PASSION
She came to him in a few moments, dressed in a fascinating negligee
gown,--came to him with a rustle of silk and a faint expression of
surprise upon her upraised eyebrows.
"I did not expect you until this evening," she remarked.
He nodded. "I took the liberty of coming here to ask you a question."
She smiled as she sat down upon the sofa. "Oh, the paper is quite safe."
"How did you know what I came for?" he asked, a little startled.
"My dear friend," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "as I have
decided that it is to my interests to link my future with yours,
you cannot wonder that I have found such details as those"--she
pointed to an evening paper which he noticed now lying upon her
writing-table--"interesting. I have been trying to understand how
matters stand. Tell me if I am right! It seems to me that so long as
that document remains an imagined thing, so long as it is not produced
or sworn to definitely, you are safe."
"The corporation is safe," answered Deane, "and in a measure, I suppose,
I am. On the other hand, I shall be accused, naturally, of suppressing
it, and probably of complicity in Sinclair's murder. There is Hefferom,
you see, prepared to swear that Sinclair came to London with that paper
in his possession. Sinclair is known to have come to my office. He has
certainly been murdered. The paper cannot be found, and the corporation
remains in possession of the mine. People will certainly put these
things together."
She nodded. "It will be very bad indeed," she said slowly, "for your
reputation."
"It will, I am afraid," said Deane, "considerably lessen my social value
as your husband."
"It seems to me," she replied, "that money is so powerful. I daresay you
will be able to live it down."
"With your help," Deane remarked sarcastically, "it seems to me very
possible. By the bye," he continued, "with reference to that document,
you must forgive me if I feel some slight uneasiness at times as to its
safety."
"You need have none," she answered. "It is in safe keeping."
"It is your own interests as well as mine you are guarding," he reminded
her.
"I am perfectly aware of it," she answered. "Since you are here, may I
offer you some tea?"
"Thanks," he said, "I think not. By the bye, do you care to go to the
Opera to-night? I have two stalls, and Melba is singing."
A sudden light flashed over her face. It was as though the mask had been
raised for a moment. Perhaps by contrast her tone seemed colder than
ever as she answered him. "I should like to very much. Will you call for
me?"
"At half-past seven," he answered. "We will have a little dinner
somewhere first."
"You are sure," she asked, "that you do not mind being seen out?"
"It is all to my advantage," he answered. "The men who are most talked
about should never shrink from publicity. The people who have been told
to-day that I am a bankrupt, a swindler, and a murderer, and that my
ruin is only a matter of minutes, will hesitate if they see me with you
in the stalls of the Opera to-night."
"Nero fiddled," she reminded him.
"Nero was a hysterical person," he answered. "My tendencies are towards
the other extreme. Until half-past seven, then."
"Until half-past seven," she repeated.
He bowed and left her without even shaking hands. She stood quite still
for a moment, looking at the door which he had closed behind him. Then
she crossed the room slowly, and lifted the vase with its solitary rose
to her lips. A second later it lay dashed to pieces upon the floor, the
flaming color was in her cheeks, her fists were clenched.
"I hate him!" she declared to herself. "I hate him now more than ever!"
[Illustration: "I hate him!" she declared to herself. "I hate him now
more than ever!"]
* * * * *
Winifred talked more than usual at the short dinner which they had at a
famous cafe close to the Opera House. Deane, a little weary with the
strain of the day, was at first irresponsive, but gradually he forgot
himself in the interest of playing his new part. She was wearing a dress
of black velvet, a rope of pearls which had been sent for her inspection
only that afternoon, and pearl earrings, concerning which she gravely
asked his opinion. There was something a little un-English-looking about
her to-night,--about the small, delicate head with the masses of brown
hair, the pale complexion, the deep eyes with their hidden depths, the
pearls which fell so gracefully over her black gown. Many people knew
him by sight, and pointed him out to others,--the man whom everyone was
talking about, the man who was supposed to be shivering on the brink of
social and financial ruin, whose very freedom from justice might be a
matter of hours,--sitting there with a girl who was unknown to all of
them, yet without a doubt one of his own world! Some of them wondered
that she should care to be seen about with him at such a time. These,
however, were mostly the men. The women, who saw him as usual,
well-groomed, good-looking, debonair, only admired him the more for his
courage.
They had driven the few yards together to the Opera House in silence.
Nevertheless, Deane fancied that his companion seemed to-night a little
more accessible. He was amazed to find how great an interest he was
beginning to take in her moods, amazed to find himself taking every
opportunity to touch her fingers, to speak covertly of the destined
ending of their engagement. He fancied sometimes that her fingers rested
more softly in his, that the chill aloofness of her demeanor had been
more than once on the point of being raised. And yet, after all, it
might only be fancy, he thought, as he followed her and the attendant
along the corridor into their places. He was a fool to trouble himself
about it. She was very likely what she had always seemed,--a bloodless,
indifferent creature, with a greed for jewels and fine clothes sprung up
in her,--a fungus growth, the evil result of her long years of
servitude. Yet that night his convictions as to her coldness received
something of a shock. It was the first night they had been to the Opera
together, and he had imagined that she would sit as she had sat through
so many theatres,--slightly bored, slightly nonchalant, interested only
to know who the people might be by whom they were surrounded, and in the
play itself if by chance it was well acted and satisfactory. To-night,
he realized that there were things which could move her, even if he
himself had not the power. He saw her eyes flash with the glory of the
music, and he saw them turn marvellously soft and tender as the
white-robed Iseult sang to them with sobs in her throat, sobs which
seemed to make that melody only more intense and sweeter. She seemed to
respond to every note of the music. More than once he saw her quiver
with excitement. By accident her fingers touched his and rested there.
He felt a thrill which amazed him. For the moment he, too, forgot that
wretched maze of affairs in which he was plunged. The great passionate
love-story throbbed, too, in his heart and veins. The figures on the
stage were for a moment dim. They existed only as types. In those few
seconds he realized, for the first time in his life, the real meaning of
this wonderful emotion with which the very air around them seemed
charged, and almost at the moment of realization there came to him
fiercely, insistently, the great question,--did she share it, did she
understand, was it possible that such a passion could be born of itself,
without response or encouragement? He leaned forward, and tried to see
into her face. A great stillness reigned in the half-darkened Opera
House, a stillness except for the wonderful music which still flowed
from those divine lips. He leaned forward until he could see her face,
and his heart throbbed with the wonder of it! All the passion, all the
intense mystery of a strenuous love were there in her glowing eyes, her
half-parted lips! It was only a momentary glimpse he had. Then, as
though conscious of his observation, she raised her fan. Their eyes had
never met. He was left, after all, with the problem unsolved!
Deane came down to earth again as the curtain fell. His companion drew a
long, soft breath, and leaned back in her seat.
"Don't you want to go out and smoke or something?" she asked calmly. "I
do not feel like talking at all. The music is wonderful!"
He left her without a word. Only as he reached the end of his row and
turned to walk up the sloping aisle, he glanced back once more. She had
not moved. Her eyes were closed. She seemed, indeed, like a person
exhausted with the strain of listening. He made his way out to the
refreshment room, humming softly to himself. It was a mask, after all,
which she wore! He understood suddenly the relief which had come to him.
He understood that this engagement, which had seemed to him like a piece
of half-contemptible bathos, had suddenly become the first and most
desirable thing in his life!