THE TASTE OF THE LOTUS
Douglas was kept waiting for a minute or two in the long, cool
drawing-room at Grosvenor Square. The effect of Rice's story was still
strong upon him. The perfume of the flowers, the elegance of the room,
and its peculiar atmosphere of taste and luxury irritated rather than
soothed him. Even the deference which the servants had shown him, the
apologetic butler, her ladyship's own maid with a special message,
acquired new significance now, looking at things from Rice's point of
view. There was so much in his own circumstances which had lent weight
to what he had been told. He was earning a good deal of money, but he
was spending more. Emily had insisted upon rooms of her own choosing in
a fashionable neighbourhood, and had herself selected the
furniture--which was not yet paid for. She had insisted gently but
firmly upon his going to the best tailors. The little expeditions in
which he had been permitted to act as her escort, the luncheons and
dinners at restaurants, although they were not many, were expensive.
Yes, Rice was right. To be near Emily de Reuss was to live within a
maze of fascination, but the end to it could only be the end of the
others. Already he was in debt, a trifle behind with his work--a trifle
less keen about it. Already the memory of his sufferings seemed to lie
far back in another world--his realisation of them had grown faint.
There was something paralysing about the atmosphere of pleasure with
which she knew so well how to surround herself.
The door opened and she came in, a dream of spotless muslin and glinting
colours. She came over to him with outstretched hands and a brilliant
smile upon her lips.
"How is it, my friend," she cried, "that you always come exactly when I
want you? You must be a very clever person. I have to go for a minute
or two to the stupidest of garden parties at Surbiton. You shall drive
with me, and afterwards, if you like, we will come back by Richmond and
dine. What do you say?"
"Delightful," he answered, "and if I were an idle man nothing in the
world would give me more pleasure. But this afternoon I must not think
of it. I am behind with my work already. I only came round for a few
minutes' talk with you."
She looked at him curiously. She was not used to be denied.
"Surely," she said, "your work is not so important as all that?"
"I am afraid," he said, "that lately I have been forgetting how
important my work really is. That is precisely what I came to talk to
you about."
She sat down composedly, but he fancied that her long, dark eyes had
narrowed a little, and the smile had gone from her face.
"You will think I am ungrateful, I am afraid," he began, "but, do you
know, I am losing hold upon my work, and I have come to the conclusion
that I am giving a good deal too much of my time to going out. Thanks
to you, I seem to have invitations for almost every day--I go to polo
matches, to river parties, to dinners and dances, I do everything except
work. You know that I have made a fair start, and I feel that I ought
to be making some uses of my opportunities. Besides--I may be quite
frank with you, I know--I am spending a great deal more than I am
earning, and that won't do, will it?"
She came over and sat by his side on the couch. There was not the
slightest sign of disapproval in her manner.
"Do you know, that sounds very sensible, Douglas my friend," she said,
quietly. "I should hate to think that I was selfish in liking to have
you with me so much, and your work is the first thing, of course. Only
you mustn't forget this. Your profession is settled now irrevocably.
You will be a writer, and a famous writer, and one reason why I have
procured all these invitations for you, and encouraged you to accept
them, has been because I want you to grasp life as a whole. You think
that you are idling now. You are not. Every new experience you gain is
of value to you. Hitherto you have only seen life through dun-coloured
spectacles. I want you also to understand the other side. It is your
business to know and grasp it from all points. Can't you see that I
have found it a pleasure to help you to see that side of which you were
ignorant?"
"That is all very true," he answered, "only I have already had more
opportunities than most men. Don't you think yourself that it is almost
time I buckled to and started life more seriously?"
"It is for you to say," she answered quietly. "You know better than I.
If you have work in your brain and you are weary of other things--well,
_au revoir_, and good luck to you. Only you will come and see me now
and then, and tell me how you are getting on, for I shall be a little
lonely just at first."
She looked at him with eyes a trifle dim, and Douglas felt his heart
beat thickly, and the memory of Rice's passionate words seemed suddenly
weak.
"I shall come and see you always," he said, "as often as you would have
me come. You know that."
She shook her head as though but half convinced. Then she rose to her
feet.
"There is just one thing I should like to ask you," she said. "This new
resolution of yours--did you come by it alone, or has any one been
advising you?"
Douglas hesitated.
"I have been talking to a man," he admitted, "who certainly seemed to
think that I was neglecting my work."
"Will you tell me who it was?"
Douglas looked into her face and became suddenly grave. The eyes were
narrower and brighter, a glint of white teeth showed through the
momentarily parted lips. A tiny spot of colour burned in her
cheeks--something of the wild animal seemed suddenly to have leaped up
in her. Yet how beautiful she was!
"I cannot do that," he faltered.
"Then it was some one who spoke to you of me," she continued calmly.
"You need not trouble to contradict me. Hadn't you better hurry away
before I have the chance to do you any harm? There is one young man I
know, of a melodramatic turn of mind, who persists in looking upon me as
a sort of siren, calling my victims on to the rocks. I expect that is
the person with whom you have been talking. Douglas Jesson, I think
that I am a little disappointed in you."
She stood up and smoothed out her skirts thoughtfully.
He was very near at that moment throwing all thoughts of Rice's words to
the winds, and retracting all that he had said. After all, it was she
who had brought him back from death. Whatever his future might be, he
owed it to her. She looked into his eyes and felt that she had
conquered. Yet the very fascination of that smile which parted her lips
was like a chill warning to him.
"I will tell you who it was who has been talking to me," he said. "It
is a clerk of Drexley's, a man named Rice."
She nodded.
"I thought so. Poor boy. He will never forgive me."
"For what?" Douglas asked quickly. That was the crux of the whole
matter.
"For his own folly," she answered quietly. "I was good to him--helped
him in many ways. He tried to make love to me. I had to send him away,
of course. That is the worst of you young men. If a woman tries to
help you, you seem to think it your duty to fall in love with her. What
is she to do then?"
"Can't a woman--always make it clear--if she wants to--that that sort of
thing is not permitted?"
"Do you think that she can? Do you think that she knows what she wishes
herself until the last moment, until it is too late?"
Douglas rose up a little unsteadily.
"Take my own case," he cried, with a sudden little burst of passion.
"You are the most beautiful woman whom I have ever seen, you are kind to
me, you suffer me to be your companion. Yet if I commit the folly of
falling in love with you, you will dismiss me in a moment without a
sigh. I am only an ordinary being. Don't you think that I am wise if I
try to avoid running such a risk?"
She laughed softly.
"What a calculating mortal. Is this all the effect of Mr. Rice's
warning?"
Well, isn't it truth?
She shook her head.
"I can't pretend to say. Do any of us really know, I wonder, what we
would do under any given circumstances? I wish you would tell me
exactly what your friend complained of in my treatment of him."
"He spoke--not only of himself," Douglas answered. "There was a man
called Silverton."
"What?"
He looked across at her in swift surprise. It seemed to him that her
anger had suddenly changed into a wonderful and speechless terror. Her
left hand was buried in the sofa cushions, the pupils of her eyes were
dilated, she was bloodless to the lips. When she spoke it was hard to
recognise her voice.
"What of him? What did he know? What did he tell you--of him?"
Douglas's expression of blank surprise seemed an immense relief to her.
"Only--something like what he told me of himself. He also was foolish
enough to fall in love with you, and--"
She rose suddenly and held out her hand.
"Come, my friend," she said, "I have had enough of this. Take me out to
my carriage. I think you are very wise to avoid such a dangerous
person."
She swept out of the room before him, and down the broad stairs. A
footman stood by the side of her victoria until she had settled herself
in the most comfortable corner. Then he mounted the box, and she leaned
for a moment forward.
"You won't come?" she asked, with a slight gesture of invitation towards
the vacant seat.
But Douglas, to whom the invitation seemed, in a sense, allegorical,
shook his head. He pointed eastwards.
"The taste of the lotus is sweet," he said, "but one must live."