THE COURAGE OF DESPERATION
Captain Vandermere had a friend from the country, and was giving him
supper at the _Savoy_. He was also pointing out the different people
who were worthy of note.
"That," he said, pointing to an adjoining table, "is really one of the
most interesting men in London."
"He looks like an actor," his friend remarked.
"So he may be," Vandermere answered grimly, "but his is not the
Thespian stage. He is a lecturer and writer on occultism, and in his
way, I suppose, he is amazingly clever."
"Do you mean Bertrand Saton?" his friend asked, with interest.
Vandermere nodded.
"You have heard the fellow's name, of course," he said. "For the last
month or so one seems to meet him everywhere, and in all sorts of
society. The illustrated papers, and even the magazines, have been
full of the fellow's photograph. Women especially seem to regard him
as something supernatural. Look at the way they are hanging upon his
words now. That is the old Duchess of Ampthill on his left, and the
others are all decent enough people of a sort."
"I gather from your tone," his friend remarked, "that the young man is
not a favorite of yours."
"He is not," Vandermere answered. "I don't understand the breed, and
that's a fact. Apart from that, he has had the confounded impertinence
to make love to--to a very charming young lady of my acquaintance."
"He isn't particularly good-looking," the friend remarked--"striking I
suppose people would say."
"He has a sort of unwholesome way of attracting women," Vandermere
remarked. "Look how they all manoeuvre to walk out with him."
Saton was exercising his rights as lion of the party, and leaving
early. The Duchess whispered something in his ear, at which he only
laughed. Half-a-dozen invitations were showered upon him, which he
accepted conditionally.
"I never accept invitations," he said, "except with a proviso. As a
matter of fact, I never can tell exactly when I shall want to work,
and when the feeling for work comes, everything else must go. It is
not always that one is in the right mood."
"How interesting!" one of the women sighed.
"Must be like writing poetry, only far more exciting," another
murmured.
"Tell me," a girl asked him, as he stooped over her fingers to say
good night, "is it really true, Mr. Saton, that if you liked you could
make me do things even against my will--that you could put ideas into
my head which I should be forced to carry out?"
"Certainly."
"And you never make use of your power?"
"Very seldom," he answered. "That is the chicanery of science. It is
because people when they have discovered a little are so anxious to
exploit their knowledge, that they never go any further. It is very
easy indeed to dominate the will of certain individuals, but what we
really want to understand before we use our power, is the law that
governs it. Good night, once more!"
"A wonderful man!" they sighed one to another as he passed out.
"I am one of the few," the Duchess remarked complacently, "who has
seen a real manifestation of his powers. It is true," she added, with
a little shudder, "there was a mistake toward the end. The experiment
wasn't wholly successful, but it was wonderful, all the
same--wonderful!"
* * * * *
Saton left the restaurant, and entered the small electric brougham
which was waiting for him. He lit a cigarette and leaned back amongst
the cushions, musing over the events of the evening with a complacent
smile. The last few weeks seemed to have wrought some subtle change in
the man. His face was at once stronger and weaker, more determined,
and yet in a sense less trustworthy. His manner had gained in
assertion, his bearing in confidence. There was an air of resolve
about him, as though he knew exactly where he was going--how far, and
in what direction. And with it all he had aged. There were lines under
his eyes, and his face was worn--at times almost haggard.
He let himself into the little house in Berkeley Square with his
latchkey, and turned at once into Rachael's room. She was sitting over
the fire in a brilliant red dressing-gown, her head elaborately
coiffured, her fingers and neck brilliant with jewels. Yet when she
turned her head one saw a change. Age had laid its grip upon her at
last. Her voice had lost its decision. Her hands trembled in her lap.
"You are late, Bertrand," she said--"very late."
"Not so very," he answered. "I have been supping at the _Savoy_ with
the Duchess of Ampthill and some friends."
She looked at him searchingly, looked at him from head to foot, noted
the trim exactness of his evening attire, and his enamel links and
waistcoat buttons, the air of confidence with which he crossed the
room to mix himself a whiskey and soda. It was she who had been like
that a few months ago, and he the timid one. They seemed to have
changed places.
"Bertrand," she said, "you frighten me. You go so far, nowadays."
"Why not?" he answered.
"Huntley has been here to-night," she went on. "He tells me that you
have opened even another place, and that all the old ones are going.
He tells me that the offices are hard at work, too."
"Business is good," remarked Saton, drily.
"I thought that we were going quietly for a time," she said. "It was
you who were so terrified at the risk. Do you imagine that the danger
is over?"
"My dear Rachael," he answered, coming over to her, "I have come to
the conclusion that I was over-timid. There is no success in life to
be won without daring. Money we must have, and these places are like a
gold mine to us. If things go wrong, we must take our chance. I am
content. In the meantime, for all our sakes, it suits me to be in
evidence everywhere. The papers publish my portrait, the Society
journals record my name, people point me out at the theatres and at
the restaurants. This is not vanity--this is business. I am giving a
lecture the week after next, and every seat is already taken. I am
going to say some daring things. Afterwards, I am going to Naudheim
for a month. When I come back, I shall give another lecture. After
that, perhaps these places will not be necessary any more. But who can
tell? Money we must have, money all the time. Science is great, but
men and women must live."
She looked at him with a grim smile.
"You amuse me," she said. "Are you really the half-starved boy who
flung himself at my horses' heads in the Bois?"
"I am what the Fates have made of that boy."
She shook her head.
"You are going too fast," she said. "You terrify me. What about Lois?"
"Lois is of age in six weeks," he replied. "On the day she is of age,
I shall go to Rochester and demand her hand. He will refuse, of
course. I shall marry her at once."
"Why not now?" Rachael asked. "Why wait a day? The money will come
later."
"I will tell you why," Saton answered. "Because I have ambitions, and
because it would do them harm if people believed that I had exercised
any sort of influence to make that girl marry me against her
guardian's wishes. I do use my influence as it is, although," he
added, frowning, "I find it harder every day. She walked with me in
the Park this morning; she came to tea with me the day before."
"What do you mean when you say that you find it harder?" Rachael
asked.
"I mean that I have lost some of my hold over her," he answered. "It
is the sort of thing which is likely to happen at any time. She has
very weak receptive currents. It is like trying to drive water with a
sieve."
"You must not fail," she muttered. "I am nervous these days. I would
rather you were married to Lois, and her money was in the bank, and
that these places were closed. I start when the bell rings. Huntley
himself said that you were rash."
"Huntley is a fool," Saton answered. "Let me help you upstairs,
Rachael."
He passed his arm around her affectionately, and kissed her when they
parted for the night. Then he came down to his little room, and sat
for a time at his desk, piled with books and works of reference. He
brooded gloomily for several moments over what Rachael had been
saying. A knock at the door made him start. It was only a servant,
come to see to the fire, but his hand had darted out toward a certain
drawer of his desk. When the servant had retired, he opened it for a
minute and looked in. A small shining revolver lay there, and a box of
cartridges.
"Your idea, my friend Rochester!" he muttered to himself.