The Yellow Crayon
She turned her face slowly round towards him. He was astonished to see
the dark rings under her eyes, the weariness of her smile.
“The Duke of Souspennier,” she said slowly, “is an old and a dear friend
of mine. When you tell me that he is in London I am anxious because
there are many here who are not his friends--who have no cause to love
him.”
“I was wrong then,” he said, “not to give him your address.”
“You were right,” she answered. “I am anxious that he should not know
it. You will remember this?” He rose and bowed over her hand.
“This has been a selfish interlude,” he said. “I have destroyed your
rest, and I almost fear that I have also disturbed your peace of mind.
Let me take my leave and pray that you may recover both.”
She shook her head.
“Do not leave me,” she said. “I am low-spirited. You shall stay and
cheer me.”
There was a light in his eyes which few people would have recognised.
She rose with a little laugh and stood leaning towards the fire, her
elbow upon the broad mantel, tall, graceful, alluring. Her soft crimson
gown, with its wealth of old lace, fell around her in lines and curves
full of grace. The pallor of her face was gone now--the warmth of the
fire burned her cheeks. Her voice became softer.
“Sit down and talk to me,” she murmured. “Do you remember the old days,
when you were a very timid young secretary of Sir George Nomsom, and
I was a maid-of-honour at the Viennese Court? Dear me, how you have
changed!”
“Time,” he said, “will not stand still for all of us. Yet my memory
tells me how possible it would be--for indeed those days seem but as
yesterday.”
He looked up at her with a sudden jealousy. His tone shook with passion.
No one would have recognised Brott now. In his fiercest hour of debate,
his hour of greatest trial, he had worn his mask, always master of
himself and his speech. And now he had cast it off. His eyes were
hungry, his lips twitched.
“As yesterday! Lucille, I could kill you when I think of those days. For
twenty years your kiss has lain upon my lips--and you--with you--it has
been different.”
She laughed softly upon him, laughed more with her eyes than with her
lips. She watched him curiously.
“Dear me!” she murmured, “what would you have? I am a woman--I have been
a woman all my days, and the memory of one kiss grows cold. So I will
admit that with me--it has been different. Come! What then?”
He groaned.
“I wonder,” he said, “what miserable fate, what cursed stroke of fortune
brought you once more into my life?”
She threw her head back and laughed at him, this time heartily,
unaffectedly.
“What adorable candour!” she exclaimed. “My dear friend, how amiable you
are.”
He looked at her steadfastly, and somehow the laugh died away from her
lips.
“Lucille, will you marry me?”
“Marry you? I? Certainly not.”
“And why not?”
“For a score of reasons, if you want them,” she answered. “First,
because I think it is delightful to have you for a friend. I can never
quite tell what you are going to do or say. As a husband I am almost
sure that you would be monotonous. But then, how could you avoid it?
It is madness to think of destroying a pleasant friendship in such a
manner.”
“You are mocking me,” he said sadly.
“Well,” she said, “why not? Your own proposal is a mockery.”
“A mockery! My proposal!”
“Yes,” she answered steadily. “You know quite well that the very
thought of such a thing between you and me is an absurdity. I abhor your
politics, I detest your party. You are ambitious, I know. You intend to
be Prime Minister, a people’s Prime Minister. Well, for my part, I hate
the people. I am an aristocrat. As your wife I should be in a perfectly
ridiculous position. How foolish! You have led me into talking of this
thing seriously. Let us forget all this rubbish.”
He stood before her--waiting patiently, his mouth close set, his manner
dogged with purpose.
“It is not rubbish,” he said. “It is true that I shall be Prime
Minister. It is true also that you will be my wife.”
She shrank back from him--uneasily. The fire in his eyes, the ring in
his tone distressed her.
“As for my politics, you do not understand them. But you shall! I will
convert you to my way of thinking. Yes, I will do that. The cause of the
people, of freedom, is the one great impulse which beats through all the
world. You too shall hear it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I have no wish to hear it. I do not believe in
what you call freedom for the people. I have discovered in America how
uncomfortable a people’s country can be.”
“Yet you married an American. You call yourself still the Countess
Radantz... but you married Mr. James B. Peterson!”
“It is true, my friend,” she answered. “But the American in question
was a person of culture and intelligence, and at heart he was no more
a democrat than I am. Further, I am an extravagant woman, and he was a
millionaire.”
“And you, after his death, without necessity--went to bury yourself in
his country.”
“Why not?”
“I am jealous of every year of your life which lies hidden from me,” he
said slowly.
“Dear me--how uncomfortable!”
“Before you--reappeared,” he said, “I had learnt, yes I had learnt to do
without you. I had sealed up the one chapter of my life which had in
it anything to do with sentiment. Your coming has altered all that. You
have disturbed the focus of my ambitions. Lucille! I have loved you for
more than half a lifetime. Isn’t it time I had my reward?”
He took a quick step towards her. In his tone was the ring of mastery,
the light in his eyes was compelling. She shrank back, but he seized one
of her hands. It lay between his, a cold dead thing.
“What have my politics to do with it?” he asked fiercely. “You are not
an Englishwoman. Be content that I shall set you far above these gods of
my later life. There is my work to be done, and I shall do it. Let me
be judge of these things. Believe me that it is a great work. If you are
ambitious--give your ambitions into my keeping, and I will gratify them.
Only I cannot bear this suspense-these changing moods. Marry me-now at
once, or send me back to the old life.”
She drew her fingers away, and sank down into her easy-chair. Her head
was buried in her hands. Was she thinking or weeping? He could not
decide. While he hesitated she looked up, and he saw that there was no
trace of tears upon her face.
“You are too masterful,” she said gently. “I will not marry you. I will
not give myself body and soul to any man. Yet that is what you ask. I am
not a girl. My opinions are as dear to me in their way as yours are to
you. You want me to close my eyes while you drop sugar plums into my
mouth. That is not my idea of life. I think that you had better go away.
Let us forget these things.”
“Very well,” he answered. “It shall be as you say.” He did not wait for
her to ring, nor did he attempt any sort of farewell. He simply took
up his hat, and before she could realise his intention he had left the
room. Lucille sat quite still, looking into the fire.
“If only,” she murmured, “if only this were the end.”
CHAPTER XIV
Duson entered the sitting-room, noiseless as ever, with pale,
passionless face, the absolute prototype of the perfect French servant,
to whom any expression of vigorous life seems to savour of presumption.
He carried a small silver salver, on which reposed a card.
“The gentleman is in the ante-room, sir,” he announced.
Mr. Sabin took up the card and studied it.
“Lord Robert Foulkes.”
“Do I know this gentleman, Duson?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“Not to my knowledge, sir,” the man answered.
“You must show him in,” Mr. Sabin said, with a sigh. “In this country
one must never be rude to a lord.”
Duson obeyed. Lord Robert Foulkes was a small young man, very carefully
groomed, nondescript in appearance. He smiled pleasantly at Mr. Sabin
and drew off his gloves.
“How do you do, Mr. Sabin?” he said. “Don’t remember me, I daresay. Met
you once or twice last time you were in London. I wish I could say that
I was glad to see you here again.”
Mr. Sabin’s forehead lost its wrinkle. He knew where he was now.
“Sit down, Lord Robert,” he begged. “I do not remember you, it is
true, but I am getting an old man. My memory sometimes plays me strange
tricks.”
The young man looked at Mr. Sabin and laughed softly. Indeed, Mr. Sabin
had very little the appearance of an old man. He was leaning with
both hands clasped upon his stick, his face alert, his eyes bright and
searching.
“You carry your years well, Mr. Sabin. Yet while we are on the subject,
do you know that London is the unhealthiest city in the world?”
“I am always remarkably well here,” Mr. Sabin said drily.
“London has changed since your last visit,” Lord Robert said, with a
gentle smile. “Believe me if I say--as your sincere well-wisher--that
there is something in the air at present positively unwholesome to you.
I am not sure that unwholesome is not too weak a word.”
“Is this official?” Mr. Sabin asked quietly.
The young man fingered the gold chain which disappeared in his trousers
pocket.
“Need I introduce myself?” he asked.
“Quite unnecessary,” Mr. Sabin assured him. “Permit me to reflect for
a few minutes. Your visit comes upon me as a surprise. Will you smoke?
There are cigarettes at your elbow.”
“I am entirely at your service,” Lord Robert answered. “Thanks, I will
try one of your cigarettes. You were always famous for your tobacco.”
There was a short silence. Mr. Sabin had seldom found it more difficult
to see the way before him.
“I imagined,” he said at last, “from several little incidents which
occurred previous to my leaving New York that my presence here was
regarded as superfluous. Do you know, I believe that I could convince
you to the contrary.”
Lord Robert raised his eyebrows.
“Mr. dear Mr. Sabin,” he said, “pray reflect. I am a messenger. No more!
A hired commissionaire!”
Mr. Sabin bowed.
“You are an ambassador!” he said.
The young man shook his head.
“You magnify my position,” he declared. “My errand is done when I remind
you that it is many years since you visited Paris, that Vienna is as
fascinating a city as ever, and Pesth a few hours journey beyond. But
London--no, London is not possible for you. After the seventh day from
this London would be worse than impossible.”
Mr. Sabin smoked thoughtfully for a few moments.
“Lord Robert,” he said, “I have, I believe, the right of a personal
appeal. I desire to make it.”
Lord Robert looked positively distressed.
“My dear sir,” he said, “the right of appeal, any right of any sort,
belongs only to those within the circle.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Sabin agreed. “I claim to belong there.”
Lord Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
“You force me to remind you,” he said, “of a certain decree--a decree of
expulsion passed five years ago, and of which I presume due notification
was given to you.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head very slowly.
“I deny the legality of that decree,” he said. “There can be no such
thing as expulsion.”
“There was Lefanu,” Lord Robert murmured.
“He died,” Mr. Sabin answered. “That was reasonable enough.”
“Your services had been great,” Lord Robert said, “and your fault was
but venial.”
“Nevertheless,” Mr. Sabin said, “the one was logical, the other is not.”
“You claim, then,” the young man said, “to be still within the circle?”
“Certainly!”
“You are aware that this is a very dangerous claim?”
Mr. Sabin smiled, but he said nothing. Lord Robert hastened to excuse
himself.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should have known better than to have
used such a word to you. Permit me to take my leave.”
Mr. Sabin rose.
“I thank you, sir,” he said, “for the courteous manner in which you have