TEMPTATION
The last evening Guy had spent at Whitsea had seemed interminable.
Both his host and hostess had observed his depression, but tactfully
took no notice. Then when Guy was alone with Captain Marven he had
braced himself to give what explanation he could. He spoke of his
love for Meriel--Captain Marven was sympathetic. He spoke of its
hopelessness--Captain Marven wondered. Haltingly he revealed that
he had considered it his duty to disclose facts concerning himself
which had placed an insuperable barrier between them. The initial
embarrassment in finding speech once surmounted, he had no difficulty
in making clear to his host that it would be best that he should depart
by the earliest possible train. Captain Marven was greatly disturbed.
Guy's veiled allusions were without meaning to him. He even feared that
the young man's brain was disordered, though his demeanour was calm
enough to reassure him. He begged Guy to confide in him fully. Guy
longed to do so, but refrained. The thought of his father restrained
him. Marven was compelled to agree that it was best for him to depart
without further speech with Meriel.
So Guy left Whitsea without even seeing Meriel again. He had
hungered for another glance from her eyes, another touch of her
fingers, but neither had been vouchsafed to him.
He left early in the morning, and only Captain Marven bade him adieu.
The Captain's hearty handshake was comforting, even though Guy felt, as
the warm grasp closed on his, that it was given under false pretences.
He loathed himself more than ever at that moment, and there crept into
his mind the determination to make amends.
But how? Guy could think of no way, for there was his father to be
considered. He would have liked to say to Captain Marven: "You must not
take my hand. I have obtained your friendship under false pretences. I
have robbed you of your trust. Now I ask you to name the punishment."
That would be manly, but it would be treachery to Hora.
Guy groaned in his spirit. One thing he was determined upon. In
the future the son should not tread in the steps of his father.
Hora's arguments might convince his understanding, but they would
not bear the test of practical application. The world was not the
agglomeration of warring atoms he had been taught to believe.
Honesty was not a pious hypocrisy with which men deluded themselves.
A courage for the forbidden was not the greatest of all virtues.
Meriel had shattered all these old beliefs. He knew that they
were gone forever, that in the future Lynton Hora's predatory
philosophy would cease to appeal to him. But he had nothing to take
the place of these shattered principles. Nothing but the memory of
a girl who, loving him, thrust him away in horror that he should
be a thief. He loathed himself because he should be an object of
loathing to her. He could not bear the idea that his needs should be
supplied by means which awakened her to such disgust. At
least it was within his power to alter that. He could go out into the
world and make his own way honestly. If he could not win Meriel, at
least he could prove himself worthy of her. But that would necessitate
his cutting himself adrift from Hora entirely. Well, he would pay that
price gladly. He would waste no time before doing so. Yet, though he
arrived early in town, he did not go at once to Westminster Mansions.
He found Hora's letter awaiting him at his own abode, and was
surprised, even touched, by its contents. Hora seemed to have guessed
at the upheaval his opinions had undergone, and to be prepared to
meet him halfway. Guy was relieved at the thought. He had dreaded
his father's gibes more than aught else, and he wondered what should
have happened to have so suddenly made the Commandatore malleable to
a mere suggestion--he who had always been so fiercely insistent upon
his right to dominate the lives of his children. Guy puzzled for hours
for an answer. He did not distrust Hora. The Commandatore had not been
accustomed to deceive him.
Thus preyed upon by a whole host of conflicting thoughts, Guy passed
the day, and at last the hour arrived when he was due at Westminster
Mansions. He was averse to accepting Hora's hospitality, to sit at
the table supplied by means he had learnt to detest. In a few hours
his thoughts had travelled a tremendous distance. He was not of the
type which palters with convictions. Just as whole-heartedly as he
had adopted Hora's teachings, he was prepared to tread the path of
rectitude. But he felt that he would not be at peace with himself until
he had divested himself of every vestige of the products of his
evil deeds. Yet, though the acceptance of Hora's invitation savoured of
compromise, he realised that it would be ungracious to refuse. Hora had
been good to him, even if misguided. There was no need that they should
part in anger.
It was with the sense of a prisoner under sentence of death that he
dressed. Cornelius might have been a warder assisting him on the
execution morn. It was for the last time. To-morrow he would be quite
alone. He set his teeth grimly and fought against the feeling of
depression as he drove to Westminster Mansions. His mind was abnormally
active. He observed details that would have escaped his attention under
ordinary circumstances. He saw that the hall porter looked at him
curiously, and wondered why. The deferential welcome of the lift man
irritated him.
Arrived at the flat he felt in his pocket for the key of the outer
door which Lynton Hora had insisted upon his retaining, and he was
annoyed to find that he had left it at his chambers. He had intended to
leave it behind him. He rang, and the man who opened the door seemed
surprised.
"Is my father in?" he asked, as he handed the man his hat.
"No, sir," the man answered.
Guy paused irresolutely. He himself was late. "Won't he be back for
dinner?" he asked. Before he could reply the door of the drawing-room
opened.
"Is that you, Guy? How is it that you troubled to ring? Have you lost
your key?"
Myra came, with outstretched hands, to greet him. "Welch, take Mr.
Guy's coat, and we will have dinner served at once," she said to the
man, and, turning to Guy, she continued rapidly:
"The Commandatore was called away on business, and he told me not to
wait dinner. He expects to be back during the evening." Guy submitted,
and followed her into the drawing-room.
"You are a stranger, Guy," she said. "I think it is downright mean of
you to desert us."
Guy, meeting her glance, told himself that he had been egregiously
mistaken in thinking that Myra had ever thought of him save as a
brother.
"You don't seem to have suffered from my absence," he said lightly.
"Don't you think I have grown thin?" she answered. There was mockery in
her tone.
Guy was glad to find her in so cheerful a mood. He smiled back at her,
and for the first time looked at her with seeing eyes. She stood before
him in the perfection of her young womanhood, glowing with health and
youth and beauty. Truly she was beautiful. He wondered that he not
realised how beautiful before. He did not know how carefully she had
studied the part she intended to play. He had no idea that the gown,
which adorned and but half concealed the contours of her figure, had
been expressly designed for his allurement.
"I have never seen you looking so well," he answered.
She saw the admiration in his glance, but gave no sign of doing so,
though her heart began to throb with hope.
"I'm afraid I can't return the compliment," she answered. "You look
as if you hadn't been to bed for a week. Now come along in to dinner
and tell me what you have been doing with yourself."
She took his arm, and they entered the dining-room together. "For the
last time, perhaps," he murmured to himself regretfully. Myra was a
good sort, he mused. Despite her waves of anger she had always been
thoughtful of his welfare. Yet she was part of Hora's life. He forgot
her momentarily in his surroundings. Everything was so homelike. Meriel
Challys was an occupant of dreamland, surely, and he had never really
experienced all the mental disturbances which had troubled him. He
awoke to reality with the popping of a cork.
"No wine," he said.
Myra pouted rosy lips at him. "I insist," she replied imperiously. "In
default of a fatted calf, which one cannot possibly get served in a
flat, I insist upon champagne."
She lifted her glass to her lips. "May all our hopes come true!" she
said, and drank.
There was something infectious in her gaiety. Guy raised his glass in
response. "Amen!" he said fervently. The wine brought colour to his
cheeks and brightness to his eyes. He suddenly remembered that he was
hungry, and that he had eaten nothing since breakfast, and that then a
bare morsel of toast had been almost more than he could swallow. Myra
watched him with a smile ever on her lips, and chattered vivaciously of
Scarborough. She did not ask him concerning his doings. She desired to
lull his memories to rest, and Guy was willing to let them slumber. He
did not perceive that danger threatened his new-made resolutions.
Under the spell of Myra's vivacity he became his natural self. He was
even surprised when he found himself laughing naturally. The dinner was
not too long, and every dish, Guy noted, was one for which at one
time or another he had expressed a preference. He was thirsty, and his
glass was always full.
The dinner came to an end.
"We will have coffee in the drawing-room," she said. "Then I can smoke,
too."
He rose and accompanied her. Her hope was growing strong now. She
was satisfied with her work so far. She had never before held Guy's
interest for so long a time.
"Your old chair," she said to him, as they entered together.
A fire was blazing merrily on the hearth, for the heat wave which had
swept the city had been driven away by the storm, and the night was
cold.
"Fires in August," he said, as he entered.
She looked at him strangely.
"There's something comforting to me in the fire," she answered.
"Especially now I'm so much alone. I often have one lighted whatever
the thermometer says, and sit for hours looking into it."
She knelt down on the snowy fur of the rug, and stretched her arms to
the blaze.
Guy was stricken again with a sense of her beauty. Her eyes were half
closed. She might have been a priestess offering an oblation to the
spurting flames which threw rosy shadows on her face and arms and
shoulders.
"I love the fire," she said dreamily. "I think I am almost a
fire-worshipper. When the flames spring up, my heart rejoices so that
I can sing aloud, and when they die down into a dull red glow, I can
dream and dream. But when the fire is out--Guy! Don't you just hate
ashes--cold ashes?"
She turned on him suddenly.
He did not know what to reply. He did not know Myra in this mood.
She looked again into the fire.
"The end of everything is ashes, and so I would wish the fire never to
go out. Some day our fires will be out, and we shall be ashes, too. Do
you ever think of that, Guy?"
He thought bitterly that his hopes were ashes already, but he strove to
infuse cheerfulness into his reply.
"Isn't that rather morbid, Myra?" he said.
She turned towards him again, and laid her hand on the arm of his
chair. "No," she answered. "I say to myself, make the most of the fire
while it is there, for to ashes it must come at last. That's no morbid
doctrine." She laughed joyously, and shot a glance at him beneath her
eyelids. "The fire is alight in us both, Guy. The fire of youth and
health and strength. Ought we not to make the most of the fire before
it burns itself out?"
For half a moment Guy was startled. The glance, the words, the covert
invitation of the outstretched arms dazed him. Almost he believed that
the invitation was to him. But the thought passed. Myra was laughing
again. "You see, I am growing up, Guy," she remarked.
A man brought in coffee and liquors. Myra waited on Guy, bringing him
a cigarette and lighting it for him, as he sat in his chair. Then she
perched herself on the arm to light her own cigarette from his. As she
bent over him a sudden mad impulse to clasp her in his arms seized
him. A memory--the memory of Meriel--came before him and the impulse
passed, but it left him strangely agitated.
Myra seemed to observe nothing of this emotion. She threw herself at
length upon the rug, resting her head on her hand, gazing into the
fire. The sinuous lines of her figure were outlined clearly against the
whiteness of the rug. She rose suddenly, and without a word snapped off
the electric lights and, returning, threw herself down again in the
same attitude. She seemed oblivious of his presence. The murmur of the
traffic entered through the open window, the firelight flickered. Guy
began to feel as if some unknown agency were at work to deprive him of
his senses. Myra's words dwelt in his mind. "The fire is alight in us
both, Guy. Ought we not to make the most of the fire before it burns
itself out?"
There was a murmur of voices in the hall. Guy listened. Perhaps the
Commandatore had returned. A door closed sharply. There was no other
sound. He realised then that the servants had gone. He was alone with
Myra in the flat. It had happened hundreds of times previously, but
never had he realised it before. Perhaps it was that the Myra with whom
he had dined was so entirely new to him, an utterly different Myra to
the sisterly being with whom he had quarrelled and petted when they
lived under the same roof. Supposing Hora should not return----
Myra was looking at him. She had turned where she
lay and resting on her elbows she was gazing up at
him. There was a challenge in her glance.
"Am I beautiful, Guy?" she asked.
His brain whirled. He fought against the web which seemed to be
enveloping him against his will. He did not know that the languor which
possessed him was largely due to reaction after the mental and physical
strain he had so recently undergone. His voice was husky as he evaded
the question.
"What strange devil possesses you to-night, Myra?"
"I am beautiful, am I not?" she repeated.
She had drawn herself up to his knees, and knelt beside his chair.
"You have never told me I am beautiful," she whispered coaxingly. Her
hair brushed his cheeks. Her lips were very near his. Without his will,
it seemed, his hand fell upon her firm white arm, and he thrilled at
the touch.
"Myra, Myra, you will steal away my soul."
The cry was wrung from him.
Her eyes flashed. It was as if the fire she had spoken of had burst
into a blaze.
"I have given you mine long ago," she answered. Her arms were thrown
about him. "Guy, don't you know, haven't you seen how I love you?" She
whispered the words tremulously while her drooping lids half veiled the
passion glowing in her eyes, and her bosom rose and fell stormily. "No
one can ever love you as I love you, Guy."
She thought she was secure of victory. Her lips half parted for the
expected kiss. Guy had risen, holding her tightly to him. She drooped
in his arms. Almost he was won. "You have stolen my love," she murmured.
What strange fate brought those particular words to her lips? Guy,
thrilling in response to the passion which throbbed in her veins, his
senses enthralled by the diablerie of her beauty, remembered that
Meriel had used the very same words. He forgot where he was. Once again
he was on the deck of the yacht, becalmed, and hope had passed him by
with a flowing sail. Had hope come again? Myra loved him. And he had
not stolen her love. His conscience was clear there. Yet she loved
him, and he was hungry for love. Could he give her love in return? He
knew that he could not. Passion he could give, a short-lived fire. No,
no, no! A thousand times no. It would be desecration of the memory he
cherished. The conflict was brief.
He gently loosened the entwining arms which held him. He could not
trust himself to speak. He placed the girl gently in the chair and
turned away. She sprang after him, realising his intention.
"Guy," she cried, "you cannot be so cruel."
There was agony in her voice, and despair in her gesture. She was
carried away by the violence of her emotion.
"I only ask you to love me a little." Her words were those of a child
pleading. "I will be so good, so good. I only want to be near you, Guy.
I won't ask you to be all mine, only that sometimes you will be kind
and remember me." Her mood changed. She threw herself to her knees.
"I am beautiful, Guy, I know I am beautiful. There are not many women
so beautiful as I am, Guy, and----" She held up her hands pleadingly.
"You won't leave me all alone--stop just this once, Guy."
He held her hands tightly, and as she looked into his eyes she knew
that her hope was vain. Her mouth drooped at the corners. She freed her
hands and dropped, a pathetic figure of despair, on to the rug.
Guy walked to the door. But he could not leave her so. He came back and
knelt beside her.
"If I believed in God, I would say, 'God help both of us, Myra.'"
There was a quiver of pain in his voice. "I, too, love, and my love is
hopeless. I did not know, Myra."
She was listening, and now she raised herself. The passion had gone out
of her face. Her eyes were dull.
"It does not matter," she said. "I have been a fool."
He paid no heed to her words, but went on steadily.
"My love is hopeless," he said. "I do not think I can ever love again,
but here am I, and if you think"--he hesitated a moment--"if you think
I can make you happy in any way--Myra, will you marry me? You shall
have no cause to complain."
A sob shook her frame. "No," she said, "I have been a fool. It is your
love I want, and now I know it cannot be mine, I want to be alone." She
pointed to the fire. "The flames have died away. Soon there will only
be dead ashes. Help me up, Guy." He assisted her to rise. "I think I'll
go to bed, Guy," she said. "Good-night."
She held out one hand. He took both, and, drawing her to him, kissed
her. She responded with a kiss innocent as a child's.
When she passed out he left the door ajar. Later on he went to the
door of her room and listened. He could hear her regular breathing and
judged she slept. Yet he kept vigil until the dawn broke. Then he
ventured to peep into her room. Yes, she slept with tears glistening on
her eyelashes. The fear which had beset him, lest she should have been
tempted to end her life, was relieved. He put on his coat and hat, and
let himself out.
"Poor Myra!" he thought pityingly. He was developing rapidly.
The previous morning he had been pitying himself.