CHAPTER XIII
It was the night of Cydonia's dance.
Although the band had been playing since the stroke of ten, guests were still arriving at the Cadells' door; in parties "personally conducted" by the hostess with whom they had dined, their cards already filled and flirtations well started, wearing an air of frozen indifference toward the rest of the gay crowd; in knots of twos and threes hastening from the play; and in stray units, chiefly men, cheered by the thought of approaching supper.
The morning room had been arranged to hold the coats and hats, and for the moment the hall was free from guests. A young man with straight, red hair brushed back from his forehead, and a discontented expression about his tired eyes, emerged from the cloak-room buttoning his gloves and, with a faint start of pleased surprise, nodded to a friend who stood above him on the stairs.
"Hullo, Merivale!—fancy meeting you!"
"Thesiger—by all that's strange!—Thought you barred dances?"
"So I do—loathe 'em. But Susan dragged me here. Wait a second, will you?—This confounded glove..."
His friend nodded, leaning against the banisters: a short dark youth with a tiny moustache, that hovered like a butterfly about to take wing under his finely cut aquiline nose.
"What's the name of the people here? I've clean forgotten."
"Cadell," answered Merivale as Thesiger joined him.
"D'you know the hostess by sight?—I promised to meet Susan, but cut it rather fine. Point her out, will you? or give me a description."
"Tall bony woman—face like the Sphinx—and big black pearls, suggesting the prize product of a poultry farm."
"Sounds opulent. What time's supper? I say—there's Kilmarny! Now, who could have brought him?"
"So it is." Merivale waved his hand. "Pity he's getting fat. I suppose Letty Urquhart. Have you heard of that smash?"
"Yes." Thesiger nodded. "Bound to come to it—the pace he was goin'. Good old Urquhart! But I'm sorry for her—a nice little woman. What's she doing here, 'dans cette galère'?"
"Well, I think..." he lowered his voice, "she's going to present the Cadell girl next season. Lady Leason's fixed it up—she's trying to help Letty. There's precious little left, you know, for her and the kids."
"I don't blame her. Look at Kilmarny trying to dance the Tango! Let's stand here and watch. Oh—by the way, I heard rather a funny yarn about one of these new steps—'Bunny Hug' or something. Man was watching a girl in a sort of knot with her partner, and some one else objected on the score of Mother Grundy. 'Oh,' said the man—'I'm sorry for the girl. More danced against than dancing'—eh?—what!'"
Merivale laughed, as they stood on the landing outside the ballroom watching the scene within.
"Miss Cadell," said he, "is by way of being a beauty. Rather statuesque, with pale gold hair. Jinks knows her—you remember Jinks of Trinity—calls her 'The Heavy Angel!'—Rather a good name."
He leaned a little forward.
"There she goes, now ... dancing with McTaggart—and not for the first time! He's in the running to-night. Pots of money, you know. Poppa was in biscuits—or beer—no! Cheese..."
He broke off suddenly as a short red-faced man turned the corner abruptly and cannoned into them.
He seemed all shirt front, a starched battering-ram, painfully hot and labouring for breath.
"Sorry, sorry!" He stopped to apologize, puffing out the words with a forced cordiality.
"Why aren't you dancing, you young men?—Want some partners? Let's see your cards."
Thesiger stared at him with open disgust.
"No—er—thanks." He turned to his friend as the thick-set man bustled away downstairs, mopping his brow with a large silk handkerchief.
"Who's that bounder?"
"Sh ... I—it's the host."
"Good Lord!—that?" he frowned impatiently—"I can't see Susan—I've a great mind to cut it!"
"Better wait for supper," Merivale suggested. "Look here"—he added—"if you're not already booked we'll have it together."
"Righto!—and then you come on with me—for a game of 'Chemmy,' eh?—I feel in luck to-night."
"Well ... we'll see. How's Mrs. Merrod?" His dark eyes twinkled as he watched Thesiger's face.
"The fair Fantine?—oh—goin' pretty strong ... How are you, McTaggart——?" He broke off to greet a couple approaching.
The man nodded back.
"Hullo, Archie?—d'you know Miss Cadell?"
Cydonia was introduced, dazzling in white, her brown eyes glowing with suppressed excitement.
"Can't you spare him a dance? He's an old pal of mine?" McTaggart asked the girl with a subtle air of possession.
Cydonia smiled mischievously.
"I might give him that extra I half promised you..."
"I'll see that you don't!" said her partner aggressively.
"Rather!" said Thesiger, entering into the sport. "Which is it, Miss Cadell?—the first, I hope?"
Cydonia glanced from one man's face to the other, unusually animated, conscious of her power.
"If Peter lets me off—it's the second supper dance."
"That's all right." McTaggart laughed—"You're supping with me—you seem to forget that!"
"Greedy brute!" Thesiger wrote it down with ostentatious care. "I'll come and look for you. In the supper-room!"
The music ceased and a gay crowd passed through the narrow opening dividing the trio.
"Upstairs, Cydonia." McTaggart lowered his voice—"and I'm not going to be cheated—even by Archie. Here—I'll lead the way——" he forged ahead, passing the couples preceding them. They reached the second landing, then up the third flight. Here seats were arranged in isolated pairs.
"Where does that lead to?" McTaggart, as he spoke, pointed to a narrow passage blocked by palms.
"The servants' staircase." Cydonia paused, but her companion deliberately drew the plants aside, holding back the leaves for her to pass.
"Come along, quick!" She gave him a glance, then obeyed with a sudden giggle.
"I say—this is fine!" He continued to explore, mounting the twisted dingy stairs.
"Let's go up and sit on the top." A faint glimmering light showed him the way. "Now—here we are—all to ourselves!"
Cydonia, a little scared by her own sense of daring, settled herself, her dress drawn about her, her little feet in their silver shoes shimmering beyond the dead-white brocade.
"It's rather narrow..." she suggested; then blushed as McTaggart, unabashed, took the step below.
He looked up into the beautiful face, still faintly flushed, transparent as a shell: into brown eyes like some clear woodland pool, where the sunshine through the trees cast golden gleams. His hand stole across and captured the girl's with the pretence of playing with her fan.
"Cydonia...!" The word was music in his ears. "How the name suits you—you lovely child!"
She drew back a little against the further wall.
"No—don't move—Cydonia—are you happy?" He slipped his right arm between her shoulders and the stairs. "There's a cushion for you—isn't that better?"
But Cydonia protested, sitting bolt upright. "No—Peter—don't. I'd really ... rather ... not."
"Why?—there's no one here. Can't you trust me, sweet?"
For McTaggart was drifting on the tide of his desire. He knew, too, it was part of his own fixed plan; no mere folly due to the place and hour.
Fantine's treachery had served to accentuate, by contrast, the value of his other love. Her girlhood, her purity, her quiescent charm stood out like snow against that dark background.
This night should decide it. No more would he stand, tossed by every impulse, with every change of mood. He would anchor in the haven of Cydonia's love, safe from the storms of life without.
Marriage, he thought, with a young man's confidence, would be the "settling down" of body and mind. He held that curious faith in established institutions which is the mainspring of British orthodoxy.
A duet of words intoned in a Church was to conquer his temperament from that moment until death. Faithful, he swore, he would be to her, by these holy vows, publicly pledged; and, the miracle accomplished, his hot blood should turn into the quiet circulation of a saint.
Love should work the charm and passion complete it. He thrust far from him its shadow, satiety; and that still greater pitfall for those who wed in haste, a dissimilarity in habit and thought.
So now as he lay, stretched on the stairs, so near to the fragrance of the girl's golden youth, drinking in the beauty of rounded arms and neck, and the shy, tender curve of her childish mouth, he felt that life held no deeper desire than to know her his until Death should part.
"Peter ... I don't think we ought to be here." This wise remark came a trifle late. For the faint smile with which she mitigated her sentence revealed for a second her white even teeth, and the parted lips and famous dimple completed the strain on McTaggart's control.
"Don't you, my darling?" His face was close to hers, his blue eyes, dilated, pleaded for him.
"Peter ... no!" She stiffened in his arms—then, with a little sigh, her lips met his, and clung...
"Well!—I'll be damned!" A harsh angry voice tore them apart, startled and bewildered.
Ebenezer Cadell, with apoplectic face, was glaring from below at the absorbed pair. The next moment heavy feet shook the stairs; the old man was on them—a fiery retribution.
He caught McTaggart roughly by the shoulder. "What the devil..." he stuttered—"is the meaning of this?"
Cydonia scrambled up with more speed than grace, retreating to the landing with a shamed cry:
"Father!"
McTaggart, honestly taken aback, sat there, dazed, finding no reply.
For Cadell was almost beside himself.
Cydonia to him was more than a daughter; she was the ideal of his work-a-day life: the crowning proof of his money's worth.
In the depths of his parental heart love was tinged with awe—the emotion he felt before a masterpiece.
That a man should dare ... under his own roof ... to hold her in his arms—to kiss her untouched mouth! Here was sacrilege. He shook McTaggart, his social veneer cracking apart.
"Now, then, sir—haven't you a tongue? How dare you come here—into my house—and treat my girl like a...?"
"Silence!"
The young man was on his feet, his face very white, his blue eyes aflame.
"If you'd give me time to speak——" each word was measured—"you'd find there's no need to insult your daughter!"
"Shall I—you puppy—you!" for the shaft had sped. "You leave my house first—This minute—see?"
He pointed down the stairs with a hand that shook.
"You git—now!—I'll have no truck with you!" He was back once more in his master grocer days.
"With pleasure"—McTaggart stood his ground—"when you have listened to what I have to say. I shall call on you at twelve to-morrow, Mr. Cadell—to ask you for the honour of your daughter's hand."
Melodramatic?—with a touch of the South, but not without a certain youthful dignity.
The very fact of this, of the young man's breeding, served but to remind Cadell of his own.
"I tell you," he boiled, "I'll have no words about it. Marry Cydonia——? a pauper like you!" He fought for his breath as McTaggart smiled. "You can call if you choose and be damned to you!"
Peter bowed, outwardly calm. He turned his head once. Cydonia had vanished, safely sheltered in the house-maid's bedroom.
Then, leisurely, he walked downstairs, conscious that the moral victory was his.
But the flights seemed endless. He passed the ball-room door and joined in the steady stream pouring down to supper.
The thought stung him suddenly as he drew on his coat and tipped the man who handed him his hat.
"Hardly hospitable!"
But his smile twisted. He refused, as he passed out, the appeal of loitering taxis, and with long angry strides he forged ahead down the empty pavements in a bee line for his club.
The night was still young. The stars above shone down through the glow that London spreads upon the domed sky: orange-colored smoke, incense offered up from the fires of her pleasure and burnt sacrifice.
In Piccadilly a woman accosted him, with painted lips that brought to mind Fantine.
He hurried on, restless, with a feeling in his heart that all was crooked in this maddening world. Love bartered—love profaned ... His eyes still filled with Cydonia's light shrank from that ghastly pageant of lust which decorous London openly allows.
In the hall of his club a page ran after him, a pile of letters outstretched on a tray.
He took them absently and turned into the smoking-room, with a breath of relief at finding it empty, save for a solitary form, half-buried in a chair, feet outstretched toward the fire.
"Hullo!—Bethune." The man reading turned. "Luck, finding you here."
For he felt a real pleasure at the sight of the burly figure of his friend and a sudden, uncontrollable longing for sympathy.
They drew their chairs together before the cheerful blaze and exchanged commonplaces as the waiter brought drinks.
Then, as the door closed, Bethune's voice changed. "What's up, Peter?—got the flu?"
"No—the sack!" He laughed as he spoke, amused at the other's perspicacity.
For Bethune was a man to whom his friends turned instinctively in trouble, with—perhaps?—no memory that, on other occasions more hilarious, they voted this "quiet chap" a trifle "slow."
"Turned you down—eh? Not that Merrod woman?"
"Good Lord, no! I've done with her. It's a girl ... a young girl. Or rather her father! I'm feeling a bit hipped over it all."
He told the story from beginning to end, Bethune listening with an occasional grunt.
"Nice sort of man for a father-in-law! Seems to me you're well out of it."
"But I don't want to be! Never mind Cadell! I'm not marrying the family." Bethune smiled. "I'm hard hit this time—and I'll see it through—if it comes to a good old Gretna Green bolt!"
"Better take my car," Bethune was amused—"You're a Scotchman, aren't you? Once across the border you've only got to say you're husband and wife and the thing's fair and square, I understand."
"Jove! I never thought of it." McTaggart looked up. "She's the prettiest thing you ever set eyes on."
"Anything like Jill?"
"Not a scrap!" The sudden contrast checked his flow of words on the crest of a lover-like flood of description. Then followed one of those swift afterthoughts peculiar to his analytical brain. The difference was not all to Cydonia's advantage; she lacked the mentality of the other girl.
Angrily he thrust aside the fleeting disloyalty as Bethune went on in his calm voice.
"I don't see why the old man was so riled? ... You're quite decent to look at——" his honest eyes twinkled—"and you've got a steady income, rare in these days. What does he want? A title, I suppose. Some young ass with debts who'll make her 'milady.'"
"That's about it." McTaggart scowled.
"D'you think she'll stand by you?"
"Of course," said the lover.
"Then—that's all serene. I don't suppose you hanker for fatherly attention and the family circle?"
"Well, not much!" McTaggart shuddered. "He's utterly impossible. The mother's not so bad—too stiff, you know, and conscious of her 'dignity,' but quite presentable—pass in a crowd."
"Then go in and win, my son."
Silence fell between them and at last McTaggart rose to his feet.
"I'm going to have some nourishment—I missed supper, you know."
Bethune grinned. "That's a nasty jar! He might have stood you a parting drink."
"I'll come back presently——" but still he lingered. His whiskey and soda had quenched his thirst and he found he had but little taste for food.
Mechanically he gathered up his letters; then sat down again in his chair.
"I'll read these first—it isn't late."
"Lost your appetite?" Bethune rubbed it in.
His friend, ignoring this ignoble sally, began to tear open the envelopes.
At the bottom of the pile was a large square letter which he recognized as bearing his lawyer's writing.
He frowned a little at the sight, in no mood for business, then settled down grudgingly to study the contents. Inside was an envelope with a deep black edge sealed with an elaborate coat-of-arms.
Bethune was staring into the fire, his mind still full of his friend's adventure. He felt that deep, rather wistful, admiration which a man of his type extends to those more brilliant.
A quick exclamation made him turn his head. McTaggart was plainly startled by his news.
"I say—Bethune—Good Lord—it's impossible!"
He re-read the document in his hand.
"My Uncle's dead!—and both my cousins! A motor-smash outside Rome. What an awful thing!—the car overturned..." He skimmed on, breathless—"the old man was killed ... on the spot—the eldest son, too ... the other lingered ... died on Tuesday..."
He turned the letter over. "Why, it's nearly a week old. Oh, I see!—it went to Scotland and then to my lawyers, who sent it here. They want me to go to Siena at once."
Bethune began to voice condolences.
"Oh! I never knew them. But, of course, I'm sorry. He was my mother's brother. (Just touch that bell.) They quarrelled when she married ... I shall have to go."
He turned to the waiter answering the summons.
"Bring me a Continental Bradshaw."
"Do you come in for anything?" asked the practical Bethune.
"Anything?"—the young man laughed with a touch of excitement. "I'm the only one left. There's a palace in Siena ... and a flat in Rome ... and a villa somewhere. And a lot of land, vines and olive groves and a nice fat income ... and—Bethune—don't roar!—I'm the present Marquis. They actually address me..." he choked with mirth—"as the Illustrious Marquis Maramonte!"
"Good for you." Bethune leaned across and the two shook hands. "I'm jolly glad. It'll make old Cadell sit up a bit—you've a dead cert there." He chuckled with glee.
"Splendid—I forgot that." His face sobered suddenly. "Although I've half a mind ... yes!—Look here, Bethune—keep this between ourselves—it's not likely to leak out—and I'd rather win Cydonia as plain Peter McTaggart."
His voice softened on the girl's name. What a setting for her—this palace in Siena!
"All right, old man. I quite understand. You can count on me to keep my mouth shut."
The waiter returned and they fell to ways and means, wrestling with the Bradshaw, discussing the route.
"I'll come back and give you a hand with your packing. You'll be wanting a car now, Monsieur le Marquis?"
McTaggart chuckled.
"Good old Bethune! always an eye to business, what? You can take the order—and spare no cost. Line it with white. It'll do for the wedding."
Then a sudden memory clouded his mirth as his thoughts reverted to the tragedy at Rome.
"I'm glad all the same I'm too late for the funeral..."
Early next morning he started for Siena.