The Lamp of Fate Part 9

She stumbled forward obediently, groping her way towards the vague panel of lighter grey revealed by the open door.

Once more, out of the swathing fog, hands touched her.

"There you are! That's right. Now lean forward."

She found herself clasped by arms like steel--so strong, so sure, that she felt as safe and secure as when Vladimir Ravinski, the amazingly clever young Russian who partnered her in several of her dances, sometimes lifted her, lightly and easily as a feather, and bore her triumphantly off the stage aloft on his shoulder.

"You're very strong," she murmured, as the unknown owner of the arms swung her down from the tilted car.

"You're not very heavy," came the answer. There was a kind of laughter in the voice.

As the man spoke he set her down on her feet, and then, just as Magda was opening her lips to thank him, the fog seemed to grow suddenly denser, swirling round her in great murky waves and surging in her ears with a noise like the boom of the ocean. Higher and higher rose the waves, a resistless sea of blackness, and at last they swept right over her head and she sank into the utter darkness of oblivion.

"Drink this!"

Someone was holding a gla.s.s to her lips and the pungent smell of sal volatile p.r.i.c.ked her nostrils. Magda shrank back, her eyes still shut, and pressed her head further into the cushions against which it rested.

She detested the smell of sal volatile.

"Drink it! Do you hear?"

The voice seemed to drive at her with its ring of command. She opened her eyes and looked straight up into other eyes--dark-grey ones, these--that were bent on her intently. To her confused consciousness they appeared to blaze down at her.

"No," she muttered, feebly trying to push the gla.s.s away.

The effort of moving her arm seemed stupendous. Her head swam with it.

The sea of fog came rolling back again, and this time she sank under it at once.

Then--after an immensity of time, she was sure--she felt herself struggling up to the surface once more. She was lying rocking gently on the top of the waves now; the sensation was very peaceful and pleasant.

A little breeze played across her face. She drew in deep breaths of the cool air, but she did not open her eyes. Presently a murmur of voices penetrated her consciousness.

"She's coming round again." A man was speaking. "Go on fanning her."

"Poor young thing! She's had a shaking up and no mistake!" This in a woman's voice, very kindly and commiserating. A hand lightly smoothed the fur of her coat-sleeve. "Looks as if she was a rich young lady. Her people must be anxious about her."

Someone laughed a little, softly.

"Oh, yes, she's a rich enough young lady, Mrs. Braithwaite. Don't you know who it is we've rescued?"

"I, sir? No. How should I?"

"Then I'll tell you. This is Mademoiselle Wielitzska, the famous dancer."

"Never, sir! Well, I do declare----"

"Now, drink this at once, please." The man's voice cut sharply across the impending flow of garrulous interest, and Magda, who had not gathered the actual sense of the murmured conversation, felt an arm pa.s.s behind her head, raising it a little, while once more that hateful gla.s.s of sal volatile was held to her lips.

Her eyes unclosed fretfully.

"Take it away," she was beginning.

"Drink it! Do you hear? Do as you're told!"

The sharp, authoritative tones startled her into sudden compliance. She opened her mouth and swallowed the contents of the gla.s.s with a gulp.

Then she looked resentfully at the man whose curt command she had obeyed in such unexpected fashion. Magda Wielitzska was more used to giving orders than to taking them.

"There, that's better," he observed, regarding the empty gla.s.s with satisfaction. "No, lie still"--as she attempted to rise. "You'll feel better in a few minutes."

"I'm better now," declared Magda sulkily.

Her head was growing clearer every minute. She was even able to feel an intense irritation against this man who had just compelled her to drink the sal volatile.

He looked at her unperturbedly.

"Are you? That's good. Still, you'll stay where you are till I tell you that you may get up." He turned to a comfortable-looking woman who was standing at the foot of the couch on which Magda lay--a housekeeper of the nice old-fashioned black-satin kind. "Now, Mrs. Braithwaite, I think this lady will be glad of a cup of tea by the time you can have one ready."

"Very good, sir."

With a last, admiring glance at the slender figure on the couch the good woman bustled away, leaving Magda alone with her unknown host and burning with indignation at the cool way in which he had ordered her to remain where she was.

He had his back to her for the moment, having turned to poke up the fire, and Magda raised herself on her elbow, preparatory to getting off the couch. He swung round instantly.

"I told you to stay where you were," he said peremptorily.

"I don't always do as I'm told," she retorted with spirit.

"You will in this instance, though," he rejoined, crossing the room swiftly towards her.

But quick though he was, she was still quicker. Her eyes blazing defiance, she slipped from the couch and stood up before he could reach her side. She took a step forward.

"There!" she began defiantly. The next moment the whole room seemed to swim round her as she tottered weakly and would have fallen had he not caught her.

"What did I tell you?" he said sharply. "You're not fit to stand."

Without more ado he lifted her up in his arms and deposited her again on the couch.

"I--I only turned a little giddy," she protested feebly.

"Precisely. Just as I thought you would. Another time, perhaps, you'll obey orders."

He stood looking down at her with curiously brilliant grey eyes. Magda almost winced under their penetrating glance. She felt as though they could see into her very soul, and she summoned up all her courage to combat the man's strange force.

"I'm not used to obeying orders," she said impatiently.

"No?"--with complete indifference. "Then it will be a salutary experience for you. Now, lie still until tea comes. I have a letter to write."

He walked away and, seating himself at a desk in the window, appeared to forget all about her, while his pen travelled swiftly over the sheet of notepaper he had drawn towards him.