The Lamp of Fate Part 50

"Is it true?" he demanded imperiously.

She shrank back from him. There was a dynamic force about him that startled her.

"Is what true?"

"Is it true that you're engaged to Quarrington?"

"Of course it is. It was in all the papers. Didn't you see it?"

"Yes, I saw it. I didn't believe it. I was in Poland when I heard and I started for England at once. But I was taken ill on the journey. Since then I've been travelling night and day." He paused, adding in a tone of finality: "You must break it off."

"Break it off? Are you crazy, Antoine?"

"No, I'm not crazy. But you're mine. You're meant for me. And no other man shall have you."

Magda's first impulse was to order him out of the room. But the man's haggard face was so pitifully eloquent of the agony he had been enduring that she had not the heart. Instead, she temporised persuasively.

"Don't talk like that, Antoine." She spoke very gently. "You don't mean it, you know. If--if you do care for me as you say, you'd like me to be happy, wouldn't you?"

"I'd make you happy," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

She shook her head.

"No," she answered. "You couldn't make me happy. Only Michael can do that. So you must let me go to him. . . . Antoine, I'd rather go with your good wishes. Won't you give them to me? We've been friends so long--"

"_Friends_?" he broke in fiercely. "No! We've never been 'friends.' I've been your lover from the first moment I saw you, and shall be your lover till I die!"

Magda retreated before his vehemence. She was still wearing her costume of the Swan-Maiden, and there was something frailly virginal and elusive about her as she drew away from him that set the hot, foreign blood in him on fire. In two strides he was at her side, his hands gripping her bare arms with a savage clasp that hurt her.

"_Mon adoree_!"

His voice was harsh with the tensity of pa.s.sion, and the cry that struggled from her throat for utterance was smothered by his lips on hers. The burning kisses seemed to scorch her--consuming, overwhelming her. When at last he took his mouth from hers she tried unavailingly to free herself. But his clasp of her only tightened.

"Now you know how I love you," he said grimly. He was breathing rather fast, but in some curious way he seemed to have regained his self-control. It was as though he had only slipped the leash of pa.s.sion so that she might, as he said, comprehend his love for her. "Do you think I'll give you up? I tell you I'd rather kill you than see you Quarrington's wife."

Once more she made an effort to release herself.

"Oh, you're mad, you're mad!" she cried. "Let me go, Davilof! At once!"

"No," he said in a measured voice. "Don't struggle. I'm not going to let you go. Not yet. I've reached my limit. You shall go when you promise to marry me. Me, not Quarrington."

She had not been frightened by the storm of pa.s.sion which had carried him headlong. That had merely roused her to anger. But this quiet, purposeful composure which had succeeded it filled her with an odd kind of misgiving.

"It's absurd to talk like that," she said, holding on desperately to her self-possession. "It's silly--and melodramatic, and only makes me realise how glad I am I shall be Michael's wife and not yours."

"You will never be Quarrington's wife."

He spoke with conviction. Magda called up all her courage to defy him.

"And do you propose to prevent it?" she asked contemptuously.

"Yes." Then, suddenly: "_Adoree_, don't force me to do it! I don't want to. Because it will hurt you horribly. And it will all be saved if you'll promise to marry me."

He spoke appealingly, with an earnestness that was unmistakable. But Magda's nerve was gradually returning.

"You don't seem to understand that you can't prevent my marrying Michael--or anyone else," she said coolly. "You haven't the power."

"I can prevent your marrying Michael"--doggedly.

She was silent a moment.

"I suppose," she said at last, "you think that because he once thought badly of me you can make him think the same again. Well, you can't.

Michael and I trust each other--absolutely!"

Her face was transfigured. Michael trusted her now! Nothing could really hurt her while he believed in her. She could afford to laugh at Antoine's threat.

"And now," she said quietly, "will you please release me?"

Slowly, reluctantly Davilof's hands dropped from her arms, revealing red weals where the grip of his fingers had crushed the soft, white flesh.

He uttered a stifled exclamation as his eyes fell on the angry-looking marks.

"_Mon dieu_! I've hurt you--"

"No!" Magda faced him with a defiance that was rather splendid. "No!

_You can't_ hurt me, Davilof. Only the man I love can do that."

He flinched at the proud significance of the words--denying him even the power to hurt her. It was almost as though she had struck him, contemptuously disdainful of his toy weapons--the weapons of the man who didn't count.

There was a long silence. At last he spoke.

"You'll be sorry for that," he said in a voice of concentrated anger.

"d.a.m.ned sorry. Because it isn't true. I _can_ hurt you. And by G.o.d, if you won't marry me, I will! . . . Magda----" With one of the swift changes so characteristic of the man he softened suddenly into pa.s.sionate supplication. "Have a little mercy! G.o.d! If you knew how I love you, you couldn't turn me away. Wait! Think again--"

"That will do." She checked him imperiously. "I don't want your love.

And for the future please understand that you won't even be a friend. I don't wish to see or speak to you again!"

CHAPTER XXII

THE ROPES OF STEEL

Magda sat gazing idly into the fire, watching with abstracted eyes the flames leap up and curl gleefully round the fresh logs with which she had just fed it. She was thinking about nothing in particular--merely revelling in the pleasant warmth and comfort of the room and in the prospect of a lazy evening spent at home, since to-night she was not due to appear in any of the ballets to be given at the Imperial Theatre.

Outside, the snow was falling steadily in feathery flakes, hiding the grime of London beneath a garment of shimmering white and transforming the commonplace houses built of brick and mortar, each capped with its ugly chimneystack, into glittering fairy palaces, crowned with silver towers and minarets.

The bitter weather served to emphasise the easy comfort of the room, and Magda curled up into her chair luxuriously. She was expecting Michael to dinner at Friars' Holm this evening. They had not seen each other for three whole days, so that there was an added edge to her enjoyment of the prospect. She would have so much to tell him! About the triumphant reception she had had the other night down at the theatre--he had been prevented from being present--and about the unwarrantable att.i.tude Davilof had adopted, which had been worrying her not a little. He would sympathise with her over that--the effortless sympathy of the man in possession!

Then the unwelcome thought obtruded itself that if the snow continued falling Michael might be weather-bound and unable to get out to Hampstead. She uncurled herself from her chair and ran to the window.