About an hour before this Arthur Holliday left the Restaurant des
Ambassadeurs and, with a slight frown on his face, got into his car and
drove rapidly to La Californie. When he reached the Villa Firenze all
was in darkness. He left his car in a turning out of the main road,
then quietly slipped into the garden and walked across the grass around
to the paved terrace at the side of the salon. As he set foot on the
flat stones the doors opened softly and Thérèse Clifford put out her
hands and drew him inside.
"Ah, I thought you would never come!" she sighed a little fretfully,
standing for a moment with her whole body against his.
His arms held her in a perfunctory embrace, while his eyes glanced
restlessly about. The big room was lit by only a single lamp, which
shed a pool of rose-coloured light over the satin-covered chaise-longue
and a tiny table, upon which was a pile of illustrated journals.
"Damned silly getting me here like this," he remarked, turning and
drawing the thick curtains carefully over the doors behind him. "I
don't half like it."
"There is no risk, none whatever. Everyone is in bed except the
night-nurse, and up in that room one can't hear anything."
"Still, if anyone did find me here, there'd be a devil of a mess.
Roger'll be coming home, too; I saw him having dinner with that nurse
girl."
She made a slight grimace.
"Oh, they will be hours yet. Listen! I sent you that message because
I simply had to see you. You were dining with that creature to-night,
and I could not have closed my eyes till I had made sure you had done
nothing stupid. Tell me, Arthur darling--what has she been saying to
you?"
She clutched him tightly with both hands, probing into his shallow eyes
as if to tear the truth from them.
"Oh, the usual thing; she's getting more and more fed up. She suspects
now that I'm playing with her. She says she must make arrangements,
send cables and so on, and she's got to have a straight answer--yes or
no--at once."
"Yes, and then what?"
Her hold on his shoulders tightened avidly.
"She's booked sailings for herself and the girl for the 8th, and she
wants to book one for me, too. Otherwise she says it's all off."
"Ah! What did you tell her?"
"I promised I'd go."
She drew in her breath sharply.
"You promised to go--on the 8th!"
"There was nothing else to do. I can't throw away an opportunity like
that. I've told you so all along. Of course I could always change my
mind at the last minute ... if anything happened."
His wandering gaze came back to her, and for a long moment they looked
at each other in silence. Then Thérèse bit her lip and turned away.
"What did Sartorius say when you talked to him yesterday?"
"Oh, nothing whatever. He won't express an opinion beyond the fact
that the old boy's age and general condition are against him. There's
not much in that. I wouldn't mind betting even money that he'll pull
through this and go on for another ten or fifteen years."
She shook her head slowly, looking away from him.
"No ... I do not think he will do that. Somehow I have a feeling ...
I am almost sure this time ... he will not live."
"Why?" he demanded quickly.
"Fleurestine. You know what I told you."
"Rot! Besides, she only said he would be ill; she didn't pretend to
see the outcome."
Again she shook her head.
"What I told you was not quite true. She told me he would not recover;
she saw me dressed in black ..."
"Good God! Why didn't you say so before?"
She gave him a shrewd glance.
"But, Arthur, you don't believe in these things."
"Well, I don't know. I don't say I disbelieve in them exactly. I--you
might have said something before, you know," he explained in an injured
tone.
"But, my dear, I couldn't! It seemed so--so cold-blooded, so
calculating. I couldn't let you think of me as calculating, could I?
You might not care for me so much."
He scarcely heard her. A change had come over him, he was apparently
filled with a nervous elation, moving jerkily around the room, snapping
his fingers, whistling softly under his breath, picking up small
objects and examining them unseeingly, then setting them down again.
Thérèse watched him narrowly, suspicion deepening in her eyes. At last
she spoke.
"Arthur, come to me."
He approached her mechanically, engrossed in his own thoughts.
"No, closer. I want to look at you."
He met her gaze without interest, looking through her at some vision
beyond.
"Arthur, all you are thinking about is the money. The thought of that
makes you happy. Is not that so?"
He gave a forced laugh.
"Good God, what makes you think that? If you do think it."
"It's the way you look. You are not thinking of me one little bit.
Arthur, if for one moment I thought you no longer cared for me..."
"What on earth are you taking about?" he retorted with a touch of
irritation. "Why are you for ever harping on that theme? Naturally I
care for you."
"Ah, but you torment me so! If I could only be sure, only for one
little minute! How do I know it is me you want, and not what you will
get with me?"
She spoke with a certain fierceness. He looked at her silently, then
with a shrug of his shoulders turned away, moving towards the door.
"Where are you going?" she demanded quickly.
"What difference does it make to you where I go? Since that's the
opinion you have of me, South America isn't a bad idea. The sooner the
better."
"No, no, Arthur, come back; you don't understand..."
"Oh, I understand all right. You don't trust me; after a year and a
half that's all you think of me. It doesn't matter, it's better not to
see me again."
His hand was on the knob.
"Don't say such a stupid thing, Arthur! Come here."
"Why should I come? You don't want me really."
"Arthur, you know I want you--always."
Without replying, he opened the door and stepped outside. He was
really going, his foot sounded on the flags. With a smothered cry she
reached his side, clutched at him, half sobbing, drawing him back with
all her strength. He resisted stonily.
"Don't make a scene, Thérèse, someone will hear you."
"Then come back. If you don't, I don't mind what happens, or who
hears!"
Sulkily he took a step inside the door, then raised his head,
listening. A car had come into the drive, was crunching around the
gravel to the garage on the far side of the house.
"S'sh--it's Roger. Close the door quietly."
With a quick movement, Thérèse switched off the lamp.
"Damned silly, that," he whispered. "Why did you do that?"
"No, it is best. Wait--they will soon go upstairs."
They stood silent, listening. After a few moments they heard the front
door close, then footsteps mounting the stairs, after which no sound
whatever. Five minutes went by, while Thérèse pressed tightly against
the unresponsive young man, clinging to his hand. At the end of that
time he drew away from her.
"Now I'll slip out."
"No, not yet. I sha'n't let you!"
She sank down on the chaise-longue in the darkness, trying to draw him
with her.
"I shall not stay, I promise you."
His voice was cold and indifferent. For all that she drew him to her,
by main force, and pressed her mouth to his, her perfumed arms about
his stubborn neck.
"If you do love me, Arthur, make me know that you do! Show me it is
myself that you care for, show me, show me! You can if you want to."
After a brief struggle she felt his muscles relax.
"Ah ... _Tu m'aimes encore! Tu m'aimes encore!_"
"Sh-sh--let me go, Thérèse ..."
"No, no ..."
A moment later, in the gloom, Thérèse's wide chiffon sleeve caught on
something.
"Be careful--what is that?"
The little table toppled over with a crash. At almost the same
instant, it seemed, the door to the dining-room was flung open and
dazzling light poured down upon them from the central chandelier. In
the doorway Roger stood regarding them.
It was one of those moments when there is simply nothing to say.
Explanations would only aggravate a situation already impossible.
Utterly confused, Holliday automatically straightened his tie, while
Thérèse, seated, smoothed her tumbled hair and stared at the intruder
with horror-stricken eyes. For several seconds no one spoke.
Roger, indeed, felt powerless to make any comment. After the first
shock of discovery he was dumb from sheer fury. Indignant beyond words
at what seemed to him a rank insult to his father, the emotion he felt
struck to the very root of his being. For the moment he saw red. At
last he addressed Holliday.
"Get out!" he commanded, and pointed to the door.
The young man had by now recovered a slight degree of his usual poise.
His eyebrows lifted with a touch of arrogance.
"Steady on. What right have you got to order me out of this house?"
"Never you mind what right I've got," Roger blazed at him, but keeping
his voice low. "You get out, or I'll throw you out. You've heard me."
Holliday looked at Thérèse, who, pale and shaken, nodded slightly.
"Go," she murmured; "you can do no good by staying."
He made a faint show of standing his ground, then with a contemptuous
shrug went out through the garden doors.
Roger took three strides after him and closed the doors, bolting them
quietly. When he turned he saw a change in his stepmother. Her eyes
regarded him with a Medusa-like stare; a spot of dull red smouldered in
each cheek. Her lips seemed suddenly thin, were working slightly. He
knew that her anger was even greater than his own, though she might
express it in a different way.
"And now perhaps you will explain what you mean by coming into my salon
and ordering my friends to leave my house?"
Her tone burnt like vitriol. All the suppressed hatred of six years
had compressed itself into that single sentence. He paused, eyeing her
curiously, and choosing his words with a certain care, trying not to
let his anger run away with him.
"See here, Thérèse," he said at last, "I don't intend to discuss the
matter of my right to do anything in this house. I am simply going to
tell you something. It makes no difference to me what lovers you have,
it is not my affair, so long as you conduct your liaisons with
discretion. But while my father is ill and I am here to protect his
interests, I shall make it my business to see that this sort of thing
doesn't happen under his roof."
"Ah, indeed!" she exclaimed with a touch of bitter contempt.
"You know as well as I that anyone might have come in that door just
now--my aunt, the nurse, one of the servants. You may not care
yourself, but you've got to have respect for my father."
Her breath came hard, the spots of red throbbed like wounds, while all
the time her eyes remained glued to his face with a stare of
fascination. He thought she seemed torn between rage and a reluctant
fear.
"Now listen to me: I shall not say it again. From now on Arthur
Holliday is not to come inside this place until my father is well
again. Is that quite clear?"
An odd mutinous gleam came into her eyes.
"Must I remind you that I am at liberty to do as I like in my own
house?" she said monotonously.
"I don't think I have made myself clear, Thérèse. I am not arguing; I
am telling you that Holliday must keep away."
He was anxious to go. The scene and her scent nauseated him.
"And suppose I do not choose to do as you say? What then?"
"I'm sorry you asked that, but of course I'll answer it. If I catch
Holliday here again, I shall quite simply tell my father all that I
know about you and him. You may be sure he will divorce you."
She made no sign beyond a little intake of her breath and a dilation of
her nostrils.
"That is a threat, is it not?"
"Of course it's a threat. It is the only way one is able to deal with
a woman like you," he retorted, too irate to soften his words.
"I see."
Her composure was greater than his. He had expected her to fly at him
with abuse. Something in her manner egged him on to say more:
"You may pull the wool over my father's eyes, but you have never
deceived me. You have been waiting for years for him to die, hoping
every illness would finish him, so that you could spend his money.
Well, he's not dead yet. Suppose, after all, you found he had altered
his will? It's not too late for that; he could get a solicitor here in
an hour, and he would do it, too, if he knew what had gone on here
to-night. Oh, don't misunderstand me, I don't want him to know, for
his own peace of mind. As long as you behave yourself decently inside
his house you are safe from me. But this sort of thing has got to
stop. That's all."
As he turned to go he glanced at her again. She was almost
unrecognisable. Her eyes had narrowed to slits, her cheekbones showed
an unexpected prominence under their patches of red. One hand fumbled
and twisted the heavy pearls at her throat; he could hear her laboured
breathing. How she was going to hate him now! The thought suddenly
came to him that if there had been a revolver or a knife handy she
would have tried to use it on him. Well, he had the upper hand of her;
that was all that mattered. She could hate him as much as she chose....
He left her standing there, staring after him fixedly. Once outside,
he had to admit he had taken a pretty strong line. Of course, in a way
it was not his business to issue ultimatums of this sort. Yet he would
have done the same again. The thought that his aunt or Esther Rowe
might easily have come upon the scene he had just interrupted filled
him with rage. Of course, from now on it was going to be still more
difficult to remain under the same roof with Thérèse; it would require
a skin thicker than his to endure it. Still, it would not be for long.
When he reached his room he discovered with a reaction of amusement
that he still held the bottle of Evian water upright in the crook of
his arm. There it had been throughout the foregoing passage at arms.
He laughed, and his anger began to recede. Still, he could not sleep,
and it was three o'clock when he put out his light. As he did so he
listened to a faint sound outside.
It was Thérèse, who, only after this long time, was coming upstairs to
bed.