The best moments of a man's life are the moments when, strong in himself, he feels that the world lies before him. Gratified ambition may be the summer, but anticipation is the ardent spring-time of a man's career.
As Loder drove that night frown Fleet Street to Grosvenor Square he realized this—though scarcely with any degree of consciousness—for he was no accomplished self-analyst. But in a wave of feeling too vigorous to be denied he recognized his regained foothold—the step that lifted him at once from the pit to the pinnacle.
In that moment of realization he looked neither backward nor forward. The present was all-sufficing. Difficulties might loom ahead, but difficulties had but one object—the testing and sharpening of a man's strength. In the first deep surge of egotistical feeling he almost rejoiced in Chilcote's weakness. The more Chilcote tangled the threads of his life, the stronger must be the fingers that unravelled them. He was possessed by a great impatience; the joy of action was stirring in his blood.
Leaving the cab, he walked confidently to the door of Chilcote's house and inserted the latch-key. Even in this small act there was a grain of individual satisfaction. Then very quietly he opened the door and crossed the hall.
As he entered, a footman was arranging the fire that burned in the big grate. Seeing the man, he halted.
“Where is your mistress?” he asked, in unconscious repetition of his first question in the same house.
The man looked up. “She has just finished dinner, sir. She dined alone in her own room.” He glanced at Loder in the quick, uncertain way that was noticeable in all the servants of the household when they addressed their master. Loder saw the look and wondered what depth of curiosity it betrayed, how much of insight into the domestic life that he must always be content to skim. For an instant the old resentment against Chilcote tinged his exaltation, but he swept it angrily aside. Without further remark he began to mount the stairs.
Gaining the landing, he did not turn as usual to the door that shut off Chilcote's rooms, but moved onward down the corridor towards Eve's private sitting-room. He moved slowly till the door was reached; then he, paused and lifted his hand. There was a moment's wait while his fingers rested on the handle; then a sensation he could not explain—a reticence, a reluctance to intrude upon this one precinct—caused his, fingers to relax. With a slightly embarrassed gesture he drew back slowly and retraced his steps.
Once in Chilcote's bedroom, he walked to the nearest bell and pressed it. Renwick responded, and at sight of him Loder's feelings warmed with the same sense of fitness and familiarity that the great bed and sombre furniture of the room had inspired.
But the man did not come forward as he had expected. He remained close to the door with a hesitation that was unusual in a trained servant. It struck Loder that possibly his stolidity had exasperated Chilcote, and that possibly Chilcote had been at no pains to conceal the exasperation. The idea caused him to smile involuntarily.
“Come into the room, Renwick,” he said. “It's uncomfortable to see you standing there. I want to know if Mrs. Chilcote has sent me any message about to-night.”
Renwick studied him furtively as he came forward. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Mrs. Chilcote's maid said that the carriage was ordered for ten-fifteen, and she hoped that would suit you.” He spoke reluctantly, as if expecting a rebuke.
At the opening sentence Loder had turned aside, but now, as the man finished, he wheeled round again and looked at him closely with his keen, observant eyes.
“Look here,” he said. “I can't have you speak to me like that. I may come down on you rather sharply when my—my nerves are bad; but when I'm myself I treat you—well, I treat you decently, at any rate. You'll have to learn to discriminate. Look at me now!” A thrill of risk and of rulership passed through him as he spoke. “Look at me now! Do I look as I looked this morning—or yesterday?”
The man eyed him half stupidly, half timidly.
“Well?” Loder insisted.
“Well, sir,” Renwick responded, with some slowness; “you look the same—and you look different. A healthier color, perhaps, sir—and the eye clearer.” He grew more confident under Loder's half-humorous, half-insistent gaze. “Now that I look closer, sir—”
Loder laughed. “That's it!” he said. “Now that you look closer. You'll have to grow observant: observation is an excellent quality in a servant. Wheat you come into a room in future, look first of all at me—and take your cue from that. Remember that serving a man with nerves is like serving two masters. Now you can go; and tell Mrs. Chilcote's maid that I shall be quite ready at a quarter-past ten.”
“Yes, sir. And after that?”
“Nothing further. I sha'n't want you again to-night.” He turned away as he spoke, and moved towards the great fire that was always kept alight in Chilcote's room. But as the man moved towards the door he wheeled back again. “Oh, one thing more, Renwick! Bring me some sandwiches and a whiskey.” He remembered for the first time that he had eaten nothing since early afternoon.
At a few minutes after ten Loder left Chilcote's room, resolutely descended the stairs, and took up his position in the hall. Resolution is a strong word to apply to such a proceeding, but something in his bearing, in the attitude of his shoulders and head, instinctively suggested it.
Five or six minutes passed, but he waited without impatience; then at last the sound of a carriage stopping before the house caused him to lift his head, and at the same instant Eve appeared at the head of the staircase.
She stood there for a second, looking down on him, her maid a pace or two behind, holding her cloak. The picture she made struck upon his mind with something of a revelation.
On his first sight of her she had appealed to him as a strange blending of youth and self-possession—a girl with a woman's clearer perception of life; later he had been drawn to study her in other aspects—as a possible comrade and friend; now for the first time he saw her as a power in her own world, a woman to whom no man could deny consideration. She looked taller for the distance between them, and the distinction of her carriage added to the effect. Her black gown was exquisitely soft—as soft as her black hair; above her forehead was a cluster of splendid diamonds shaped like a coronet, and a band of the same stones encircled her neck. Loder realized in a glance that only the most distinguished of women could wear such ornaments and not have her beauty eclipsed. With a touch of the old awkwardness that had before assailed him in her presence, he came slowly forward as she descended the stairs.
“Can I help you with your cloak?” he asked. And as he asked it, something like surprise at his own timidity crossed his mind.
For a second Eve's glance rested on his face. Her expression was quite impassive, but as she lowered her lashes a faint gleam flickered across her eyes; nevertheless, her answer, when it came, was studiously courteous.
“Thank you,” she said, “but Marie will do all I want.”
Loder looked at her for a moment, then turned aside. He was not hurt by his rebuff; rather, by an interesting sequence of impressions, he was stirred by it. The pride that had refused Chilcote's help, and the self-control that had refused it graciously, moved him to admiration. He understood and appreciated both by the light of person experience.
“The carriage is waiting, sir,” Crapham's voice broke in.
Loder nodded, and Eve turned to her maid. “That will do, Marie,” she said. “I shall want a cup of chocolate when I get back—probably at one o clock.” She drew her cloak about her shoulders and moved towards the door. Then she paused and looked back. “Shall we start?” she asked, quietly.
Loder, still watching her, came forward at once. “Certainly,” he said, with unusual gentleness.
He followed her as she crossed the footpath, but made no further offer of help; and when the moment came he quietly took his place beside her in the carriage. His last impression, as the horses wheeled round, was of the open hall door—Crapham in his sombre livery and the maid in her black dress, both silhouetted against the dark background of the hall; then, as the carriage moved forward smoothly and rapidly, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
During the first few moments of the drive there was silence. To Loder there was a strange, new sensation in this companionship, so close and yet so distant. He was so near to Eve that the slight fragrant scent from her clothes might almost have belonged to his own. The impression was confusing yet vaguely delightful. It was years since he had been so close to a woman of his own class—his own caste. He acknowledged the thought with a curious sense of pleasure. Involuntarily he turned and looked at her.
She was sitting very straight, her fine profile cut clear against the carriage window, her diamonds quivering in the light that flashed by them from the street. For a space the sense of unreality that had pervaded his first entrance into Chilcote's life touched him again, then another and more potent feeling rose to quell it. Almost involuntarily as he looked at her his lips parted.
“May I say something?” he asked.
Eve remained motionless. She did not turn her head, as most women would have done. “Say anything you like,” she said, gravely.
“Anything?” He bent a little nearer, filled again by the inordinate wish to dominate.
“Of course.”
It seemed to him that her voice sounded forced and a little tired. For a moment he looked through the window at the passing lights; then slowly his gaze returned to her face.
“You look very beautiful to-night,” he said. His voice was low and his manner unemotional, but his words had the effect he desired.
She turned her head, and her eyes met his in a glance of curiosity and surprise.
Slight as the triumph was, it thrilled him. The small scene with Chilcote's valet came back to him; his own personality moved him again to a reckless determination to make his own voice heard. Leaning forward, he laid his hand lightly on her arm.
“Eve,” he said, quickly—“Eve, do you remember?” Then he paused and withdrew his hand. The horses had slackened speed, then stopped altogether as the carriage fell into line outside Bramfell House.
Loder entered Lady Bramfell's feeling far more like an actor in a drama than an ordinary man in a peculiar situation. It was the first time he had played Chilcote to a purely social audience, and the first time for many years that he had rubbed shoulders with a well-dressed crowd ostensibly brought together for amusement. As he followed Eve along the corridor that led to the reception-rooms he questioned the reality of the position again and again; then abruptly, at the moment when the sensation of unfamiliarity was strongest, a cheery voice hailed him, and, turning, he saw the square shoulders, light eyes, and pointed mustache of Lakeley, the owner of the 'St. George's Gazette'.
At the sight of the man and the sound of his greeting his doubts and speculations vanished. The essentials of life rose again to the position they had occupied three weeks ago, in the short but strenuous period when his dormant activities had been stirred and he had recognized his true self. He lifted his head unconsciously, the shade of misgiving that had crossed his confidence passing from him as he smiled at Lakeley with a keen, alert pleasure that altered his whole face.
Eve, looking back, saw the expression. It attracted and held her, like a sudden glimpse into a secret room. In all the years of her marriage, in the months of her courtship even, she had never surprised the look on Chilcote's face. The impression came quickly, and with it a strange, warm rush of interest that receded slowly, leaving an odd sense of loneliness. But, at the moment that the feeling came and passed, her attention was claimed in another direction. A slight, fair-haired boy forced his way towards her through the press of people that filled the corridor.
“Mrs. Chilcote!” he exclaimed. “Can I believe my luck in finding you alone?”
Eve laughed. It seemed that there was relief in her laugh. “How absurd you are, Bobby!” she said, kindly. “But you are wrong. My husband is here—I am waiting for him.”
Blessington looked round. “Oh!” he said. “Indeed!” Then he relapsed into silence. He was the soul of good-nature, but those who knew him best knew that Chilcote's summary change of secretaries had rankled. Eve, conscious of the little jar, made haste to smooth it away.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said. “What have you been doing?”
Blessington looked at her, then smiled again, his buoyancy restored. “Doing?” he said. “Oh, calling every other afternoon at Grosvenor Square—only to find that a certain lady is never at home.”
At his tone Eve laughed again. The boy, with his frank and ingenuous nature, had beguiled many a dull hour for her in past days, and she had missed him not a little when his place had been filled by Greening.
“But I mean seriously, Bobby. Has something good turned up?”
Blessington made a wry face “Something is on its way—that's why I am on duty to-right. Old Bramfell and the pater are working it between them. So if Lady Bramfell or Lady Astrupp happen to drop a fan or a handkerchief this evening, I've got to be here to pick it up. See?”
“As you picked up my fans and handkerchiefs last year—and the year before?” Eve smiled.
Blessington's face suddenly looked grave. “I wish you hadn't said that,” he said. Then he paused abruptly. Out of the hum of talk behind them a man's laugh sounded. It was not loud, but it was a laugh that one seldom hears in a London drawing-room—it expressed interest, amusement, and in an inexplicable may it seemed also to express strength.
Eve and Blessington both turned involuntarily.
“By Jove!” said Blessington
Eve said nothing.
Loder was parting with Lakely, and his was the laugh that had attracted them both. The interest excited by his talk was still reflected in his face and bearing as he made his way towards them.
“By Jove!” said Blessington again. “I never realized that Chilcote was so tall.”
Again Eve said nothing. But silently and with a more subtle meaning she found herself echoing the words.
Until he was quite close to her, Loder did not seem to see her. Then he stopped quietly.
“I was speaking to Lakely,” he said. “He wants me to dine with him one night at Cadogan Gardens.”
But Eve was silent, waiting for him to address Blessington. She glanced at him quickly, but though their eyes met he did not catch the meaning that lay in hers. It was a difficult moment. She had known him incredibly, almost unpardonably, absent-minded, but it had invariably been when he was “suffering from nerves,” as she phrased it to herself. But to-night he was obviously in the possession of unclouded faculties. She colored slightly and glanced under her lashes at Blessington. Had the same idea struck him, she wondered? But he was studiously studying a suit of Chinese armor that stood close by in a niche of the wall.
“Bobby has been keeping me amused while you talked to Mr. Lakely,” she said, pointedly.
Directly addressed, Loder turned and looked at Blessington. “How d'you do?” he said, with doubtful cordiality. The name of Bobby conveyed nothing to him.
To his surprise, Eve looked annoyed, and Blessington's fresh-colored face deepened in tone. With a slow, uncomfortable sensation he was aware of having struck a wrong note.
There was a short, unpleasant pause. Then, more by intuition than actual sight, Blessington saw Eve's eyes turn from him to Loder, and with quick tact he saved the situation.
“How d'you do, sir?” he responded, with a smile. “I congratulate you on looking so—so uncommon well. I was just telling Mrs. Chilcote that I hold a commission for Lady Astrupp to-night. I'm a sort of scout at present—reporting on the outposts.” He spoke fast and without much meaning, but his boyish voice eased the strain.
Eve thanked him with a smile. “Then we mustn't interfere with a person on active service,” she said. “Besides, we have our own duties to get through.”
She smiled again, and, touching Loder's arm, indicated the reception-rooms.
When they entered the larger of the two rooms Lady Bramfell was still receiving her guests. She was a tall and angular woman, who, except for a certain beauty of hands and feet and a certain similarity of voice, possessed nothing in common with her sister Lillian. She was speaking to a group of people as they approached, and the first sound of her sweet and rather drawling tones touched Loder with a curious momentary feeling—a vague suggestion of awakened memories. Then the suggestion vanished as she turned and greeted Eve.
“How sweet of you to come!” she murmured. And it seemed to Loder that a more spontaneous smile lighted up her face. Then she extended her hand to him. “And you, too!” she added. “Though I fear we shall bore you dreadfully.”
Watching her with interest, he saw the change of expression as her eyes turned from Eve to him, and noticed a colder tone in her voice as she addressed him directly. The observation moved him to self-assertion.
“That's a poor compliment to me,” he said “To be bored is surely only a polite way of being inane.”
Lady Bramfell smiled. “What!” she exclaimed. “You defending your social reputation?”
Loder laughed a little. “The smaller it is, the more defending it needs,” he replied.
Another stream of arrivals swept by them as he spoke; Eve smiled at their hostess and moved across the room, and he perforce followed. As he gained her side, the little court about Lady Bramfell was left well in the rear, the great throng at the farther end of the room was not yet reached, and for the moment they were practically alone.
There was a certain uneasiness in that moment of companionship. It seemed to him that Eve wished to speak, but hesitated. Once or twice she opened and closed the fan that she was carrying, then at last, as if by an effort, she turned and looked at him.
“Why were you so cold to Bobby Blessington?” she asked. “Doesn't it seem discourteous to ignore him as you did?”
Her manner was subdued. It was not the annoyed manner that one uses to a man when he has behaved ill; it was the explanatory tone one might adopt towards an incorrigible child. Loder felt this; but the gist of a remark always came to him first, its mode of expression later. The fact that it was Blessington whom he had encountered—Blessington to whom he had spoken with vague politeness—came to him with a sense of unpleasantness. He was not to blame in the matter, nevertheless he blamed himself. He was annoyed that, he should have made the slip in Eve's presence.
They were moving forward, nearing the press of people in the second room, when Eve spoke, and the fact filled him with an added sense of annoyance. People smiled and bowed to her from every side; one woman leaned forward as they passed and whispered something in her ear. Again the sensation of futility and vexation filled him; again he realized how palpable was the place she held in the world. Then, as his feelings reached their height and speech seemed forced upon him, a small man with a round face, catching a glimpse of Eve, darted from a circle of people gathered in one of the windows and came quickly towards them.
With an unjust touch of irritation he recognized Lord Bramfell.
Again the sense of Eve's aloofness stung him as their host approached. In another moment she would be lost to him among this throng of strangers—claimed by them as by right.
“Eve—” he said, involuntarily and under his breath.
She half paused and turned towards him. “Yes?” she said; and he wondered if it was his imagination that made the word sound slightly eager.
“About that matter of Blessington—” he began. Then he stopped, Bramfell had reached them.
The little man came up smiling and with an outstretched hand. “There's no penalty for separating husband and wife, is there, Mrs. Chilcote? How are you, Chilcote?” He turned from one to the other with the quick, noiseless manner that always characterized him.
Loder turned aside to hide his vexation, but Eve greeted their host with her usual self-possessed smile.
“You are exempt from all penalties to-night,” she said. Then she turned to greet the members of his party who had strolled across from the window in his wake.
As she moved aside Bramfell looked at Loder. “Well, Chilcote, have you dipped into the future yet?” he asked, with a laugh.
Loder echoed the laugh but said nothing. In his uncertainty at the question he reverted to his old resource of silence.
Bramfell raised his eyebrows. “What!” he said. “Don't tell me that my sister-in-law hasn't engaged you as a victim.” Then he turned in Eve's direction. “You've heard of our new departure, Mrs. Chilcote?”
Eve looked round from the lively group by which she was surrounded. “Lillian's crystal-gazing? Why, of course!” she said. “She should make a very beautiful seer. We are all quite curious.”
Bramfell pursed up his lips. “She has a very beautiful tent at the end of the conservatory. It took five men as many days to rig it up. We couldn't hear ourselves talk, for hammering. My wife said it made her feel quite philanthropic, it reminded her so much of a charity bazaar.”
Everybody laughed; and at the same moment Blessington came quickly across the room and joined the group.
“Hallo!” he said. “Anybody seen Witcheston? He's next on my list for the crystal business.”
Again the whole party laughed, and Bramfell, stepping forward, touched Blessington's arm in mock seriousness.
“Witcheston is playing bridge, like a sensible man,” he said. “Leave him in peace, Bobby.”
Blessington made a comical grimace. “But I'm working this on commercial principles,” he said. “I keep the list, names and hours complete, and Lady Astrupp gazes, in blissful ignorance as to who her victims are. The whole thing is great—simple and statistical.”
“For goodness' sake, Bobby, shut up!” Bramfell's round eyes were twinkling with amusement.
“But my system—”
“Systems! Ah, we all had them when we were as young as you are!”
“And they all had flaws, Bobby,” Eve broke in. “We were always finding gaps that had to be filled up. Never mind about Lord Witcheston. Get a substitute; it won't count—if Lillian doesn't know.”
Blessington wavered as she spoke. His eyes wandered round the party and again rested on Bramfell.
“Not me, Bobby! Remember, I've breathed crystals—practically lived on them—for the last week. Now, there's Chilcote—” Again his eyes twinkled.
All eyes were turned on Loder, though one or two strayed surreptitiously to Eve. She, seeming sensitive to the position, laughed quickly.
“A very good idea!” she said. “Who wants to see the future, if not a politician?”
Loder glanced from her to Blessington. Then, with a very feminine impulse, she settled the matter beyond dispute.
“Please use your authority, Bobby,” she said. “And when you've got him safely under canvas, come back to me. It's years since we've had a talk.” She nodded and smiled, then instantly turned to Bramfell with some trivial remark.
For a second Loder waited, then with a movement of resignation he laid his hand on Blessington's arm. “Very well!” he said. “But if my fate is black, witness it was my wife who sent me to it.” His faint pause on the word wife, the mention of the word itself in the presence of these people, had a savor of recklessness. The small discomfiture of his earlier slip vanished before it; he experienced a strong reaction of confidence in his luck. With a cool head, a steady step, and a friendly pressure of the fingers on Blessington's arm, he allowed himself to be drawn across the reception-rooms, through the long corridors, and down the broad flight of steps that led to the conservatory.
The conservatory was a feature of the Bramfell townhouse, and to Loder it came as something wonderful and unlooked-for—with its clustering green branches, its slight, unoppressive scents, its temperately pleasant atmosphere. He felt no wish to speak as, still guided by Blessington, he passed down the shadowy paths that in the half-light had the warmth and mystery of a Southern garden. Here and there from the darkness came the whispering of a voice or the sound of a laugh, bringing with them the necessary touch of life. Otherwise the place was still.
Absorbed by the air of solitude, contrasting so remarkably with the noise and crowded glitter left behind in the reception-rooms, he had moved half-way down the long, green aisle before the business in hand came back to him with a sudden sense of annoyance. It seemed so paltry to mar the quiet of the place with the absurdity of a side-show. He turned to Blessington with a touch of abruptness.
“What am I expected to do?” he asked.
Blessington looked up, surprised. “Why, I thought, sir—” he began. Then he instantly altered his tone: “Oh, just enter into the spirit of the thing. Lady Astrupp won't put much strain on your credulity, but she'll make a big call on your solemnity.” He laughed.
He had an infectious laugh, and Loder responded to it.
“But what am I to do?” he persisted.
“Oh, nothing. Being the priestess, she, naturally demands acolytes; but she'll let you know that she holds the prior place. The tent is so fixed that she sees nothing beyond your hands; so there's absolutely no delusion.” He laughed once more. Then suddenly he lowered his voice and slackened his steps. “Here we are!” he whispered, in pretended awe.
At the end of the path the space widened to the full breadth of the conservatory. The light was dimmer, giving an added impression of distance; away to the left, Loder heard the sound of splashing water, and on his right hand he caught his first glimpse of the tent that was his goal.
It was an artistic little structure—a pavilion formed of silky fabric that showed bronze in the light of an Oriental lamp that hung above its entrance. As they drew closer, a man emerged from it. He stood for a moment in uncertainty, looking about him; then, catching sight of them, he came forward laughing.
“By George!” he exclaimed, “it's as dark as limbo in there! I didn't see you at first. But I say, Blessington, it's a beastly shame to have that thunder-cloud barrier shutting off the sorceress. If she gazes at the crystal, mayn't we have something to gaze at, too?”
Blessington laughed. “You want too much, Galltry,” he said. “Lady Astrupp understands the value of the unattainable. Come along, sir!” he added to Loder, drawing him forward with an energetic pressure of the arm.
Loder responded, and as he did so a flicker of curiosity touched his mind for the first time. He wondered for an instant who this woman was who aroused so much comment. And with the speculation came the remembrance of how she had assured Chilcote that on one point, at least he was invulnerable. He had spoken then from the height of a past experience—an experience so fully passed that he wondered now if it had been as staple a guarantee as he had then believed. Man's capacity for outliving is astonishingly complete. The long-ago incident in the Italian mountains had faded, like a crayon study in which the tones have merged and gradually lost character. The past had paled before the present—as golden hair might pale before black. The simile came with apparent irrelevance. Then again Blessington pressed his arm.
“Now, sir!” he said, drawing away and lifting the curtain that hung before the entrance of the tent.
Loder looked at the amused, boyish face lighted by the hanging lamp, and smiled pleasantly; then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he entered the pavilion and the curtain fell behind him.
On entering the pavilion, Loder's first feeling was one of annoyed awkwardness at finding himself in almost total darkness. But as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, the feeling vanished and the absurdity of the position came to his mind.
The tent was small, heavily draped with silk and smelling of musk. It was divided into two sections by an immovable curtain that hung from the roof to within a few feet of the floor. The only furniture on Loder's side was one low chair, and the only light a faint radiance that, coming from the invisible half of the pavilion; spread across the floor in a pale band. For a short space he stood uncertain, then his hesitation was brought to an end.
“Please sit down,” said a low, soft voice.
For a further moment he stood undecided. The voice sounded so unexpectedly near. In the quiet and darkness of the place it seemed to possess a disproportionate weight—almost the weight of a familiar thing. Then, with a sudden, unanalyzed touch of relief, he located the impression. It was the similarity to Lady Bramfell's sweet, slow tones that had stirred his mind. With a sense of satisfaction he drew the chair forward and sat down.
Then, for the first time, he saw that on the other side of the gauze partition, and below it by a few inches, was a small table of polished wood, on which stood an open book, a crystal ball, and a gold dish filled with ink. These were arranged on the side of the table nearest to him, the farther side being out of his range of vision. An amused interest touched him as he made his position more comfortable. Whoever this woman was, she had an eye for stage management, she knew how to marshal her effects. He found himself waiting with some curiosity for the next injunction from behind the curtain.
“The art of crystal-gazing,” began the sweet, slow voice after a pause, “is one of the oldest known arts.” Loder sat forward. The thought of Lady Bramfell mingled disconcertingly with some other thought more distant and less easy to secure.
“To obtain the best results,” went on the seer, “the subject lays his uncovered hands outspread upon a smooth surface.” It was evident that the invisible priestess was reading from the open book, for when the word “surface” was reached there was a slight stir that indicated the changing of position; and when the voice came again it was in a different tone.
“Please lay your hands, palms downward, upon the table.”
Loder smiled to himself in the darkness. He pictured Chilcote with his nerves and his impatience going through this ordeal; then in good-humored silence he leaned forward and obeyed the command. His hands rested on the smooth surface of the table in the bar of light from the unseen lamp.
There was a second in which the seer was silent; then he fancied that she raised her head.
“You must take off your rings,” she said smoothly. “Any metal interferes with the sympathetic current.”
At any other time Loder would have laughed; but the request so casually and graciously made sent all possibility of irony far into the background. The thought of Chilcote and of the one flaw in their otherwise flawless scheme rose to his mind. Instinctively he half withdrew his hands.
“Where is the sympathetic current?” he asked, quietly. His thoughts were busy with the question of whether he would or would not be justified in beating an undignified retreat.
“Between you and me, of course,” said the voice, softly. It sounded languid, but very rational. The idea of retreat seemed suddenly theatrical. In this world of low voices and shaded lights people never adopted extreme measures—no occasion made a scene practicable, or even allowable. He leaned back slowly, while he summed up the situation. If by any unlucky chance this woman knew Chilcote to have adopted jewelry and had seen the designs of his rings, the sight of his own scarred finger would suggest question and comment; if, on the other hand, he left the pavilion without excuse, or if, without apparent reason, he refused to remove the rings, he opened up a new difficulty—a fresh road to curiosity. It came upon him with unusual quickness—the obstacles to, and the need for, a speedy decision. He glanced round the tent, then unconsciously he straightened his shoulders. After all, he had stepped into a tight corner, but there was no need to cry out in squeezing his way back. Then he realized that the soft, ingratiating tones were sounding once more.
“It's the passing of my hands over yours, while I look into the crystal, that sets up sympathy”—a slender hand moved swiftly into the light and picked up the ball—“and makes my eyes see the pictures in your mind. Now, will you please take off your rings?”
The very naturalness of the request disarmed him. It was a risk. But, as Chilcote had said, risk was the salt of life!
“I'm afraid you think me very troublesome.” The voice came again, delicately low and conciliatory.
For a brief second Loder wondered uncertainly how long or how well Chilcote knew Lady Astrupp; then he dismissed the question. Chilcote had never mentioned her until to-night, and then casually as Lady Bramfell's sister. What a coward he was becoming in throwing the dice with Fate! Without further delay he drew off the rings, slipped them into his pocket, and replaced his hands on the smooth table-top.
Then, at the moment that he replaced them, a peculiar thing occurred.
From the farther side of the dark partition came the quick, rustling stir of a skirt, and the slight scrape of a chair pushed either backward or forward. Then there was silence.
Now, silence can suggest anything, from profound thought to imbecility; but in this case its suggestion was nil. That something had happened, that some change had taken place, was as patent to Loder as the darkness of the curtain or the band of light that crossed the floor, but what had occasioned it, or what it stood for, he made no attempt to decide. He sat bitingly conscious of his hands spread open on the table under the scrutiny of eyes that were invisible to him vividly aware of the awkwardness of his position. He felt with instinctive certainty that a new chord had been struck; but a man seldom acts on instinctive certainties. If the exposure of his hands had struck this fresh note, then any added action would but heighten the dilemma. He sat silent and motionless.
Whether his impassivity had any bearing on the moment he had no way of knowing; but no further movement came from behind the partition. Whatever the emotions that had caused the sharp swish of skirts and the sharp scrape of the chair, they had evidently subsided or been dominated by other feelings.
The next indication of life that came to him was the laying down of the crystal ball. It was laid back upon the table with a slight jerk that indicated a decision come to; and almost simultaneously the seer's voice came to him again. Her tone was lower now than it had been before, and its extreme ease seemed slightly shaken—whether by excitement, surprise, or curiosity, it was impossible to say.
“You will think it strange—” she began. “You will think—” Then she stopped.
There was a pause, as though she waited for some help, but Loder remained mute. In difficulty a silent tongue and a cool head are usually man's best weapons.
His silence was disconcerting. He heard her stir again.
“You will think it strange—” she began once more. Then quite suddenly she checked and controlled her voice. “You must forgive me for what I am going to say,” she added, in a completely different tone, “but crystal-gazing is such an illusive thing. Directly you put your hands upon the table I felt that there would be no result; but I wouldn't admit the defeat. Women are such keen anglers that they can never acknowledge that any fish, however big, has slipped the hook.” She laughed softly.
At the sound of the laugh Loder shifted his position for the first time. He could not have told why, but it struck him with a slight sense of confusion. A precipitate wish to rise and pass through the doorway into the wider spaces of the conservatory came to him, though he made no attempt to act upon it. He knew that, for some inexplicable reason, this woman behind the screen had lied to him—in the controlling of her speech, in her charge of voice. There had been one moment in which an impulse or an emotion had almost found voice; then training, instinct, or it might have been diplomacy, had conquered, and the moment had passed. There was a riddle in the very atmosphere of the place—and he abominated riddles.
But Lady Astrupp was absorbed in her own concerns. Again she changed her position; and to Loder, listening attentively, it seemed that she leaned forward and examined his hands afresh. The sensation was so acute that he withdrew them involuntarily.
Again there was a confused rustle; the crystal ball rolled from the table, and the seer laughed quickly. Obeying a strenuous impulse, Loder rose.
He had no definite notion of what he expected or what he must avoid. He was only conscious that the pavilion, with its silk draperies, its scent of musk, and its intolerable secrecy, was no longer endurable. He felt cramped and confused in mind and muscle. He stood for a second to straighten his limbs; then he turned, and, moving directly forward, passed through the portiere.
After the dimness of the pavilion the conservatory seemed comparatively bright; but without waiting to grow accustomed to the altered light he moved onward with deliberate haste. The long, green alley, was speedily traversed; in his eyes it no longer possessed greenness, no longer suggested freshness or repose. It was simply a means to the end upon which his mind was set.
As he passed up the flight of steps he drew his rings from his pocket and slipped them on again. Then he stepped into the glare of the thronged corridor.
Some one hailed him as he passed through the crowd, but with Chilcote's most absorbed manner he hurried on. Through the door of the supper-room he caught sight of Blessington and Eve, and then for the first time his expression changed, and he turned directly towards them.
“Eve,” he said, “will you excuse me? I have a word to say to Blessington.”
She glanced at him in momentary surprise; then she smiled in her quiet, self-possessed way.
“Of course!” she said. “I've been wanting a chat with Millicent Gower, but Bobby has required so much entertaining—” She smiled again, this time at Blessington, and moved away towards a pale girl in green who was standing alone.
Instantly she had turned Loder took Blessington's arm.
“I know you're tremendously busy,” he began—in an excellent imitation of Chilcote's hasty manner—“I know you're tremendously busy, but I'm in a fix.”
One glance at Blessington's healthy, ingenuous face told him that plain speaking was the method to adopt.
“Indeed, sir?” In a moment Blessington was on the alert.
“Yes. And I—I want your help.”
The boy reddened. That Chilcote should appeal to him stirred him to an uneasy feeling of pride and uncertainty.
Loder saw his advantage and pressed it home. “It's come about through this crystal-gazing business. I'm afraid I didn't play my part—rather made an ass of myself; I wouldn't swallow the thing, and—and Lady Astrupp—” He paused, measuring Blessington with a glance. “Well, my dear boy, you—you know what women are!”
Blessington was only twenty-three. He reddened again, and assumed an air of profundity. “I know sir,” he said, with a shake of the head.
Loder's sense of humor was keen, but he kept a grave face. “I knew you'd catch my meaning; but I want you to do something more. If Lady Astrupp should ask you who was in her tent this past ten minutes, I want you—” Again he stopped, looking at his companion's face.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to tell an immaterial lie for me.”
Blessington returned his glance; then he laughed a little uncomfortably. “But surely, sir—”
“She recognized me, you mean?” Loder's eyes were as keen as steel.
“Yes.”
“Then you're wrong. She didn't.”
Blessington's eyebrows went up.
There was silence. Loder glanced across the room. Eve had parted from the girl in green and was moving towards them, exchanging smiles and greetings as she came.
“My wife is coming back,” he said. “Will you do this for me, Blessington? It—it will smooth things—” He spoke quickly, continuing to watch Eve. As he had hoped, Blessington's eyes turned in the same direction. “'Twill smooth matters,” he repeated, “smooth them in—in a domestic way that I can't explain.”
The shot told. Blessington looked round.
“Right, sir!” he said. “You may leave it to me,” And before Loder could speak again he had turned and disappeared into the crowd.