"You really must do something for this boy Pierce Phillips." Mrs.
Cavendish spoke with decision.
The newspaper which the colonel was reading was barely six weeks old,
therefore he was deeply engrossed in it, and he looked up somewhat
absentmindedly.
"Yes, yes. Of course, my dear," he murmured. "What does he want now?"
"Why, he wants his liberty! He wants this absurd charge against him
dismissed! It's a shame to hold a boy of his character, his breeding,
on the mere word of a man like Count Courteau."
Colonel Cavendish smiled quizzically. "You, too, eh?" said he.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, you're the fourth woman who has appealed to me since his arrest.
I dare say I'll hear from others. I never saw a fellow who had the
female vote so solidly behind him. I'm beginning to regard him as a
sort of domestic menace."
"You surely don't believe him guilty?"
When her husband refused to commit himself Mrs. Cavendish exclaimed,
"Rubbish!"
"First Josephine came to me," the colonel observed. "She was deeply
indignant and considerably disappointed in me as a man and a father
when I refused to quash the entire proceedings and apologize, on behalf
of the Dominion Government, for the injury to the lad's feelings. She
was actually peeved. What ails her I don't know. Then the Countess
Courteau dropped in, and so did that 'lady dealer' from the Rialto. Now
you take up his defense." The speaker paused thoughtfully for an
instant. "It's bad enough to have the fellow hanging around our
quarters at all hours, but Josephine actually suggested that we have
him DINE with us!"
"I know. She spoke of it to me. But he isn't 'hanging around at all
hours.' Josephine is interested in his case, just as I am, because--"
"My dear! He's a weigher in a saloon, a gambling-house employee. D'you
think it wise to raise such a dust about him? I like the boy
myself--can't help liking him--but you understand what he's been doing?
He's been cutting up; going the pace. I never knew you to countenance a
fellow--"
"I never saw a boy toward whom I felt so--motherly," Mrs. Cavendish
said, with some irrelevance. "I don't like wild young men any better
than you do, but--he isn't a thief, of that I'm sure."
"Look here." Colonel Cavendish laid down his paper, and there was more
gravity than usual in his tone. "I haven't told you everything, but
it's evidently time I did. Phillips was mixed up with bad associates,
the very worst in town--"
"So he told me."
"He couldn't have told you what I'm about to. He had a most unfortunate
affair with a dance-hall girl--one that reflects no credit upon him. He
was on the straight path to ruin and going at a gallop, drinking,
gambling--everything."
"All the more reason for trying to save him. Remember, you were
pretty wild yourself."
"Wait! I don't say he's guilty of this charge; I want to believe him
innocent--I'd like to help prove it. For that very reason it occurred
to me that Laure--she's the dance-hall girl--might throw some light on
the matter, so I put Rock to work on her. Well, his report wasn't
pleasant. The girl talked, but what she said didn't help Phillips. She
confessed that he'd been stealing right along and giving her the money."
Mrs. Cavendish was shocked, incredulous. After a moment, however, she
shook her head positively and exclaimed, "I don't believe a word of it."
"She's going to swear to it."
"Her oath would be no better than her word--"
"Good Lord!" the colonel cried, testily. "Has this young imp completely
hypnotized you women? The Kirby girl is frightened to death, and the
Countess--well, she told me herself that her husband's jealousy was at
the bottom of the whole thing. Laure, in spite of what she said to
Rock, is behaving like a mad person. I dropped in at the Rialto this
evening and she asked me what was the worst Pierce could expect. I made
it strong, purposely, and I thought she'd faint. No, it's a nasty
affair, all through. And, by Jove! to cap the climax, you and Josephine
take part in it! I flatter myself that I'm democratic, but--have him
here to dine! Gad! That's playing democracy pretty strong."
"It isn't fair to imply that he's nothing more than a ladies' man.
They're detestable. The men like Phillips, too."
"True," Cavendish admitted. "He has the God-given faculty of making
friends, and for that alone I can forgive him almost anything. It's a
wonderful faculty--better than being born lucky or rich or handsome.
I'm fond of him, but I've favored him all I can. If I thought Josephine
were seriously interested in him--well, I wouldn't feel so friendly."
The speaker laughed shortly, "No. The man who claims that girl's
attention must be clean through and through. He must stand the acid
test."
When his wife silently approved this sentiment the colonel picked up
his paper and resumed his reading.
Pierce's friends were indeed uniformly indignant, and without exception
they maintained their faith in his innocence; most of them, in fact,
actually applied themselves to the task of clearing him of Courteau's
charge. But of the latter the one who applied herself the most
thoughtfully, the most seriously, was the Countess Courteau. Having
reasoned that she herself was indirectly responsible for his plight,
she set about aiding him in a thoroughly feminine and indirect manner.
It was an unpleasant undertaking; she took it up with intense
abhorrence; it required her utmost determination to carry it on. Her
plan had formed itself immediately she had learned what had happened;
her meeting with the Count that evening and her unexpected solicitude,
her unbidden attention to his injury, were a part of it. As time went
on she assumed an air that amazed the man. She meekly accepted his
reproaches, she submitted to his abuse; cautiously, patiently she paved
the way to a reconciliation.
It was by no means easy, for she and Henri had long lived in what was
little better than a state of open hostility, and she had been at no
pains to conceal the utter disregard and contempt she felt for him. He,
of course, had resented it; her change of demeanor now awoke his
suspicion. He was a vain and shallow person, however; his conceit was
thoroughly Latin, and Hilda's perseverance was in a way rewarded.
Slowly, grudgingly he gave ground before her subtle advances--they
were, in fact, less advances on her part than opportunities for him--he
experienced a feeling of triumph and began to assume a masterful air
that was indeed trying to one of her disposition. Before his friends he
boasted that his energetic defense of his honor had worked a marvel in
his home; in her presence he made bold to take on a swagger and an
authority hitherto unknown.
Hilda stood it, with what cost no one could possibly understand. In
some manner she managed to convey the idea that he dominated her and
that she cringed spiritually before him. She permitted him occasionally
to surprise a look of bewilderment, almost of fright, in her eyes, and
this tickled the man immensely. With a fatuous complacency, thoroughly
typical, he told himself that she feared and respected him--was
actually falling in love with him all over again. When he felt the
impulse to scout this idea he went to his mirror and examined himself
critically, Why not? he asked himself. He was very pleasing. Women had
always been wax in his hands; he had a personality, an air, an
irresistible something that had won him many conquests. It seemed not
unlikely that Hilda had been shocked into a new and keener realization
of his many admirable qualities and was ready to make up, if, or when,
he graciously chose to permit her.
On the very evening that Colonel Cavendish and his wife were discussing
Pierce Phillips' affair, Courteau, feeling in a particularly jubilant
mood, decided to put the matter to a test; therefore he surprised his
wife by walking into her room unannounced.
"My dear," he began, "it's high time we had a talk."
"Indeed!" said she. "What about?"
"About you, about me, about our affairs. Are we husband and wife or are
we not? I ask you."
With a queer flicker of her eyelids she answered: "Why--of course. You
have appeared to forget it sometimes, but--"
"No reproaches, please. The past is gone. Neither of us is without
blame. You've had your fling, too, but I've shown you that I'm made of
stern stuff and will tolerate no further foolishness. I am a different
Courteau than you ever knew. I've had my rebirth. Now then, our present
mode of life is not pleasing to me, for I'm a fellow of spirit. Think
of me--in the attitude of a dependent!"
"I share generously with you. I give you money--"
"The very point," he broke in, excitedly. "You give; I accept. You
direct; I obey. It must end now, at once. I cannot play the
accompaniment while you sing. Either I close my eyes to your folly and
forgive, utterly--either we become man and wife again and I assume
leadership--or I make different plans for the future."
"Just what do you propose, Henri?"
The fellow shrugged. "I offer you a reconciliation; that, to begin
with. You've had your lesson and I flatter myself that you see me in a
new light. The brave can afford to be generous. I--well, I've always
had a feeling for you; I've never been blind to your attractions, my
dear. Lately I've even experienced something of the--er--the old spell.
Understand me? It's a fact.' I'm actually taken with you, Hilda; I have
the fire of an impetuous lover."
Courteau's eyes gleamed; there was an unusual warmth to his gaze and a
vibrance to his tone. He curled his mustache, he swelled his chest, he
laughed lightly but deeply. "What do you say, eh? I'm not altogether
displeasing. No? You see something in me to admire? I thrill you?
Confess."
The wife lowered her eyes. "You have some power--" she murmured.
"Power! Precisely." The Count nodded and there was a growing vivacity
and sparkle to him. "That is my quality--a power to charm, a power to
achieve, a power to triumph. Well, I choose now to win you again for
myself. It is my whim. To rekindle a love which one has lost is a test
of any man's power, n'est-ce pas? You are fond of me. I see it. Am I
not right, my sweet?"
He laid his soft white hands upon his wife's shoulders and bent an
ardent gaze upon her. Hilda faced him with an odd smile; her cheeks
were white, her ice-blue eyes were very wide and bright and they held a
curious expression.
"Come! A kiss!" he persisted. "Oho! You tremble, you shrink like a
maiden. I, too, am exhilarated, but--" With a chuckle he folded her in
his embrace and she did not resist. After a moment he resumed: "This is
quite too amusing. I wish my friends to see and to understand. Put on
your prettiest dress--"
"What for?"
"We are going down-town. We shall celebrate our reunion--we shall drink
to it publicly. All Dawson shall take note. They have said, 'Courteau
is a loafer, a ne'er-do-well, and he permits another to win his wife
away from him.' I propose to show them."
"You mean you propose to show me off. Is that it? Another conquest, eh?"
"Have it as you will. I--"
"I won't go," Hilda cried, furiously. She freed herself from his arms.
"You know I won't go. You'd like to parade me in the places you
frequent--saloons, dance-halls, gambling-houses. The idea!"
"You won't? Tut, tut! What is this?" Courteau cried, angrily.
"Rebellious so soon? Is this recent change of demeanor assumed? Have
you been fooling me?"
"What change?" the woman parried. "I don't know--"
"Oh yes, you do! For the first time in years you have treated me as a
husband should be treated; half-measures will no longer satisfy me. We
have arrived at the show-up. Are you a miserable Delilah or--"
"Please don't ask me to go out with you, Henri," the woman pleaded, in
genuine distress, now that she saw he was in earnest. "To be paraded
like an animal on a chain! Think of my feelings."
"Indeed! Think of mine," he cried. "This is my hour, my triumph; I
propose to make it complete. Now that I carefully consider it, I will
put you to the test. You've had a fine time; if you pay a price for it,
whose fault is that? No! One must be cruel to be kind."
"Cruel! Kind!" Hilda sneered. "It merely pleases you to humiliate me."
"Very well!" blazed the Count. "If it pleases me, so be it. That is my
attitude now and henceforth--my will is to be law. Come! Your prettiest
dress and your prettiest smile, for we celebrate. Yes, and money, too;
I'm as poverty-ridden as usual. We will treat my friends, we will
gamble here and there, we will watch the shows to an accompaniment of
popping corks so that every one shall see us and say: 'Yonder is
Courteau and his wife. They have made up and she adores him like a
mistress. Parbleu! The man has a way with women, eh!' It shall be a
great night for me."
"Are you really serious?"
Courteau stamped his felt-shod foot. "Anger me no more."
Hilda's face was colorless, her eyes were still glowing with that
peculiar light of defiance, of desperation, of curiosity; nevertheless,
she turned away and began to dress herself.
Courteau was not disappointed. His appearance in the river-front
resorts, accompanied by his wife, created a sensation indeed. And
Hilda's bearing, under the circumstances, added to his gratification,
for, now that the die was cast, she surrendered completely, she clung
to him as if feeling a new dependence, and this filled his cup to
overflowing. It was an outrageous thing to do; no one save a Courteau
would have thought of subjecting the woman who bore his name to such a
humiliation. But he was a perverse individual; his mind ran in crooked
courses; he took a bizarre delight in the unusual, and morality of the
common sort he knew not. To smirch her, even a little bit, to subject
her to seeming disgrace, not only taught her a lesson, but also united
them more closely, so he told himself. That he had the ability to
compel her to do anything against her will immensely tickled his
vanity, for her stubborn independence had always been a trial to him.
He knew that her social status was not of the highest; nevertheless,
her reputation was far better than his, and among all except the newest
arrivals in Dawson she bore a splendid name. To be, himself, the cause
of blackening that name, in order to match his own, gratified his
feelings of resentment. All in all, it was a night of nights for him
and he was at no pains to conceal his satisfaction. From one place to
another he led her, taking malicious enjoyment from the distress he
caused.
Courteau was not loud nor blatant; nevertheless, his triumphant
demeanor, his proprietary air, fairly shouted the fact that he had
tamed this woman and was exhibiting her against her inclinations. At
every bar he forced her to drink with him and with his friends; he even
called up barroom loafers whom he did not know and introduced them with
an elaborate flourish. The money he spent was hers, of course, but he
squandered it royally, leaving a trail of empty champagne-bottles
behind. Champagne, at this time, sold for twenty dollars a quart and,
although Hilda saw her earnings melting away with appalling rapidity,
she offered no protest. Together they flung their chips broadcast upon
the gambling-tables, and their winnings, which were few, went to buy
more popularity with the satellites who trailed them.
As time passed and Hilda continued to meet the test, her husband's
satisfaction gained a keener edge. He beamed, he strutted, he twisted
his mustache to needle-points. She was a thoroughbred, that he assured
himself. But, after all, why shouldn't she do this for him? The women
with whom he was accustomed to associate would not have counted such an
evening as this a sacrifice, and, even had they so considered it, he
was in the habit of exacting sacrifices from women. They liked it; it
proved their devotion.
Her subjugation was made complete when he led her into a box at the
Rialto Theater and insisted upon the two McCaskeys joining them. The
brothers at first declined, but by this time Courteau's determination
carried all before it.
Joe halted him outside the box door, however, to inquire into the
meaning of the affair.
"It means this," the Count informed him. "I have effected a complete
reconciliation with my adorable wife. Women are all alike--they fear
the iron, they kiss the hand that smites them. I have made her my
obedient slave, mon ami. That's what it means."
"It don't look good to me," Joe said, morosely. "She's got an ace
buried somewhere."
"Eh? What are you trying to say?"
"I've got a hunch she's salving you, Count. She's stuck on Phillips,
like I told you, and she's trying to get a peek at your hole card."
It was characteristic of Courteau that he should take instant offense
at this reflection upon his sagacity, this doubt of his ability as a
charmer.
"You insult my intelligence," he cried, stiffly, "and, above all, I
possess intelligence. You--do not. No. You are coarse, you are gross. I
am full of sentiment--"
"Rats!" McCaskey growled. "I get that way myself sometimes. Sentiment
like yours costs twenty dollars a quart. But this ain't the time for a
spree; we got business on our hands."
The Count eyed his friend with a frown. "It is a personal affair and
concerns our business not in the least. I am a revengeful person; I
have pride and I exact payment from those who wound it. I brought my
wife here as a punishment and I propose to make her drink with you.
Your company is not agreeable at any time, my friend, and she does you
an honor--"
"Cut out that tony talk," Joe said, roughly. "You're a broken-hipped
stiff and you're trying to grab her bank-roll. Don't you s'pose I'm on?
My company was all right until you got your hand in the hotel
cash-drawer; now I'm coarse. Maybe she's on the square--she fell for
you once--but I bet she's working you. Make sure of this, my high and
mighty nobleman"--for emphasis the speaker laid a heavy hand upon the
Count's shoulder and thrust his disagreeable face closer--"that you
keep your mouth shut. Savvy? Don't let her sweat you--"
The admonitory words ended abruptly, for the door of the box reopened
and Joe found the Countess Courteau facing him. For an instant their
glances met and in her eyes the man saw an expression uncomfortably
reminiscent of that day at Sheep Camp when she had turned public wrath
upon his brother Jim's head. But the look was fleeting; she turned it
upon her husband, and the Count, with an apology for his delay, entered
the box, dragging McCaskey with him.
Frank, it appeared, shared his brother's suspicions; the two exchanged
glances as Joe entered; then when the little party had adjusted itself
to the cramped quarters they watched the Countess curiously, hoping to
analyze her true intent. But in this they were unsuccessful. She
treated both of them with a cool, impartial formality, quite natural
under the circumstances, but in no other way did she appear conscious
of that clash on the Chilkoot trail. It was not a pleasant situation at
best, and Joe especially was ill at ease, but Courteau continued his
spendthrift role, keeping the waiters busy, and under the influence of
his potations the elder McCaskey soon regained some of his natural
sang-froid. All three men drank liberally, and by the time the lower
floor had been cleared for dancing they were in a hilarious mood. They
laughed loudly, they shouted greetings across to other patrons of the
place, they flung corks at the whirling couples below.
Meanwhile, they forced the woman to imbibe with them. Joe, in spite of
his returning confidence, kept such close watch of her that she could
not spill her glass into the bucket, except rarely. Hilda hated alcohol
and its effect; she was not accustomed to drinking. As she felt her
intoxication mounting she became fearful that the very medium upon
which she had counted for success would prove to be her undoing.
Desperately she battled to retain her wits. More than once, with a
reckless defiance utterly foreign to her preconceived plans, she was
upon the point of hurling the bubbling contents of her glass into the
flushed faces about her and telling these men how completely she was
shamming, but she managed to resist the temptation. That she felt such
an impulse at all made her fearful of committing some action equally
rash, of dropping some word that would prove fatal.
It was a hideous ordeal. She realized that already the cloak of
decency, of respectability, which she had been at such pains to
preserve during these difficult years, was gone, lost for good and all.
She had made herself a Lady Godiva; by this night of conspicuous
revelry she had undone everything. Not only had she condoned the sins
and the shortcomings of her dissolute husband, but also she had put
herself on a level with him and with the fallen women of the town--his
customary associates. Courteau had done this to her. It had been his
proposal. She could have throttled him where he sat.
The long night dragged on interminably. Like leeches the two McCaskeys
clung to their prodigal host, and not until the early hours of morning,
when the Count had become sodden, sullen, stupefied, and when they were
in a condition little better, did they permit him to leave them. How
Hilda got him home she scarcely knew, for she, too, had all but lost
command of her senses. There were moments when she fought unavailingly
against a mental numbness, a stupor that rolled upward and suffused her
like a cloud of noxious vapors, leaving her knees weak, her hands
clumsy, her vision blurred; again waves of deathly illness surged over
her. Under and through it all, however, her subconscious will to
conquer remained firm. Over and over she told herself:
"I'll have the truth and then--I'll make him pay."
Courteau followed his wife into her room, and there his maudlin manner
changed. He roused himself and smiled at her fatuously; into his eyes
flamed a desire, into his cheeks came a deeper flush. He pawed at her
caressingly; he voiced thick, passionate protestations. Hilda had
expected nothing less; it was for this that she had bled her flesh and
crucified her spirit these many hours.
"You're--wonderful woman," the man mumbled as he swayed with her in his
arms. "Got all the old charm and more. Game, too!" He laughed
foolishly, then in drunken gravity asserted: "Well, I'm the man, the
stronger vessel. To turn hate into love, that--"
"You've taken your price. You've had your hour," she told him. Her head
was thrown back, her eyes were closed, her teeth were clenched as if in
a final struggle for self-restraint.
Courteau pressed his lips to hers; then in a sudden frenzy he crushed
her closer and fell to kissing her cheeks, her neck, her throat. He
mistook her shudder of abhorrence for a thrill responsive to his
passion, and hiccoughed:
"You're mine again, all mine, and--I'm mad about you. I'm aflame. This
is like the night of our marriage, what?"
"Are you satisfied, now that you've made me suffer? Do you still
imagine I care for that foolish boy?"
"Phillips? Bah! A noisy swine." Again the Count chuckled, but this time
his merriment ran away with him until he shook and until tears came to
his eyes.
Without reason Hilda joined in his laughter. Together they stood
rocking, giggling, snickering, as if at some excruciating jest.
"He--he tried to steal you--from me. From ME. Imagine it! Then he
struck me. Well, where is he now, eh?"
"I never dreamed that you cared enough for me to--do what you did. To
risk so much."
"Risk?"
Hilda nodded, and her loose straw-gold hair brushed Courteau's cheek.
"Don't pretend any longer. I knew from the start. But you were jealous.
When a woman loses the power to excite jealousy it's a sign she's
growing old and ugly and losing her fire. She can face anything except
that."
"Fire!" Henri exclaimed. "Parbleu! Don't I know you to be a volcano?"
"How did you manage the affair--that fellow's ruin? It frightens me to
realize that you can accomplish such things."
The Count pushed his wife away. "What are you talking about?" he
demanded.
"Oh, very well! Carry it out if you wish," she said, with a careless
shrug. "But you're not fooling me in the least. On the contrary, I
admire your spirit. Now then, I'm thirsty. And you are, too." With a
smile she evaded his outstretched arms and left the room. She was back
in a moment with a bottle and two glasses. The latter she filled; her
own she raised with a gesture, and Courteau blindly followed suit.
In spite of his deep intoxication the man still retained the embers of
suspicion, and when she spoke of Pierce Phillips they began to glow and
threatened to burst into flame. Cunningly, persistently she played upon
him, however. She enticed, she coquetted, she cajoled; she maddened him
with her advances; she teased him with her repulses; she drugged him
with her smiles, her fragrant charms. Time and again he was upon the
point of surrender, but caught himself in time.
She won at last. She dragged the story from him, bit by bit, playing
upon his vanity, until he gabbled boastfully and took a crapulent
delight in repeating the details. It was a tale distorted and confused,
but the truth was there. She made an excuse to leave him, finally, and
remained out of the room for a long time. When she returned it was to
find him sprawled across her bed and fast asleep.
For a moment she held dizzily to the bedpost and stared down at him.
Her mask had slipped now, her face was distorted with loathing, and so
deep were her feelings that she could not bear to touch him, even to
cover him over. Leaving him spread-eagled as he was, she staggered out
of his unclean presence.
Hilda was deathly sick; objects were gyrating before her eyes; she felt
a hideous nightmare sensation of unreality, and was filled with an
intense contempt, a tragic disgust for herself. Pausing at the foot of
the stairs, she strove to gather herself together; then slowly,
passionately she cursed the name of Pierce Phillips.