Nothing short of a miracle could have made Matravers' luncheon party a
complete success; yet, so far as Berenice was concerned, it could
scarcely be looked upon in any other light. Her demeanour towards
Adelaide Robinson and Fergusson was such as to give absolutely no
opportunity for anything disagreeable! She frankly admitted both her
inexperience and her ignorance. Yet, before they left, both Fergusson
and his companion began to understand Matravers' confidence in her.
There was something almost magnetically attractive about her
personality.
The luncheon was very much what one who knew him would have expected
from Matravers--simple, yet served with exceeding elegance. The
fruit, the flowers, and the wine had been his own care; and the table
had very much the appearance of having been bodily transported from
the palace of a noble of some southern land. After the meal was over,
they sat out upon the shaded balcony and sipped their coffee and
liqueurs,--Fergusson and Berenice wrapt in the discussion of many
details of the work which lay before them, whilst Matravers, with an
effort which he carefully concealed, talked continually with Adelaide
Robinson.
"Is it true," she asked him, "that you did not intend your play for
the stage--that you wrote it from a literary point of view only?"
"In a sense, that is quite true," he admitted. "I wrote it without any
definite idea of offering it to any London manager. My doing so was
really only an impulse."
[Illustration: Matravers was suddenly conscious of an odd sense of
disturbance]
"If Mr. Fergusson is right--and he is a pretty good judge--you won't
regret having done so," she remarked. "He thinks it is going to have
a big run."
"He may be right," Matravers answered. "For all our sakes, I hope so!"
"It will be a magnificent opportunity for your friend."
Matravers looked over towards Berenice. She was talking eagerly to
Fergusson, whose dark, handsome head was very close to hers, and in
whose eyes was already evident his growing admiration. Matravers was
suddenly conscious of an odd sense of disturbance. He was grateful to
Adelaide Robinson for her intervention. She had risen to her feet, and
glanced downwards at the little brougham drawn up below.
"I am so sorry to go," she said; "but I positively must make some
calls this afternoon."
Fergusson rose also, with obvious regret, and they left together.
"Don't forget," he called back from the door; "we read our parts
to-morrow, and rehearsals begin on Thursday."
"I have it all down," Berenice answered. "I will do my best to be
ready for Thursday."
Berenice remained standing, looking thoughtfully after the little
brougham, which was being driven down Piccadilly.
Matravers came back to her, and laid his hand gently upon her arm.
"You must not think of going yet," he said. "I want you to stay and
have tea with me."
"I should like to," she answered. "I seem to have so much to say to
you."
He piled her chair with cushions and drew it back into the shade. Then
he lit a cigarette, and sat down by her side.
"I suppose you must think that I am very ungrateful," she said. "I
have scarcely said 'thank you' yet, have I?"
"You will please me best by never saying it," he answered. "I only
hope that it will be a step you will never regret."
"How could I?"
He looked at her steadily, a certain grave concentration of
thought manifest in his dark eyes. Berenice was looking her best
that afternoon. She was certainly a very beautiful and a very
distinguished-looking woman. Her eyes met his frankly; her lips
were curved in a faintly tender smile.
"Well, I hardly know," he said. "You are going to be a popular
actress. Henceforth the stage will have claims upon you! It will
become your career."
"You have plenty of confidence."
"I have absolute confidence in you," he declared, "and Fergusson
is equally confident about the play; chance has given you this
opportunity--the result is beyond question! Yet I confess that I have
a presentiment. If the manuscript of 'The Heart of the People' were
in my hands at this moment, I think that I would tear it into little
pieces, and watch them flutter down on to the pavement there."
"I do not understand you," she said softly. "You say that you have no
doubt----"
"It is because I have no doubt--it is because I know that it will make
you a popular and a famous actress. You will gain this. I wonder what
you will lose."
She moved restlessly on her chair.
"Why should I lose anything?"
"It is only a presentiment," he reminded her. "I pray that you may not
lose anything. Yet you are coming under a very fascinating influence.
It is your personality I am afraid of. You are going to belong
definitely to a profession which is at once the most catholic and the
most narrowing in the world. I believe that you are strong enough to
stand alone, to remain yourself. I pray that it may be so, and yet,
there is just the shadow of the presentiment. Perhaps it is foolish."
Their chairs were close together; he suddenly felt the perfume of her
hair and the touch of her fingers upon his hand. Her face was quite
close to his.
"At least," she murmured, "I pray that I may never lose your
friendship."
"If only I could ensure you as confidently the fulfilment of all your
desires," he answered, "you would be a very happy woman. I am too
lonely a man, Berenice, to part with any of my few joys. Whether you
change or no, you must never change towards me."
She was silent. There were no signs left of the brilliant levity which
had made their little luncheon pass off so successfully. She sat with
her head resting upon her elbow, gazing steadily up at the little
white clouds which floated over the housetops. A tea equipage was
brought out and deftly arranged between them.
"To-day," Matravers said, "I am going to have the luxury of having my
tea made for me. Please come back from dreamland and realize the
Englishman's idyll of domesticity."
She turned in her chair, and smiled upon him.
"I can do it," she assured him. "I believe you doubt my ability, but
you need not."
They talked lightly for some time--an art which Matravers found
himself to be acquiring with wonderful facility. Then there was a
pause. When she spoke again, it was in an altogether different tone.
[Illustration: "I can do it," she assured him. "I believe you doubt my
ability, but you need not"]
"I want you to answer me," she said, "it is not too late. Shall I give
up Bathilde--and the stage? Listen! You do not know anything of my
circumstances. I am not dependent upon either the stage or my writing
for a living. I ask you for your honest advice. Shall I give it up?"
"You are placing a very heavy responsibility upon my shoulders," he
answered her thoughtfully. "Yet I will try to answer you honestly. I
should be happier if I could advise you to give it up! But I cannot!
You have the gift--you must use it. The obligation of self-development
is heaviest upon the shoulders of those whose foreheads Nature's
twin-sister has touched with fire! I would it were any other gift,
Berenice; but that is only a personal feeling. No! you must follow out
your destiny. You have an opportunity of occupying a unique and
marvellous position. You can create a new ideal. Only be true always
to yourself. Be very jealous indeed of absorbing any of the modes of
thought and life which will spring up everywhere around you in the new
world. Remember it is the old ideals which are the sweetest and the
truest.... Forgive me, please! I am talking like a pedagogue."
"You are talking as I like to be talked to," she answered. "Yet you
need not fear that my head will be turned, even if the success should
come. You forget that I am almost an old woman. The religion of my
life has long been conceived and fashioned."
He looked at her with a curious smile. If thirty seemed old to her,
what must she think of him?
"I wonder," he said simply, "if you would think me impertinent if I
were to ask you to tell me more about yourself. How is it that you are
altogether alone in the world?"
The words had scarcely left his lips before he would have given much
to have recalled them. He saw her start, flinch back as though she had
been struck, and a grey pallor spread itself over her face, almost to
the lips. She looked at him fixedly for several moments without
speaking.
"One day," she said, "I will tell you all that. You shall know
everything. But not now; not yet."
"Whenever you will," he answered, ignoring her evident agitation.
"Come! what do you say to a walk down through the Park? To-day is a
holiday for me--a day to be marked with a white stone. I have
registered an oath that I will not even look at a pen. Will you not
help me to keep it?"
"By all means," she answered blithely. "I will take you home with me,
and keep you there till the hour of temptation has passed. To-day is
to be my last day of idleness! I too have need of a white stone."
"We will place them," he said, "side by side."