CHAPTER XXIEXPECTATION
Lynton Hora felt more uneasiness than he would have acknowledged at Guy's failure to communicate with him. Nor did the daily reports with which Cornelius Jessel supplied him do anything to allay his disquietude. These would have furnished entertainment for the Commandatore had they related to anybody but Guy. Indeed, the shadow-man's matter-of-fact chronicle of the day-by-day doings of a young man in love would have been food for mirth to the mildest cynic.
"Took G.'s shaving water at seven. D——d me because he scraped himself shaving. Said I hadn't stropped the razors properly. As soon as he was up he went into the garden and helped Miss Challys syringe the rose trees. They went into breakfast together. After breakfast he sent me down to the village to see if some music he had ordered for Miss Challys had arrived. When I got back, found he had gone out in the boat with Miss Challys for a sail. Did not come back until dinner-time. Saw them come home. They had been alone together all day. Heard the Captain say to Mrs. M., 'We shall not have to wait very long now for an announcement.' She answered, 'They hardly seem to remember that there's anybody else in the world....'"
But Lynton Hora was not amused by the report as he would have been had Guy taken him into his confidencerespecting what was obviously an affair of the heart. He knew Guy well enough to be aware that he was always in deadly earnest in any pursuit in which he was engaged, and he dreaded the influence which a pure, straightforward woman might have upon him. If Meriel Challys had been the sort of woman who amused herself by luring a man on to a declaration, he would have been delighted at Guy's infatuation, the lesson would have been good for him. But he could not lull his forebodings by any such narcotic.
He saw Guy drifting away from him, throwing overboard the whole cargo of criminal philosophy which had been so carefully provided for him, at the bidding of a mere girl. He had no fear for himself. Guy might recant the faith in which he had been brought up, but Lynton Hora did not for a moment imagine that the recantation would be accompanied by any treachery towards himself. Loyalty was a distinguishing feature of Guy's nature. He would never reveal anything which would injure the man whom he looked upon as father. The Commandatore felt perfectly safe on that point, so long as Guy should not learn, nor even suspect, that he, Lynton Hora, was not his father—the Commandatore did not pursue the thought, though he foresaw the possibility and had provided what he thought would be a complete defence against any trouble to himself through the awakening of such a suspicion. Lynton Hora left as little as possible to chance, and ordinary caution had led him to anticipate the possibility of the discovery of Guy's real parentage, even though the possibility was of the remotest.
But it was not only the question of danger to himselfwhich troubled him. It was the thought that Guy would no longer be his son. All those years he had spent in moulding the boy's mind had not been without effect on Lynton Hora. Unknowingly he had given away what he did not know that he possessed. It was in reality a real human affection for his foster child which made him so perturbed. Cold as he had always been in his outward demeanour, he had learned, when Guy had departed to chambers of his own, that without him life had somehow suddenly ceased to interest him. The fanatical priest rearing the victim for sacrifice upon the altar of an unappeasable deity suddenly realised that he had learned to love the proposed victim. Yet, rather than he should fall under the influence of the man whom he looked upon as his bitterest enemy, he would have sacrificed the victim even if he should eternally regret the oblation.
He did not, it is true, anticipate such necessity. He allowed for Guy's youth. Youth was ever impressionable and romantic, changing in its fancy, and ever amenable to the mutable feminine. Once let him be removed from the presence of Meriel Challys and Hora thought that Guy might be weaned from his obvious infatuation. Indeed, there was a probability that his romantic imaginings might be turned to account. The young man, floundering out of his depths in the quicksands of romantic imaginings, might be easily captured by the wiles of a really clever woman.
Hora set himself earnestly to work to tutor Myra in the part he destined her to play in the recalling of Guy. He did so entirely by suggestion. He had taken her away from London, telling her that she needed sea air to restore the roses of her complexion, if she wished tobe beautiful in Guy's eyes when she returned to town. Then, when away, he continued, day by day, hour by hour almost, to sting her emotions. His sneers were all directed at the virtuous woman; never had Myra found him so entertaining. He excited her imagination by the books he brought her to read, tales of passionate surrender, memoirs of the courts of bygone centuries, when love and lechery were synonymous terms. He talked to her much of Guy, dwelling on his physical attributes, declaring that he was as other men. If Myra realised any intention in his words, she gave no sign of doing so. Then one day, soon after leaving town, Hora gave a hint that perhaps already some rival was claiming Guy's kisses. At that suggestion Myra's eyes flashed dangerously. Hora noted the glance.
facing226"You will take me home again."
"You will take me home again."
"You will take me home again."
"There's only one perfect revenge upon a rival," Hora remarked, "and that is to steal away the rival's lover."
"You don't mean to tell me that Guy——" said Myra, heedless of the suggestion. She could not utter the words which would have voiced her fear that Guy had already given his love to another.
"I tell you that there is a chit of a girl in the country who, if she knew as much as you do, would have taken Guy from us long ago. Fortunately she is a fool, or Guy would be lost; as it is, Myra, your chance has not yet passed."
She hoped not, and though she doubted, Hora's confidence reassured her.
That same afternoon, as they passed a stationer's shop, with a window full of photographs of actresses, Hora paused and directed her attention to the portrait of a flagrantly décolleté woman.
"You have a finer figure than that woman," he remarked.
Myra blushed, and they passed on without another word. Later on Myra returned to the shop alone and obtained the photograph.
After dinner she let fall an observation that her wardrobe needed replenishing. Hora grumbled, but she teased him into giving her a cheque. His face was perfectly grave. Next day she sent the photograph and the cheque, accompanied by a long letter of instructions, to Madame Gabrielle, her London dressmaker. Three days later Madame Gabrielle arrived in Scarborough and Myra gave the whole morning to the tedious business of fitting. Hora asked no questions.
The day came for their return to town. Myra was feverishly anxious to be off, fearful lest Guy should be back before them, fearful lest he should not come back at all. He had not written once, either to her or to Hora during the whole fortnight. Hora did his best to mitigate her obvious anxiety.
"No doubt we shall find a letter waiting for us on our return," he said.
His surmise proved correct. The letter which Jessel had posted for Guy that same morning at Whitsea was lying on the table in the entrance hall. Myra seized it eagerly. Her colour came and went as Hora opened it deliberately.
"What does he say? When is he coming?" she cried.
For answer Hora read the letter aloud.
"I am returning to town to-morrow, after spending a fortnight with Captain Marven, and I have something important to tell you. I am afraid you won't like whatI have to say, but I cannot help myself, even if it should lead to a parting of our ways. Yes, I fear it has come to that. I will come in to-morrow after dinner, if you will be at home."
That was all. Hora's voice became harsh as he read, and as he finished he crumbled the letter in his hand, and threw it aside.
"A parting of the ways. It has come to that, has it?" he muttered. His face grew dark and his eyes flashed dangerously. "A parting of the ways, and all for the sake of a milk-and-water country girl. What do you say to that, Myra?"
He turned suddenly upon his companion. He was almost alarmed at what he saw. Her face was deathlike in its pallor, and in her pale face her dark eyes flashed with unnatural brightness. She reeled slightly and grasped with both hands at a table to steady herself. He did not press the question. He led her to a chair, turned swiftly to a tantalus, and, pouring brandy into a glass, held it to her lips.
"You fool," he said, and his tone was kindly, though his words were rough. "You fool, to set such store by any piece of mere frail humanity. Drink this."
Myra obeyed the command. Gradually the colour came back to her cheeks. She sat up, but her mouth drooped at the corners, there was despair in her eyes.
"I could not help but give him my love," she said protestingly, "and he will have none of it."
Hora turned aside, and paced the room irresolutely. He seated himself at a writing-table, scribbled rapidly, and, when he had finished, brought the note over to Myra. She read it listlessly.
"Dear Guy," Hora had written, "you are a most amazing person, and I haven't the slightest idea as to the meaning of your melodramatic phrases. You know you may always please yourself as to anything you choose to do. If you do not like your profession, by all means change it for any of the legalised forms of plunder, but, even if this is in your thoughts, you need not worry over it. A man has an inalienable right to please himself, and I shall not think less of you for making your own decision, even if that decision is one which destroys all my hopes of a successor. You will find I can discuss the matter quite philosophically, but come before dinner to-morrow night, and we will have a quiet chat over a cigar afterwards. If our ways are to lie apart, you need not quite desert us. Perhaps you might even convince me, not, perhaps, that my calling is not as honourable as any other parasitic method of living, but that I might do well at my age to retire from the active practice of my profession. Dinner at 8.30. Yours, Lynton Hora."
Myra read the letter, but the perusual brought no hope to her. Hora folded it, placed it in an envelope, sealed and stamped it deliberately. He rang the bell and ordered the letter to be posted. Myra still sat silent. Then Hora said to her quietly:
"You will have to entertain Guy alone to-morrow, Myra. I shall be called away on important business."
"I cannot, indeed I cannot," she cried.
He continued deaf to her protest. "It is your only chance, Myra. To-morrow night you must win him or lose him forever. You must not fail——"
He turned and left the room, leaving the threat unspoken.
She sat there long after he departed.
Her only chance! In one or two brief hours she must bind Guy to her indissolubly. Hora had taught her, without ever once uttering a word which might offend, how she could win him if she so chose. He had insisted upon Guy's chivalrous nature. He had insisted, too, that the most Puritanical of men could be fascinated by an appeal to the senses. Thoughts came to her which set her cheeks burning. But she could not banish those thoughts. She remained motionless until a maid appeared to ask if she could see Madame Gabrielle.
"Yes, at once," she answered. "Bring her to my room."
Her listlessness had entirely departed as she rose and hurried after the maid. A minute later the dressmaker was ushered into her presence. The woman was a voluble specimen of her type, and as she unpacked the box she descanted freely on the beauties of the "creation" she had brought with her. She became more voluble than ever when Myra was robed in the new frock.
"Ah, but it is ravishing; mademoiselle's figure is magnificent, and the tint suits mademoiselle's complexion and colouring to perfection. Oh, but it is a pity mademoiselle is in London. Only in Paris could such a work of art be appreciated. Ah, mademoiselle has the right idea of dress. It is a pleasure to make for her."
With deft fingers she fluttered round, settling a tuck here, smoothing a fold there. "Let mademoiselle observe for herself," said the woman.
Myra surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. Madame Gabrielle was right. Her skin was dazzlingly fair against the dull rose tint ofthe fabric. Cleverly, too, had the modiste followed the lines of her customer's figure. Not a single graceful curve had been hidden. Yet Myra felt no sense of nudity. All outlines were softened by careful arrangement of chiffon.
Myra turned to the woman. "You have carried out my idea exactly. I am very pleased," she said.
Madame Gabrielle beamed with gratification. She began again to express her pleasure in gowning such a perfect figure. Myra cut her short. She wanted to be alone. When the woman had departed, she approached the mirror again and looked steadily at the reflection. Taking up a hand glass, she moved backwards and forwards, up and down, posturing in a score of different ways. Then suddenly she flung herself down upon her knees by the side of a chair and threw her arms in the air with a cry of despair. Something gave way in the new frock, but she paid no heed.
"Oh, Guy, Guy!" she wailed. But the cry was hardly uttered before it was checked. She bit her lip, and looked again at the mirror to gather courage.
She blushed. A string had broken, and the bodice had slipped. Suppose that Guy had answered her call. Her heart beat almost as tumultuously as if he had been present. She made a pin do service for the broken string, and, smiling again, went in search of Hora.
She found him in his study with a volume of the "Arabian Nights" open before him, but with his eyes gazing into vacancy. He did not glance at her as she entered. She moved gracefully across the room until she stood before him, then she asked simply:
"Shall I do, Commandatore?"
Her voice was low, alluring, with a spice of mockeryin it. Hora looked up impatiently, and he caught his breath. His impatience vanished. A smile passed over his face. Then he looked critically at hisvis-à-vis, so critically that Myra flushed rosily and half turned away.
"Do?" said Hora. "If I had lived in the fifteenth century, I should have declared that you had been taking counsel with the devil."
"Perhaps I have," she replied, but the mockery was still in her voice.
"I believe you could bewitch even me, if you chose," he said as he looked again. "You would serve for a picture of temptation incarnate."
She laughed happily, and her eyes shone softly.
"It is for Guy," she answered, "all for Guy."
Lynton Hora recovered his wonted mood.
"Lucky young devil," he remarked cynically. His mood changed again. "Look here, Myra," he cried. "You and Guy must be married as soon as it can be managed. No, you need not interrupt me. You can keep him here until I return, and a special license can be obtained. When he leaves this flat it must be only with his bride. I will make all arrangements, and"—he paused before continuing,—"afterwards, you shall have your wish. Guy shall engage in no more dangerous enterprises. We will sign an armistice with the world."
Myra gave a cry of delight. She seized Hora's hand, pressing it between her own two palms. "You are too good to me, Commandatore," she said earnestly. "So good to me, and yet I fear. I—I don't want the license. I only want Guy to love me; if—if he doesn't——"
Tears stood in her eyes, and a sob choked her utterance.
"Guy cannot but love you," answered Hora, and hetruly believed what he said. "No man in his senses could reject such devotion as yours, when once he is aware of its depths."
"But—I—I cannot tell him," she said helplessly, dropping her hand.
Hora looked at her curiously.
"No?" he said. "There will be plenty of time for that afterwards. First you have to win him." He caught one of her hands in his own, and something of his own virile power seemed to be transmitted to her. "You are irresistible in some moods, Myra, and, if I were forty years younger and could be foolish again, I would take care that Guy never came near you. If you wish, you may be as certain of winning him as that to-morrow will dawn." His tone denoted absolute conviction.
Myra drew away her hand.
"Good-night, Commandatore," she said. She gave him her cheek, and he brushed it lightly with his lips before she turned away and left him without another word.
"Good heavens!" he muttered to himself, when the door closed behind her. "If I were forty years younger——" He smiled cynically, and added:
"I don't think we have come to the parting of the ways just yet, Guy."