What a Man Wills Part 18

Delia smiled absently, and crossed the room to a deep chair which was supplied with an admirable foil for white shoulders in the shape of a black satin cushion. She had the air of being only partially aware of Lessing's presence, but in reality she was acutely conscious of everything concerning him, even to a certain air of impatience which was due to the importance of the news which he had to communicate. Delia was in love with Val Lessing, and was uncomfortably aware of the fact.

Val was in love with Delia, but remained as yet in comfortable ignorance. Delia had always planned that it should be the other way about. She had pictured herself being wooed with a.s.siduous devotion by a lover who refused to be daunted by a dozen noes. It was ignominious to realise that she was now waiting impatiently for the chance to cry, "Yes, please!"

Val seated himself, nodding carelessly at Terence, who greeted him by a brilliant example of slipper catching, and cried genially:

"Well, old Tomkins, what's the matter with you? You look as if something was sitting pretty heavy on your chest!"

"It is!" said Val, and Delia's heart went a little excursion on its own accord. _Was_ he going to say that he was _engaged_?

"Good news, I hope, eh, Lessing?" cried Mr Gordon, and for the fraction of a second Val hesitated.

"Er--yes. I suppose--that is, of course, it is very good indeed. I've been made a director."

Everybody exclaimed, everybody enthused, everybody congratulated, with the exception of Delia, who asked lazily: "What is a director?" and yawned when she was told. Mr Gordon showed the sympathy of understanding, but after putting many questions, and listening to halfhearted replies, he frowned, and delivered himself of an honest criticism.

"You're not half as pleased as you ought to be, Lessing! A man of your age ought to be thankful to be in such a position. A start of fifteen hundred a year--in such a firm too. Good, safe, solid people. No fear of them going in for speculation and landing you in the bankruptcy court. Humanly speaking you're safe from anxiety for the rest of your life."

"Er--yes. That's just it." Lessing said vaguely, but his friends understood. It was not the first time that he had rebelled in their hearing; not the first time by many that he had sighed for the vagrant's lot.

"He doesn't want to be safe, bless you! That's just what gets him on the raw!" Terence said grinning. "He wants to be a fire-and-thunder swashbuckler, out on the pathless wilds."

"What is a swashbuckler?" asked Delia, and Val laughed, and said:

"The very opposite to a director in a black coat and tall hat, Delia.

Think it out for yourself! I only wish I had the chance."

Delia looked thoughtful. She was apportioning fifteen hundred pounds on the upkeep of her future home. She decided on a small flat and a runabout car, and rather thought that the drawing-room should be pink.

Mrs Gordon said seriously:

"Dear Val, you must get the better of these foolish ideas! They are spoiling your life. You have so much that other men want, that it seems really wicked to be discontented because you have not--trouble! Oh, my dear boy, it will come soon enough! You ought to be thankful!"

"But it's not trouble, Mrs Gordon! I want trouble no more than any other man. It's danger that fascinates me--adventure--the thrill of the unknown. It was born in me, I suppose. My ancestors were a race of explorers. If I had been able to have a fling in my youth, I might have been able to settle down, but I went straight from Oxford to the City, and a longing that is bottled up doesn't diminish, it goes on growing all the time. When Mr Baron told me the news to-day, I felt--you'll be horrified at my ingrat.i.tude!--as if a halter had been slipped round my neck."

Mr Gordon shook his head.

"It's a thousand pities that you could not take that trip! If you'd been my son I'd have packed you off with five pounds in your pocket, to work your own way round the world. You'd have had enough excitement to last you for the rest of your life--and danger into the bargain. You'd be thankful _then_ to settle down to your present life."

"Oh, I'm thankful enough now. It's quite a good life as things go, but just a bit boring."

Terence kicked his slipper once more.

"Well--what price the hospital ball next week? _That_ won't be boring, I give you my word. We're having a party to dinner here, and going on together. If you like to chip in--"

"Terence! Don't be cruel. We really must not add to his boredom!"

cried Delia, smiling, but there was an edge in her smile.

Terence grimaced expressively at Lessing, a grimace which said, "Now you've done it! She's got her knife into you for that remark!"

Kindly Mrs Gordon sensed the strain in the atmosphere, and said quickly:

"Do sing something more to us, Delia darling. You had only begun. A few more of those dear old ballads!"

Delia was like her mother, she never made a fuss, so she rose with a slow, graceful gesture, seated herself in her old place, and sang one strain after another with the utmost good humour. The last of all was that delightful ballad ent.i.tled "Phillida flouts me," and this she delivered with much energy and verve, throwing aside her languid airs to adopt the very att.i.tude of the damsel of the song.

Lessing loved to hear Delia sing, and to-night he laughed with the rest, at the pretty by-play of tossing head and curling lips, but he was not altogether happy in his mind. He remembered the chill of the girl's voice a few minutes before, as she said: "We mustn't bore him still more!" and he felt uncomfortable as if it were he himself who was being flouted.

As he walked down the quiet streets on his way home, the words repeated themselves in his brain:

"Oh, what a plague is love! I cannot bear it. Alack and well a-day.

Phillida flouts me!"

It was the night after the hospital ball, and Lessing was dining at his favourite restaurant, hoping thereby to counteract a fit of unusual depression. He had not enjoyed that ball; it was borne in upon him that Delia had not intended him to enjoy it. She had deliberately filled her programme before the night, and vouchsafed him only one extra, and during the dancing thereof had stopped three times over to inquire if he were _quite_ sure he was not bored! Delia was angry with him. Delia most p.r.o.nouncedly was disposed to "flout." There was an ache at Lessing's heart which seemed ludicrously out of proportion with the cause.

For the first half of his meal he sat alone at his table, then the seat opposite him was taken by one of the swarthy bearded foreigners with which the place abounded. He was a man of early middle age, with a mop of black hair slightly tinged with grey, overhanging eyebrows, and a general air of poverty and Bohemianism. He ate hungrily, as though such good food did not often come his way, and as he ate his eyes roamed stealthily round the room. Lessing decided that he was in search of a confederate--the man's appearance suggested the word--and that he was puzzled and alarmed by the absence of what he sought. He decided to dally with his own meal so as to see this thing out. Many a time he had longed for an opportunity of adventure. Now it might be at hand. If the two men met, he would leave the restaurant in their wake and track them through the narrow streets! He recalled written scenes concerning open doorways, fights on staircases, and the like, and thrilled with antic.i.p.ation.

Throughout his meal the Bearded One continued his scrutiny, and Lessing noticed that his glance lingered tentatively on one or two men present as though uncertain of their ident.i.ty. It was not entirely by appearance, then, that he could distinguish his confederate! There was evidently a sign which would expose one to the other, and then suddenly, with his eyes fixed on a diner at an adjacent table, the Bearded One raised his knife, and with a clean, incisive movement swept the salt from his plate on to the table.

The other diner ate on undisturbed, but an electric shock of excitement tingled through Lessing's veins. More than once before he had observed this deliberate spilling of the salt on the round-topped tables of that restaurant, so often, indeed, that he had made sure in his own mind that it was in the nature of a signal from one member of a fraternity to another. The spilling of the salt--symbol from all ages of disaster, a meet signal indeed for these dark and dangerous men!

With an impulse which crystallised the longings of years, Lessing attracted his companion's attention by a hasty movement, and then, lifting high his knife, swept his own salt on to the cloth so that the white dust scattered and mingled with the dust already spread.

The effect was instantaneous. The swarthy face bent forward to meet his own, the eyes gleamed, the guttural voice breathed a deep, low word:

"_Brother_!"

"_Brother_!" whispered Lessing in return. His pulses were racing, but he held himself resolutely in hand. A false move might spoil all. He must be silent, and let the other man do the talking. He sat in an att.i.tude of attention while the Bearded One crouched over the table, speaking in baited tones. His accent was rather Jewish than foreign, a thick, ugly voice, thickened as though by some physical obstruction.

"I have been waiting. The time is short. I must be hurrying on. There are many places where I must carry the news!" His voice sank to an almost unhearable depth. "_It is for to-night_!"

"To-night!" gasped Lessing in return. His real dismay at the nearness of the unknown happening supplied a genuine note to his exclamation, and it appeared that surprise was expected.

"To-night! To-night! The chief has given the order. It is his way to make all ready, and at the last to give but a few hours' notice. It is safer so. He has a wise head. All is arranged, and to-morrow, by this time to-morrow--" His lips rolled back, the large prominent teeth gleamed in a smile of diabolic delight. "London, the city of the oppressors--what will be left of the great London then? Nothing but a wilderness of fire and ruin!"

Lessing's blood ran cold. An adventurer at heart, he yet had the true Englishman's love of the metropolis. At the thought of danger to London he winced as at a personal wound; in his heart dawned the surprising conviction that he would risk his own life, not once, but a dozen times over, to avert the destruction of that grey old pile.

The destruction of London--mad words! Mad fancy! Was this man a maniac that he spoke of such an impossible feat? Agitated, almost gasping for breath, Lessing heard himself stammer detached words of inquiry:

"When? Where? Where--How do they start--?"

The answer came back in a low hissing whisper:

"The oil tanks on the Thames! Ah-ha, it is a great scheme, a fine scheme. The fuel is lying there, ready to our hands. Three Brothers have volunteered for the bomb throwing. They will die for a great cause. Their names will be remembered as martyrs among us. The burning oil will flare out to the Thames. Think of it! Think of it! A river of flaming oil, joined by other rivers; all the tanks exploded, one by one; the stream of fire flowing along, leaving behind burning shipping, burning banks, spreading ruin to right and left. Think of it, Brother, think of it! Think of the dark stairways and pa.s.sages, where a man may creep, a man with a torch helping the work, sending the sparks to a fresh home. Who can guard miles of river bank? Who can distinguish one worker from another? Ah, it will be a brave night, a brave night. We have waited, Brother, we have appeared to submit, but now--now--"

His voice grew hoa.r.s.e with excitement. Lessing pressed his knee gently beneath the table.

"Careful. Be careful. We are observed. Give me my orders!"

The Bearded One drew himself up, and made a pretence of continuing his meal. His voice sank to its old, guttural tones.