"THE DANCING GIRL"
"What do you think of it?"
Paul started. He had been standing, like a man in a dream, with
folded arms, looking across the room with idle eyes, and unconsciously
ignoring many salutations. His brother's tone sounded oddly in his
ears, and he looked flushed and a little nervous.
"What did I think of it!" It was a difficult question to answer. He
repeated it, and was glad when Arthur spared him the necessity of
replying, by adding his own opinion.
"It was glorious, magnificent! I'm going to find out more about her!"
He strolled away, and joined one of the little groups of men who were
discussing the performance. Paul, at first, had made a gesture as
though to detain him, but on second thoughts he had changed his mind.
Better let him go and find out what he could.
He himself watched carefully for his opportunity, and then left the
room. He felt like a man who has received a silent shock. Something
fresh had come into his life, noiselessly, insidiously, without
effort. He pressed on his hat, and passed down the steps out into the
street, scarcely conscious of what he was doing.
The rush of fresh air somewhat revived him, and he stood still for a
moment to collect his thoughts. He felt the need of absolute
solitude for a while, to help him to realize--or at any rate to
understand--this thing which had happened, and with almost feverish
haste he called a hansom from the other side of the road. The man
whipped up the horse, but hesitated as he reached the pavement.
Looking around, Paul saw the cause of his indecision. A woman,
standing only a few yards behind, had called him at the same time, and
was waiting also for his approach.
There was a gas-lamp between them, and as their eyes met, he
recognised her. Even in that flickering light, and through her
veil, there was no mistaking those wonderful eyes. As a rule, he was
possessed of as much _savoir faire_ as most men of his class, but at
that moment it had deserted him. He stood there on the edge of the
pavement, without moving or saying anything, simply looking at
her, startled at her sudden appearance, and magnetised by her close
presence. He had heard no footfall behind him, and the fact of her
being alone seemed so strange to him, that he simply could not realize
for a moment that it was indeed she who stood so close to him. The
cabman, leaving them to decide who had the prior claim upon him, sat
motionless, with his eyes discreetly fixed upon his horse's ears. It
was an odd little tableau, insignificant enough to a spectator, save,
perhaps, for the curious look in the woman's face and softly flashing
eyes. Yet it left its mark for ever in the lives of the two principal
figures.
The curious sensation which had kept Paul standing there dazed and
tongue-tied, passed away. Yet it did not immediately occur to him to
raise his hat and walk on, as in any ordinary case he would have done.
He was conscious of the exact nature of the situation, but he felt a
strong disinclination to leave the spot; nor, strangely enough, did
she seem to expect it. Yet something had to be done.
He moved a step nearer her. He was no schoolboy, this tall,
grave-looking young Englishman. The lines across his fair, smooth
forehead, and by his close-set mouth spoke for themselves. He had seen
life in many aspects, and in a certain Indian jungle village, there
were natives and coolies who still spoke admiringly of the wonderful
nerve and pluck of the English sahib during a terrible and unexpected
tiger rush. But at that moment his nerve seemed to have deserted him.
He could almost hear his heart beat as he took that step forward. He
had intended to have made some trifling apology, and to have handed
her into the cab, but the words would not come. Some instinct seemed
to revolt at the thought of uttering any such commonplacism. She was
standing on the edge of the pavement, close to the step, with her
skirts in one hand, slightly raised. He held out his hand to her in
silence.
She gave him hers; and yet she did not at once step into the cab.
She seemed to be expecting that little speech from him which he found
impossible to frame, and, seeing that it did not come, recognising,
perhaps, his suppressed agitation behind that calm, almost cold,
gravity of demeanour, she spoke to him.
"It is a shame to take your cab, and leave you in the rain! I am
sorry."
Afterwards her admirers spoke of her voice as being one of her chief
charms; to Paul it sounded like a soft strain of very sweet, throbbing
music, reaching him from some far distant world. Yet, curiously
enough, it went far to dissolve the spell which her presence seemed to
have laid upon him. He was able to look at her steadily, and standing
upon the wet pavement in the cold, grey light of that November
afternoon, their eyes met in a long, searching gaze. He was able even
to notice trifles. He saw the rich fur which lined her plain, black
cloak, and he could even admire the absolute perfection with which
it followed the lines of her slim, supple, figure. He saw the glowing
eyes shining out from her dusky face, and the coils of brown hair, not
very securely fastened under her turban hat. As she put out her foot
to enter the cab, he could even catch a glimpse of the amber draperies
concealed by her cloak. A dancer! A public dancer! His eyes swept over
her again, taking in every detail of her simple but rich toilette, and
he shivered slightly. Then he answered her, "It is of no consequence,
thank you. I can walk."
"But you will get very wet! Let us make a compromise! You may come
with me. I am going only a very little distance, and then you can take
the cab on to your home, or wherever you want to go to."
She stepped in, taking it for granted that he would accept her offer,
and he followed her at once. He was not in the least surprised. From
the first he had not expected to leave her, and her invitation seemed
perfectly natural to him. She gave the cabman her address through the
trap-door, and they drove off together.
At the corner of the square, two men were standing together talking,
and as the hansom passed within a yard or two of them both glanced
idly in, and then started. Paul, who had been looking straight ahead
of him, and seeing nothing, turned round, startled by a familiar
exclamation, just in time to see his brother Arthur, and Leslie
Horton, gazing after the cab. The incident troubled him, as much for
her sake as his own. But, looking into her face, he could not see that
she was in any way disturbed, although she must have seen the two men,
and would probably have recognised them as having been present at Lady
Swindon's reception. Her face was quite unmoved, but in a moment or
two she asked a question.
"Who was the younger and better looking of those two men; the one with
violets in his coat, like yours?"
"It was my brother," he answered simply. "I am afraid, too, that he
recognised you."
"So far as I am concerned, that is of no consequence at all," she
answered lightly.
He turned away with a sudden sinking of the heart. He knew, too well,
that her carelessness was not assumed. How was he to interpret it?
Their drive was finished in silence, and they pulled up before a
handsome, though somewhat sombre-looking house in a back street.
"My rooms are here," she remarked.
He stepped on to the pavement, and assisted her to alight. The thought
of leaving her so abruptly was painful to him, and yet he dreaded to
hear her invite him to go in with her; nevertheless, she did so.
"If you are not in a hurry, perhaps you will come in, and let me give
you a cup of tea," she said, looking him full in the face.
His heart sank. What was he to think now? And yet he was absurdly glad
that he was not to leave her.
"Do you mean it?" he asked.
"Of course! I should not have asked you else. Are you very much
shocked?" she added, with a mocking gleam in her eyes. "It is not
proper, is it! I confess I did not think of that. But do come," she
added, with a sudden bewitching smile.
"I shall be delighted," he answered, gravely enough, but truthfully.
He turned to pay the cabman, and followed her into the house.
"My rooms are upstairs," she remarked, leading the way. "The luxury of
a first floor is at present beyond me."
Her words pleased him, but their effect died away when she opened a
door on the first landing, and ushered him in. Such of the interior
of the house as he had seen was handsomely furnished, but the room in
which he stood was almost like a fairy chamber. Curtains divided it in
the centre, and beyond he could see a table laid for dinner.
"That half I use for a dining-room," she remarked, pointing towards it
with one of her gloves, which she had just taken off. "It makes this
room small, but it is a convenient arrangement. Do sit down!"
He bowed, but remained standing, with his elbow resting upon the
draped mantel-board. She took off her hat and coat, hanging them over
the back of a chair, and advanced towards him.
She was in her dancing dress, a floating mass of yellow draperies, and
the firelight gleamed strangely upon her dusky, perfect face, with its
olive colouring, and soft, glowing eyes. She came so close to him that
a faint odour from the handkerchief in her hand stole up to him.
He was playing with an ornament on the shelf, and his fingers
tightened convulsively around it. It snapped in two in his hand; he
did not notice it. He leaned forward towards her, and his strong voice
vibrated with feeling.
"And it was for this then, Adrea Kiros, that you ran away from the
convent St. Lucile! My God!"