The Mask: A Story of Love and Adventure
necessary. Why hadn't Francois told him of his brother's Wall Street
operations? It would never do to show himself entirely ignorant of
them. If such rumors existed, there was probably some basis of them.
No doubt his brother had played the market and kept from his wife the
extent of his losses.
"Is it true?" she repeated.
He shrugged his shoulders. Nonchalantly, he replied:
"Never believe all you hear!"
Her face lit up with pleasure.
"Really?" she exclaimed. "It isn't true?"
"Not a word of it. I have money invested in stocks and bonds, but
anyone who accuses me of wild cat speculation is guilty of telling what
I would very politely call a d----d lie!"
Reassured more by his ease and carelessness of manner than by his
actual words of denial, the young wife gave an exclamation of delight.
"Oh, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed. "You've no idea how relieved I feel.
It was worrying me terribly to feel that you might be in difficulties
and had not thought enough of me to take me into your confidence."
Looking at him appealingly she added:
"You will always confide in me, won't you Ken?"
"Sure I will, sweetheart----"
Trembling with the ardor he was trying to control he seized hold of her
hand and drew her on to his knee. She offered no resistance, but
passively sat there, clasped against his broad shoulder, her face
radiant with happiness at the load which his words had taken off her
mind.
Putting his arm round her waist, he leaned forward as if to kiss her,
but drawing quickly back she said:
"There's still something else I must ask you before my happiness is
quite complete."
"What's that?" he demanded, impatient at these continual interruptions
to his amorous advances.
Turning she looked steadily into his face, as if trying to read the
truth or falsity of his answer. She could not see his eyes, veiled as
they were by the glasses, but that sensitive mouth she knew so well,
that determined chin, that high forehead crowned by the bushy brown
hair with its solitary white lock--all these were as dear to her as
they had always been. To think that he might have fondled some other
woman as he was now fondling her was intolerable agony.
"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 substitution, 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 damned 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 passion
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 associates 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.
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
passionately, 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 passion.
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 God, 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