For now, whether Harrington lived or died, he must be counted as nothing in this new struggle darkly outlining its initial strategy in Quarrier’s brain. What was coming was coming between himself and Plank alone; and whatever the result — whether an armed truce leaving affairs indefinitely in statu quo, or the other alternative, an alliance with Plank, leaving Harrington like a king in his mail, propped upon his throne, dead eyes doubly darkened under the closed helmet — the result must be attained swiftly, with secrecy, and with the aid of no man. For he did not count Mortimer a man.
So Quarrier’s thin lips twitched and the glimmer of teeth showed under the silky beard as he listened without comment to the old man’s hesitating words — a tremulous suggestion for a conference that evening — and he said again, “to-morrow,” and left him there alone, groping with uncertain hands toward the door of the hired coupé which had brought him to the place of his earthly downfall; the place where he had met his own weird face to face — the wraith that bore the mask of Plank.
Quarrier, brooding sullenly in his Mercedes, was already far up town on his way to Major Belwether’s house.
At the door, Sylvia’s maid received him smilingly, saying that her mistress was not at home but that Mrs. Mortimer was — which saved Quarrier the necessity of asking for the private conference with Leila which was exactly what he had come for. But her first unguarded words on receiving him as he rose at her entrance into the darkened drawing-room changed that plan, too — changed it all so utterly, and so much for the better, that he almost smiled to think of the crudity of human combinations and inventions as compared to the masterly machinations of Fate. No need for him to complicate matters when here were pawns enough to play the game for him. No need for him to do anything except give them their initial velocity and let them tumble into one another and totter or fall. Leila said, laughingly: “Oh, you are too late, Howard. We are dining with Mr. Plank at Riverside Inn. What in the world are you doing in town so suddenly?”
“A business telegram. I might have come down with you and Sylvia if I had known.... Is Plank dining with you alone?”
“I haven’t seen him,” smiled Leila evasively. “He will tell us his plans of course when he comes.”
“Oh,” said Quarrier, dropping his eyes and glancing furtively toward the curtained windows through which he could see the street and his Mercedes waiting at the curb. At the same instant a hansom drove up; Sylvia sprang out, ran lightly up the low steps, and the silent, shrouded house rang with the clamour of the bell.
Leila looked curiously at Quarrier, who sat motionless, head partly averted, as though listening to something heard by him alone. He believed perhaps that he was listening to the voice of Fate again, and it may have been so, for already, for the third time, all his plans were changing to suit this new ally of his — this miraculous Fate which was shaping matters for him as he waited. Sylvia had started up-stairs like a fragrant whirlwind, but her flying feet halted at Leila’s constrained voice from the drawing-room, and she spun around and came into the darkened room like an April breeze.
“Leila! They’ll be here at a quarter to seven—”
Her breath seemed to leave her body as a shadowy figure rose in the uncertain light and confronted her.
“You!”
He said: “Didn’t you recognise the Mercedes outside?”
She had not even seen it, so excited, so deeply engaged had she been with the riotous tumult of her own thoughts. And still her hurt, unbelieving gaze widened to dismay as she stood there halted on the threshold; and still his eyes, narrowing, held her under their expressionless inspection.
“When did you come? Why?” she asked in an altered voice.
“I came on business. Naturally, being here, I came to see you. I understand you are dining out?”
“Yes, we are dining out.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t wire you because we might have dined together. I saw Plank this afternoon. He did not say you were to dine with him. Shall I see you later in the evening, Sylvia?”
“I — it will be too late—”
“Oh! To-morrow then. What train do you take?”
Sylvia did not answer; he picked up his hat, repeating the question carelessly, and still she made no reply.
“Shall I see you to-morrow?” he asked, swinging on her rather suddenly.
“I think — not. I — there will be no time—”
He bowed quietly to Leila, offering his hand. “Who did you say was to dine with you — besides Plank?”
Leila stood silent, then, withdrawing her fingers, walked to the window.
Quarrier, his hat in his gloved hands, looked from one to the other, his inquiring eyes returning and focused on Sylvia.
“Who are you dining with?” he asked with authority.
“Mr. Plank and Mr. Siward.”
“Mr. Siward!” he repeated in surprised displeasure, as though he had not already divined it.
“Yes. A man I like.”
“A man I dislike,” he rejoined with the slightest emphasis.
“I am sorry,” she said simply.
“So am I, Sylvia. And I am going to ask you to make him an excuse. Any excuse will do.”
“Excuse? What do you mean, Howard?”
“I mean that I do not care to have you seen with Mr. Siward. Have I ever demanded very much of you, Sylvia? Very well; I demand this of you now.”
And still she stood there, her eyes wide, her colour gone, repeating: “Excuse? What excuse? What do you mean by ‘excuse,’ Howard?”
“I have told you. You know my wishes. If he has a telephone you can communicate with him—”
“And say that I — that you forbid me—”
“If you choose. Yes; say that I object to him. Is there anything extraordinary in a man objecting to his future wife dining in the country at a common inn with a notorious outcast from every decent club and circle in New York?”
“What!” she whispered, white as death. “What did you say?”
“Shall I repeat what everybody except you seems to be aware of? Do you care to have me explain to you exactly why decent people have ostracised this man with whom you are proposing to figure in a public resort?”
He turned to Leila, who stood at the window, her back turned toward them: “Mrs. Mortimer, when Mr. Plank arrives, you will be kind enough to explain why Sylvia is unable to accompany you.”
If Leila heard she neither turned nor made sign of comprehension.
“We will dine at the Santa Regina,” he said to Sylvia. “Agatha is there and I’ll find somebody at the club to—”
“Why bother to find anybody?” said Leila, wheeling on him, exasperated. “Why not dine there with Agatha alone? It will not be the first time I fancy!”
“What do you mean?” he said fiercely, under his breath. The colour had left his face, too, and in his eyes Leila saw for the first time an expression that she had never before surprised in any eyes except her husband’s. It was the expression of fright; she recognised it. But Sylvia stared, unenlightened, at an altered visage she scarcely knew for Quarrier’s.
“What do I mean?” repeated Leila; “I mean what I say; and if you don’t understand it you can find the key to it, I fancy. Nor shall I answer to you for my guests. I invite whom I choose. Mr. Siward is one, Mr. Plank is another. Sylvia, if you care to come I shall be delighted.”
“I do care to come,” said Sylvia. Her heart was beating violently, her eyes were on Quarrier.
“If you go,” said Quarrier, showing the glimmering edge of teeth under his beard, “you will answer to me for it.”
“I will answer you now, Howard; I am going with Mrs. Mortimer. What have you to say?”
“I’ll say it to-morrow,” he replied, contemplating her in a dull, impassive manner as though absorbed in other things.
“Say what there is to be said now!” she insisted, the hot colour staining her cheeks again. “Do you desire me to free you? Is that all? I will if you wish.
”
“No. And I shall not free you, Sylvia. This — all this can be adjusted in time.”
“As you please,” she said slowly.
“In time,” he repeated, his passionless voice now under perfect control. He turned and looked at Leila; all the wickedness of his anger was concentrated in his gaze. Then he took his leave of them as formally, as precisely as though he had forgotten the whole scene; and a minute later the big Mercedes ran out into a half-circle, backed, wheeled, and rolled away through the thickening dusk, the glare of the acetylenes sweeping the deserted street.
Into the twilight sped Quarrier, head bent, but his soft, dark-lashed eyes of a woman fixed steadily ahead. Every energy, every thought was now bent to this newest phase of the same question which he and Fate were finding simpler to solve every minute. Of all the luxuries he permitted himself openly or furtively, one — the rarest of them all — his self-denial had practically eliminated from the list: the luxury of punishing where no end was served save that of mere personal satisfaction. The temptation of this luxury now presented itself; and the means of gratification were so simple, so secret, so easy to command, that the temptation became almost a duty.
Siward he had not turned out of his way to injure; Siward had been in the way, that was all, and his ruin was to have been merely an agreeable coincidence with the purposed ruin of Amalgamated Electric before Inter-County absorbed the fragments. But here was a new phase; Mrs. Mortimer, whom he had expected to use, and if necessary sacrifice, had suddenly turned vicious. And he now hated her as coldly as he hated Major Belwether for betraying suspicions of a similar nature. As for Plank, fear and hatred of him was becoming hatred and contempt. He had the means of checking Plank if Mortimer did not drop dead before midnight. There remained Sylvia, whom he had selected as the fittest object attainable to transmit his name. Long ago, whatever of liking, of affection, of passion he had ever entertained for her had quieted to indifference and the unemotional contemplation of a future methodically arranged for. Now of a sudden, this young girl he had bought — he knowing what she sold and what he was paying for — had become exposed to the infection of a suspicion concerning himself and another woman; a woman unmarried, and of his own caste, and numbered among her own friends.
And he knew enough of Sylvia to know that if anybody could once arouse her suspicion nothing on earth could induce her to look into his face again. Suppose Leila should do so this evening?
Certainly Quarrier had several matters to ponder over and provide for; and first and foremost of all to provide for his own security and the vital necessity of preserving his name and his character untainted. In this he had to deal with that miserable judge who had betrayed him; with Mortimer, who had once black-mailed him and who now was temporarily in his service; with Mrs. Mortimer, who — God knew how, when, or where — had become suspicious of Agatha and himself; with Major Belwether, who had deserted him before he could sacrifice the major, and whom he now hated and feared for having stumbled over suspicions similar to Mrs. Mortimer’s. He had to deal with Sylvia herself, and with Siward — reckon with Siward’s knowledge of matters which it were best that Sylvia should not know.
But first of all, and most important of all, he had to deal with Beverly Plank. And he was going to do it in a manner that Plank could not have foreseen; he was going to stop Plank where he stood, and to do this he was deliberately using his knowledge of the man and paying Plank the compliment of counting on his sense of honour to defeat him.
For he had suddenly found the opportunity to defend himself; he had discovered the joint in Plank’s old-fashioned armour — the armour of the old paladins — who placed a woman’s honour before all else in the world. Now, through his creature, Mortimer, he could menace Plank with a threat to involve him and Leila in a vile publicity; now he was in a position to demand a hearing and a compromise through his new ambassador, Mortimer, knowing that he could at last halt Plank by threatening Leila with this shameful danger. Plank must sign the truce or face with Leila an action for damages and divorce.
First of all he went to the Lenox Club and dressed. Then he dined sparingly and alone. The Mercedes was waiting when he came out ready to run down to the great Hotel Corona, whither the Japanese steward had conducted Mortimer. Mortimer had dined heavily, but his disorganised physical condition was such that it had scarcely affected him at all.
Again Quarrier went over patiently and carefully the very simple part he had reserved for Mortimer that evening, explaining exactly what to say to Leila and what to say to Plank in case of insolent interruption. Then he told Mortimer to be ready at nine o’clock, turned on his heel with a curt word to the Japanese, descended to the street, entered his motor-car again, and sped away to the Hotel Santa Regina.
Miss Caithness was at home, came the message in exchange for his cards for Agatha and Mrs. Vendenning. He entered the gilded elevator, stepped out on the sixth floor into a tiny, rococo, public reception-room. Nobody was there besides himself; Agatha’s maid came presently, and he turned and followed her into the large and very handsome parlour belonging to the suite which Agatha was occupying with Mrs. Vendenning for the few days that they were to stop in town.
“Hello,” she said serenely, sauntering in, her long, pale hands bracketed on her narrow hips, her lips disclosing her teeth in a smile so like that nervous muscular recession which passed for a smile on Quarrier’s visage that for one moment he recognised it and thought she was mocking him. But she strolled up to him, meeting his eye calmly, and lifted her slim neck, lips passive under his impetuous kiss.
“Is Mrs. Vendenning out?” he asked, laying his hands on the bare shoulders of the tall, pallid girl — tall as he, and as pallid.
“No, Mrs. Ven. is in, Howard.”
“Now? You mean she is coming in to interrupt—”
“Oh no; she isn’t fond of you, Howard.”
“You said—” he began almost angrily, but she laid her fingers across his lips.
“I said a very foolish thing, Howard. I said that I’d manage to dispense with Mrs. Ven. this evening.”
“You mean that you couldn’t manage it?”
“Not at all; I could easily have managed it. But — I didn’t care to.”
She looked at him calmly at close range as he held her embraced, lifted her arms and, with slender, white fingers patted her hair into place where his arm around her head had disarranged it, watching him all the while out of her pale, haunted eyes.
“You promised me,” he said, “that you—”
“Oh Howard! Do men still believe in promises?”
Quarrier’s face had colour enough now; his voice, too, had lost its passionless, monotonous precision. Whatever was in the man of emotion was astir; his impatient voice, his lack of poise, the almost human lack of caution in his speech betrayed him in a new and interesting light.
“Look here, Agatha, how long is this going to last? Are you trying to make a fool of me? What is the matter? Is there anything wrong?”
“Wrong? Oh dear no! How could there be anything wrong between you and me—”
“Agatha, what is the matter! Look here; let’s settle this thing now and settle it one way or the other! I won’t stand it; I — I can’t!”
“Very well,” she said, releasing herself from his tightening arms and stepping back with another glance at the mirror and another light touch of her finger-tips on her burnished hair. “Very well,” she repeated, gazing again into the mirror; “what am I to understand, Howard?”
“You know what to understand,” he said in a low voice; “you know what we both understood when — when—”
“When what?”
“When I — when you—”
“Oh what, Howard?” she prompted indolently; and he answered in brutal exasperation, and for the first time so plainly that a hint of rose tinted her strange, pale beauty and between her lips the breath came less regularly as she stood there looking at the dull, silvery rug under her feet.
“Did you ever misunderstand me?” he demanded hotly. “Did I give you any chance to? Were you ignorant of what that meant,” with a gesture toward the splendid crescent of flashing gems, scintillating where the low, lace bodice met the silky lustre of her skin. “Did you misinterpret the collar? Or the sudden change of fortune in your own family’s concerns? Answer me, Agatha, once for all. But you need not answer after all: I know you have never misunderstood me!”
“I misunderstood nothing,” she said; “you are quite right.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Do?” she asked in slow surprise. “What am I to do, Howard?”
“You have said that you loved me.”
“I said the truth, I think.”
“Then—”
“Well?”
“How long are you going to keep me at arm’s length?” he asked violently.
“That lies with you,” she said, smiling. She looked at him for a moment, then, resting her hands on her hips, she began to pace the floor, to and fro, to and fro, and at every turn she raised her head to look at him. All the strange grace of her became insolent provocation — her pale eyes, clear, limpid, harbouring no delusions, haunted with the mockery of wisdom, challenged and checked him. “Howard,” she said, “why should I be the fool you want me to be because I love you? Why should I be even if I wished to be? You desire an understanding? Voilà! You have it. I love you; I never misunderstood you from the first; I could not afford to. You know what I am; you know what you arouse in me?”
Slim, pale, depraved in all but body she stood, eyeing him a moment, the very incarnation of vicious perversity.
“You know what you arouse in me,” she repeated. “But don’t count on it!”
“You have encouraged — permitted me to count—” His anger choked him — or was it the haunting wisdom of her eyes that committed him to silence.
“I don’t know,” she said, musingly, “what it is in you that I am so mad about — whether it is your brutality, or the utter corruption of you that holds me, or your wicked eyes of a woman, or the fascination of the mask you turn on the world, and the secret visage, naked in its vice, that you reserve for me. But I love you — in my own fashion. Count on that, Howard; for that is all you can surely count on. And now, at last, you know.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 319