bygone centuries, when love and lechery were synonymous
terms. He talked to her much of Guy, dwelling on his physical
attributes, declaring that he was as other men. If Myra realised any
intention in his words, she gave no sign of doing so. Then one day,
soon after leaving town, Hora gave a hint that perhaps already some
rival was claiming Guy's kisses. At that suggestion Myra's eyes flashed
dangerously. Hora noted the glance.
[Illustration: "You will take me home again."]
"There's only one perfect revenge upon a rival," Hora remarked, "and
that is to steal away the rival's lover."
"You don't mean to tell me that Guy----" said Myra, heedless of the
suggestion. She could not utter the words which would have voiced her
fear that Guy had already given his love to another.
"I tell you that there is a chit of a girl in the country who, if
she knew as much as you do, would have taken Guy from us long ago.
Fortunately she is a fool, or Guy would be lost; as it is, Myra, your
chance has not yet passed."
She hoped not, and though she doubted, Hora's confidence reassured her.
That same afternoon, as they passed a stationer's shop, with a window
full of photographs of actresses, Hora paused and directed her
attention to the portrait of a flagrantly décolleté woman.
"You have a finer figure than that woman," he remarked.
Myra blushed, and they passed on without another word. Later on Myra
returned to the shop alone and obtained the photograph.
After dinner she let fall an observation that her wardrobe needed
replenishing. Hora grumbled, but she teased him into giving her a
cheque. His face was perfectly grave. Next day she sent the photograph
and the cheque, accompanied by a long letter of instructions, to Madame
Gabrielle, her London dressmaker. Three days later Madame Gabrielle
arrived in Scarborough and Myra gave the whole morning to the tedious
business of fitting. Hora asked no questions.
The day came for their return to town. Myra was feverishly anxious to
be off, fearful lest Guy should be back before them, fearful lest he
should not come back at all. He had not written once, either to her or
to Hora during the whole fortnight. Hora did his best to mitigate her
obvious anxiety.
"No doubt we shall find a letter waiting for us on our return," he said.
His surmise proved correct. The letter which Jessel had posted for Guy
that same morning at Whitsea was lying on the table in the entrance
hall. Myra seized it eagerly. Her colour came and went as Hora opened
it deliberately.
"What does he say? When is he coming?" she cried.
For answer Hora read the letter aloud.
"I am returning to town to-morrow, after spending a fortnight with
Captain Marven, and I have something important to tell you. I am afraid
you won't like what I have to say, but I cannot help myself, even if
it should lead to a parting of our ways. Yes, I fear it has come to
that. I will come in to-morrow after dinner, if you will be at home."
That was all. Hora's voice became harsh as he read, and as he finished
he crumbled the letter in his hand, and threw it aside.
"A parting of the ways. It has come to that, has it?" he muttered. His
face grew dark and his eyes flashed dangerously. "A parting of the
ways, and all for the sake of a milk-and-water country girl. What do
you say to that, Myra?"
He turned suddenly upon his companion. He was almost alarmed at what
he saw. Her face was deathlike in its pallor, and in her pale face her
dark eyes flashed with unnatural brightness. She reeled slightly and
grasped with both hands at a table to steady herself. He did not press
the question. He led her to a chair, turned swiftly to a tantalus, and,
pouring brandy into a glass, held it to her lips.
"You fool," he said, and his tone was kindly, though his words were
rough. "You fool, to set such store by any piece of mere frail
humanity. Drink this."
Myra obeyed the command. Gradually the colour came back to her cheeks.
She sat up, but her mouth drooped at the corners, there was despair in
her eyes.
"I could not help but give him my love," she said protestingly, "and he
will have none of it."
Hora turned aside, and paced the room irresolutely. He seated himself
at a writing-table, scribbled rapidly, and, when he had finished,
brought the note over to Myra. She read it listlessly.
"Dear Guy," Hora had written, "you are a most amazing person, and I
haven't the slightest idea as to the meaning of your melodramatic
phrases. You know you may always please yourself as to anything you
choose to do. If you do not like your profession, by all means change
it for any of the legalised forms of plunder, but, even if this is in
your thoughts, you need not worry over it. A man has an inalienable
right to please himself, and I shall not think less of you for making
your own decision, even if that decision is one which destroys all my
hopes of a successor. You will find I can discuss the matter quite
philosophically, but come before dinner to-morrow night, and we will
have a quiet chat over a cigar afterwards. If our ways are to lie
apart, you need not quite desert us. Perhaps you might even convince
me, not, perhaps, that my calling is not as honourable as any other
parasitic method of living, but that I might do well at my age to
retire from the active practice of my profession. Dinner at 8.30.
Yours, Lynton Hora."
Myra read the letter, but the perusual brought no hope to her.
Hora folded it, placed it in an envelope, sealed and stamped it
deliberately. He rang the bell and ordered the letter to be posted.
Myra still sat silent. Then Hora said to her quietly:
"You will have to entertain Guy alone to-morrow, Myra. I shall be
called away on important business."
"I cannot, indeed I cannot," she cried.
He continued deaf to her protest. "It is your only chance, Myra.
To-morrow night you must win him or lose him forever. You must not
fail----"
He turned and left the room, leaving the threat unspoken.
She sat there long after he departed.
Her only chance! In one or two brief hours she must bind Guy to her
indissolubly. Hora had taught her, without ever once uttering a word
which might offend, how she could win him if she so chose. He had
insisted upon Guy's chivalrous nature. He had insisted, too, that the
most Puritanical of men could be fascinated by an appeal to the senses.
Thoughts came to her which set her cheeks burning. But she could not
banish those thoughts. She remained motionless until a maid appeared to
ask if she could see Madame Gabrielle.
"Yes, at once," she answered. "Bring her to my room."
Her listlessness had entirely departed as she rose and hurried after
the maid. A minute later the dressmaker was ushered into her presence.
The woman was a voluble specimen of her type, and as she unpacked the
box she descanted freely on the beauties of the "creation" she had
brought with her. She became more voluble than ever when Myra was robed
in the new frock.
"Ah, but it is ravishing; mademoiselle's figure is magnificent, and the
tint suits mademoiselle's complexion and colouring to perfection. Oh,
but it is a pity mademoiselle is in London. Only in Paris could such
a work of art be appreciated. Ah, mademoiselle has the right idea of
dress. It is a pleasure to make for her."
With deft fingers she fluttered round, settling a tuck here, smoothing
a fold there. "Let mademoiselle observe for herself," said the woman.
Myra surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. Madame Gabrielle was
right. Her skin was dazzlingly fair against the dull rose tint of the
fabric. Cleverly, too, had the modiste followed the lines of her
customer's figure. Not a single graceful curve had been hidden. Yet
Myra felt no sense of nudity. All outlines were softened by careful
arrangement of chiffon.
Myra turned to the woman. "You have carried out my idea exactly. I am
very pleased," she said.
Madame Gabrielle beamed with gratification. She began again to express
her pleasure in gowning such a perfect figure. Myra cut her short. She
wanted to be alone. When the woman had departed, she approached the
mirror again and looked steadily at the reflection. Taking up a hand
glass, she moved backwards and forwards, up and down, posturing in a
score of different ways. Then suddenly she flung herself down upon her
knees by the side of a chair and threw her arms in the air with a cry
of despair. Something gave way in the new frock, but she paid no heed.
"Oh, Guy, Guy!" she wailed. But the cry was hardly uttered before it
was checked. She bit her lip, and looked again at the mirror to gather
courage.
She blushed. A string had broken, and the bodice had slipped. Suppose
that Guy had answered her call. Her heart beat almost as tumultuously
as if he had been present. She made a pin do service for the broken
string, and, smiling again, went in search of Hora.
She found him in his study with a volume of the "Arabian Nights" open
before him, but with his eyes gazing into vacancy. He did not glance
at her as she entered. She moved gracefully across the room until she
stood before him, then she asked simply:
"Shall I do, Commandatore?"
Her voice was low, alluring, with a spice of mockery in it.
Hora looked up impatiently, and he caught his breath. His impatience
vanished. A smile passed over his face. Then he looked critically at
his _vis-à-vis_, so critically that Myra flushed rosily and half
turned away.
"Do?" said Hora. "If I had lived in the fifteenth century, I should
have declared that you had been taking counsel with the devil."
"Perhaps I have," she replied, but the mockery was still in her voice.
"I believe you could bewitch even me, if you chose," he said as he
looked again. "You would serve for a picture of temptation incarnate."
She laughed happily, and her eyes shone softly.
"It is for Guy," she answered, "all for Guy."
Lynton Hora recovered his wonted mood.
"Lucky young devil," he remarked cynically. His mood changed again.
"Look here, Myra," he cried. "You and Guy must be married as soon as it
can be managed. No, you need not interrupt me. You can keep him here
until I return, and a special license can be obtained. When he leaves
this flat it must be only with his bride. I will make all arrangements,
and"--he paused before continuing,--"afterwards, you shall have your
wish. Guy shall engage in no more dangerous enterprises. We will sign
an armistice with the world."
Myra gave a cry of delight. She seized Hora's hand, pressing it between
her own two palms. "You are too good to me, Commandatore," she said
earnestly. "So good to me, and yet I fear. I--I don't want the license.
I only want Guy to love me; if--if he doesn't----"
Tears stood in her eyes, and a sob choked her utterance.
"Guy cannot but love you," answered Hora, and he truly
believed what he said. "No man in his senses could reject such devotion
as yours, when once he is aware of its depths."
"But--I--I cannot tell him," she said helplessly, dropping her hand.
Hora looked at her curiously.
"No?" he said. "There will be plenty of time for that afterwards.
First you have to win him." He caught one of her hands in his own, and
something of his own virile power seemed to be transmitted to her.
"You are irresistible in some moods, Myra, and, if I were forty years
younger and could be foolish again, I would take care that Guy never
came near you. If you wish, you may be as certain of winning him as
that to-morrow will dawn." His tone denoted absolute conviction.
Myra drew away her hand.
"Good-night, Commandatore," she said. She gave him her cheek, and he
brushed it lightly with his lips before she turned away and left him
without another word.
"Good heavens!" he muttered to himself, when the door closed behind
her. "If I were forty years younger----" He smiled cynically, and added:
"I don't think we have come to the parting
of the ways just yet, Guy."