The Yellow Crayon
The two men named rose up silently. The Prince pointed to a small
round table at the farther end of the apartment, half screened off by a
curtained recess.
“Am I also,” Mr. Sabin asked, “of your company?”
The Prince shook his head.
“I think not,” he said. “In a few moments we will return.”
Mr. Sabin moved away with a slight enigmatic gesture. Lucille gathered
up her skirts, making room for him by her side on a small sofa.
“It is delightful to see you, Victor,” she murmured. “It is delightful
to know that you trusted me.”
Mr. Sabin looked at her, and the smile which no other woman had ever
seen softened for a moment his face.
“Dear Lucille,” he murmured, “how could you ever doubt it? There was a
day, I admit, when the sun stood still, when, if I had felt inclined to
turn to light literature, I should have read aloud the Book of Job. But
afterwards--well, you see that I am here.”
She laughed.
“I knew that you would come,” she said, “and yet I knew that it would
be a struggle between you and them. For--the Prince--” she murmured,
lowering her voice, “had pledged his word to keep us apart.”
Mr. Sabin raised his head, and his eyes traveled towards the figure of
the man who sat with his back to them in the far distant corner of the
room.
“The Prince,” he said softly, “is faithful to his ancient enmities.”
Lucille’s face was troubled. She turned to her companion with a little
grimace.
“He would have me believe,” she murmured, “that he is faithful to other
things besides his enmities.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“I am not jealous,” he said softly, “of the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer!”
As though attracted by the mention of his name, which must, however,
have been unheard by him, the Prince at that moment turned round and
looked for a moment towards them. He shot a quick glance at Lady Carey.
Almost at once she rose from her chair and came across to them.
“The Prince’s watch-dog,” Lucille murmured. “Hateful woman! She is bound
hand and foot to him, and yet--”
Her eyes met his, and he laughed.
“Really,” he said, “you and I in our old age might be hero and heroine
of a little romance--the undesiring objects of a hopeless affection!”
Lady Carey sank into a low chair by their side. “You two,” she said,
with a slow, malicious smile, “are a pattern to this wicked world. Don’t
you know that such fidelity is positively sinful, and after three years
in such a country too?”
“It is the approach of senility,” Mr. Sabin answered her. “I am an old
man, Lady Muriel!”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You are like Ulysses,” she said. “The gods, or rather the goddesses,
have helped you towards immortality.”
“It is,” Mr. Sabin answered, “the most delicious piece of flattery I
have ever heard.”
“Calypso,” she murmured, nodding towards Lucille, “is by your side.”
“Really,” Mr. Sabin interrupted, “I must protest. Lucille and I
were married by a most respectable Episcopalian clergyman. We have
documentary evidence. Besides, if Lucille is Calypso, what about
Penelope?”
Lady Carey smiled thoughtfully.
“I have always thought,” she said, “that Penelope was a myth. In your
case I should say that Penelope represents a return to sanity--to the
ordinary ways of life.”
Mr. Sabin and Lucille exchanged swift glances. He raised his eyebrows.
“Our little idyll,” he said, “seems to be the sport and buffet of
every one. You forget that I am of the old world. I do not understand
modernity.”
“Ulysses,” she answered, “was of the old world, yet he was a wanderer in
more senses of the word than one. And there have been times--”
Her eyes sought his. He ignored absolutely the subtlety of meaning which
lurked beneath the heavy drooping eyelids.
“One travels through life,” he answered, “by devious paths, and a little
wandering in the flower-gardens by the way is the lot of every one.
But when the journey is over, one’s taste for wandering has gone--well,
Ulysses finished his days at the hearth of Penelope.”
She rose and walked away. Mr. Sabin sat still and watched her as though
listening to the soft sweep of her gown upon the carpet.
“Hateful woman!” Lucille exclaimed lightly. “To make love, and such
love, to one’s lawful husband before one’s face is a little crude, don’t
you think?”
He shook his head.
“Too obvious,” he answered. “She is playing the Prince’s game. Dear me,
how interesting this will be soon.”
She nodded. A faint smile of bitterness had stolen into her tone.
“Already,” she said, “you are beginning to scent the delight of the
atmosphere. You are stiffening for the fight. Soon--”
“Ah, no! Don’t say it,” he whispered, taking her hand. “I shall never
forget. If the fight seems good to me it is because you are the prize,
and after all, you know, to fight for one’s womenkind is amongst the
primeval instincts.”
Lady Carey, who had been pacing the room restlessly, touching an
ornament here, looking at a picture there, came back to them and stood
before Mr. Sabin. She had caught his last words.
“Primeval instincts!” she exclaimed mockingly. “What do you know about
them, you of all men, a bundle of nerves and brains, with a motor for
a heart, and an automatic brake upon your passions? Upon my word, I
believe that I have solved the mystery of your perennial youth. You have
found a way of substituting machinery for the human organ, and you are
wound up to go for ever.”
“You have found me out,” he admitted. “Professor Penningram of Chicago
will supply you too with an outfit. Mention my name if you like. It is a
wonderful country America.”
The Prince came over to them, fair and bland with no trace upon his
smooth features or in his half-jesting tone of any evil things.
“Souspennier,” he said, holding out his hand, “welcome back once more to
your old place. I am happy to say that there appears to be no reason why
your claim should not be fully admitted.”
Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.
“I presume,” he said, “that no very active demands are likely to be made
upon my services. In this country more than any other I fear that the
possibilities of my aid are scanty.”
The Prince smiled.
“It is a fact,” he said, “which we all appreciate. Upon you at present
we make no claim.”
There was a moment’s intense silence. A steely light glittered in Mr.
Sabin’s eyes. He and the Prince alone remained standing. The Duchess of
Dorset watched them through her lorgnettes; Lady Carey watched too
with an intense eagerness, her eyes alight with mingled cruelty and
excitement. Lucille’s eyes were so bright that one might readily believe
the tears to be glistening beneath.
CHAPTER XIX
“I will not pretend,” Mr. Sabin said, “to misunderstand you. My help is
not required by you in this enterprise, whatever it may be, in which you
are engaged. On the contrary, you have tried by many and various ways to
keep me at a distance. But I am here, Prince--here to be dealt with and
treated according to my rights.”
The Prince stroked his fair moustache.
“I am a little puzzled,” he admitted, “as to this--shall I not call it
self-assertiveness?--on the part of my good friend Souspennier.”
“I will make it quite clear then,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Lucille, will
you favour me by ringing for your maid. The carriage is at the door.”
The Prince held out his hand.
“My dear Souspennier,” he said, “you must not think of taking Lucille
away from us.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Sabin answered coolly. “Why not?”
“It must be obvious to you,” the Prince answered, “that we did not
send to America for Lucille without an object. She is now engaged in an
important work upon our behalf. It is necessary that she should remain
under this roof.”
“I demand,” Mr. Sabin said, “that the nature of that necessity should be
made clear to me.”
The Prince smiled with the air of one disposed to humour a wilful child.
“Come!” he said. “You must know very well that I cannot stand here
and tell you the bare outline, much less the details of an important
movement. To-morrow, at any hour you choose, one from amongst us
shall explain the whole matter--and the part to be borne in it by the
Countess!”
“And to-night?” Mr. Sabin asked.
The Prince shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the clock.
“To-night, my dear friend,” he said, “all of us, I believe, go on to a
ball at Carmarthen House. It would grieve me also, I am sure, Duke, to
seem inhospitable, but I am compelled to mention the fact that the hour
for which the carriages have been ordered is already at hand.”
Mr. Sabin reflected for a few moments.
“Did I understand you to say,” he asked, “that the help to be given to
you by my wife, Lucille, Duchess of Souspennier, entailed her remaining
under this roof?”
The Prince smiled seraphically.
“It is unfortunate,” he murmured, “since you have been so gallant as
to follow her, but it is true! You will understand this
perfectly--to-morrow.”
“And why should I wait until to-morrow?” Mr. Sabin asked coolly.
“I fear,” the Prince said, “that it is a matter of necessity.”
Mr. Sabin glanced for a moment in turn at the faces of all the little
company as though seeking to discover how far the attitude of his
opponent met with their approval. Lady Carey’s thin lips were curved
in a smile, and her eyes met his mockingly. The others remained
imperturbable. Last of all he looked at Lucille.
“It seems,” he said, smiling towards her, “that I am called upon to pay
a heavy entrance fee on my return amongst your friends. But the Prince
of Saxe Leinitzer forgets that he has shown me no authority, or given me
no valid reason why I should tolerate such flagrant interference with my
personal affairs.”
“To-morrow--to-morrow, my good sir!” the Prince interrupted.
“No! To-night!” Mr. Sabin answered sharply. “Lucille, in the absence of
any reasonable explanation, I challenge the right of the Prince of Saxe
Leinitzer to rob me even for an hour of my dearest possession. I appeal
to you. Come with me and remain with me until it has been proved, if
ever it can be proved, that greater interests require our separation. If
there be blame I will take it. Will you trust yourself to me?”
Lucille half rose, but Lady Carey’s hand was heavy upon her shoulder.
As though by a careless movement General Dolinski and Raoul de Brouillac
altered their positions slightly so as to come between the two. The
Duke of Dorset had left the room. Then Mr. Sabin knew that they were all
against him.
“Lucille,” he said, “have courage! I wait for you.”
She looked towards him, and her face puzzled him. For there flashed
across the shoulders of these people a glance which was wholly out of
harmony with his own state of barely subdued passion--a glance half
tender, half humorous, full of subtle promise. Yet her words were a blow
to him.
“Victor, how is it possible? Believe me, I should come if I could.
To-morrow--very soon, it may be possible. But now. You hear what the
Prince says. I fear that he is right!”
To Mr. Sabin the shock was an unexpected one. He had never doubted but
that she at least was on his side. Her words found him unprepared, and
a moment he showed his discomfiture. His recovery however, was swift and
amazing. He bowed to Lucille, and by the time he raised his head even
the reproach had gone from his eyes.
“Dear lady,” he said, “I will not venture to dispute your decision.
Prince, will you appoint a time to-morrow when this matter shall be more
fully explained to me?”
The Prince’s smile was sweetness itself, and his tone very gentle. But
Mr. Sabin, who seldom yielded to any passionate impulse, kept his teeth
set and his hand clenched, lest the blow he longed to deal should escape
him.
“At midday to-morrow I shall be pleased to receive you,” he said.
“The Countess, with her usual devotion and good sense, has, I trust,