HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A PALPABLE HIT.
As Mabel had said, she did not meet Harold Caffyn again until both
were dining at Mrs. Featherstone's on the evening of the first
rehearsal to which Vincent had been favoured with an invitation. The
instant he saw her he felt that some change had taken place in their
relations, that the toleration he had met with since her marriage had
given place to the old suspicion and dislike. It was an early and
informal dinner, the guests being a few of those who were to take part
in the acting later on. Mrs. Featherstone had contrived that Caffyn,
notwithstanding his position as accepted suitor, should not sit next
to Gilda, and on taking his place he found Mabel on his other hand and
his _fiancée_ opposite. As often as he could, he tried to open a
conversation with the former, but she met him coldly and shortly, and
with each attempt he fell back baffled. He might have persevered but
for the consciousness that Gilda's eyes were upon them, for she had
been growing very exacting since the engagement had been formally
declared. But just before the ladies rose he found an opportunity to
say, 'Mabel--Mrs. Ashburn--am I unfortunate enough to have displeased
you lately?'
'Displeased is not the right word,' she said: 'you have done far more
than that.'
'And am I not to be told my offence?' he said, looking at her keenly.
'Not here,' she replied. 'You can ask my husband, if you like.'
'Really?' he said. 'You refer me to him, then? We must try and come to
an understanding together, I suppose.'
'When you have heard him,' she said, 'there is one thing I shall have
to say to you myself.'
'May I come and hear it later?' asked Caffyn, and Mabel gave a little
sign of assent as she left the table.
'I shall send down for you when we're ready,' said Mrs. Featherstone
at the door. 'Will those who have any changes to make mind coming
now--it's so late, and we must get in the way of being punctual.'
One or two who were playing servants or character-parts left the table
immediately; the others remained, and Harold, whose dressing would not
take him long, found himself next to Mark, and rather apart from the
men, at the host's end of the table.
'You're the very man I wanted to have a little talk with!' he began in
an easy conversational manner. 'Your wife seems deucedly annoyed with
me for some reason--she says you can explain. Now, just tell me
quietly without any nonsense--what's it all about, eh?'
Now that Mark had seen the other's conduct in its true light he was
really indignant: Caffyn seemed more undesirable an associate than
ever. He would have been justified in taking a high standpoint from
which to deal with him--since whatever his own errors had been, they
would never be revealed now--but somehow, he adopted an almost
conciliatory tone.
'The fact is,' he replied, with an embarrassed cough, 'it's about that
letter of Holroyd's.'
Caffyn's face slightly changed.
'The devil it is!' he said. 'Thought I'd heard the last of that long
ago!'
'You're likely to hear a good deal more about it, I'm afraid,' said
Mark. 'It has only just come out that it was his, and unopened--you
will find it awkward to contradict.'
Caffyn was silent for a time. Dolly must have spoken again. What a
fool he had been to trust a child a second time!--and yet he had had
no choice. 'Well,' he said at last, 'and what are _you_ going to do
about it?'
Mark's throat grew huskier. It was odd, for there was really no reason
for being afraid of the man. 'Well, I--in short, I may as well tell
you plainly, my wife thinks it is better we should not see any more of
you in future.'
There was a dangerous look in Caffyn's eye which Mark did not at all
like. 'Ah, well, of course you mean to talk her out of that?' he said
lightly.
Was there a concealed menace in his tone? If so, Mark thought, he
probably considered that his services connected with Vincent's sudden
return gave him a claim. Well, he must disabuse him of that idea at
once.
'It would be of no use if I tried to talk her out of it; but, to be
quite candid, I--I don't intend to do anything of the kind.... I know
we've been friends and all that sort of thing, and till I knew this I
always said what I could for you; but--but this suppressing a letter
is very different. I can't feel the same myself for you after that, it
is better to tell you so distinctly. And then--there is poor little
Dolly--she is my sister now--it seems you have been frightening her a
second time.'
'On whose account--eh, Ashburn?' asked Caffyn.
Mark had expected this. 'I'm sorry to say on mine,' he replied; 'but
if I had known, do you suppose that for one moment---- I don't deny
that, as I told you at the time, I was glad to see Holroyd leave town
just then; but it was--was not so important as all that! Still you did
me a service, and I'm sorry to have to do this, but I can't help
myself. You will find others harder on you than I am!'
'Does that mean that Mrs. Langton has been told this precious story
with all the latest improvements?' asked Caffyn.
'Not yet,' said Mark, 'but she must know before long.'
'And as for yourself, you consider me such an utterly irreclaimable
blackguard that you can't afford to be seen with me any longer?'
pursued Caffyn.
'My dear fellow,' protested Mark, 'I don't want to judge you. But, as
far as the conclusion goes, I'm afraid it comes to that!'
'Perhaps, it has not quite come to that yet,' said Caffyn, as he drew
his chair closer to Mark's, and, resting one arm on the back, looked
him full in the face with searching intensity. 'Are you sure you have
the right to be so very exclusive?'
If Mark could have controlled his nerves then, he might have been able
to parry a thrust which, had he only known it, was something of an
experiment. As it was, the unexpectedness of it took him off his
guard, just when he thought he was proof against all surprises. The
ghastly change in him told Caffyn that he had struck the right chord
after all, and a diabolical joy lit his eyes as he leaned forward and
touched his arm affectionately.
'You infernal hypocrite!' he said very softly. 'I know all about it.
Do you hear?'
'About _what_?' gasped the miserable man, and then with a flickering
effort at defiance, 'What do you mean?' he asked, 'tell me what you
are hinting at?'
'Keep quiet,' said Caffyn, 'don't excite yourself: they'll notice
something presently if you look like that! Here are some fellows
coming round with the coffee, wait till they have gone, and I'll tell
you.'
Mark had to wait while one man brought him his cup with the milk and
sugar, and another followed with the coffee. His hands shook and upset
the cream as he tried to take up a lump of sugar.
'I wouldn't take milk if I were you,' advised Caffyn. 'Try a _liqueur_
brandy'--a recommendation to which Mark paid no attention.
It seemed an eternity till the men had gone; all the time Mark tried
to believe this was one of the old dreams which had not visited him
for so long, or, if he was really awake, that Caffyn must have got
hold of something else--not _that_; he had had false alarms like this
before, and nothing had come of them.
Caffyn seemed to have forgotten their recent conversation as he
deliberately sipped his coffee and took a cigarette; he offered Mark
one and it was declined. 'What do you suspect me of having done?'
demanded Mark. 'Oh, my dear fellow, I don't _suspect_ you,' replied
Caffyn, 'I know. You can't play the moralist with me, you high-minded
old paragon!' He spoke with a kind of savage jocularity. 'I tell you I
know that you got your fame and fortune, and even that charming Mabel
of yours, by a meaner trick than I, who don't pretend to be
particular, should care to dirty my hands with. I may have helped a
child to burn a letter--I don't remember that I ever stole a book.
I've been an ass in my time, I dare say, but not quite such an ass as
to go about in a lion's skin!' Mark sat there dumb and terror-stricken.
His buried secret had risen after all--it was all over. He could only
say in his despair--
'Has Holroyd told you?'
Caffyn knew all he wanted when he heard that. 'We won't go into that,'
he said. 'It's quite enough for you that I know. Do you feel quite
such a virtuous horror of continuing my acquaintance now? Couldn't you
bring yourself to overlook my little shortcomings this time? _Must_
you really close your respectable door on me?'
Mark only looked at him.
'You fool,' said Caffyn, 'to give yourself airs with me. I've done you
more than one good turn. I believe I rather liked you--you did the
thing so well that I'm hanged if I should have had the heart to show
you up. And now you _will_ go and make an enemy of me--is it quite
prudent?'
'What do you want me to do?' asked Mark, with his hand shielding his
eyes from the shaded candles near him.
'Now you're getting sensible!' said Caffyn. 'We shall hit it off yet!
You've got some authority over your wife, I suppose? Use it. Stop this
cackle about the letter: make her shut her mouth; I can't afford to
lose the _entrée_ to two houses like your father-in-law's and your
own, just now. I can be discreet too--it shall be mouth for mouth. If
you don't--if you stand by and let your wife and her mother go about
spreading this story until I daren't show my face anywhere, why, I
shall take care to come to grief in good company! Mabel can smash me
if you like to let her, but if you do, by ---- it shall bring my sting
out! Is it a bargain?'
Mark hesitated. As they sat there he heard the sounds outside of
arriving carriages and entering footsteps; people were coming in for
this rehearsal. How he loathed the thought of it now! How was he to go
through it?
'We shall have to go presently,' said Caffyn. 'I am waiting for my
answer--yes or no?'
'No,' said Mark. 'I see no use in playing mouse to your cat. Do you
think I don't know that it would come out sooner or later--if not from
you, from _him_? As to forcing my wife to receive you as a friend, I'm
not quite rascal enough for that yet. Do whatever you please!'
It was despair more than anything that drove him to defiance, for his
knowledge of Mabel showed him that the bargain proposed, apart from
its rascality, was an impossible one.
'Well,' said Caffyn, with a shrug, 'you leave me no choice, so in the
course of a day or two, my friend, look out for squally weather!
Whether I sink or swim myself, I shall see _you_ go to the bottom!'
Mr. Featherstone, who was getting slightly tired of the enthusiastic
young amateurs at his end of the table, here suggested an adjournment
to the music-room.
'You'll come and look on, sir, won't you?' said his son.
But the merchant shook his head.
'I think I can hold on till the night itself, Bertie, my boy!' with a
cleverly fielded yawn. 'I hear all about it from your mother. You'll
find me in the billiard-room if you want me, you know!'
Mark rose from the table to which he had sat down with so light a
heart. Black disgrace was before him, the Laufingen crisis had come
again, and this time nothing could save him. He lingered behind the
other men as they mounted the broad staircase, and as he lingered was
overtaken by Vincent, who had just left his hat and overcoat below,
and was about to go upstairs.
'Stop!' cried Mark. 'Don't go up yet, I want to speak to you. Come in
here!' and he almost forced him into the library, which was empty, and
where a lamp was burning.
'So we're on a level after all, are we?' he said savagely, as he shut
the door.
Holroyd simply asked him what he meant.
'You know!' said Mark. 'All that generosity at Laufingen was a sham,
was it--a blind? It didn't suit you that I should give myself up of my
own free will, and so soon, so you put me off my guard! And now'--his
voice was thick with passion as he spoke--'now you have set that
villain, that d----d Caffyn, on me! Chivalrous that, isn't it? I've
fallen into good hands between you!'
Vincent was hardly less angry. 'You think every one is like yourself!'
he said. 'If it is any comfort to you to believe that I can break my
word and betray those who trusted it, believe it--it's not worth my
while to set you right?'
No one who saw his face could doubt that he, at least, was no traitor;
and Mark felt lower than ever as he realised his mistake.
'Forgive me!' he stammered. 'I see, I ought to have known better. I
hardly know what I am saying or doing just now--but Caffyn has found
out everything, and--and who could have told him?'
'If any one betrayed you, it must have been yourself!' said Vincent.
'Look here, Ashburn, don't give it up like this--keep your head, man!
He can't really _know_ this, it must be all guesswork. Did he mention
my name?'
'Yes,' said Mark.
'Well, I must have it out with him, then. What does it matter what he
says if we both contradict him? I think I shall be able to manage
him; only, for Heaven's sake, keep cool, leave everything to me, try
to be your usual self. Where is this rehearsal going on? Let us go
there at once--you'll be wanted!'
Mark said no more just then; he led the way to the music-room, and
then went himself to the part which was screened off as a green-room.
The music-room was a long high gallery, at one end of which the stage
had been set up. There was a small audience of a dozen or so, who were
mostly related to the performers, and admitted only because it had not
been found practicable to keep them out. The rehearsal had just begun
as Vincent entered.
It was much like most rehearsals, and would hardly lose its
tediousness in description. There were constant interruptions and
repetitions, and most of the characters wore the air of people who had
been induced to play a game they thought silly, but who were resolved
to maintain their self-respect as long as possible; this appearance
might be due to an artistic reserve of force in some cases, in others
to nervousness, in nearly all to a limited knowledge of the lines they
had to deliver, and all these causes would certainly be removed 'on
the night,' because the actors said so themselves. Still, on that
particular evening, they prevented the play from being seen to the
best advantage.
It was not a good play, and as a dramatisation of 'Illusion' was worse
than the most sanguine of Mrs. Featherstone's acquaintances could have
foreseen; and yet, as Vincent stood and looked on from the background,
he felt strangely stirred when Mabel was on the stage. She, at least,
had too intense a sympathy with her part to be able to walk through
it, even at a rehearsal, though it would have been absurd to exert her
full powers under the circumstances.
But there were moments in the later scenes (which even Mrs.
Featherstone had not been able to deprive of all power or pathos) when
Mabel was carried away by the emotion she had to represent, and the
anguish in her face and low ringing tones went to Vincent's heart, as
he thought how soon it might become a terrible reality.
He could scarcely bear to see her there simulating a sorrow which was
nothing to that which might be coming upon her, and from which all his
devotion might not save her this time. He was impatient to meet Caffyn
and find out what he knew, and how he might be silenced; but Caffyn
was on the stage continually, in his capacity of stage manager, and
Vincent was forced to wait until his opportunity should present
itself.
It was a relief to him when the rehearsal, after dragging on through
three long acts, came to a premature close, owing to the lateness of
the hour and a decided preference on the part of the younger members
of the company for the dancing which had been promised later as a
bribe, and which they had no intention of sacrificing to a fourth
act--for art must not be too long with amateurs.
The room was being cleared accordingly, when Vincent saw his hostess
coming with Caffyn in his direction, and heard her say, 'Well, I
_will_ ask Mr. Holroyd then if you wish it!' She seemed excited and
annoyed, and he thought Caffyn's face bore an odd expression of
triumph. He waited for the question with a heavy anticipation.
'Mr. Caffyn tells me you're quite an authority,' began Mrs.
Featherstone (she had not yet found herself able to mention him as
'Harold'). 'You heard our little discussion about the close of that
third act, just now? Now do tell me, how did it strike _you_?'
This appeal was an unexpected relief to him; he protested that he was
not qualified to express any opinion.
'Now really,' said Caffyn, 'that won't quite do; we know how
interested you are in the book.'
'We are so grateful for the least little hint,' simpered Mrs.
Featherstone, 'and it is so useful to know how a scene strikes just
the ordinary observer, you know; so if you did notice anything, don't,
_please_, be afraid to mention it!'
Vincent had told himself that in going there he would be able to put
away all personal association with the play; he had given the book up
once and for all, he only desired to see Mabel once as his lost
heroine. But nature had proved too strong for him after all: the
feebleness of this dramatic version had vexed his instincts as creator
more than he was willing to believe, and when in this very closing
scene the strongest situation in the book had been ruined by the long
and highly unnecessary tirade which had been assigned to the hero,
Vincent's philosophy had been severely shaken.
And so at this, some impulse, too strong for all other considerations,
possessed him to do what he could to remove that particular blemish at
least--it was not wise, but it was absolutely disinterested.
He suggested that a shorter and simpler sentence at the critical
moment might prove more effective than a long set speech.
Mrs. Featherstone smiled an annoyed little smile. 'You don't quite
understand the point,' she said. 'There was no question about the
_text_--I had no idea of altering that: we are merely in doubt as to
the various positions at the fall of the curtain!'
'I'm afraid I've no suggestions to make, then,' said Vincent, not
without some inward heat.
'Oh, but,' put in Caffyn, and his lip curled with malicious enjoyment,
'give us an idea of the short simple sentence you would
substitute--it's easy enough to make a general criticism of that
sort.'
'Yes, indeed,' said Mrs. Featherstone. 'That is only fair, Mr.
Holroyd!'
If he had been cooler he might have resisted what was obviously a
challenge from the enemy, but just then he had lost some of his usual
self-control. 'Something of this kind,' he said, and gave the line he
had originally written.
'Now that is very funny,' said Mrs. Featherstone, icily. 'Really. Why,
do you know, my dear Mr. Holroyd, that the speech you find such fault
with happens to be just _the_ one I took entire from the book itself!'
And it was in fact one of Mark's improvements.
Vincent then saw for the first time that Mabel had joined the group,
and he was angry with himself for his folly.
'Where has Ashburn got to? We _must_ tell him that!' cried Caffyn.
'That distinguished man has been keeping out of the way all the
evening. There he is over there in the corner!' and he gave him a sign
that he was wanted. No one had seen Mark for some little time, and he
had interfered very little during the rehearsal. Now as he came
towards them he looked shaken and ill.
'My dear fellow,' said Caffyn, 'this presumptuous man here has been
suggesting that your immortal dialogue wants cutting badly. Crush
him!'
'He has every right to his opinion,' said Mark, with an effort.
'Ah,' said Caffyn with a keen appreciation of the situation, 'but just
explain your views to him, Holroyd. He _may_ think there's something
in them!'
'It is a pity,' said Mabel, 'that Mark's book should have been without
the advantage of Mr. Holroyd's assistance so long!'
She was the more angry with Vincent because she felt that he was
right.
'I don't think I quite deserved that,' said Vincent, sadly. 'If my
opinion had not been asked I should not have ventured to criticise;
and, now that I know that I have the book against me, of course I have
nothing more to say. _You_ seem to have misunderstood me a little,' he
added, looking straight at Caffyn. 'If you can give me a minute I
could easily explain all I meant.'
Caffyn understood. 'In private, I suppose?' he suggested softly, as he
drew Vincent a little aside. 'I thought as much,' said Caffyn, as the
other assented; 'they're going to dance here. Come up on the stage:
it's clear now, and the rag's down.'
He led the way up the wooden steps by the proscenium, pushed aside the
gold-and-crimson hangings, and they were in comparative darkness and
absolute privacy immediately.
'Now,' began Vincent, 'you had some object in saying what you did down
there. What was it?'
Caffyn had seated himself on the edge of a table which had been
rolled into a corner with some other stage furniture. He smiled with
much sweetness as he replied, 'I say, you know, we'd better come to
the point. I know all about it!'
Only the pressing need of discovering the full extent of the other's
information kept Vincent from some outburst.
'What do you know?' he demanded.
'Well,' said Caffyn, 'I know that you are the real pig, so to speak,
and that miserable humbug Ashburn's only the squeak.'
'You mean you think you know that--what is your authority?'
'Now,' protested Caffyn, in a tone of injury, 'do you think I should
venture on a bold statement like that without anything to back my
opinion?'
'And if Ashburn and I both deny your bold statement--what becomes of
it?'
'Ashburn has not denied it, and if he did I could put my hand on some
written evidence which would go a long way to settle the question.'
'I should like to see your evidence,' said Vincent.
'I was sure you would,' said Caffyn, 'but I don't happen to have it
here; in fact, the papers which contain it are in the charge of a very
dear friend of mine, who chanced to discover them.'
Vincent did not believe him.
'Perhaps you can describe them?' he asked quickly.
'Aha!' said Caffyn, 'I've made you sit up, as they say across the
water. Oh, I'll give you every information. Those papers are of
interest to the collector of literary curiosities as being beyond a
doubt the original rough draft of that remarkable work "Illusion,"
then better known as--let me see, was it "Glow-worms"? no--something
like it, "Glamour!" They were found in your late rooms, and one
needn't be an expert to recognise that peculiar fist of yours. Are you
satisfied?'
Vincent had not expected this, having fancied that his loose papers
had all been destroyed, as he had certainly intended them to be on
leaving England. He was silent for some seconds, then he said: 'You
must get those papers for me: they are mine.'
'But, my dear fellow,' argued Caffyn, 'what earthly use can they be to
_you_?'
'What business is that of yours?' retorted Vincent. 'I want them--I
mean to have them.'
'You won't do any good by taking that tone with _me_, you know. Just
listen to reason: if you produce these papers yourself, you'll only be
laughed at for your pains. You must let some one else manage the
business for you. You can't smash Ashburn alone--you can't indeed!'
'And who told you,' said Vincent, 'that I want to smash Ashburn?'
'For Heaven's sake don't _you_ turn hypocrite!' drawled Caffyn. 'You
can speak out now--if you've got anything inside you but sawdust, of
_course_ you want to smash Ashburn! I saw your game long ago.'
'Did you?' said Vincent, who began to have the greatest difficulty in
keeping his temper. 'And what was my game?'
'Why,' explained Caffyn, 'you knew well enough that if you set up a
claim like that on your mere word, you wouldn't find many to believe
you, and you didn't feel up to such a fight as you would have before
you; so you've very prudently been lying low till you could get Master
Mark off his guard, or till something turned up to help you. Now's
your time. _I'll_ help you!'
'Then, once more, get me those papers,' said Vincent.
'To think,' observed Caffyn, with pity, 'that the man who could write
"Illusion" should be so dense. Don't I tell you you must keep in the
background? You leave it all to me. There's a literary fellow I know
who's on lots of journals that like nothing better than taking up
cases like yours, when they're satisfied there's something in them. I
can manage all that for you, and in a few days look out for an article
that will do Ashburn's business for him. You needn't be afraid of his
fighting--he'll never have the nerve to bring a libel action! But you
can't work this yourself; in your hands all that evidence is waste
paper--it's the date and manner of its discovery which must be proved
to make it of any value--and that's where _I_ come in. I need scarcely
tell you perhaps that I don't propose to mix myself up in all this,
unless there is some better understanding between us in the future.'
'You had better be quite plain,' said Vincent. 'What is your
proposal?'
'There has been a little unpleasantness about a letter which little
Dolly Langton and I accidentally----'
'I know the facts, thank you,' interrupted Vincent.
'That makes it easier,' continued the other, unabashed, 'though you've
probably been told the highly coloured version.'
'I've been told that you bullied that poor child into burning a letter
of mine which you hadn't the courage to suppress for yourself,' said
Vincent.
'Ah, that _is_ the highly coloured version,' said Caffyn, 'but for the
purposes of the present case we'll assume it to be correct, if you
like. Well, we can't possibly work together if you won't make up your
mind to let bygones be bygones: you understand.'
'I think I do,' said Vincent. 'Provided I forget that a letter of mine
was intercepted and destroyed, unread, by a cowardly, cold-blooded
trick, which if it was not actually a felony came very near
it--provided I forget all that and treat you as an intimate friend of
mine, I shall have your support?'
'Coarsely put,' said Caffyn, 'but you seem to have got hold of the
main point.'
'And if I decline,' said Vincent, 'what then?'
'Why, then,' returned Caffyn, placidly, 'I'm afraid that my friend in
whose custody the papers are, and who really is as casual a person as
I ever met, may mislay those documents or go off somewhere without
leaving his address--which would make things awkward.'
Vincent could stand no more; the anger he had suppressed for some time
broke out at last.
'If you dare to make me an offer like that in any other place than a
friend's house, if you even try to speak to me when we next meet, you
will be unpleasantly surprised at your reception! Do you think any
help you could give me would be worth the disgrace of having you for a
friend? If I am asked my opinion of you, I shall give it, and it will
not be one you would care to quote. As for the papers, tell your
friend (you will not have to go very far to find him)--tell him he may
do what he pleases with them, mislay them, suppress them, burn them,
if he likes--perhaps he will be doing me a greater service than he
imagines!'
He was afraid that he might have betrayed his real feelings in the
matter; but Caffyn was too much a man of the world to believe him: he
only thought that the other either had independent means of proving
his claim when he chose, or felt convinced that it would be proved for
him without the necessity of committing himself to any alliance or
compromise. He could not help admiring such strategy even while it
disappointed him.
'You're devilish deep, after all,' he said slowly: 'a little overdone
that last bit, perhaps, but no matter--I can read between the lines.
And now, as I am due for this first dance, and they seem to be
striking up down there, I'll ask you to excuse me. One word--if you
want me to play your little game, don't interfere with mine--you know
what I mean!'
Vincent made no answer, and Caffyn went down to the music-room again,
where about a dozen couples were already dancing. It was a small and
quite informal affair, but one or two people had come in from other
houses, and the room was filled, without the hopeless crush which it
would have contained on an ordinary occasion.
He avoided Gilda, whose eyes, however, were following him watchfully,
and made his way to where Mabel was sitting looking on at the dancing;
for she had declined to take a more active part, and was intending to
make her escape as soon as Mark should come to rescue her.
'I'll try one more chance,' he thought, 'and if that fails----'
Vincent had satisfied himself as he passed through the room after
Caffyn had left him that Mark was not there. He went through a network
of rooms, and out on the staircase, looking for him. Mark had had much
to endure in the way of enthusiastic comments on his own work, and the
delight he was supposed to feel at his wife's rendering of his
heroine, while Mrs. Featherstone had driven him almost frantic by her
persistent appeals, confidences, and suggestions with regard to the
performance. He had chosen a moment when her attention was distracted
to slip out unobserved. He knew he must return soon, but his nerves
would bear no more just then, and, wandering aimlessly from room to
room, he came to one in which some light refreshments had been placed
for those engaged in the rehearsal, and he filled a small tumbler of
champagne from a half-empty bottle he found there, and drank it,
hoping it would give him courage to go back and play his part to the
end. As he put down the glass Vincent came in.
'I was looking for you,' the latter began hurriedly, when he had
satisfied himself that they were not likely to be overheard. 'I have
seen Caffyn!'
'Well?' said Mark, listlessly.
'It is worse than I thought,' was the answer; 'he has got hold of some
papers--Heaven knows how, but he can prove his case. He half
threatened to destroy them, but if I know him he won't; he will use
them to keep his hold over you--we must get the start of him!'
'Yes,' agreed Mark, 'I can disappoint him there, at all events. I'll
go to Fladgate to-morrow, and tell him everything--it's all I can do
now, and the sooner it is over the better!'
'You must do nothing without me!' said Vincent.
Despair made Mark obstinate. 'I wish to God I had spoken out last
Easter! You stopped me then--you shall not stop me this time! I'll
keep that book no longer, whatever the consequences may be.'
'Listen to me,' said Vincent. 'I will take back the book--I see no
other course now; but I claim the right to tell the story myself, and
in my own way. You will not be madman enough to contradict me?'
Mark laughed bitterly. 'If you can tell that story so as to make it
look any better, or any worse, than it is, _I_ won't contradict you,'
he said: 'that is a safe promise!'
'Remember it, then,' said Vincent. 'I will tell you more when I have
thought things out a little. In the meantime, the less we see of that
scoundrel the better. Can't you take Mabel home now?'
'Yes,' said Mark, 'we will go home, and--and you will come to-morrow?'
'To-morrow,' said Vincent. 'Tell her nothing till you have seen me!'
They were returning to the music-room when Mrs. Featherstone passed.
'Have you seen Mr. Caffyn?' she asked Mark. 'I want to talk to him
about the alterations in the fourth act.'
'He went to sit out one of the dances with Mabel, Gilda said, but I
sent her to look for them, and she hasn't come back yet. I think they
must have gone through the Gold Room, and out on the balcony--it's
cooler there.'
When she had passed on out of hearing, Mark turned to Vincent. 'Did
you hear that?' he said. 'Mabel is out there ... with _him_--we are
saved the trouble of telling her anything now ... that devil means to
tell her himself! I can't stay here!'
'Tell me where you are going--for God's sake don't do anything rash!'
cried Vincent. 'You may be wrong!' He caught him by the arm as he
spoke.
'Let me go!' said Mark, wrenching himself free.
Vincent would have accompanied him, but the excitement had turned him
suddenly faint and dizzy, and he found himself obliged to remain where
he was, until the attack passed and left him able to move and think
once more.