Mrs. Avalon, after her first horrid experience, had had the forethought
to keep in her jewel-safe a roll of Bank of England notes. That evening,
having sent her maid from the room, she counted out five notes from the
roll. She smiled wryly.... “And so,” she thought, “this is hell. And Fay
Avalon is well in it, she is in a very ghastly hell.” Very slowly, very
absently, she recounted the five ten-pound notes. They were clean and
crisp and delicious, marvellously above the funny stuff that passes for
money in France and America. They were symbols of a spacious England, of
splendid adventures and gallant merchantmen, they were symbols of all
the luxuries of _race_ and manners, dead now except in the hearts of a
few shy people. A Bank of England note is the cleanest expression money
has ever acquired, it is more than money, it decorates money. Only one
of the five notes that passed through Mrs. Avalon’s fingers bore even a
sign that other human hands had ever touched it, and that was but a
little splash as of red ink on its back.
She put them in an envelope, wrote “To C. O. S.” across it, and privily
instructed the butler that he give it into the hands of the person who
had already called once before and who _might_ call again towards noon
the following morning.
“The gentleman called, madam,” said Smith the next morning, when she
came in from a walk for luncheon.
“The gentleman, Smith?”
“He had that manner, madam.”
“There will be ten for luncheon, not eight, Smith.”
“Major Cypress and Mr. Trevor rang up to inquire if you expected them to
luncheon, madam. They seemed, I think, disappointed that you did not.”
“They rang up together?”
“Such was my impression, madam. They said that there must be some
mistake about your not expecting them to luncheon as they had not been
asked to luncheon anywhere else. On asking my opinion as to whether, if
they called at about half-past one, you would or would not ask them to
stay, I ventured to say, madam, that it was very probable. I gather that
that will make twelve for luncheon, madam.”
Mrs. Avalon smiled. “Very good, Smith.”
“The gentleman who called left this letter, madam.”
“Put it down over there. That will do, Smith, thank you.”
When she was alone she gingerly touched the letter. It was not
addressed. The expression on her face was as though she was breathing
the air of a pest-house.
“I see,” said the note, “that you think me even viler than I am. That is
what I intended. By giving me money when I did not ask for it, you have
made the profession of blackmailer an impossible one for a man of
sensibility. Good-bye.”
V
She did not tell Nicholas Pavlovitch of this second encounter. It would,
she thought, be only disturbing him for nothing, for she was quite
convinced that she had now seen the last of the cavalier of the streets.
She couldn’t help having a little private conceit about it. After all,
not every woman would have managed that foul man so--certainly not those
notoriously managing women who know how to deal with men. “Oh, dear!”
she thought, “I am clever, I really am!” Even this man, so brutally
undesirous to please, had been charmed back into the loathsome shades
whence he had so horridly come--so impressed had he been by her original
way of being blackmailed that he had been appalled into respectful
invisibility. She had, after all, allowed herself to be blackmailed
charmingly, she had been as charming as any woman being blackmailed
could possibly be.
It was because of such thoughts that, eleven evenings later, she was so
particularly angry: for the lamp-light near the pillar-box fell on the
figure of the cavalier of the streets, the careless, rakish figure at
his disgusting post. By the beating of her heart, she knew him yards and
yards away. Still she stood for one long moment, to quiet her heart, and
then, intolerantly, she swept on. She was humiliated in a most private
conceit. She was angrier than she had ever been in her life.
Swiftly she pressed on, to pass him with inexpressible contempt; but the
pavement was narrow, and wide the sweep of the bad man’s hat.
“Forgive me,” said he. “I had not intended to worry you again, but----”
“You do not _worry_ me,” said a lady to an insect.
“In that case,” said the cavalier of the streets, “I may spare you my
apologies, which, I assure you, are quite dangerously insincere. I had
intended not to sin against you again. But, this very afternoon,
something has happened, something really rather awkward. I do not often
lose money at poker, Mrs. Avalon--in fact, I make a point of not losing
money at poker, in so far, of course, as a man of honour may make a
point about a hazard. But, whether it was the memory of your beauty, for
I may not ever forget it, that came between me and my skill, or
whether--Oh, what does it matter why it was, since the fact remains that
I have lost money, and must pay what I owe or forfeit my honour....”
“Your _honour_!” she gasped. “Oh, _commedia, commedia_!”
“I could wish I was as privileged as you to take a comical view of it.
It is only a small debt, however. A matter of twenty pounds. I have
still ten left of the fifty you so kindly lent to me the other day--I
wonder, Mrs. Avalon, I wonder if you could by any chance help me with
the rest? I should be so grateful.”
So she had been right about him, after all! He would not have come
again, in the ordinary way. She looked into his eyes, and they were as
the eyes of other men. The cavalier of the streets was without his
sneer.
“Yes,” she said gravely. “A debt of honour--surely you must pay a debt
of honour, O cavalier of the streets! It is very commendable in you to
want to.”
“It is merely good sense, madam. Like all matters of honour. If one does
not pay, one does not get paid.”
Her fingers were playing within her bag. They ceased.
“I’m so afraid,” she murmured, “that I have only a few shillings....”
“Pity!” whispered the shabby young man; and he smiled curiously, as
might a man whose horse has been beaten by a short head.
“I will go home,” said Fay Avalon, “and get you the money.”
“You will do nothing of the sort, Mrs. Avalon. Ridiculous to put you to
that trouble for a mere ten pounds. Besides, it might cause comment if I
showed myself at your door again.”
“My butler thought you charming,” she told him gravely.
“Therein he discerned your influence over me, Mrs. Avalon. No, I have a
better idea! Go back to Prince Shuvarov and ask him to----”
“But he is so poor!”
“Heavens, those insufferable drawings of his must sometimes fetch some
money! Try, please. It is only fair, after all, that he should
contribute a little towards my support----”
“Your debt of honour, surely!”
“I am rebuked. A man’s honour would be very adequately preserved by you,
Mrs. Avalon. But please do as I suggest. I will abide by the weight of
Shuvarov’s pocket.”
With a quick gesture, she left him. She found Shuvarov preparing to
shave, for when he was dining out he always shaved twice, like all
proper men. She did not give him time to voice his surprise at her
re-entrance.
“That wretch is here again,” she explained swiftly. “I know you are
poor, dear, but have you just a few pounds you could lend me? Ten, for
instance?”
Shuvarov began furiously, his cheeks mantling. “That man....” He waved
his shaving-brush.
“Never mind that now, dear. Have you or haven’t you the money? Please,
Nicholas?” She was always gentle with him. He was such a child.
Nicholas Pavlovitch shrugged his shoulders, and banged down the
shaving-brush.
“You are encouraging him,” he said fatalistically. “Lucky I sold a
drawing for just that amount to-day. Lucky for that man, I mean.” He
fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and gave her a banknote.
“Bless you, Nicholas!” she cried softly, and was going, when the light
fell on the banknote in her hand so that there was visible on it a
little splash as of red ink....
Slowly, she looked up at Prince Nicholas Pavlovitch Shuvarov. Her lips
did not move, but he understood, and his thin, handsome face went as
white as a soiled handkerchief.
The cavalier of the streets saw her face as she approached. She flung
the note at him, so that it fell from his jacket to his feet. She passed
him. But fingers swiftly clutched her arm, so that it hurt.
“That,” he said harshly, “will teach a lovely lady to love scum. I
intended that it should. He and I arranged the _coup_, ages ago. But
when I saw you the first time, in Hampstead, I sickened. That is why I
was so beastly, that you should hate me as much as I hated myself. _Le
coup est nul_, I told Shuvarov after that. Since then your face has
haunted me. So I did this--to cure you of your silly infatuation for a
man who would eat into your life like a foul little worm into a lovely
fruit. God, how you could ever have liked that lousy, half-baked,
professional Russian! I saw him to-day, and saw that he still had the
note with the red mark on it--this!” And he ground his heel on the note
on the pavement. Tighter he held her arm, and he scowled into her face.
She thought of the wet-white she would have to use on her arm to hide
the bruises of his fingers.
“You’re hurting me!” she cried.
“I know. I have sinned against you,” he said, “but you have done worse.
You have sinned against yourself. Now go, and sin no more. And you’d
better go damn quick else you’ll be very late for dinner and the old
K.C. will get cross.”
“_You_ to talk of sin!” she cried, and laughed.
“Naturally, Fay Avalon. For only Satan can rebuke sin with authority.”
“Oh, pouf!” she laughed. “You are sentimental then!”
“Hell!” snapped the cavalier of the streets. “I am in love!” And as he
swept off his dilapidated hat she could not help a thought that a plume
would wave more becomingly from that particular hat than from any other
hat she knew or would ever know. Romance....
“Oh, dear!” sighed Mrs. Avalon. “Good-bye.” But the cavalier was already
only a distant shadow in the street.