And as I looked at the lips I had kissed so ruthlessly, a quick rose tinted her face.
“Eve—this is Mr. Kirkham,” it was Consardine’s voice, faintly amused. “Miss Demerest and you have met, I think.”
“I think,” I answered, slowly, “that I am seeing Miss Demerest for the first time. I am hoping that she—will consider it so.”
It was as near to an apology as I could come. Would she take the proffered olive branch? Her eyes widened as though with reproachful surprise.
“To think,” mused Eve, mournfully, “that a man could so soon forget having kissed me! It seems hardly a compliment, does it, Dr. Consardine?”
“It seems,” said Consardine, truthfully, “impossible.”
“Ah, no,” sighed Eve. “No, Mr. Kirkham. I can’t think it is our first meeting. You have, you know, such a forceful way of impressing one with your personality. And a woman cannot forget kisses so easily.”
I flushed. That Eve was a consummate little actress she had given me plenty of convincing proof. But what did this bit of by-play mean? I could not believe that she was so bitterly offended by my actions in the Subway; she was too intelligent for that. Yet if she distrusted me, disliked me, how could I help her?
“My remark,” I said, “was prompted wholly by politeness. The truth is, Miss Demerest, that I consider those kisses generous payment for any inconveniences of my interesting journey here.”
“Well, then,” she said coldly, “you have made your trade and the slate is clean. And do not trouble to be polite with me, Mr. Kirkham. Just be yourself. You are much more amusing.”
I choked back an angry retort and bowed.
“Quite right,” I returned, as coldly as she. “After all there seems to be no reason why I should be polite to you.”
“None at all,” she answered indifferently. “And, frankly, the less I come into contact with even your natural self, Mr. Kirkham, the better it will be for both of us.”
That was an oddly turned phrase, it flashed upon me. And there was an enigmatic something deep in the brown eyes. What did she mean? Was she trying to convey to me some message that Consardine would not suspect? I heard a chuckle and turned to face—Satan.
I could not know how long he had been listening. As his gaze rested on the girl I saw a momentary flashing of the brilliant eyes, and a flicker passed over his face. It was as though the hidden devil within him had licked its lips.
“Quarreling! Oh fie!” he said unctuously.
“Quarreling? Not at all,” Eve answered coolly. “It happens that I dislike Mr. Kirkham. I am sorry—but it is so. It seemed to me better to tell him, that we may avoid each other in the future except, of course, when you find it necessary for us to be together, Satan.”
It was disconcerting, to say the least. I made no effort to hide my chagrin. Satan looked at me and chuckled again. I had a curious conviction that he was pleased.
“Well,” he purred, “even I have no power over personal prejudices. All that I can do is to make use of them. In the meantime—I am hungry.”
He seated himself at the table’s head; Eve at his right hand, I at his left and Consardine beside me. The Manchu butler and another Chinese served us.
We were in a tower room, clearly. The windows were set high above the floor and through them I could see only the blue sky. The walls were covered with Fragonard and Boucher panels, and I had no doubt that they had been acquired by the “eloquence” of Satan’s messengers. The rest of the chamber was in keeping; furnished with that same amazing eclecticism and perception of the beautiful that I had noted in the great hall and in the room where I had first met the blue-eyed devil.
Eve, having defined my place—or lack of place—in her regard, was coolly aloof to me but courteous, and sparkling and witty with Satan and Consardine. The drama of the temple and Cartright’s punishment seemed to be forgotten by the three of them. Satan was in the best of humors, but in his diabolic benignity—it is the only way I can describe it—was, to me, the sinister suggestion of a wild beast playful because its appetite has been appeased, an addict of cruelty mellowed by the ultimate anguish to which he has subjected a sacrifice. I had a vivid and unpleasant picture of him wallowing like a tiger upon the torn carcass of the man whom he had sent out of life a few hours before through the gateways of hell.
Yet the sunlight stripped him of much of his vague terror. And if he was, as Barker had put it, “an ’og for entertainment” he was himself a masterly entertainer. Something had shifted the conversation toward Jenghis Khan and for half an hour Satan told us stories of that Ruler of the Golden Horde and his black palace in his lost city of Khara-Khoto in the Gobi that wiped all the present out of my mind and set me back, seeing and hearing, into a world ten centuries gone; stories tragic and comic. Rabelaisian and tender—and all as though he had himself been a witness to what he described. Indeed, listening, it seemed to me that he could have been nothing else. Devil or not, the man had magic.
And at the end he signaled the two servants to go, and when they had gone he said to me, abruptly: “Well, James Kirkham, is it yes or no?” I feigned to hesitate. I leaned my head upon my hand and under its cover shot a glance at Eve. She was patting her mouth with slim fingers, suppressing a yawn—but there was a pallor upon her face that had not been there a moment before. I felt Satan’s will beating down upon me, tangibly.
“Yes—or no?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said, “if, Satan, you will answer one question.”
“It is always permitted to ask,” he replied. “Well, then,” I said, “I want to know what kind of an—employer you are before I make a play that may mean life service to me. A man is his aims plus the way he works to attain them. As to your methods, I have had at least an illuminative inkling. But what are your aims? In the olden days, Satan, the question would have been unnecessary. Everybody who dealt with you knew that what you were after were souls to keep your furnaces busy. But Hell, I understand, has been modernized with its Master. Furnaces are out of date and fuel therefore nothing like so valuable. Yet still, as of old, you take your prospective customers up a high mountain and offer them the kingdoms of Earth. Very well, the question. What, Satan, do you get out of it now?”
“There you have one reason for my aversion to Mr. Kirkham,” murmured Eve. “He admits nothing that cannot be balanced in a set of books. He has the shopkeeper outlook.”
I ignored this thrust. But once more Satan chuckled from still lips.
“A proper question, Eve,” he told her. “You forget that even I always keep my accounts balanced—and present them when the time comes for payment.”
He spoke the last words slowly, contemplatively, staring at her—and again I saw the devil’s gloating flicker over his face. And she saw it too, for she caught her lip between her teeth to check its trembling.
“Then answer,” I spoke abruptly to draw his attention from her back to me. He studied me as though picking the words to reply.
“Call it,” he said at last, “amusement. It is for amusement that I exist. It is for that alone that I remain upon a world in which, when all is said and done, amusement in some form or guise is the one great aim of all, the only thing that makes life upon it tolerable. My aim is, therefore, you perceive, a simple one. But what is it that amuses me?
“Three things. I am a great playwright, the greatest that has ever lived, since my plays are real. I set the scenes for my little single acts, my farces and comedies, dramas and tragedies, my epics. I direct the actors. I am the sole audience that can see every action, hear every line, of my plays from beginning to end. Sometimes what began as a farce turns into high tragedy, tragedies become farces, a one-act diversion develops into an epic, governments fall, the mighty topple from their pedestals, the lowly are exalted. Some people live their lives for chess. I play my chess with living chessmen and I play a score of games at once in all corners of the world. All this amuses me. Furthermore, in my character as Prince of Darkness, whic
h I perceive, James Kirkham, that you do not wholly admit, my art puts me on a par with that other super-dramatist, my ancient and Celestial adversary known according to the dominant local creed as Jehovah. Nay, it places me higher—since I rewrite his script. This also amuses me.”
Under the suave, sardonic mockery I read truth. To this cold, monstrous intellect, men and women were only puppets moving over a worldwide stage. Suffering, sorrow, anguish of mind or body were to it nothing but entertaining reactions to situations which it had conceived. Like the dark Power whose name Satan had taken, souls were his playthings. Their antics amused him. In that he found sufficient reward for labor.
“That,” he said, “is one of the three. The second? I am a lover of beauty. It is, indeed, the one thing that can arouse in me what may be called—emotion. It happens now and then that man with his mind and eyes and heart and hands makes visible and manifest some thing which bears that stamp of creative perfection the monopoly of which tradition ascribes to the same Celestial adversary I have named. It may be a painting, a statue, a carved bit of wood, a crystal, a vase, a fabric—any one of ten thousand things. But in it is that essence of beauty humanity calls divine and for which, in its blundering way, it is always seeking—as it is amusement. The best of these things I make from time to time my own. But—I will not have them come to me except by my own way. Here enters the third element—the gamble, the game.
“For example. I decided, after mature reflection, that the Mona Lisa of da Vinci, in the Louvre, had the quality I desired. It could not, of course, be bought; nor did I desire to buy it. Yet it is here. In this house. I allowed France to recover an excellent duplicate in which my experts reproduced perfectly even the microscopic cracks in the paint. Only now have they begun to suspect. They can never be sure—and that amuses me more than if they knew.
“James Kirkham, men risk their lives over the globe in search of treasure. I tell you that never, never since mankind began, was there ever such a treasure trove as this house of mine. The fortunes of the ten richest men in all the world could not buy it. It is more precious than all the gold in the Bank of England.
“Its values in dollars and pounds is nothing to me. But to possess this pure essence of beauty, to dwell with it, that is—much! And to know that the best of my ancient adversary’s choicest inspirations are mine, Satan’s—that is amusing! Ho! Ho!” he roared.
“Third and last,” he checked his laughter, “is the game. Collector of souls and beauty I am. Gambler am I, too, and as supreme in that as in my collecting. It is the unknown quantity, the risk, that sharpens the edge of my enjoyment of my plays. It is what gives the final zest to my—acquirements. And I am a generous opponent. The stakes those who play with me may win are immeasurably higher than any I could win from them. But play with me—they must!”
For a moment he stared at me, huge head thrust forward.
“As for the rest,” he said, “I have, as you surmised, no further interest in stoking my traditional furnaces. What happens to any man after he leaves this earth concerns me no longer. I have given up my ancient domain for this where I am amused so well. But, James Kirkham”—his blue eyes blazed out at me—“those who cross me find that I have lost none of my old skill as a Hell maker. Now are you answered?”
“Fully, sir,” I bowed. “I will gamble with you. And, win or lose, you shall have no occasion to find fault with me. But, by your leave, one more question. You have said that he who mounts the four fortunate steps can have anything that he desires. Very well, if I do so can I have”—I pointed to Eve—“her?”
I heard a gasp from Eve, watched Satan bend toward me, scrutinizing me with eyes in which a menacing coldness had appeared. Consardine spoke:
“Oh, come, now, Kirkham, be reasonable. Eve’s been honest with you. She’s made it pretty plain you’re not an acceptable candidate for bridegroom.”
I sensed a certain anxiety in his voice; the desire to placate. Placate whom—me or Satan? It interested me, hugely. Perhaps Consardine—
“Marry—you? Not for anything in this world, not to save my life, not to save myself torture!”
Eve’s voice was shrill with anger. She had sprung to her feet and stood, eyes flashing wrath, red danger signals on her cheeks. I met Satan’s gaze, squarely.
“Have I mentioned—marriage?” I asked him, blandly.
He took, as I had thought he would, the worst interpretation out of that. I saw the menace and suspicion fade away as swiftly as it had come. Yes, he took the worst interpretation, but—so did Eve.
“Satan,” she stamped her foot and thrust her chair from her with such force that it went careening over on its side, “Satan, I have a question, too. If I take the steps will you give me this man to do with as it pleases me?”
Satan looked from one to the other of us. Very evidently the situation gave him much gratification. The blue eyes sparkled and there was a benignant purr in his voice when he spoke.
“To both of you I must answer—no. No, to you, Eve, because James Kirkham has accepted my challenge to the gamble of the steps. That being so, I could not withdraw if I would. He must have his chance. Also, if he should lose to me for one undertaking or enter my service for a year, I am bound to protect him. I am bound also to give him his other chances, should he claim them. But, Eve—if he should decide to gamble no more—why, then, ask me again.”
He paused and stared at me. I had no doubt as to his meaning.
“And no to you, James Kirkham,” he said, “because all that I have said to Eve as to your position applies equally to hers. She too has her right to her chances. But”—his voice lost its benignity and grew heavy—“there is another reason. I have decreed for Eve a high destiny. Should she fulfill it—she will be far above the reach of any man. Should she shirk it—”
He did not finish the sentence; only brooded upon her with unwinking, blazing eyes. I watched the blood slowly drain from her cheeks, saw her own eyes falter and drop. There was a sharp snap and a tinkle of glass. Consardine’s hand had been playing with a heavy goblet of thick crystal and now, tightening around it, had crushed it as though it had been made of paper. He thrust the hand into his pocket, but not before I had seen blood upon it. Satan’s eyes dwelt upon him inscrutably.
“Strength like yours, Consardine,” he said, “is often dangerous—to its owner.”
“Faith, Satan,” Consardine answered, ruefully, “I was dreaming, and thought it was a neck I held in my hand.”
“A warning, I should say,” said Satan, grimly, “to leave that particular neck alone.”
“I’ve no choice,” laughed Consardine, “since the throat I had in mind was of an old enemy these ten years dead.”
For another moment or two Satan studied him, but made no further comment. He turned to me.
“You have decided,” he said. “When will you mount the steps?”
“Any time,” I answered. “The sooner the better. Now, if it’s possible. I’m feeling lucky.”
“Consardine,” he said, “have the temple prepared. Bid those who are here assemble in half an hour, Eve.”
He watched them go, the girl through a panel with never a look at me, Consardine by way of the door that led into the tiny anteroom. For long minutes Satan sat silent, regarding me. I smoked calmly, waiting for him to speak.
“James Kirkham,” he said at last, “I have told you before that you please me. Everything I have seen of you since then pleases me even more. But I must warn you of one thing. Do not let whatever chagrin or feeling of dislike that you have toward Eve Demerest be the cause of the slightest harm coming to her. You are not one that I have to threaten, but—heed this warning.”
“I put her out of my mind, Satan,” I answered. “Yet I confess I’m a bit curious about that high destiny you’ve promised her.”
“The highest destiny,” again there was the fateful heaviness in his voice. “The highest honor that could come to any woman. I will tell you, James Kirkham, so you may know
how urgent is my warning. Sooner or later I shall be compelled to visit other of my worlds. When that time comes I shall turn this one over to my son and heir, and his mother shall be—Eve!”
CHAPTER NINE
I consider it one of my few enough major victories that I took the shock of that infernal enunciation with perfect outward composure. Of course, in a way, I had been prepared. In spite of the rage and hatred that seethed up in me, I managed to raise my glass with a steady hand and my voice held nothing but the proper surprise and interest. “That is an honor, sir, indeed,” I said. “You will pardon me if I express a certain wonder as to your choice. For you, I would have thought, some empress, at least one of royal blood—”
“No, no,” he interrupted me, but I knew that he swallowed with relish my flattery, “you do not know the girl. You let your prejudice blind you. Eve is as perfect as any of the masterpieces I have gathered around me. To her beauty she adds brains. She has daring and spirit. Whatever—to me—otherwise desirable qualities may be lacking in her to pass on to my son, I can supply. He will be—my son. His training will be in my hands. He will be what I make him.”
“The son of Satan!” I said.
“Satan’s own son!” a flame leaped from his eyes. “My true son, James Kirkham.”
“You will understand,” he went on, “that there is in this nothing of what is called—love. Something of emotion, yes—but only that emotion which any truly beautiful thing calls up in me. It is intrinsically, solely, a matter of selective breeding: I have had the same idea before, but—I was not fortunate in my selections.”
“You mean—”
“They were girl children,” he said somberly. “They were disappointments. Therefore, they ceased to be.”
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 95