The Yellow Crayon
“Dear Lucille,” he said, so respectfully that the faint irony of his
tone was lost to most of those present, “I, too, am of your opinion.
The man who has a right, real or fancied, to claim you must indeed be
a coward if he suffered dangers of any sort to stand in the way. After
all, dangers from us! Is it not a little absurd?”
Lucille looked away from the Prince with a little shudder. He laughed
softly, and drank his liqueur. Afterwards he leaned back for a moment
in his chair and glanced thoughtfully around at the assembled company as
though anxious to impress upon his memory all who were present. It was a
little group, every member of which bore a well-known name. Their host,
the Duke of Dorset, in whose splendid library they were assembled, was,
if not the premier duke of the United Kingdom, at least one of those
whose many hereditary offices and ancient family entitled him to a
foremost place in the aristocracy of the world. Raoul de Brouillac,
Count of Orleans, bore a name which was scarcely absent from a single
page of the martial history of France. The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer kept
up still a semblance of royalty in the State which his ancestors had
ruled with despotic power. Lady Muriel Carey was a younger daughter of
a ducal house, which had more than once intermarried with Royalty. The
others, too, had their claims to be considered amongst the greatest
families of Europe.
The Prince glanced at his watch, and then at the bridge tables ready set
out.
“I think,” he said, “that a little diversion--what does our hostess
say?”
“Two sets can start at least,” the Duchess said. “Lucille and I will
stay out, and the Count de Brouillac does not play.”
The Prince rose.
“It is agreed,” he said. “Duke, will you honour me? Felix and Dolinski
are our ancient adversaries. It should be an interesting trial of
strength.”
There was a general movement, a re-arrangement of seats, and a little
buzz of conversation. Then silence. Lucille sat back in a great chair,
and Lady Carey came over to her side.
“You are nervous to-night, Lucille,” she said.
“Yes, I am nervous,” Lucille admitted. “Why not? At any moment he may be
here.”
“And you care--so much?” Lady Carey said, with a hard little laugh.
“I care so much,” Lucille echoed.
Lady Carey shook out her amber satin skirt and sat down upon a low
divan. She held up her hands, small white hands, ablaze with jewels, and
looked at them for a moment thoughtfully.
“He was very much in earnest when I saw him at Sherry’s in New York,”
she remarked, “and he was altogether too clever for Mr. Horser and our
friends there. After all their talk and boasting too. Why, they are
ignorant of the very elements of intrigue.”
Lucille sighed.
“Here,” she said, “it is different. The Prince and he are ancient
rivals, and Raoul de Brouillac is no longer his friend. Muriel, I am
afraid of what may happen.”
Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.
“He is no fool,” she said in a low tone. “He will not come here with a
magistrate’s warrant and a policeman to back it up, nor will he attempt
to turn the thing into an Adelphi drama. I know him well enough to be
sure that he will attempt nothing crude. Lucille, don’t you find it
exhilarating?”
“Exhilarating? But why?”
“It will be a game played through to the end by masters, and you, my
dear woman, are the inspiration. I think that it is most fascinating.”
Lucille looked sadly into the fire.
“I think,” she said, “that I am weary of all these things. I seem to
have lived such a very long time. At Lenox I was quite happy. Of my own
will I would never have left it.”
Lady Carey’s thin lips curled a little, her blue eyes were full of
scorn. She was not altogether a pleasant woman to look upon. Her cheeks
were thin and hollow, her eyes a little too prominent, some hidden
expression which seemed at times to flit from one to the other of her
features suggested a sensuality which was a little incongruous with her
somewhat angular figure and generally cold demeanour. But that she was a
woman of courage and resource history had proved.
“How idyllic!” she exclaimed. “Positively medieval! Fancy living with
one man three years.”
Lucille smiled.
“Why, not? I never knew a woman yet however cold however fond of change,
who had not at some time or other during her life met a man for whose
sake she would have done--what I did. I have had as many admirers--as
many lovers, I suppose, as most women. But I can truthfully say that
during the last three years no thought of one of them has crossed my
mind.”
Lady Carey laughed scornfully.
“Upon my word,” she said. “If the Prince had not a temper, and if they
were not playing for such ruinous points, I would entertain them all
with these delightful confidences. By the bye, the Prince himself was
once one of those who fell before your chariot wheels, was he not? Look
at him now--sideways. What does he remind you of?”
Lucille raised her eyes.
“A fat angel,” she answered, “or something equally distasteful. How I
hate those mild eyes and that sweet, slow smile. I saw him thrash a poor
beater once in the Saxe Leinitzer forests. Ugh!”
“I should not blame him for that,” Lady Carey said coldly. “I like
masterful men, even to the point of cruelty. General Dolinski there
fascinates me. I believe that he keeps a little private knout at home
for his wife and children. A wicked little contrivance with an ivory
handle. I should like to see him use it.”
Lucille shuddered. This tete-a-tete did not amuse her. She rose and
looked over one of the bridge tables for a minute. The Prince, who was
dealing, looked up with a smile.
“Be my good angel, Countess,” he begged. “Fortune has deserted me
to-night. You shall be the goddess of chance, and smile your favours
upon me.”
A hard little laugh came from the chair where Lady Carey sat. She turned
her head towards them, and there was a malicious gleam in her eyes.
“Too late, Prince,” she exclaimed. “The favours of the Countess are all
given away. Lucille has become even as one of those flaxen-haired dolls
of your mountain villages. She has given her heart away, and she is
sworn to perpetual constancy.”
The Prince smiled.
“The absence,” he said, glancing up at the clock, “of that most
fortunate person should surely count in our favour.”
Lucille followed his eyes. The clock was striking ten. She shrugged her
shoulders.
“If the converse also is true, Prince,” she said, “you can scarcely have
anything to hope for from me. For by half-past ten he will be here.”
The Prince picked up his cards and sorted them mechanically.
“We shall see,” he remarked. “It is true, Countess, that you are here,
but in this instance you are set with thorns.”
“To continue the allegory, Prince,” she answered, passing on to the next
table, “also with poisonous berries. But to the hand which has no fear,
neither are harmful.”
The Prince laid down his hand.
“Now I really believe,” he said gently, “that she meant to be rude.
Partner, I declare hearts!”
Felix was standing out from the next table whilst his hand was being
played by General Dolinski, his partner. He drew her a little on one
side.
“Do not irritate Saxe Leinitzer,” he whispered. “Remember, everything
must rest with him. Twice to-night you have brought that smile to his
lips, and I never see it without thinking of unpleasant things.”
“You are right,” she answered; “but I hate him so. He and Muriel Carey
seem to have entered into some conspiracy to lead me on to say things
which I might regret.”
“Saxe Leinitzer,” he said, “has never forgotten that he once aspired to
be your lover.”
“He has not failed to let me know it,” she answered. “He has even
dared--ah!”
There was a sudden stir in the room. The library door was thrown open.
The solemn-visaged butler stood upon the threshold.
“His Grace the Duke of Souspennier!” he announced.
CHAPTER XVIII
There was for the moment a dead silence. The soft patter of cards no
longer fell upon the table. The eyes of every one were turned upon the
newcomers. And he, leaning upon his stick, looked only for one person,
and having found her, took no heed of any one else.
“Lucille!”
She rose from her seat and stood with hands outstretched towards him,
her lips parted in a delightful smile, her eyes soft with happiness.
“Victor, welcome! It is like you to have found me, and I knew that you
would come.”
He raised her fingers to his lips--tenderly--with the grace of a prince,
but all the affection of a lover. What he said to her none could hear,
for his voice was lowered almost to a whisper. But the colour stained
her cheeks, and her blush was the blush of a girl.
A movement of the Duchess recalled him to a sense of his social duty. He
turned courteously to her with extended hand.
“I trust,” he said, “that I may be forgiven my temporary fit of
aberration. I cannot thank you sufficiently, Duchess, for your kind
invitation.”
Her answering smile was a little dubious.
“I am sure,” she said “that we are delighted to welcome back amongst us
so old and valued a friend. I suppose you know every one?”
Mr. Sabin looked searchingly around, exchanging bows with those whose
faces were familiar to him. But between him and the Prince of Saxe
Leinitzer there passed no pretense at any greeting. The two men eyed one
another for a moment coldly. Each seemed to be trying to read the other
through.
“I believe,” Mr. Sabin said, “that I have that privilege. I see,
however, that I am interrupting your game. Let me beg you to continue.
With your permission, Duchess, I will remain a spectator. There are many
things which my wife and I have to say to one another.”
The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer laid his cards softly upon the table. He
smiled upon Mr. Sabin--a slow, unpleasant smile.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that our game must be postponed. It is a
pity, but I think it had better be so.”
“It must be entirely as you wish,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I am at your
service now or later.”
The Prince rose to his feet.
“Monsieur le Due de Souspennier,” he said, “what are we to conclude from
your presence here this evening?”
“It is obvious,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I claim my place amongst you.”
“You claim to be one of us?”
“I do!”
“Ten years ago,” the Prince continued, “you were granted immunity from
all the penalties and obligations which a co-membership with us might
involve. This privilege was extended to you on account of certain great
operations in which you were then engaged, and the object of which
was not foreign to our own aims. You are aware that the period of that
immunity is long since past.”
Mr. Sabin leaned with both hands upon his stick, and his face was like
the face of a sphinx. Only Lucille, who knew him best of all those
there, saw him wince for a moment before this reminder of his great
failure.
“I am not accustomed,” Mr. Sabin said quietly, “to shirk my share of the
work in any undertaking with which I am connected. Only in this case I
claim to take the place of the Countess Lucille, my wife. I request that
the task, whatever it may be which you have imposed upon her, may be
transferred to me.”
The Prince’s smile was sweet, but those who knew him best wondered what
evil it might betoken for his ancient enemy.
“You offer yourself, then, as a full member?”
“Assuredly!”
“Subject,” he drawled, “to all the usual pains and privileges?”
“Certainly!”
The Prince played with the cards upon the table. His smooth, fair face
was unruffled, almost undisturbed. Yet underneath he was wondering
fiercely, eagerly, how this might serve his ends.
“The circumstances,” he said at last, “are peculiar. I think that we
should do well to consult together--you and I, Felix, and Raoul here.”