The Yellow Crayon
like to see man or devil try and separate us if I belonged to him--until
I was tired of him. That would come, of course. It comes always. It is
the hideous part of life.”
“You look always,” he said, “a little too far forward. It is a mistake.
After all, it is the present only which concerns us.”
“Admirable philosophy,” she laughed scornfully, “but when one is
bored to death in the present one must look forward or backward for
consolation.”
He continued his lunch in silence for a while.
“I am rebuked!” he said.
There came a pause in the courses. He looked at her critically. She was
very handsomely dressed in a walking costume of dove-coloured grey. The
ostrich feathers which drooped from her large hat were almost priceless.
She had the undeniable air of being a person of breeding. But she
was paler even than usual, her hair, notwithstanding its careful
arrangement, gave signs of being a little thin in front. There were
wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She knew these things, but she bore
his inspection with indifference.
“I wonder,” he said reflectively, “what we men see in you. You have
plenty of admirers. They say that Grefton got himself shot out at the
front because you treated him badly. Yet--you are not much to look at,
are you?”
She laughed at him. Hers was never a pleasant laugh, but this time it
was at least natural.
“How discriminating,” she declared. “I am an ugly woman, and men of
taste usually prefer ugly women. Then I am always well dressed. I know
how to wear my clothes. And I have a shocking reputation. A really
wicked woman, I once heard pious old Lady Surbiton call me! Dear old
thing! It did me no end of good. Then I have the very great advantage
of never caring for any one more than a few days together. Men find that
annoying.”
“You have violent fancies,” he remarked, “and strange ones.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “They concern no one except myself.”
“This Souspennier craze, for instance!”
She nodded.
“Well, you can’t say that I’m not honest. It is positively my only
virtue. I adore the truth. I loathe a lie. That is one reason, I
daresay, why I can only barely tolerate you. You are a shocking--a gross
liar.”
“Muriel!”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she exclaimed irritably. “You must
hear the truth sometimes. And now, please remember that I came to lunch
with you to hear about your visit this morning.”
The Prince gnawed his moustache, and the light in his eyes was not
a pleasant thing to see. This woman with her reckless life, her odd
fascination, her brusque hatred of affectations, was a constant torment
to him. If only he could once get her thoroughly into his power.
“My visit,” he said, “was wholly successful. It could not well be
otherwise. Lucille has returned to Dorset House. Souspennier is
confounded altogether by a little revelation which I ventured to make.
He spoke of an appeal. I let him know with whom he would have to deal.
I left him nerveless and crushed. He can do nothing save by open revolt.
And if he tries that--well, there will be no more of this wonderful Mr.
Sabin.”
“Altogether a triumph to you,” she remarked scornfully. “Oh, I know the
sort of thing. But, after all, my dear Ferdinand, what of last night.
I hate the woman, but she played the game, and played it well. We were
fooled, both of us. And to think that I--”
She broke off with a short laugh. The Prince looked at her curiously.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you had some idea of consoling the desolate
husband?”
“Perhaps I had,” she answered coolly. “It didn’t come off, did it? Order
me some coffee, and give me a cigarette, my friend. I have something
else to say to you.”
He obeyed her, and she leaned back in the high chair.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I have nothing whatever to do with you and
Lucille. I suppose you will get your revenge on Souspennier through her.
It won’t be like you if you don’t try, and you ought to have the game
pretty well in your own hands. But I won’t have Souspennier harmed. You
understand?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Souspennier,” he said, “must take care. If he oversteps the bounds he
must pay the penalty.”
She leaned forward. There was a look in her face which he knew very
well.
“You and I understand one another,” she said coolly. “If you want me for
an enemy you can have me. Very likely I shall tell you before long that
you can do what you like with the man. But until I do it will be very
dangerous for you if harm comes to him.”
“It is no use,” he answered doggedly. “If he attacks he must be
silenced.”
“If he attacks,” she answered, “you must give me twenty-four hours clear
notice before you move a hand against him. Afterwards--well, we will
discuss that.”
“You had better,” he said, looking at her with an ugly gleam in his
eyes, “persuade him to take you for a little tour on the Continent. It
would be safer.”
“If he would come,” she said coolly, “I would go to-morrow. But he
won’t--just yet. Never mind. You have heard what I wanted to say. Now
shall we go? I am going to get some sleep this afternoon. Everybody
tells me that I look like a ghost.”
“Why not come to Grosvenor Square with me?” he leaning a little across
the table. “Patoff shall make you some Russian tea, and afterwards you
shall sleep as long as you like.”
“How idyllic!” she answered, with a faint sarcastic smile. “It goes
to my heart to decline so charming an invitation. But, to tell you the
truth, it would bore me excessively.”
He muttered something under his breath which startled the waiter at
his elbow. Then he followed her out of the room. She paused for a few
moments in the portico to finish buttoning her gloves.
“Many thanks for my lunch,” she said, nodding to him carelessly. “I’m
sure I’ve been a delightful companion.”
“You have been a very tormenting one,” he answered gloomily as he
followed her out on to the pavement.
“You should try Lucille,” she suggested maliciously.
He stood by her side while they waited for her carriage, and looked
at her critically. Her slim, elegant figure had never seemed more
attractive to him. Even the insolence of her tone and manner had an odd
sort of fascination. He tried to hold for a moment the fingers which
grasped her skirt.
“I think,” he whispered, “that after you Lucille would be dull!”
She laughed.
“That is because Lucille has morals and a conscience,” she said, “and
I have neither. But, dear me, how much more comfortably one gets on
without them. No, thank you, Prince. My coupe is only built for one.
Remember.”
She flung him a careless nod from the window. The Prince remained on the
pavement until after the little brougham had driven away. Then he smiled
softly to himself as he turned to follow it.
“No!” he said. “I think not! I think that she will not get our good
friend Souspennier. We shall see!”
CHAPTER XXIV
A barely furnished man’s room, comfortable, austere, scholarly. The
refuge of a busy man, to judge by the piles of books and papers which
littered the large open writing-table. There were despatch boxes turned
upside down, a sea of parchment and foolscap. In the midst of it all a
man deep in thought.
A visitor, entering with the freedom of an old acquaintance, laid
his hand upon his shoulder and greeted him with an air of suppressed
enthusiasm.
“Planning the campaign, eh, Brott? Or is that a handbook to Court
etiquette? You will need it within the week. There are all sorts of
rumours at the clubs.”
Brott shook himself free from his fit of apathetic reflection. He would
not have dared to tell his visitor where his thoughts had been for the
last half hour.
“Somehow,” he said, “I do not think that little trip to Windsor will
come just yet. The King will never send for me unless he is compelled.”
His visitor, an ex-Cabinet Minister, a pronounced Radical and a lifelong
friend of Brott’s, shrugged his shoulders.
“That time,” he said, “is very close at hand. He will send for
Letheringham first, of course, and great pressure will be brought to
bear upon him to form a ministry. But without you he will be helpless.
He has not the confidence of the people.”
“Without me,” Brott repeated slowly. “You think then that I should not
accept office with Letheringham?”
His visitor regarded him steadily for a moment, open-mouthed, obviously
taken aback.
“Brott, are you in your right senses?” he asked incredulously. “Do you
know what you are saying?”
Brott laughed a little nervously.
“This is a great issue, Grahame,” he said. “I will confess that I am in
an undecided state. I am not sure that the country is in a sufficiently
advanced state for our propaganda. Is this really our opportunity, or is
it only the shadow of what is to come thrown before? If we show our hand
too soon all is lost for this generation. Don’t look at me as though I
were insane, Grahame. Remember that the country is only just free from a
long era of Conservative rule.”
“The better our opportunity,” Grahame answered vigorously. “Two decades
of puppet government are enervating, I admit, but they only pave the
way more surely to the inevitable reaction. What is the matter with
you, Brott? Are you ill? This is the great moment of our lives. You must
speak at Manchester and Birmingham within this week. Glasgow is already
preparing for you. Everything and everybody waits for your judgment.
Good God, man, it’s magnificent! Where’s your enthusiasm? Within a month
you must be Prime Minister, and we will show the world the way to a new
era.”
Brott sat quite still. His friend’s words had stirred him for the
moment. Yet he seemed the victim of a curious indecision. Grahame leaned
over towards him.
“Brott, old friend,” he said, “you are not ill?”
Brott shook his head.
“I am perfectly well,” he said.
Grahame hesitated.
“It is a delicate thing to mention,” he said. “Perhaps I shall pass even
the bounds of our old comradeship. But you have changed. Something is
wrong with you. What is it?”
“There is nothing,” Brott answered, looking up. “It is your fancy. I am
well enough.”
Grahame’s face was dark with anxiety.
“This is no idle curiosity of mine,” he said. “You know me better than
that. But the cause which is nearer my heart than life itself is at
stake. Brott, you are the people’s man, their promised redeemer. Think
of them, the toilers, the oppressed, God’s children, groaning under the
iniquitous laws of generations of evil statesmanship. It is the dawn of
their new day, their faces are turned to you. Man, can’t you hear them
crying? You can’t fail them. You mustn’t. I don’t know what is the
matter with you, Brott, but away with it. Free yourself, man.”
Brott sighed wearily, but already there was a change in him. His
face was hardening--the lines in his face deepened. Grahame continued
hastily--eagerly.
“Public men,” he said, “are always at the mercy of the halfpenny press,
but you know, Brott, your appearance so often in Society lately has set
men’s tongues wagging. There is no harm done, but it is time to stop
them. You are right to want to understand these people. You must go down
amongst them. It has been slumming in Mayfair for you, I know. But have
done with it now. It is these people we are going to fight. Let it be
open war. Let them hear your programme at Glasgow. We don’t want another
French Revolution, but it is going to be war against the drones, fierce,
merciless war! You must break with them, Brott, once and for ever. And
the time is now.”
Brott held out his hand across the table. No one but this one man could
have read the struggle in his face.
“You are right, Grahame. I thank you. I thank you as much for what you
have left unsaid as for what you have said. I was a fool to think of