The Hillman Part 55

"Wait till I have ordered some wine," he said.

A waiter served them with champagne. When John's gla.s.s was filled, he drained its contents. Sophy watched him with surprise. She came a little closer to him.

"John," she whispered, "you must tell me--do you hear? You must tell me everything! Did you take Louise home?"

"Yes."

"What happened, then? You didn't quarrel with her?"

"Nothing at all happened," he a.s.sured her. "We parted the best of friends. It wasn't that."

"Then what? Remember that I am your friend, John dear. Tell me everything."

He poured himself more wine and drank it.

"I will tell you," he a.s.sented. "I went to a little club I belong to on the Adelphi Terrace. I sat down in the smoking room. There was no one there I knew. Some men were talking. They had been to the reception to-night. They were comparing French actresses and English. They spoke first of the French woman, Latrobe, and her lovers; then of Louise. They spoke quite calmly, like men discussing history. They compared the two actresses, they compared their lives. Latrobe, they said, had lovers by the score--Louise only one."

Sophy's hand stole into his. She was watching the twisting of his features. She understood so well the excitement underneath.

"I think I can guess," she whispered. "Don't hurt yourself telling me.

Something was said about the prince!"

His eyes blazed down upon her.

"You, too?" he muttered. "Does the whole world know of it and speak as if it did not matter? Sophy, is it true? Speak out! Don't be afraid of hurting me. You call yourself my friend. I've been down, looking at the outside of her house. I dared not go in. There's a fire burning in my soul! Tell me if it is true!"

"You must not ask me that question, John," she begged. "How should I know? Besides, these things are so different in our world, the world you haven't found out much about yet. Supposing it were true, John," she went on, "remember that it was before you knew her. Supposing it should be true, remember this--your idea of life is too absurd. Is one creed made to fit human beings who may differ in a million different ways? A woman may be as good as any ever born into the world, and yet take just a little love into her life, if she be true and faithful in doing it. I don't believe there is a dearer or sweeter woman breathing than Louise, but one must have love. Don't I know it? A man may be strong enough to live without it, but a woman--never!"

The skirts of the women brushed their table as they danced, the rhythm of the music rose and fell above the murmur of laughter and conversation. John looked around the room, and a sort of despair crept in upon him. It was no good! He had come to London to understand; he understood nothing. He was made of the wrong fiber. If only he could change himself! If it were not too late! If he could make himself like other men!

He turned and glanced at his companion. Sophy was looking very sweet and very wistful. The warm touch of her fingers was grateful. Her sympathy was like some welcome flower in a wilderness. His heart ached with a new desire. If only he could make himself different! If only he could stretch out his hand for the flowers which made the lives of other men so sweet!

"I must not ask you any more questions, Sophy," he said. "You are her friend, and you have spoken very sweetly. To-morrow I will go and see her."

"And to-night, forget it all," she pleaded. "Wipe it out of your memory.

Louise and your future belong to to-morrow. To-night she is not here, and I am. Even if you are furiously in love with her, there isn't any harm in your being just a little nice to me. Give me some champagne; and I want some caviar sandwiches!"

"I wonder why you are so good to me, Sophy!" he exclaimed, as he gave the order to a waiter. "You ought either to marry your young man down at Bath, or to have a sweetheart of your own, a companion, some one quite different."

"How different?"

"Some one who cared for you as you deserve to be cared for, and whom you cared for, too."

"I cannot take these things as lightly as I used to," she answered a little sadly. "Something has come over me lately--I don't know what it is--but I seem to have lost my taste for flirtations. John, don't look up, don't turn round! I have been afraid of the prince all the evening.

When you came in, I fancied that you had been drinking. When the prince asked me something about you, an hour or so ago, I knew that he had. I saw him like it once before, about a year ago. Don't take any notice of him! Don't talk to him, if you can help it!"

John was scarcely conscious of her words. A new glow of excitement seemed to be taking entire possession of him, to be thrilling his blood, to be shining out of his eyes. He rose slowly to his feet. It was as if he were being drawn forward out of himself to meet some coming challenge.

Toward their table the prince was slowly making his way, skilfully avoiding the dancers, yet looking neither to the right nor to the left.

His eyes were fastened upon John. If he had been drinking, as Sophy suggested, there were few signs of it. His walk was steady; his bearing, as usual, deliberate and distinguished.

He came to a standstill beside them. Sophy's fingers clutched at the tablecloth. The prince looked from one to the other.

"You have robbed me of a guest, Mr. Strangewey," he remarked; "but I bear you no ill-will. It is very seldom that one sees you in these haunts of dissipation."

"It is a gala night with me," John replied, his tone raised no more than usual, but shaking with some new quality. "Drink a gla.s.s of wine with me, prince," he invited, taking the bottle from the ice-pail and filling a tumbler upon the table. "Wish me luck, won't you? I am engaged to be married!"

"I wish you happiness with all my heart," the prince answered, holding his gla.s.s up. "May I not know the name of the lady?"

"No doubt you are prepared for the news," John told him. "Miss Maurel has promised to become my wife."

The prince's hand was as steady as a rock. He raised his gla.s.s to his lips.

"I drink to you both with the greatest pleasure," he said, looking John full in the face. "It is a most remarkable coincidence. To-night is the anniversary of the night when Louise Maurel pledged herself to me in somewhat different fashion!"

John's frame seemed for a moment to dilate, and fire flashed from his eyes.

"Will you be good enough to explain those words?" he demanded.

The prince bowed. He glanced toward Sophy.

"Since you insist," he replied. "To-night, then, let me tell you, is the anniversary of the night when Louise Maurel consented to become my mistress!"

What followed came like a thunder-clap. The prince reeled back, his hand to his mouth, blood dropping upon the tablecloth from his lips, where John had struck him. He made a sudden spring at his a.s.sailant. Sophy, shrieking, leaped to her feet. Every one else in the place seemed paralyzed with wonder.

John seized the prince by the throat, and held him for a moment at arm's length. Then he lifted him off his feet as one might lift a child from the floor. Holding his helpless victim in a merciless grip, he carried him across the room and deliberately flung him over the table toward his empty chair.

There was a crash of gla.s.s and crockery which rang through the momentarily hushed room. The dancers had stopped in their places, the bow of the violinist lay idle upon the strings of his instrument. The waiters were all standing about like graven images. Then, as the prince fell, there was a shout, and all was pandemonium. They rushed to where he was lying motionless, a ghastly sight, across the wreck of his flower-strewn supper-table.

Sophy held John by the arm, clutching it hysterically, striving to drag him away. But to John the room was empty. He stood there, a giant, motionless figure, his muscles still taut, his face tense, his eyes aflame, glaring down at the prostrate figure of the man on whom he had wreaked the acc.u.mulated fury of those last days and weeks of madness.

x.x.xVI

Toward nine o'clock on the following morning John rose from a fitful sleep and looked around him. Even before he could recall the events of the preceding night he felt that there was a weight pressing upon his brain, a miserable sense of emptiness in life, a dull feeling of bewilderment. Although he had no clear recollection of getting there, he realized that he was in his own sitting room, and that he had been asleep upon the couch. He saw, too, that it was morning, for a ray of sunlight lay across the carpet.

As he struggled to his feet, he saw with a little shock that he was not alone. Sophy Gerard was curled up in his easy chair, still in evening clothes, her cloak drawn closely around her, as if she were cold. Her head had fallen back. She, too, was asleep. At the sound of his movement, however, she opened her eyes and looked at him for a moment with a puzzled stare. Then she jumped to her feet.

"Why, we have both been asleep!" she murmured, a little weakly.

At the sound of her voice it all came back to him, a tangled, hideous nightmare. He sat down again upon the couch and held his head between his hands.

"How did I come here?" he asked. "I can't remember!"

She hesitated. He answered the unspoken question in her eyes.