The Mask Part 35

"Kenneth," she said slowly and impressively, "are you sure that there is no part of your life that you have kept hidden from me?"

He started and for a moment changed color. What did she mean? Was it possible that she suspected the subst.i.tution, or was she alluding to some past history of his brother's life, of which he knew nothing?

Evasively, he answered:

"Why all these question, sweetheart, the first day I come home. Is this the kind of welcome you promised me, the one I had a right to expect. I am very tired. Let us go to bed."

His arm still around her, he again drew her to him and, stooping, tried to reach her mouth with his own. But again she resisted, her mind too disturbed by jealousy to be in a mood to respond to his wooing. Gently she said:

"I know you are tired, Ken. I am tired, too,--tired of all these rumors and slanderous insinuations. I have been made unhappy by hearing this gossip. It is my right to tell you what I have heard and ask for a straightforward, loyal explanation. I know you are true to me. I have never doubted it for an instant. I only want a word from you to forget what I've heard and dismiss the matter from my mind forever."

He looked at her, an amused kind of expression playing about the corners of his mouth. It was only with an effort that he controlled the muscles of his face. What a comedy, he thought to himself! Here was this sweet little woman breaking her heart over something which, as far as he knew, didn't exist. But he must continue to play his part, no matter at what cost. Evidently, she had heard something for which there might be some basis of truth. She might even have proofs of his brother's infidelity, and ready to produce them. Too sweeping a denial might still further complicate matters, arouse suspicion, and end in exposure. Cautiously, he replied:

"You know all there is in my life, sweetheart. I never conceal anything from you."

Looking searchingly at him, she demanded:

"Never?"

"Never."

"Has there been another woman in your life, Kenneth, since you married me?"

"No, sweetheart--never. If anyone told you that or even insinuated it, he was a scoundrel. It's a d.a.m.ned lie! You are and always will be the only one----"

Her head fell back on his shoulder.

"Then I am completely happy!" she murmured.

His arms folded about her and she felt his warm breath on her cheek.

But this time she did not resist. It felt good to be sheltered there in those strong arms against the attacks and calumnies of the world.

"It is late," he murmured.

Suddenly, he threw her head back and bending down till his mouth reached hers he kissed her full on the lips. She did not resist, but just abandoned herself, responding only feebly to the fierce pa.s.sion that made him tremble like a leaf. His face flushed, his hands shaking, he murmured:

"It is very late. Are you not tired?"

"No dear--I'm not tired. There's no hurry. We needn't get up early to-morrow. It's so beautiful here--sitting together like this--so happy in each other's company."

"But I am tired," he said, trying to control his emotion.

It was almost more than he could endure, yet still he mastered himself, and resisted the temptation that arose violently within him to take her by force, if needs be, and carry her into the inner room, as the wild beast, tiring of playing with its victim, suddenly ends the game by seizing its hapless prey and drags it away to its lair. Was he not the master? Why should he allow her childish prattle to stand in the way of his desires. For years, Handsome had not known female society save that of those wretched outcasts who infest the mining camps. He had caroused with them and quarreled with them. He had even loved one of them--after the rough and ready fashion of the _veldt_. She was a Spaniard, a tall handsome woman, with large black eyes and the temper of a fury. She had killed her husband in a drunken brawl, and on leaving prison had gone to South Africa. She met the gambler one night in a gambling house, and, without as much as asking for an introduction, she went up to him and, in a characteristic Spanish style, gave him a hearty kiss on both cheeks. It was her way of notifying her female a.s.sociates that, henceforth, the big miner was her man. Handsome accepted the challenge, and for a couple of years they lived as happily together as can two adventurers who are in constant hot water with the police. One day, in a fit of drunken jealousy, she struck him. Furious with rage, he seized her by the neck. He did not mean to harm her; it was his giant strength that was to blame. Anyhow her neck was broken and the coroner called it an accident. For a week or so, Handsome was really sorry. She was the only woman he had ever cared for. She at least was a woman.

But this slip of a girl, with her childish prattle and aristocratic airs, was quite different. Accustomed to the rougher ways of the camp, her fine manners and refined graces at first had rather intimidated him. He did not feel at home with her. He felt awkward and ill at ease. Yet, for all that, she was a woman, too--a woman of his own race, desirable, tempting. When Francois had first suggested that he impersonate his brother and enjoy his fortune, he had said nothing about his brother's wife. Perhaps he reserved her for his master, Keralio. At the thought, a pang of jealousy went through him. If Keralio, why not he? Evidently Keralio had been stalking the game, for she complained of his conduct and had dismissed him from the house.

Yet, in what position was he to frustrate Keralio in any of his schemes? He had him in his power; he was completely at his mercy. He allowed him to masquerade in New York as the millionaire, but he was the real master of the Traynor home. Even now, Francois might be spying on their actions, eager to report to the arch conspirator.

Rising from the chair, he lifted her to her feet.

"Come, darling--it is late----"

He led her slowly, almost imperceptibly, in the direction of the inner room. A feeling of languor came over her, and she allowed him to lead her, abandoning herself to his ardent, feverish embrace, responding every now and then to the hot kisses he rained on her mouth and neck.

Through her thin dress he could feel her soft form pressing against him. From her neck arose a delicious aroma, a kind of feminine incense that still further aroused and lashed his desire.

"I adore you--I adore you!" he murmured, as he kissed her again.

Slowly he led her past the bookcase and marble Venus to the open door of her pink and white boudoir.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I adore you--I adore you" he murmured, as he kissed her again.]

She looked up at him in surprise.

"How you love me!" she murmured. "You never used to care for me like this."

Her head on his shoulder, her eyes half closed, she was conscious only of the presence of the man she loved better than anyone in the world.

Yet even now, in the hour of her supreme content and felicity, when all her tormenting anxieties and doubts had been dissipated by his frank words of denial, there was still something that worried her. He was changed somehow, even in his love making. It was delicious to be loved pa.s.sionately, fiercely, like this--to be carried off by force, as it were, by your own husband. But she did not understand how a man could change so much in a few weeks. Kenneth had always loved her deeply, but never had she known him display such ardor as this. She had heard that men change, particularly after long absences from home. Some, she had heard, became colder; others were more demonstrative. Of the two, she thought the latter preferable. If there was such love in the world, why should it not be shown her. Her own temperament was cold, but no woman could but feel flattered that she possessed the power to arouse men to such pa.s.sion.

At last they had reached the threshold of the boudoir. What to him was an earthly paradise, was almost attained. In a state of blissful helplessness, intoxicated by a delicious sensation of being completely dominated by a will stronger than her own, she permitted him to take her where he wished. Her eyes closed, her head on his shoulder, she submitted willingly to his fervent kisses. Another moment and he had closed the door behind them, when, suddenly, a commotion on the landing outside the library aroused both with a start. There was the sound of voices and people running up the stairs.

"What's that?" exclaimed Helen startled.

Irritated at this unlooked for interruption, the gambler went quickly toward the landing to investigate. Francois met him at the library door. In his hand he held an envelope. Holding it out, he said:

"A telegram for Madame!"

"A telegram!" cried Helen, rushing forward. "Good G.o.d, I hope Dorothy is not----"

She tore it open, while Handsome stood by in silence. On the valet's face there was a triumphant expression, the gratified smile of one rogue who enjoys the discomfiture of another.

Helen suddenly gave a cry.

"It's as I thought!" she exclaimed. "Dorothy is worse. The doctor thinks it is scarlet fever. I must go to her at once."

"Go where?" demanded Handsome in consternation.

"To Philadelphia."

"To Philadelphia to-night?" he cried in dismay.

"Yes--to-night," she said firmly.

He protested vigorously.

"Nonsense--you can't go to-night. It will do no good. Wait till the morning. There are no trains."

Quickly, the valet drew from his pocket a time-table. With a side glance at his master, he said:

"There is a train at 1.15. If Madame is quick, she will make it. The car is already waiting downstairs."

Helen seized her fur coat, which the obliging valet had also brought up from the hall.