The music began—weird and mournful—and a murmur went round among the eager watchers. It was her most famous dance—the dance of Death, the most gruesome spectacle, so it was said, that any dancer had ever conceived. She came on to the stage like the flash of an arrow, dressed in black that glittered and scintillated with every amazing movement. And then it began—that most wonderful dance of hers that all the world was mad to see.
It was almost too rapid for the eye to follow in its first stages—a fever of movement—a delirium indescribable—a fantasy painful to watch, but from which no watcher could turn away. Even Saltash, who had taken small interest in the previous dance, leaned forward and gave his full attention to this, as it were in spite of himself. The very horror of it was magnetic. They seemed to look upon a death-struggle—the wild fight of a creature endowed with a fiery vitality against an enemy unseen but wholly ruthless and from the first invincible.
Those who saw that dance of Rozelle Daubeni never forgot it, and there was hardly a woman in the audience who was not destined to shudder whenever the memory of it arose. It was arresting, revolting, terrible; it must have compelled in any case. A good many began to sob with the sheer nervous horror of it, yearning for the end upon which they were forced to look, though with a dread that made the blood run cold.
But the end was such as no one in that assembly looked for. Just as the awful ecstasy of the dance was at its height, just as the dreaded crisis approached, and they saw with a gasping horror the inevitable final clutch of the unseen enemy upon his vanquished victim; just as she lifted her face in the last anguish of supplication, yielding the last hope, sinking in nerveless surrender before the implacable destroyer, there came a sudden flare of light in thesalon, and the great crystal candelabra that hung over the end of the gallery where the man and the girl were seated watching became a dazzling sparkle of overwhelming light.
Everyone turned towards it instinctively, and Toby, hardly knowing what she did, but with the instinct to escape strong upon her, leapt to her feet.
In that moment—as she stood in the full light—the dancer's eyes also shot upwards and saw the sum young figure. It was only for a moment, but instantly a wild cry rang through the greatsalon—a cry of agony so piercing that women shrieked and trembled, hiding their faces from what they knew not what.
In the flash of a second the light was gone, the gallery again in darkness. But on the stage a woman's voice cried thrice: "Toinette! Toinette! Toinette!" in the anguished accents of a mother who cries for her dead child, and then fell into a tragic silence more poignant than any sound—a silence that was as the silence of Death.
And in that silence a man's figure, moving with the free, athletic swing of a sailor, crossed the stage to where the dancer lay huddled in the dimness like a broken thing, lifted her—bore her away.
Very late that night when all the crowds who had assembled to watch Rozelle Daubeni had dispersed with awe-struck whisperings, two men came down the great staircase into the empty vestibule and paused at the foot.
"You are leaving Paris again?" said Saltash.
The other nodded, his face perfectly emotionless, his eyes the eyes of a sailor who searches the far horizon. "There is nothing to keep me here," he said, and absently accepted a cigarette from the case that Saltash proffered. "I have always hated towns. I only came—" He stopped, considered a moment, and said no more.
Saltash's eyes were upon him, alert, speculative, but wholly without malice. "You came—because you were sent for," he said.
Larpent nodded twice thoughtfully, more as if in answer to some mental suggestion than as if the words had been actually uttered. He struck a match and held it for Saltash. Then, as he deliberately lighted his own cigarette, between slow puffs he spoke: "There was only—one reason on earth—that would have brought me."
"Yes?" said Saltash. He dropped into a chair with the air of a man who has limitless leisure at his disposal, but his tone was casual. He did not ask for confidence.
Larpent stood still gazing before him through the smoke with keen, unwavering eyes.
"Only one reason," he said again, and still he seemed to speak as one who communes with his inner soul. "She was dying—and she wanted me." He paused a moment, and an odd tremor went through him. "After twenty years," he said, as if in wonder at himself.
Saltash's look came swiftly upwards. "I've heard that before," he said. "Those she caught she kept—always. No other woman was ever worth while after Rozelle."
Larpent's hand clenched instinctively, but he said nothing.
Saltash went on in the same casual tone. "She never caught me,mon ami. I met her too late in life—when I was beginning to get fastidious." His monkey-like grin showed for a moment. "I appreciated her charm, but—it left me cold."
"You never saw her in her first youth," said Larpent, and into his fixed eyes there came a curious glow—the look of a man who sees a vision.
"What was she like then?" said Saltash.
Slowly the sailor answered him, word by word as one spelling out a strange language. "She was like a butterfly that plays among the flowers in the early morning. She had the look of a boy—the wide-open eyes, the fearless way, the freedom, the daring. Her innocence—her loveliness—" Something rose unexpectedly in his throat. He stopped and swallowed hard. "My God! How lovely she was!" he said, in a strangled voice.
Saltash got up in his sudden, elastic fashion. "Look here! You want a drink. Sit down while I get you one!"
He was gone with the words, not waiting for the half-uttered remonstrance that the other man sent after him.
Larpent stood staring heavily before him for a space, then turned with a mechanical movement and dropped into a chair. He was sitting so, bent forward, his hands clasped in front of him when Saltash returned. He had the worn, grey look of a man tired out with hard travel.
Saltash poured out a drink and held it down to him. "Here's the stuff!Drink, man! It'll put new life into you."
Larpent drank, still in that slow, mechanical fashion. But as he drained the glass his eyes met Saltash's alert look and a faint, grim smile crossed his haggard features.
"Don't let me spoil your holiday, my lord!" he said.
"Don't be a damn' fool!" said Saltash.
Larpent sat in silence for several seconds. Then in a more normal tone he spoke again. "I had to come to her. God knows what made her want me after all these years. But I couldn't refuse to come. I had her message two days ago. She said she was alone—dying. So I came." He paused and wiped his forehead. "I thought she had tricked me. You saw her as she was to-night. She was like that—full of life, superb. But—I had come to her, and I found I couldn't leave her. She wanted me—she wanted me—to take her back." He got up, but not with any agitation, and began to pace to and fro as though he paced a deck. "You will think me mad of course. You never came under the spell. But I, I was first with her; and perhaps it was fitting that I should be the last. Had she lived—after to-night—I would have taken her away. She would never have danced again. I would have taken her out of this damnable world that had dragged her down. I'd have saved her somehow."
"You wouldn't," said Saltash. "It's like a recurrent fever. You'd never have held her."
"I say I would." Larpent spoke deeply, but still without emotion. "I could have done it—and no one else on earth. I tell you I was first with her, and a woman doesn't forget the first. I had a power that no other man ever possessed, or ever could possess. I was—her husband."
"What?" said Saltash.
Larpent paced on with bent head. "I was her husband. But I was at sea and she was on shore. And so I lost her. She was not made to stand against temptation. It came to her when I was on the other side of the world. When I got back, she was gone. And I—I never followed her. The thing was hopeless. She was that sort, you understand. It was first one and then another with her. I dropped her out of my life, and let her go. I didn't realize then—what I know now—that the power to rescue and to hold her was mine. If I had, I might have gone after her. I can't say. But I was too bitter at the time to feel it was worth while. I went back to the sea and left her to work out her own damnation."
"And yet you loved her?" Saltash said, with a queer twist of the features that was not of mirth.
"I loved her, yes. If I hadn't loved her I would never have come to her when she called. That is love—the thing that doesn't die." A sudden throb sounded in Larpent's voice. He paused for a moment in his walk, then paced on. "You may laugh at it—call it what you will—but there is a power on the earth that is stronger than anything else, and when that power speaks we have got to obey. I didn't want to come. You think me a damn fool for coming. But I had to. That's all there is to it."
"I don't think you any sort of a fool," Saltash threw in briefly. "You did the only thing possible."
"Yes, the only thing. I came to her. If I hadn't come, she'd have died—alone. But that alone wasn't why she sent for me—it was the primary reason, but not the only one. There was another." Larpent ceased his pacing and deliberately faced the man who stood listening. "You know what happened to-night," he said. "That child—the scaramouch you picked out of the gutter at Valrosa—Toby—do you realize—have you grasped—the meaning of that yet?"
Saltash flung up his head with an arrogant gesture. "There is one thing about her you have not grasped," he said. "But go on! I may as well hear it."
Larpent went on steadily. "When I came to her yesterday she told me of a child that had been born to her—a child she had loved but had been unable to protect. It was a long story. Spentoli the Italian artist knows it from beginning to end. You know Spentoli?"
"I know him," said Saltash.
"Spentoli is a blackguard," Larpent said, "the sort that is born, not made afterwards. He has painted Rozelle over and over again. He raves about her. He may be a genius. He is certainly mad. He wanted the child for a model, and Rozelle could not prevent it. So she told me. I believe she was dependent upon him at the time. She had been ill. She has been ill for years with heart trouble. And so he had the child, but only for a time. The girl had a will of her own and broke away, joined a circus in California. He tracked her down, captured her again, tried to make a slave of her. But she was like a wild creature. She stabbed him one night and fled. That was Rozelle's trouble. She had never been able to hear of her again. She begged me to find—and save her. I promised to do my best. But—there was no need to search very far. To-night Spentoli pulled the wires again. It was he who switched on that light. It was he who killed Rozelle. The girl in the gallery with you—Toby—was her daughter—and mine. You heard Rozelle cry out when she saw her. She never spoke again."
Larpent ceased to speak. He was no longer looking at Saltash. The far vision seemed to have caught his gaze again. He stared beyond.
Saltash watched him with working brows. "Are you wanting to lay claim to the girl?" he asked abruptly.
Larpent's face was grim. "I make no claim, my lord," he said. "But I have sworn to do my best for her. I shall keep that oath of mine."
"Meaning?" said Saltash.
The sailor's look met his squarely. "You know what I mean," he said.
Saltash began to grin. "A fight to a finish, what? I'm sorry,mon ami. But I've got you beaten at the start. Shall I tell you how you can best keep that somewhat rash oath of yours?"
"Well?" The word fell brief and uncompromising. Larpent's face was as carved granite.
Saltash thrust forth a sudden hand and took him by the shoulder. "Just by effacing yourself,mon vieux," he said lightly. "Go back toThe Blue Moon, take her to Fairharbour, and await my orders there!"
It was carelessly, even jestingly, spoken, but a certain authority lurked behind the words. Charles Rex knew how to assert his kingship upon occasion, knew also how to temper it with the touch of friendship.
Larpent's look did not waver, but some of the grimness went from it.Neither anger nor indignation had any place here. He continued to lookSaltash straight in the face.
"And that would be keeping my oath?" he said.
"Even so," said Saltash.
"You mean," Larpent spoke with slow emphasis, "that to leave her where she now is, is to leave her in safe and honourable keeping?"
The old mocking smile gleamed in Saltash's eyes. "Yes, I mean that," he said. "Do you believe me, Larpent?"
"Believe you, my lord?" Larpent seemed to hesitate.
The hand that held him moved with a hint of impatience. "I am asking," said Saltash royally, "if you consider that my protection is adequate for—my wife."
"Your—wife!" Larpent started in sharp surprise. "Your wife, did you say?"
Saltash broke into a chuckle and dropped his hand from his captain's shoulder. "Yes, just that," he said. "You are behind the times, my friend. Are you going to congratulate me? We were married four days ago."
Larpent's hand came out to him abruptly. "It's the best thing you've ever done, my lord," he said. "And you will never regret it."
"What makes you say that?" said Saltash curiously.
Their hands gripped and fell apart. Larpent answered him in the brief fashion of the man whose words are few. "Mainly because you loved her enough to marry her when you could have had her without."
Saltash's laugh had the old derisive ring but there was no corresponding gleam of mockery in his eyes as he turned carelessly aside. "What is this thing called love?" he said.
It was by no means characteristic of Jake to linger on a quest which had already proved fruitless but he was a man who possessed acquaintances in almost all parts of the world, and Paris was no exception. For the rest of the day after leaving Saltash he was philosophically occupied in seeking out old friends. Eventually he dined at a restaurant and betook himself to the station to catch the night train to Calais. It was all one to Jake whether he travelled by night or by day, so wholly accustomed was he to adapt himself to circumstances. Maud was wont to say with a smile that the luxuries of decent living were utterly thrown away upon him. He was a man who scarcely noticed physical discomfort. He could sleep under practically any conditions.
Walking solidly down the platform, carrying his own baggage, his thoughts were completely astray from his surroundings. They had reverted to the memory of the girlish figure he had seen that morning seated on a table, swinging one leg in studied nonchalance while every line was instinct with defiance. Yes, she had defied him, but deep in her heart she had feared—how she had feared!—that Saltash would fail to hold her against him. Again, a deep compassion came over Jake, stirring the very depths of him. Poor little girl, flung to and fro as flotsam in the cruel surf of life's breakers! He had done his best to deliver her, but Fate had been against him. Fate had ordained that she should be the victim of this man's caprice, the slave of impulses which might or might not be her destruction. It was as if he watched her trying to walk on a quicksand. And he was powerless to help her. Saltash had defeated him, and he had no insight into his motives. Unstable, baffling, irresponsible as a monkey that swings from tree to tree, he had snatched his prize, and even Jake, who knew him better than most, could only speculate as to whether he would carry it high above disaster or tire and idly fling it away. Some vagrant sense of honour seemed to have actuated him so far, but never yet had he known such a motive to last for long. The man's face was beyond him, too fantastic for comprehension. He recognized that he was capable of greatness, but very few were the occasions on which he had achieved it. If the motive power were lacking in this instance, Toby's chances were indeed small.
He found an empty carriage and threw his belongings on to a seat. The train was not a favourite one, and there would be no crowd. He had some minutes to wait, and he lighted his pipe and began to pace the platform unencumbered. A few travellers straggling by eyed him with some interest. He was not a man to be passed unnoticed. The massive, thick-set shoulders had a bull-dog strength that must have marked him in any crowd. His height was unremarkable, but there was power in every dominant line of him. He had the free carriage of one accustomed to the wide places of the earth.
He took small note of his fellow-travellers, being engrossed in his own thoughts. He wondered how Maud would regard the situation, and half wished she had been with him to deal with it. For Maud possessed undoubted influence over Saltash. He reflected that she was probably the only person in the world who did.
He had strolled almost to the barrier and was in the act of turning back when something—some impulse for which he could never afterwards account—induced him to pause and take stock of the passengers passing through. The train was almost due to start, and there was some slight confusion and a quickening of feet on the platform. He realized that he ought to be going back to his own carriage, but something stayed him. He stood still, his keen eyes searching the hastening figures.
And so standing, in a moment his attention was focussed upon a girl in a blue cloak who came towards him at a run evidently intent upon catching the train. She passed him swiftly without seeing him, almost brushed against him. And behind her came a dark man with black moustache and imperial, following her closely with an air of proprietorship.
Jake wheeled in his tracks, for a second amazed out of all composure. But an instant later he was in pursuit. He had had but a fleeting glimpse of her face, and the blue cloak was quite unfamiliar to him; but there was no mistaking the boyish freedom of her gait, the athletic swing of her as she turned and leaped into a compartment that her companion opened for her.
The black-browed Italian was in the act of following when Jake arrived. The realization of another hand upon the door was the first intimation that reached him of the Englishman's presence. He turned and looked into a pair of red-brown eyes that regarded him with the utmost steadiness as a quiet voice made slightly drawling explanation.
"This lady is a friend of mine," said Jake Bolton. "I should like a word with her."
The Italian looked murderous for a moment, but he gave ground almost in spite of himself. Perhaps the calm insistence of the other man's bearing warned him at the outset of the futility of attempting any other course of action; Jake was actually in the carriage before he could jerk out a word of protest.
"Sapristi!You go too far!" he blustered then. But Jake was already confronting the girl who had started up at his coming, and stood facing him white and shaken. He spoke, still quite quietly, even gently, but in the tone that no delinquent ever heard unmoved.
"Say," he said, "are you playing the game?"
She put up a hand to her throat. His sudden coming had unnerved her, and she had no words. But her quivering face and tragic eyes were more than sufficient answer for Jake. He had dealt with sudden emergencies before, and he treated this one with characteristic decision.
"You've no business here," he said, "and you know it. If you can't stick to the man you've married, come home with me to Maud!"
She made a sharp gesture toward him, as if on the verge of falling, and as sharply recovered herself. "Oh, I wish—how I wish I could!" she breathed.
Jake's hand, perfectly steady, full of sustaining strength, closed with authority upon her arm. "That's settled then," he said. "Come now!"
But at this point the Italian burst furiously in upon them with a flood of unintelligible language that made all further speech impossible.
Jake glanced momentarily over his shoulder as if disturbed by the buzzing of some insect, then with unruffled composure turned back to the girl. His eyes looked straight into hers for perhaps ten seconds, then in the same purposeful fashion he set her free and deliberately turned upon the man who raged behind him.
As he did so, there came a shouting and banging of doors along the platform, and the train began to move. Jake's massive shoulders braced themselves. Without words he seized the raving Italian in a grip there was no resisting, swept him, as a sudden gale sweeps a leaf, across the compartment, sent him with a neat twist buzzing forth upon the platform, and very calmly shut the door and came back.
Then there came a wild shriek of laughter from Toby, and she doubled up in her corner with hysterical mirth, gasping and gasping for breath, till he sat squarely down beside her and pulled her into the circle of his arm.
"Easy, my girl! Easy!" he said. "We're not going to have an exhibition at this stage. You keep a stiff upper lip till you feel better!"
But the stiff upper lip was rather painfully lacking on that occasion. She very soon ceased to laugh, but for a long time thereafter she lay sobbing and shuddering like a little terrified animal against his breast while the train rushed on through the night.
He was very gentle with her. Jake's stock of patience was practically limitless, and he and Toby had always had a certain comradeship between them. But when she grew calmer at last he began to talk in the quiet, direct fashion habitual to him.
"Say now! You've had a bit of a facer over this. But you needn't be frightened. You're safe enough from that damned Italian anyway. And you'll find me a better refuge than he is—if that's what you're wanting."
She shivered and pressed closer. "You—don't know—what you're in for," she whispered piteously.
"That so?" said Jake, unmoved. "Well, maybe you'd like to enlighten me."
But Toby shook her head with a sob. "I couldn't! I just couldn't, Jake.Do you mind?"
Jake considered the point with slightly drawn brows. "I guess there's no hurry," he decided at length. "We'll get home first anyway. That's the main point. You won't be sorry to get back to Maud, I take it?"
She answered him with a swift and passionate fervour that spoke more clearly than any words of the anguish of her soul. "Oh, Jake, I wish I'd died—I wish I'd died—before I left her!"
Jake's brows contracted more decidedly, but he said nothing further on the subject. Only after a moment or two he patted her shoulder reassuringly. "I'll take care of you," he said. "You go to sleep!"
"You've brought her back!" said Bunny in amazement. "You've actually brought her back! Here, Jake? Not here?"
"It was the only thing to do." said Jake between puffs at his pipe. "I'm sorry on your account, but—well, you can keep out of her way."
Bunny's face was flushed. He stood on the hearth and stared down at Jake with a troubled countenance. "But you won't be able to keep her," he protested after a moment. "Charlie will come and get her away again—as soon as he knows. He's such a wily devil."
"He does know," said Jake.
"He knows? Who told him?"
"I told him," said Jake.
"You told him! What the devil for? I don't understand you, Jake." Bunny's tone had a touch of fierceness in it, almost of challenge.
Jake's eyes came up to him with absolute steadiness. "I told him," he said deliberately, "because he is the one person who has a right to know. He is her husband."
"I don't believe it!" said Bunny violently. "He'd never marry her! It was a damn trick if he pretended to."
"No," Jake said, "it was not a trick. He has married her, and it's up to him to make the next move."
"But what on earth for?" demanded Bunny. "What made him do such a thing?"
"God knows," said Jake, with a certain sombreness. "He did it. That's allI know."
Bunny stamped round in a sudden fury and began to pace the room. "I suppose he did it to defeat me! Did he actually think I should want her after—after—"
"Bunny!" Swift and sharp as a whip-lash Jake's voice cut across the words. "Stop that! Pull up and sit down!"
Bunny wheeled and came back in silence. His face was deadly pale, but he sat down on the edge of the table by Jake's side.
Jake reached out a leisurely hand and gripped him by the knee. "Between you and me, my son," he said, "I don't think you came into the reckoning at all. I can't tell you exactly what happened, because I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that Saltash married her from a somewhat stronger motive than just to put you out of the running. As you say, he could have done that without taking all that trouble. He's treated you damn badly, I admit, but it's just possible he couldn't help himself, and anyway I don't think he's hurt you seriously—except in the place where you keep your pride."
"You think I didn't love her!" broke in Bunny, moving restlessly under his hand.
Jake's eyes had the glimmer of a smile as he met the boy's hot look. "I think you don't love her now anyway, Bunny," he said.
"You're quite right," said Bunny shortly. "I don't. I never want to see her again—now I know what she is."
"You don't know," said Jake. "She has always been an unknown quantity to you. That's why I've always felt doubtful about you. Guess you never loved her quite enough, boy. That was your trouble."
"Didn't love her!" ejaculated Bunny.
Jake nodded. "Or you'd have understood her better—stood by her better."
"I'd have loved her fast enough if she'd loved me," protested Bunny. "But that scoundrel always came first with her. I never had a chance."
"Oh yes, you had." Again the faint smile showed for an instant in the elder man's eyes. "Not much of one, perhaps, but you had a chance. If she'd been quite sure of you, she wouldn't have run away."
"Wouldn't she? Then she can't be very sure of Saltash either." Bunny spoke with a certain gloomy triumph.
Jake blew forth a cloud of smoke and watched it rise thoughtfully. "I'm waiting for Saltash," he said. "I've got him on test."
"You believe in him?" questioned Bunny contemptuously.
Jake's eyes remained fixed. "I believe," he said slowly, "that there comes a turning-point in every man's life—whatever he's been—when he either makes good or throws in his hand altogether. I've been through it myself, and I know what it means. It's Saltash's turn now."
"Oh, rot, Jake!" Bunny turned on him with the old boyish admiration shining in his eyes. "You—why, you've made good every time—just about as often as Charlie has done the other thing."
"No." Jake spoke without elation. "I did make good, but I went through hell first, and I very nearly failed. It may be the same with him. If so—well, poor devil, he has my sympathy."
"You can't be sorry for a hound like Saltash!" remonstrated Bunny.
Jake turned squarely and faced him. "Well, there you're wrong, Bunny," he said. "I reckon I'm sorrier for him than I am for you. You've got a clean record, and you'll win out and marry Sheila Melrose. But Saltash—well, he's got a damn heavy handicap, and if he pulls off this, it'll be one of the biggest events I've ever seen. Say, what's the matter?"
Bunny had sprung to his feet. He stood looking at Jake with an expression half-startled and half-indignant. "Jake—you beast! What made you say that?" he demanded.
"What?" said Jake, and began to smile openly. "Well, guess it's pretty near the mark, isn't it? I saw which way the wind was trying to blow some time ago. Mean to say you didn't?"
Bunny swung upon his heel. "Confound you!" he said, and was silent for several seconds.
Jake smoked imperturbably on. He knew all the workings of Bunny's mind with the sure intuition of long intimacy. When finally the boy spoke again without turning he almost knew what he would say.
"Think I'm—very despicable, Jake?"
The question had a shamed and sullen ring. Bunny's head was bent. He was examining a little china figure on the mantelpiece with nervous concentration.
Jake arose without fuss or preliminary, and pushed a brotherly arm round the bent shoulders. "Guess you've never been that, sonny," he said very kindly. "But—you take an old man's advice and go a bit slow! She'll think all the better of you for it."
"She'll never look at me," muttered Bunny, gripping the hand that pressed his shoulder without raising his eyes.
"Ho, won't she?" said Jake. "I've seen her look at you more than once—and the old General too. Reckon they both thought you were throwing yourself away on Toby, and maybe they had some reason to think so. Anyway, she never was your sort. I seem to remember telling you so once."
"I was a fool," said Bunny, and then in a moment straightened himself and looked Jake in the eyes. "It wasn't Toby's fault," he said with abrupt generosity. "She didn't want to get engaged to me. I made her. I knew—all along—she wasn't very keen. But I thought I loved her enough to make it all right. I was wrong. I didn't."
"Beginning to know better?" suggested Jake, with a smile.
"Beginning to realize what a fool I've been," said Bunny ruefully. "You don't think I've done for myself then? Think I've still got a chance?"
"Sure thing!" said Jake. "But go carefully. You've got a fence or two to clear before you get home." He paused a moment, then gave him a kindly hand-grip. "Say, Bunny," he said, "there's nothing despicable about making a mistake. It's only when things go wrong and we don't play the game that there's anything to be ashamed of. I've always been ready to stake my last dollar that you'd never do that."
"Oh, man," Bunny said, in swift embarrassment, "that shows how much you know about me!"
Jake stooped to knock out the ashes of his pipe in the fender. "What I don't know about you, my son," he said, "ain't worth a donkey's bray, I reckon, so you can shut your mouth on that! I'm going back to Maud now. Any messages?"
"Yes." Bunny was standing up very straight; his eyes were shining. "Love to Maud of course. I shan't come round at present. But tell Toby that when I do, she needn't be worried over anything. We're all square. Tell her that!"
"I will," said Jake. He turned to the door, then paused, looking back. "And say!" he said. "Don't you butt in with Saltash! Just leave him to manage his own fate! He's riding a bucking horse, but I've a notion he'll yet make good—if he can."
"He's a rum devil," said Bunny. "All right. I shan't interfere."
After Jake had gone, he sat down and pulled a letter from his pocket. All the lines of perplexity smoothed out of his boyish face as he read it. It was the letter of a woman who had written because she wanted to write, not because she had anything to say, and Bunny's eyes were very tender as he came to the end. He sat for a space gazing down at the signature, and at length with a gesture half-shamefaced he put it to his lips.
"Yes, I've been a fool, Sheila," he said softly. "But, thank heaven, I was pulled up in time. And I shan't—ever—make that mistake again."
Which was perhaps exactly what the writer had meant him to say.
"Shall we dig a deep, deep hole for you to lie in?" asked Eileen with serious violet eyes upraised.
"And then cover you right up to your head so as you won't catch cold?" chimed in Molly.
"Betty dig too! Betty dig too!" cried the youngest of the party with zest. "Zite up over Auntie Toy's head!"
"What an excellent idea!" said Toby with resignation.
She sat down in the golden afternoon sunshine that flooded the beach, the three children buzzing happily about her, and rested her chin on her hands. The blue eyes that dwelt upon the misty horizon were very tired. They had the heavy look of unshed tears, and all the delicate colour was gone from her face. Her slight figure drooped pathetically. She sat very still. All the elasticity of youth seemed to have gone out of her. Once or twice a sharp sigh caught her that was almost like a sob.
Betty's shrill voice at her side recalled her from her dreams. "Betty tired now, Auntie Toy. Betty tummin' to sit down."
She turned and took the child upon her lap with a fondling touch and tender words. Betty pillowed a downy head against her neck and almost immediately fell asleep. Eileen and Molly laboured on at their self-imposed task in the autumn sunshine, and Toby returned to her dreams.
Perhaps she also had begun to doze, for the day was warm and sound sleep had forsaken her of late; when the falling of a shadow aroused her very swiftly to the consciousness of someone near at hand whose approach she had not heard. She controlled her quick start before it could awaken the sleeping child, but her eyes as they flashed upwards had the strained, panic-stricken look of a hunted animal. She made an almost involuntary movement of shrinking and the blood went out of her lips, but she spoke no word.
A man in a navy-blue yachting-suit stood looking down at her with blue-grey eyes that tried to be impersonal but failed at that slight gesture of hers.
"You needn't be afraid of me, heaven knows," he said.
"I'm not," said Toby promptly, and flung him her old boyish smile. "I wasn't expecting just you at that moment, that's all. Sit down and talk, Captain—if that's what you've come for!"
Apparently it was. He lowered himself to the sand beside her. But at once—as by irresistible habit—his eyes sought the horizon, and he sat and contemplated it in utter silence.
Toby endured the situation for a few difficult seconds, then took brisk command. "Why don't you have a smoke?" she said. "You'd find it a help."
He put his hand mechanically into his pocket and took out his cigarette-case. His eyes came back out of space as he did so, and rested upon the fair-haired child in the girl's arms.
"So you've come back to the old job!" he said.
Toby nodded. "Yes. Jake's doing. I'm waiting to—to—to be divorced."
He made a slight movement of surprise, but his face remained inscrutable."You'll have to wait some time for that," he said.
Toby tilted her chin with a reckless gesture that was somehow belied by the weariness of her eyes. "That wasn't what you came to talk about then?" she suggested after a pause.
"No." Larpent's voice had a curious, almost deprecating quality. "I came to bring you a message."
"A message!" She started slightly, and in a moment the defiance went out of her attitude. She turned towards him. "Who—who is it from?"
Larpent's far-seeing eyes came gravely to meet her own. "From RozelleDaubeni," he said.
"Ah!" A quick shiver went through Toby. She averted her look. "I don't want to hear it," she said.
"I've got to deliver it," said Larpent, with a hint of doggedness. "And you've got to listen. But you needn't be afraid. It isn't going to make any difference to you. The time has gone for that."
He paused, but Toby sat in silence, her face bent over Betty's fair head. When he spoke again, his eyes had gone back to the quiet sea and the far horizon. There was a hint of pathos about him, albeit his face was grim.
"It may have surprised you to see me in Paris with her," he said. "I'm not the sort of man that runs after—that type of woman. But I went to Rozelle because she was dying, and because once—long ago—she was my wife."
A faint sound came from Toby, but still she did not speak or lift her face.
Larpent went on steadily, unemotionally. "She went wrong—ran away—while I was at sea. She was too young to be left alone. Afterwards—too late—a child was born. She told me the night before she died that the child was mine."
"Good God!" said Toby under her breath.
He went on, grimly monotonous. "I never knew of the child's existence. If I had known, it might have made a difference. But it's too late now. She wanted me to find and protect the child. I promised to do my best. And when I found her, I was to tell her one thing. Rozelle prayed for her child's forgiveness every day."
He ceased to speak, and there fell a silence, long and painful. The tide was turning, and the soft wash of tiny breakers came up the sand. Sea and sky mingled together, opalescent in the misty sunlight. The man's eyes gazed without seeing. Toby's were full of tears.
He turned at last and looked at her, then, moved by what he saw, laid an awkward hand upon her arm.
"I'm not asking anything from you," he said. "But I'd like you to knowI'd have done more—if I'd known."
She threw him a quick look, choking back her tears. "It—it—it's rather funny, isn't it?" she said, with a little crack of humour in her voice. "I'm—I'm very sorry. Captain Larpent."
"Sorry?" he said.
"For you," said Toby, with another piteous choke. "I've been foisted on to you so often. And you—you've hated it so."
"That's the tragic part of it," said Larpent.
She brushed away her tears and tried to smile. "I wonder you bothered to tell me," she said.
His hand closed almost unconsciously upon her arm. "I had to tell you," he said. "It's a thing you ought to know." He hesitated a moment, then concluded with obvious effort. "And I wanted to offer you my help."
"Thank you," whispered Toby. "You—you—that's very—generous of you." She gulped again, and recovered herself. "What do you want to do about it?" she said.
"Do? Well, what can I do?" He seemed momentarily disconcerted by the question.
Toby became brisk and business-like. "Well, you don't want to retire and live in a cottage with me, do you? We shouldn't either of us like that, should we?"
"There's no question of that now," said Larpent quietly. "Your home is with your husband, not with me."
Toby flinched a little. "My home isn't anywhere then," she said. "When I left him, it was—for good."
"Why did you leave him?" said Larpent.
Toby's lips set in a firm line, and she made no answer.
Larpent waited a few moments; then: "It's no matter for my interference," he said. "But it seems to me you've made a mistake in one particular. You don't realize why he married you."
Toby made a small passionate movement of protest. "He ought not to have done it," she said, in a low voice. "I ought not to have let him. I thought I could play the part. I know now I can't. And—he knows it too."
"I think you'll have to play the part," Larpent said.
"No!" She spoke with vehemence. "It's quite impossible. He has been far too good—far too generous. But it shan't go on. He's got to set me free. If he doesn't—" she stopped abruptly.
"Well? If he doesn't?" Larpent's voice was unwontedly gentle, and there was compassion in his look.
Toby's eyes avoided his. "I'll find—a way for myself," she said almost inarticulately.
Larpent's fingers tightened again upon the thin young arm. "It's no good fighting Fate," he said. "Why has it become impossible? Just because he knows all about you? Do you suppose that—or anything else—is going to make any difference at this stage? Do you imagine he would let you go—for that?"
Toby's arm strained against him. "He'll have to," she declared stubbornly. "He doesn't know all about me either—-any more than you do. And—and—and—he's never going to know."
Her voice shook stormily. She glanced about her desperately as if in search of refuge. The child in her arms stirred and woke.
Larpent got up as if the conversation were ended. He stood for a moment irresolute, then walked across to the two little girls digging busily a few yards away.
Eileen greeted him with her usual shy courtesy. "Won't you wait a little longer?" she said. "We've very nearly finished."
"Nearly finished," echoed Molly. "Isn't it a booful big hole?"
"What's it for?" asked Larpent.
Toby's voice answered him. She had risen and followed him. It had an odd break in it—the sound of laughter that is mingled with tears. "They're digging a hole to bury me in. Isn't it a great idea?"
He wheeled and looked at her. There was no sign of tears in the wide blue eyes that met his own. Yet he put his hand on her shoulder with the gesture of one who comforts a child.
"Before I go," he said, "I want to tell you something—something no one has told me, but that I've found out for myself. There is only one thing on this earth worth having—only one thing that counts. It isn't rank or wealth or even happiness. It swamps the lot, just because it's the only thing in God's creation that lasts. And you've got it. In heaven's name, don't throw it away!"
He spoke with the simplicity and strength of a man who never wastes his words, and having spoken, he released her without farewell and turned away.
Toby stood quite motionless for several seconds, watching him; then, as he did not look round, hurriedly she addressed the eldest child.
"Take care of Betty a moment, Eileen darling! I shall be back directly."And with the words she was gone, like an arrow, in pursuit.
He must have heard her feet upon the sand, but he did not turn. Perhaps his thoughts were elsewhere, for when at the quick pressure of her hand on his arm he paused to look at her, she saw that his eyes were very sad.
"Well?" he said, with the glimmer of a smile. "Well,—Toinette?"
She clasped her two hands upon his arm, holding it very tightly, her face uplifted. "Please—I want to thank you," she said breathlessly. "You have been—so very good."
He shook his head. "I have done—nothing," he said. "Don't thank me!"
She went on with nervous haste. "And it does make a difference to me.I—I—I'm glad I know, though it must have been—a great shock to you."
"It would have been a much worse shock if it had been anyone else," he said.
"Would it? How nice of you!" Her lip trembled. "Well then, I'm glad it wasn't." She began to walk on with him. "Do you mind telling me—did you—did you—forgive her?"
"Yes," he said very quietly.
A quick shiver went through her. "Then I must too," she said. "At least—I must try. She—she—I loved her once, you know, before I began to understand."
"Everyone loved her," he said.
"But life is very difficult, isn't it?" she urged rather tremulously.
"Your life has been," he said.
She nodded. "One can't help—can't help—making mistakes—even bad ones—sometimes."
"You've just made one," he said.
She faced him valiantly. "Ah, but you don't understand. You—you can't throw away—what you've never had, can you—can you?"
"What you've got," he corrected gravely. "Yes, you can."
She flung out her hands with a wide gesture. "But I haven't got it! I never had it! He took me out of pity. He never—pretended to love me."
"No," said Larpent, with grim certitude. "He isn't pretending this time."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, motionless. "Not pretending? What do you mean? Please—what do you mean?"
He held out his hand. "Good-bye!" he said abruptly. "I mean—just that."
Her lips were parted to say more, but something in his face or action checked her. She put her hand into his. "Good-bye!" she said.
He held her hand for a moment, then, moved by some hint of forlornness in the clear eyes, he bent, as he had bent at the Castle on that summer evening weeks before, and lightly touched her forehead with his lips.
"Oh, that's nice of you," said Toby quickly. "Thank you for that."
"Don't thank me for anything!" said Larpent. "Play a straight game, that's all!"
And with the words he left her finally, striding away over the sand with that careless sailor's gait of his, gazing always far ahead of him out to the dim horizon. Perhaps as long as he lived his look would never again dwell upon anything nearer.
"It's been—a funny game," said Saltash, with a wry grimace. "We've both of us been so damned subtle that it seems to me we've ended up in much the same sort of hole that we started in."
"But you're not going to stay in it," said Maud.
He turned and looked down at her, one eyebrow cocked at a comic angle. "Ma belle reine, if you can help us to climb out, you will earn my undying gratitude."
She met his look with her steadfast eyes. "Charlie, do you know that night after night she cries as if her poor little heart were broken?"
Saltash's eyebrow descended again. He scowled hideously. "Mais pourquoi?I have not broken it. I have never even made love to her."
Maud's face was very compassionate. "Perhaps that is why. She is so young—so forlorn—and so miserable. Is it quite impossible for you to forgive her?"
"Forgive her!" said Saltash. "Does she want to be forgiven?"
"She is fretting herself ill over it," Maud said. "I can't bear to see her. No, she has told me nothing—except that she is waiting for you to throw her off—to divorce her. Charlie, you wouldn't do that even if you could!"
Saltash was silent; the scowl still upon his face.
"Tell me you wouldn't!" she urged.
His odd eyes met hers with a shifting gleam of malice. "There is only one reason for which I would do that,ma chère," he said. "So she has not told you why she ran away with my friend Spentoli?"
Maud shook her head. "She does not speak of it at all. I only know that she was unspeakably thankful to Jake for protecting her from him."
"Ah!" Saltash's teeth showed for an instant. "I also am grateful to Jake for that. He seems to have taken a masterly grip of the situation. Is he aware that he broke Spentoli's arm, I wonder? It was in the papers, alongside the tragic death of Rozelle. 'Fall of a Famous Sculptor from a Train.' It will keep him quiet for some time, I hear, and has saved me the trouble of calling him out. I went to see him in hospital."
"You went to see him!" Maud exclaimed.
Saltash nodded, the derisive light still in his eyes. "And conveyed my own condolences. You may tellla petitefrom me that I do not propose to set her free on his account. He is not what I should describe as a good and sufficient cause."
"Thank heaven for that!" Maud ejaculated with relief.
"Amen!" said Saltash piously, and took out his cigarette-case.
She watched him with puzzled eyes till the cigarette was alight and he smiled at her through the smoke, his swarthy face full of mocking humour.
"Now tell me!" she said then, "how can I help you?"
He made a wide gesture. "I leave that entirely to your discretion, madam.As you may perceive, I have wholly ceased to attempt to help myself."
"You are not angry with her?" she hazarded.
"I am furious," said Charles Rex royally.
She shook her head at him. "You're not in earnest—and it wouldn't help you if you were. Besides, you couldn't be angry with the poor little thing. Charlie, you love her, don't you? You—you want her back?"
He shifted his position slightly so that the smoke of his cigarette did not float in her direction. His smile had a whimsical twist. "Do I want her back?" he said. "On my oath, it's hard to tell."
"Oh, surely!" Maud said. She rose impulsively and stood beside him. "Charlie," she said, "why do you wear a mask with me? Do you think I don't know that she is all the world to you?"
He looked at her, and the twisted smile went from his face. "There is no woman on this earth that I can't do without," he said. "I learnt that—when I lost you."
"Ah!" Maud's voice was very pitiful. Her hand came to his. "But this—this is different. Why should you do without her? You know she loves you?"
His fingers closed spring-like about her own. A certain hardness was in his look. "If she loves me," he said, "she can come back to me of her own accord."
"But if she is afraid?" Maud pleaded.
"She has no reason to be," he said. "I have claimed nothing from her. I have never spoken a harsh word to her. Why is she afraid?"
"Have you understood her?" Maud asked very gently.
He made an abrupt movement as though the question, notwithstanding the absolute kindness of its utterance, had somehow an edge for him. The next moment he began to laugh.
"Why ask these impossible riddles? Has any man ever understood a woman? Let us dismiss the subject! And since you are here,ma belle reine,—you of all people—let us celebrate the occasion with a drink!—even if it be only tea!"
His eyes laughed into hers. The western light was streaming in across the music-room. They stood together in the turret beyond Saltash's piano, where she had found him pouring out wild music that made her warm heart ache for him.
She had come to him with the earnest desire to help, but he baffled her at every turn, this man to whom once in the days of her youth she had been so near. She could not follow the complex workings of his mind. He was too quick to cover his feelings. His inner soul had long been hidden from her.
Yet the conviction persisted that if any could pass that closed door that he kept so persistently against all comers, it would be herself. She had once possessed the key, and she could not believe that it was no longer in her power to turn it. He would surely yield to her though he barred out all beside.
Perhaps he read her thoughts, for the laugh died out of his eyes, melting into the old tender raillery that she remembered so well.
"Will you drink with me?" he said. "You have actually stooped to enter my stronghold without your bodyguard. Will you not honour me still further—partake of my hospitality?"
She smiled at him. "Of course I will have tea with you with pleasure,Charlie. Didn't you realize I was waiting to be asked?"
"You are very gracious," he said, and crossed the room to ring a bell.
She remained in the western turret, looking out over the beech woods that blazed golden in the sun to the darker pine-woods beyond.
"What a paradise this is!" she said, when he joined her again.
His restless eyes followed hers without satisfaction. A certain moodiness had come upon him. He made no answer to her words.
"Why doesn't Bunny come up to see me?" he asked suddenly. "He knows I am here."
She looked at him in surprise. "Are you expecting him?"
He nodded with a touch of arrogance. "Yes. Tell him to come! I shan't quarrel with him or he with me. Is he still thirsting for my blood? He's welcome to it if he wants it."
"Charlie!" she protested.
He turned from her and sat down at the piano. His fingers began to caress the keys, and then in a moment the old sweet melody that he had played to her in the long ago days came softly through the room. Her lips formed the words as he played, but she made no sound.
"There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the passion-flower at the gate.She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate.The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near!'And the white rose weeps, 'She is late!'The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear!'And the lily whispers, 'I wait!'"
"She is certainly very late," commented Charles Rex quizzically from the piano. "And the lily is more patient than I am. Why don't you sing, Maud of the roses?"
She started a little at his voice, but she did not answer. She could not tell him that her throat was dumb with tears.
He played softly on for a space, then as the old butler entered with a tea-tray, he abruptly left the piano to wait upon her. He made her sit in the window-seat and presently sat down himself and talked of indifferent things. She did not attempt to bring him back to the matter in hand. She knew him too well for that. If he chose to be elusive, no power on earth could capture him.
But she had a strong feeling that he would not seek to elude her wholly. He might seem to trifle, as a monkey swinging idly from bough to bough, but he had an end in view, and ultimately he would reach that end, however circuitous the route.
He surprised her eventually by the suddenness with which he pounced upon it. He had turned the talk upon the subject of his new yacht, and very abruptly he announced his intention of going round the world in her.
"Not alone?" she said, and then would have checked the words lest they should seem to ask too much.
But he answered her without a pause. "Yes, alone. And if I don't come back, Bunny can marry Toby and reign here in my stead. That is, if he isn't an infernal fool. If he is, then Toby can reign here alone—with you and Jake to take care of her."
"But, Charlie, why—why?" The words leapt from Maud in spite of her.
He frowned at her whimsically. "They've always cared for one another. Don't you know it? It's true she put me in a shrine and worshipped me for a time, but I couldn't live up to it.Figurez-vous, ma chère!Myself—a marble saint!"
"You never understood her," Maud said.
He shrugged his shoulders and went lightly on. "Oh, she was ready enough to offer me human sacrifice, but that wasn't enough for me. Besides, I didn't want sacrifice. I have stood between her and the world. I have given her protection. But it was a free gift. I don't take anything in exchange for that." An odd note sounded in his voice, as of some emotion suppressed. He leaned back against the window-frame, his hands behind his head. "That wasn't what I married her for. I tried to prove that to her. I actually thought—" the old derisive grin leapt across his face—"that I could win her trust like any ordinary man. I failed of course—failed hideously. She never expected decent treatment from me. She never even began to trust me. I was far too heavily handicapped for that. And so—as soon as the wind changed—the boat capsized."
"What made the wind change?" Maud asked gently.
He looked across at her, the baffling smile still in his eyes. "The gods played a jest with us," he said. "It was only a small jest, but it turned the scale. She fled. That was how I came to realize I couldn't hold her. I had travelled too fast as usual, and she couldn't keep up. Well," he unlocked his hands and straightened himself, "it's up to Bunny now. I'll let her go—to him."
"My dear!" Maud said.
He laughed at her with the old half-caressing ridicule. "That shocks you? But why—if they love each other? Haven't I heard you preach the gospel of love as the greatest thing on earth? Didn't you once tell me that I had yet to learn the joy—" his smile twisted again—"the overwhelming joy—of setting the happiness of another before one's own? This thing can be done quite simply and easily—as I suggested to you long ago. She has only to go away with him, and I do the rest. A moral crime—no more. Yes, it is against your code of course. But consider! I only stand to lose that which I have never possessed. For the first time in my life, I commit a crime in the name of—love!"
He laughed over the word; yet even through the scoffing sound there came a ring of pain. His face had a drawn look—the wistfulness of the monkey that has seen its prize irrevocably snatched away.
Maud rose quickly. There was something in his attitude or expression that she could not bear. "Oh, you are wrong! You are wrong!" she said. "You have the power to make her love you. And you love her. Charlie, this thing has not been given you to throw away. You can't! You can't!"
He made a sharp gesture that checked her. "My dear Maud," he said, "there are a good many things I can't do, and one of them is this. I can't hold any woman against her will—no, not if she were my wife ten times over. I wouldn't have let her go to Spentoli. But Bunny is a different matter. I have Jake's word for it that he will make her a better husband than I shall. If Bunny wants to know all about her past—her parentage—he can come to me and I can satisfy him. Tell him that! But if he really loves her—he won't care a damn—any more than I do."
"Ah!" Maud said.
She stood a moment, looking at him, and in her eyes was that mother-look of a love that understands. She held out her hand to him.
"Thank you for telling me, Charlie," she said. "Good-bye!"
He held her hand. "What have I told you?" he asked abruptly.
She shook her head. "Never mind now! You have just made me understand, that's all. I will give your message to Bunny—to them both. Good-bye!"
He stooped in his free, gallant way to kiss her hand. "After all," he said, "I return to my old allegiance. It was you,chère reine, who taught me how to love."
She gently freed her hand and turned to go. "No," she said. "I think it was God who taught you that."
For the second time Charles Rex failed to utter the scoffing laugh she half-expected. The odd eyes looked after her with a kind of melancholy irony.
"To what purpose?" he said.