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The Diva's Ruby

by F. Marion Crawford · English · Gutenberg #40844 · 654,841 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Diva's Ruby

Author: F. Marion Crawford

Illustrator: James Montgomery Flagg


        
Release date: September 23, 2012 [eBook #40844]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DIVA'S RUBY ***

THE DIVA'S RUBY




     THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
     NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
     ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

     MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
     LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
     MELBOURNE

     THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
     TORONTO




Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
  signs=.




  [Illustration: "Apparently looking down at his loosely hanging
   hands."--Page 92.]




     THE
     DIVA'S RUBY

     A SEQUEL TO
     "PRIMADONNA" AND "FAIR MARGARET"

     BY
     F. MARION CRAWFORD
     AUTHOR OF "SARACINESCA," "ARETHUSA,"
     ETC., ETC.

     WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
     BY J. MONTGOMERY FLAGG

     New York
     THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
     1908

     _All rights reserved_




     COPYRIGHT, 1907,
     BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.

     Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1908.


     Norwood Press
     J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
     Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"Apparently looking down at his loosely hanging hands"    _Frontispiece_

                                                             FACING PAGE

"'Funny idea of honour,' observed the American"                       62

"'You want my blessing, do you, Miss Barrack?'"                      116

"Margaret gazed at him in surprise while she might have
counted ten"                                                         154

"She was aware of his slight change of position without
turning her eyes"                                                    170

"She grasped Lady Maud's arm"                                        198

"She watched him intently while he read the printed report"          226

"The two dined on deck"                                              284

"'What has happened?' she cried. 'Are you ill, dear?'"               294

"She buried her handsome face in the splendid flowers"               340

"Their eyes met"                                                     348

"The man was not Boris Leven"                                        422




THE DIVA'S RUBY




CHAPTER I


There is a ruby mine hidden in the heart of the mountains near a
remote little city of Central Asia, unknown to European travellers;
and the secret of the treasure belongs to the two chief families of
the place, and has been carefully guarded for many generations, handed
down through the men from father to son; and often the children of
these two families have married, yet none of the women ever learned
the way to the mine from their fathers, or their brothers, or their
husbands, none excepting one only, and her name was Baraka, which may
perhaps mean 'Blessed'; but no blessing came to her when she was born.
She was much whiter and much more beautiful than the other girls of
the little Tartar city; her face was oval like an ostrich egg, her
skin was as the cream that rises on sheep's milk at evening, and her
eyes were like the Pools of Peace in the Valley of Dark Moons; her
waist also was a slender pillar of ivory, and round her ankle she
could make her thumb meet her second finger; as for her feet, they
were small and quick and silent as young mice. But she was not
blessed.

When she was in her seventeenth year a traveller came to the little
city, who was not like her own people; he was goodly to see, and her
eyes were troubled by the sight of him, as the Pools of Peace are
darkened when the clouds lie on the mountain-tops and sleep all day;
for the stranger was tall and very fair, and his beard was like spun
gold, and he feared neither man nor evil spirit, going about alone by
day and night. Furthermore, he was a great physician, and possessed a
small book, about the size of a man's hand, in which was contained all
the knowledge of the world. By means of this book, and three small
buttons that tasted of mingled salt and sugar, he cured Baraka's
father of a mighty pain in the midriff which had tormented him a whole
week. He brought with him also a written letter from a holy man to the
chiefs of the town; therefore they did not kill him, though he had a
good Mauser revolver with ammunition, worth much money, and other
things useful to believers.

Satan entered the heart of Baraka, and she loved the traveller who
dwelt in her father's house, for she was not blessed; and she stood
before him in the way when he went out, and when he returned she was
sitting at the door watching, and she took care to show her
cream-white arm, and her slender ankle, and even her beautiful face
when neither her father nor her mother was near. But he saw little and
cared less, and was as grave as her father and the other greybeards of
the town.

When she perceived that he was not moved by the sight of her, she
watched him more closely; for she said in her girl's heart that the
eyes that are blind to a beautiful woman see one of three things:
gold, or power, or heaven; but her sight was fixed only on him. Then
her throat was dry, her heart fluttered in her maiden breast like a
frightened bird, and sometimes, when she would have tried to speak,
she felt as if her tongue were broken and useless; the fire ran
lightly along her delicate body, her eyes saw nothing clearly, and a
strange rushing sound filled her ears; and then, all at once, a fine
dew wet her forehead and cooled it, and she trembled all over and was
as pale as death--like Sappho, when a certain god-like man was near.
Yet the stranger saw nothing, and his look was bright and cold as a
winter's morning in the mountains.

Almost every day he went out and climbed the foot-hills alone, and
when the sun was lowering he came back bringing herbs and flowers,
which he dried carefully and spread between leaves of grey paper in a
large book; and he wrote spells beside them in an unknown tongue, so
that no one dared to touch the book when he went out, lest the genii
should wake and come out from between the pages, to blind the curious
and strike the gossips dumb, and cast a leprosy on the thief.

At night he lay on the roof of the fore-house beside the gate of the
court, because it was cool there. Baraka came to him, before midnight,
when her mother was in a deep sleep; she knelt at his side while he
slept in the starlight, and she laid her head beside his, on the sack
that was his pillow, and for a little while she was happy, being near
him, though he did not know she was there. But presently she
remembered that her mother might wake and call her, and she spoke
very softly, close to his ear, fearing greatly lest he should start
from his sleep and cry out.

'The ruby mine is not far off,' she said. 'I know the secret place.
Rubies! Rubies! Rubies! You shall have as many as you can carry of the
blood-red rubies!'

He opened his eyes, and even in the starlight they were bright and
cold. She stroked his hand softly and then pressed it a little.

'Come with me and you shall know the great secret,' she whispered.
'You shall fill this sack that is under your head, and then you shall
take me with you to Egypt, and we will live in a marble palace and
have many slaves, and be always together. For you will always remember
that it was Baraka who showed you where the rubies were, and even when
you are tired of her you will treat her kindly and feed her with fig
paste and fat quails, such as I hear they have in the south all
winter, and Frank rice, and coffee that has been picked over, bean by
bean, for the great men.'

She said all this in a whisper, stroking his hand; and while she
whispered he smiled in his great golden beard that seemed as silvery
in the starlight as her father's.

'That is women's talk,' he answered. 'Who has seen mines of rubies?
and if you know where they are, why should you show them to me? You
are betrothed. If you had knowledge of hidden treasures you would keep
it for your husband. This is some trick to destroy me.'

'May these hands wither to the wrists if a hair of your head be harmed
through me,' she answered; and as she knelt beside him, the two little
hands held his face towards her very tenderly, and then one of them
smoothed the thick hair back from his forehead.

'You are betrothed,' he repeated, 'and I am your father's guest. Shall
I betray him?'

'I care nothing, neither for father, nor mother, nor brothers, nor
betrothed,' Baraka answered. 'I will give you the riches of Solomon if
you will take me, for I will have no other man.'

'There are no rubies,' said the stranger. 'Show them to me and I will
believe.'

The girl laughed very low.

'Did I not know you for a man of little faith?' she asked. 'I have
shown you my arm from the wrist to the shoulder. Is it not like the
tusk of a young elephant? Yet you have not believed. I have shown you
my ankles, and you have seen me span them with my fingers as I sat at
the door, yet you believed not. I have unveiled my face, which it is a
shame to do, but you could not believe. I have come to you in the
starlight when you were asleep, and still you have no faith that I
love you, though I shall be cast out to perish if I am found here. But
I will give you a little handful of rubies, and you will believe, and
take me, when I have shown you where you may get thousands like them.'

She took from her neck a bag of antelope skin, no larger than her
closed hand, and gave it to him with the thin thong by which it had
hung.

'When you have seen them in the sun you will want others,' she said.
'I will take you to the place, and when you have filled your sack with
them you will love me enough to take me away. It is not far to the
place. In two hours we can go and come. To-morrow night, about this
time, I will wake you again. It will not be safe to unbar the door, so
you must let me down from this roof by a camel rope, and then follow
me.'

When Baraka was gone the stranger sat up on his carpet and opened the
small bag to feel the stones, for he knew that he could hardly see
them in the starlight; but even the touch and the weight told him
something, and he guessed that the girl had not tried to deceive him
childishly with bits of glass. Though the bag had been in her bosom,
and the weather was hot, the stones were as cold as jade; and moreover
he felt their shape and knew at once that they might really be rough
rubies, for he was well versed in the knowledge of precious stones.

When the day began to dawn he went down from the roof to the common
room of the fore-house, where guests were quartered, yet although
there was no other stranger there he would not take the bag from his
neck to examine the stones, lest some one should be watching him from
a place of hiding; but afterwards, when he was alone in the foot-hills
and out of sight of the town, searching as usual for new plants and
herbs, he crept into a low cave at noon, and sat down just inside the
entrance, so that he could see any one coming while still a long way
off, and there he emptied the contents of the little leathern wallet
into his hand, and saw that Baraka had not deceived him; and as he
looked closely at the stones in the strong light at the entrance of
the cave, the red of the rubies was reflected in the blue of his
bright eyes, and made a little purple glare in them that would have
frightened Baraka; and he smiled behind his great yellow beard.

He took from an inner pocket a folded sheet on which a map was traced
in black and green ink, much corrected and extended in pencil; and he
studied the map thoughtfully in the cave while the great heat of the
day lasted; but the lines that his eye followed did not lead towards
Persia, Palestine, and Egypt, where Baraka wished to live with him in
a marble palace and eat fat quails and fig paste.

She came to him again that night on the roof, bringing with her a
small bundle, tightly rolled and well tied up. He wrapped his blanket
round her body, and brought it up under her arms so that the rope
should not hurt her when her weight came upon it, and so he let her
down over the edge of the roof to the ground, and threw the rope after
her; and he let himself over, holding by his hands, so that when he
was hanging at the full length of his long arms he had only a few feet
to drop, for he was very tall and the fore-house was not high, and he
wished to take the rope with him.

Baraka's house was at the head of the town, towards the foot-hills;
every one was sleeping, and there was no moon. She followed the stony
sheep-track that struck into the hills only a few hundred paces from
the last houses, and the stranger followed her closely. He had his
sack on his shoulder, his book of plants and herbs was slung behind
him by a strap, and in his pockets he had all the money he carried for
his travels and his letters to the chiefs, and a weapon; but he had
left all his other belongings, judging them to be of no value compared
with a camel-bag full of rubies, and only a hindrance, since he would
have to travel far on foot before daylight, by dangerous paths.

The girl trod lightly and walked fast, and as the man followed in her
footsteps he marked the way, turn by turn, and often looked up at the
stars overhead as men do who are accustomed to journeying alone in
desert places. For some time Baraka led him through little valleys he
had often traversed, and along hillsides familiar to him, and at last
she entered a narrow ravine which he had once followed to its head,
where he had found that it ended abruptly in a high wall of rock, at
the foot of which there was a clear pool that did not overflow. It was
darker in the gorge, but the rocks were almost white, so that it was
quite possible to see the way by the faint light.

The man and the girl stood before the pool; the still water reflected
the stars.

'This is the place,' Baraka said. 'Do you see anything?'

'I see water and a wall of rock,' the man answered. 'I have been here
alone by day. I know this place. There is nothing here, and there is
no way up the wall.'

Baraka laughed softly.

'The secret could not have been kept by my fathers for fourteen
generations if it were so easy to find out,' she said. 'The way is not
easy, but I know it.'

'Lead,' replied the traveller. 'I will follow.'

'No,' returned the girl. 'I will go a little way down the gorge and
watch, while you go in.'

The man did not trust her. How could he tell but that she had brought
him to an ambush where he was to be murdered for the sake of his money
and his good weapon? The rubies were real, so far as he could tell,
but they might be only a bait. He shook his head.

'Listen,' said Baraka. 'At the other side of the pool there is a place
where the water from this spring flows away under the rock. That is
the passage.'

'I have seen the entrance,' answered the traveller. 'It is so small
that a dog could not swim through it.'

'It looks so. But it is so deep that one can walk through it easily,
with one's head above water. It is not more than fifty steps long.
That is how I found it, for one day I wandered here alone in the
morning for shade, when the air was like fire; and being alone I
bathed in the clear pool to cool myself, and I found the way and
brought back the stones, which I have hidden ever since. For if my
father and brothers know that I have seen the treasure they will
surely kill me, because the women must never learn the secret. You
see,' she laughed a little, 'I am the first of us who has known it,
since many generations, and I have already betrayed it to you! They
are quite right to kill us when we find it out!'

'This is an idle tale,' said the traveller. 'Go into the pool before
me and I will believe and follow you under the rock. I will not go and
leave you here.'

'You are not very brave, though you are so handsome! If they come and
find me here, they will kill me first.'

'You say it, but I do not believe it. I think there is a deep hole in
the passage and that I shall slip into it and be drowned, for no man
could swim in such a place. I have but one life, and I do not care to
lose it in a water-rat's trap. You must go in and lead the way if you
wish me to trust you.'

Baraka hesitated and looked at him.

'How can I do this before you?' she asked.

'I will not go alone,' the man answered, for he suspected foul play.
'Do as you will.'

The girl took from her head the large cotton cloth with which she
veiled herself, and folded it and laid it down on the rock by the
pool; then she let her outer tunic of thin white woollen fall to the
ground round her feet and stepped out of it, and folded it also, and
laid it beside her veil, and she stood up tall and straight as a young
Egyptian goddess in the starlight, clothed only in the plain shirt
without sleeves which the women of her country wear night and day; and
the traveller saw her cream-white arms near him in the soft gloom, and
heard her slip off her light shoes.

'I will go before you,' she said; and she stepped into the pool and
walked slowly through the water.

The traveller followed her as he was, for he was unwilling to leave
behind him anything he valued, and what he had was mostly in the
pockets of his coat, and could not be much hurt by water. Even his
pressed herbs and flowers would dry again, his cartridges were quite
waterproof, his letters were in an impervious case, and his money was
in coin. When he entered the pool he took his revolver from its place
and he held it above the water in front of him as he went on. With his
other hand he carried the sack he had brought, which was one of those
that are made of Bokhara carpet and are meant to sling on a camel.

Baraka was almost up to her neck in the water when she reached the
other side of the pool; a moment later she disappeared under the rock,
and the traveller bent his knees to shorten himself, for there was
only room for his head above the surface, and he held up his revolver
before his face to keep the weapon dry, and also to feel his way, lest
he should strike against any jutting projection of the stone and hurt
himself. He counted the steps he took, and made them as nearly as
possible of equal length. He felt that he was walking on perfectly
smooth sand, into which his heavily shod feet sank a very little.
There was plenty of air, for the gentle draught followed him from the
entrance and chilled the back of his neck, which had got wet; yet it
seemed hard to breathe, and as he made his way forward his imagination
pictured the death he must die if the rock should fall in behind him.
He was glad that the faint odour of Baraka's wet hair came to his
nostrils in the thick darkness, and it was very pleasant to hear her
voice when she spoke at last.

'It is not far,' she said quietly. 'I begin to see the starlight on
the water.'

The passage did not widen or grow higher as it went on. If it had been
dry, it would have been a commodious cave, open at each end, wide at
the bottom and narrowing to a sharp angle above. But the pool was fed
by a spring that never failed nor even ebbed, though it must sometimes
have overflowed down the ravine through which the two had reached the
pool.

They came out from under the rock at last, and were in the refreshing
outer air. The still water widened almost to a circle, a tiny lake at
the bottom of a sort of crater of white stone that collected and
concentrated the dim light. On two sides there were little crescent
beaches of snow-white sand, that gleamed like silver. The traveller
looked about him and upward to see if there were any way of climbing
up; but as far as he could make out in the half-darkness the steep
rock was as smooth as if it had been cut with tools, and it sloped
away at a sharp angle like the sides of a funnel.

Baraka went up towards the right, and the bottom shelved, so that
presently the water was down to her waist, and then she stood still
and pointed to a dark hollow just above the little beach. Her wet
garment clung to her, and with her left hand she began to wring the
water from her hair behind her head.

'The rubies are there,' she said, 'thousands upon thousands of them.
Fill the sack quickly, but do not take more than you can carry, for
they are very heavy.'

The traveller waded out upon the beach, and the water from his clothes
ran down in small rivulets and made little round holes in the white
sand. He put down his revolver in a dry place, and both his hands felt
for the precious stones in the shadowy hollow, loosening small
fragments of a sort of brittle crust in which they seemed to be
clustered.

'You cannot choose,' Baraka said, 'for you cannot see, but I have been
here by daylight and have seen. The largest are on the left side of
the hollow, near the top.'

By the stars the traveller could see the pieces a little, as he
brought them out, for the white rocks collected the light; he could
see many dark crystals, but as to what they were he had to trust the
girl.

'Do not take more than you can carry,' she repeated, 'for you must not
throw them away to lighten the burden.'

'You can carry some of them,' answered the traveller.

He broke up the crust of crystals with a small geologist's hammer and
tore them out like a madman, and his hands were bleeding, for though
he was a philosopher the thirst for wealth had come upon him when he
felt the riches of empires in his grasp, and the time was short; and
although he knew that he might some day come back with armed men to
protect him, and workmen to help him, he knew also that to do this he
must share the secret with the over-lord of that wild country, and
that his portion might be the loss of his head. So he tore at the ruby
crust with all his might, and as he was very strong, he broke out
great pieces at once.

'We cannot carry more than that, both of us together,' said Baraka,
though she judged more by the sound of his work than by what she could
see.

He lifted the sack with both his hands, and he knew by its weight that
she was right. Under the water it would be easy enough to carry, but
it would be a heavy load for a man to shoulder.

'Come,' Baraka said, 'I will go back first.'

She moved down into the deeper water again, till it was up to her
neck; and feeling the way with her hands she went in once more under
the rock. The traveller followed her cautiously, carrying the heavy
sack under water with one hand and holding up his revolver with the
other, to keep it dry.

'I begin to see the starlight on the water,' Baraka said, just as
before, when they had been going in.

When she had spoken, she heard a heavy splash not far off, and the
water in the subterranean channel rose suddenly and ran past her in
short waves, three of which covered her mouth in quick succession and
reached to her eyes, and almost to the top of her head, but sank again
instantly; and they passed her companion in the same way, wetting his
weapon.

'Go back,' Baraka said, when she could speak; 'the rock is falling.'

The traveller turned as quickly as he could, and she came after him,
gaining on him because he carried the heavy sack and could not move
as fast as she. He felt his damp hair rising with fear, for he
believed that, after all, she had brought him into a trap. They
reached the opening and came out into the pool again.

'You have brought me here to die,' he said. 'Your father and your
brothers have shut up the entrance with great stones, and they will go
up the mountain and let themselves down from above with ropes and
shoot me like a wolf in a pit-fall. But you shall die first, because
you have betrayed me.'

So he cocked his revolver and set the muzzle against her head, to kill
her, holding her by her slender throat with his other hand; for they
were in shallow water and he had dropped the sack in the pool.

Baraka did not struggle or cry out.

'I would rather die by your hand than be alive in another man's arms,'
she said, quite quietly.

He let her go, merely because she was so very brave; for he did not
love her at all. She knew it, but that made no difference to her,
since no other woman was near; if they could get out alive with the
rubies she was sure that he would love her for the sake of the great
wealth she had brought him. If they were to starve to death at the
bottom of the great rock wall in the mountains, she would probably die
first, because he was so strong; and then nothing would matter. It was
all very simple.

The traveller fished up the sack and waded out upon the tiny beach,
and again the water ran down from his clothes in rivulets and made
round holes in the white sand. He looked up rather anxiously, though
he could not have seen a head looking down from above if there had
been any one there. There was not light enough. He understood also
that if the men were going to shoot at him from the height they would
wait till it was daylight. Baraka stood still in the water, which
was up to her waist, and he paid no attention to her, but sat down to
think what he should do. The night was warm, and his clothes would dry
on him by degrees. He would have taken them off and spread them out,
for he thought no more of Baraka's presence than if she had been a
harmless young animal, standing there in the pool, but he could not
tell what might happen at any moment, and so long as he was dressed
and had all his few belongings about him, he felt ready to meet fate.

Baraka saw that he did not heed her, and was thinking. She came up out
of the water very slowly, and she modestly loosened her wet garment
from her, so that it hung straight when she stood at the end of the
beach, as far from the traveller as possible. She, also, sat down to
dry herself: and there was silence for a long time.

After half-an-hour the traveller rose and began to examine the rock,
feeling it with his hands wherever there was the least shadow, as high
as he could reach, to find if there was any foothold, though he was
already sure that there was not.

'There is no way out,' Baraka said at last. 'I have been here by day.
I have seen.'

'They will let themselves down from above with ropes, till they are
near enough to shoot,' the traveller answered.

'No,' replied Baraka. 'They know that you have a good weapon, and they
will not risk their lives. They will leave us here to starve. That is
what they will do. It is our portion, and we shall die. It will be
easy, for there is water, and when we are hungry we can drink our
fill.'

The traveller knew the people amongst whom he had wandered, and he did
not marvel at the girl's quiet tone; but it chilled his blood, for he
understood that she was in earnest; and, moreover, she knew the place,
and that there was no way out.

'You said well that I had brought you here to die,' she said
presently, 'but I did not know it, therefore I must lose my life also.
It is my portion. God be praised.'

He was shamed by her courage, for he loved life well, and he held his
head down and said nothing as he thought of what was to come. He knew
that with plenty of good water a man may live for two or three weeks
without food. He looked at the black pool in which he could not even
see the reflections of the stars as he sat, because the opening above
was not very wide, and he was low down, a good way from the water's
edge. It seemed a good way, but perhaps it was not more than three
yards.

'You will die first,' Baraka said dreamily. 'You are not as we are,
you cannot live so long without food.'

The traveller wondered if she were right, but he said nothing.

'If we had got out with the treasure,' continued Baraka, 'you would
have loved me for it, because you would have been the greatest man in
the world through me. But now, because we must die, you hate me. I
understand. If you do not kill me you will die first; and when you are
dead I shall kiss you many times, till I die also. It will be very
easy. I am not afraid.'

The man sat quite still and looked at the dark streak by the edge of
the pool where the water had wet it when the falling boulder outside
had sent in little waves. He could see it distinctly. Again there was
silence for a long time. Now and then Baraka loosened her only garment
about her as she sat, so that it might dry more quickly; and she
quietly wrung out her thick black hair and shook it over her shoulders
to dry it too, and stuck her two silver pins into the sand beside her.

Still the traveller sat with bent head, gazing at the edge of the
pool. His hands were quite dry now, and he slowly rubbed the clinging
moisture from his revolver. Some men would have been thinking, in such
a plight, that if starving were too hard to bear, a bullet would
shorten their sufferings in the end; but this man was very full of
life, and the love of life, and while he lived he would hope.

He still watched the same dark streak where the sand was wet; he had
not realised that he had been so far from it till then, but by looking
at it a long time in the starlight his sight had probably grown tired,
so that he no longer saw it distinctly. He raised himself a little on
his hands and pushed himself down till it was quite clearly visible
again, and he looked at the rock opposite and up to the stars again,
to rest his eyes. He was not more than a yard from the water now.

The place was very quiet. From far above a slight draught of air
descended, warm from the rocks that had been heated all day in the
sun. But there was no sound except when Baraka moved a little.

Presently she did not move any more, and when the traveller looked he
saw that she was curled up on the sand, as Eastern women lie when they
sleep, and her head rested on her hand; for her garment was dry now,
and she was drowsy after the walk and the effort she had made.
Besides, since there was no escape from death, and as the man did not
love her, she might as well sleep if she could. He knew those people
and understood; and he did not care, or perhaps he also was glad. He
was a man who could only have one thought at a time. When he had left
the house of Baraka's father he had been thinking only of the rubies,
but now that he was in danger of his life he could think only of
saving it, if there were any way. A woman could never be anything but
a toy to him, and he could not play with toys while death was looking
over his shoulder. He was either too big for that, or too little;
every man will decide which it was according to his own measure. But
Baraka, who had not been taught to think of her soul nor to fear
death, went quietly to sleep now that she was quite sure that the
traveller would not love her.

He had been certain of the distance between his feet and the water's
edge as he sat; it had been a yard at the most. But now it was more;
he was sure that it was a yard and a half at the least. He rubbed his
eyes and looked hard at the dark belt of wet sand, and it was twice as
wide as it had been. The water was still running out somewhere, but it
was no longer running in, and in an hour or two the pool would be dry.
The traveller was something of an engineer, and understood sooner than
an ordinary man could have done, that his enemies had intentionally
stopped up the narrow entrance through which he had to come, both to
make his escape impossible, and to hasten his end by depriving him of
water. The fallen boulder alone could not have kept out the overflow
of the spring effectually. They must have shovelled down masses of
earth, with the plants that grew in it abundantly and filled it with
twining threadlike roots, and they must have skilfully forced
quantities of the stuff into the openings all round the big stone,
making a regular dam against the spring, which would soon run down in
the opposite direction. They knew, of course, that Baraka had led him
to the place and had gone in with him, for she had left all her outer
garments outside, and they meant that she should die also, with her
secret. In a week, or a fortnight, or a month, they would come and dig
away the dam and pry the boulder aside, and would get in and find the
white bones of the two on the sand, after the vultures had picked them
clean; and they would take the traveller's good revolver, and his
money.

He thought of all these things as he sat there in the dim light, and
watched the slow receding of the water-line, and listened to the
girl's soft and regular breathing. There was no death in her dream, as
she slept away the last hours of the night, though there might not be
many more nights for her. He heard her breath, but he did not heed
her, for the water was sinking before him, sinking away into the sand,
now that it was no longer fed from the opening.

He sat motionless, and his thoughts ran madly from hope to despair and
back again to hope. The water was going down, beyond question; if it
was merely draining itself through the sand to some subterranean
channel, he was lost, but if it was flowing away through any passage
like the one by which he had entered, there was still a chance of
escape,--a very small chance. When death is at the gate the tiniest
loophole looks wide enough to crawl through.

The surface of the pool subsided, but there was no loophole; and as
the traveller watched, hope sank in his heart, like the water in the
hollow of the sand; but Baraka slept on peacefully, curled up on her
side like a little wild animal. When the pool was almost dry the
traveller crept down to the edge and drank his fill, that he might not
begin to thirst sooner than need be; and just then day dawned suddenly
and the warm darkness gave way to a cold light in a few moments.

Immediately, because it was day, Baraka stretched herself on the sand
and then sat up; and when she saw what the traveller was doing she
also went and drank as much as she could swallow, for she had
understood why he was drinking as soon as she saw that the pool was
nearly dry. When she could drink no more she looked up at the rocks
high overhead, and they were already white and red and yellow in the
light of the risen sun; for in that country there is no very long time
between dark night and broad day.

Baraka sat down again, on the spot where she had slept, but she said
nothing. The man was trying to dig a little hole in the wet sand with
his hands, beyond the water that was still left, for perhaps he
thought that if he could make a pit on one side, some water would stay
in it; but the sand ran together as soon as he moved it; and
presently, as he bent over, he felt that he was sinking into it
himself, and understood that it was a sort of quicksand that would
suck him down. He therefore threw himself flat on his back, stretching
out his arms and legs, and, making movements as if he were swimming,
he worked his way from the dangerous place till he was safe on the
firm white beach again. He sat up then, and bent his head till his
forehead pressed on his hands, and he shut his eyes to keep out the
light of day. He had not slept, as Baraka had, but he was not sleepy;
perhaps he would not be able to sleep again before the end came.
Baraka watched him quietly, for she understood that he despaired of
life, and she wondered what he would do; and, besides, he seemed to
her the most beautiful man in the world, and she loved him, and she
was going to die with him.

It comforted her to think that no other woman could get him now. It
was almost worth while to die for that alone; for she could not have
borne that another woman should have him since he despised her, and if
it had come to pass she would have tried to kill that other. But there
was no danger of such a thing now; and he would die first, and she
would kiss him many times when he was dead, and then she would die
also.

The pool was all gone by this time, leaving a funnel-shaped hollow in
the sand where it had been. If any water still leaked through from
without it lost itself under the sand, and the man and the girl were
at the bottom of a great natural well that was quite dry. Baraka
looked up, and she saw a vulture sitting in the sun on a pinnacle,
three hundred feet above her head. He would sit there till she was
dead, for he knew what was coming; then he would spread his wings a
little and let himself down awkwardly, half-flying and
half-scrambling. When he had finished, he would sit and look at her
bones and doze, till he was able to fly away.

Baraka thought of all this, but her face did not change, and when she
had once seen the vulture she did not look at him again, but kept her
eyes fixed, without blinking, on her companion's bent head. To her he
seemed the most handsome man that had ever lived. There, beside him,
lay his camel bag, and in it there were rubies worth a kingdom; and
Baraka was very young and was considered beautiful too, among the wild
people to whom she belonged. But her father had chosen her name in an
evil hour, for she was indeed not blessed, since she was to die so
young; and the man with the beard of spun gold and the very white skin
did not love her, and would not even make pretence of loving, though
for what was left of life she would have been almost satisfied with
that.

The hours passed, and the sun rose higher in the sky and struck deeper
into the shady well, till he was almost overhead, and there was
scarcely any shadow left. It became very hot and stifling, because the
passage through which the air had entered with the water was shut up.
Then the traveller took off his loose jacket, and opened his flannel
shirt at the neck, and turned up his sleeves for coolness, and he
crept backwards into the hollow where the ruby mine was, to shelter
himself from the sun. But Baraka edged away to the very foot of the
cliff, where there remained a belt of shade, even at noon; and as she
sat there she took the hem of her one garment in her hands and slowly
fanned her little feet. Neither he nor she had spoken for many hours,
and she could see that in the recess of the rock he was sitting as
before, with his forehead against his hands that were clasped on his
knees, in the attitude and bearing of despair.

He began to be athirst now, in the heat. If he had not known that
there was no water he could easily have done without it through a long
day, but the knowledge that there was none, and that he was never to
drink again, parched his life and his throat and his tongue till it
felt like a dried fig in his mouth. He did not feel hunger, and indeed
he had a little food in a wallet he carried; but he could not have
eaten without water, and it did not occur to him that Baraka might be
hungry. Perhaps, even if he had known that she was, he would not have
given her of what he had; he would have kept it for himself. What was
the life of a wild hill-girl compared with his? But the vulture was
watching him, as well as Baraka, and would not move from its pinnacle
till the end, though days might pass.

The fever began to burn the traveller, the fever of thirst which
surely ends in raving madness, as he knew, for he had wandered much in
deserts, and had seen men go mad for lack of water. His hands felt red
hot, the pulses were hammering at his temples, and his tongue became
as hot as baked clay; he would have borne great pain for a time if it
could have brought sleep, for this was much worse than pain, and it
made sleep impossible. He tried to take account of what he felt, for
he was strong, and he was conscious that the heat of the fever, and
the throbbing in his arteries, and the choking dryness in his mouth
and throat, were not really his main sensations, but only accessories
to it or consequences of it. The real suffering was the craving for
the sight, the touch, and the taste of water; to see it alone would be
a relief, even if he were not allowed to drink, and to dip his hands
into a stream would be heaven though he were not permitted to taste a
drop. He understood, in a strangely clear way, that what suffered now
was not, in the ordinary sense, his own self, that is, his nerves, but
the physical composition of his body, which was being by degrees
deprived of the one prime ingredient more necessary than all others.
He knew that his body was eight-tenths water, or thereabouts, but that
this proportion was fast decreasing by the process of thirst, and that
what tormented him was the unsettling of the hydrostatic balance which
nature requires and maintains where there is any sort of life in
animals, plants, or stones; for stones live and are not even
temporarily dead till they are calcined to the state of quicklime, or
hydraulic cement, or plaster of Paris; and they come to life again
with furious violence and boiling heat if they are brought into
contact with water suddenly; or they regain the living state by slow
degrees if they are merely exposed to dampness. The man knew that what
hurt him was the battle between forces of nature which was being
fought in his flesh, and it was as much more terrible than the mere
pain his fleshly nerves actually suffered from it, as real death is
more awful than the most tremendous representation of it that ever was
shown in a play. Yet a stage tragedy may draw real burning tears of
sorrow and sympathy from them that look on.

The traveller was a modern man of science, and understood these
things, but the knowledge of them did not make it easier to bear
thirst or to die of hunger.

Baraka was not thirsty yet, because she had drunk her fill in the
morning, and was not used to drink often; it was enough that she could
look at the man she loved, for the end would come soon enough without
thinking about it. All day long the traveller crouched in the hollow
of the ruby cave, and Baraka watched him from her place; when it grew
dark the vulture on the pinnacle of rock thrust its ugly head under
its wing. As soon as Baraka could not see any more she curled herself
up on the white sand like a little wild animal and went to sleep,
though she was thirsty.

It was dawn when she awoke, and her linen garment was damp with the
dew, so that the touch of it refreshed her. The traveller had come out
and was lying prone on the sand, his face buried against his arm, as
soldiers sleep in a bivouac. She could not tell whether he was asleep
or not, but she knew that he could not see her, and she cautiously
sucked the dew from her garment, drawing it up to her mouth and
squeezing it between her lips.

It was little enough refreshment, but it was something, and she was
not afraid, which made a difference. Just as she had drawn the edge of
her shift down and round her ankles again, the man turned on his side
suddenly, and then rose to his feet. For an instant he glared at her,
and she saw that his blue eyes were bloodshot and burning; then he
picked up the heavy camel bag, and began to make his way round what
had been the beach of the pool, towards the passage through which they
had entered, and which was now a dry cave, wide below, narrow at the
top, and between six or seven feet high. He trod carefully and tried
his way, for he feared the quicksand, but he knew that there was none
in the passage, since he had walked through the water and had felt the
way hard under his feet. In a few moments he disappeared under the
rock.

Baraka knew what he meant to do; he was going to try to dig through
the dam at the entrance to let the water in, even if he could not get
out. But she was sure that this would be impossible, for by this time
her father and brothers had, no doubt, completely filled the spring
with earth and stones, and had turned the water in the other
direction. The traveller must have been almost sure of this too, else
he would have made the attempt much sooner. It was the despotism of
thirst that was driving him to it now, and he had no tool with which
to dig--it would be hopeless work with his hands.

The girl did not move, for in that narrow place and in the dark she
could not have helped him. She sat and waited. By and by he would come
out, drenched with sweat and yet parching with thirst, and he would
glare at her horribly again; perhaps he would be mad when he came out
and would kill her because she had brought him there.

After some time she heard a very faint sound overhead, and when she
looked up the vulture was gone from his pinnacle. She wondered at
this, and her eyes searched every point and crevice of the rock as far
as she could see, for she knew that the evil bird could only have been
frightened away; and though it fears neither bird nor beast, but only
man, she could not believe that any human being could find a foothold
near to where it had perched.

But now she started, and held her breath and steadied herself with one
hand on the sand beside her as she leaned back to look up. Something
white had flashed in the high sun, far up the precipice, and the
sensation the sight left was that of having seen sunshine on a moving
white garment.

For some seconds, perhaps for a whole minute, she saw nothing more,
though she gazed up steadily, then there was another flash and a small
patch of snowy white was moving slowly on the face of the cliff, at
some distance above the place where the vulture had been. She bent her
brows in the effort to see more by straining her sight, and meanwhile
the patch descended faster than it seemed possible that a man could
climb down that perilous steep. Yet it was a man, she knew from the
first, and soon she saw him plainly, in his loose shirt and white
turban. Baraka thought of a big white moth crawling on a flat wall.
She was light of foot and sure of hold herself, and could step
securely where few living things could move at all without instant
danger, but she held her breath as she watched the climber's descent
towards her. She saw him plainly now, a brown-legged, brown-armed man
in a white shirt and a fur cap, and he had a long gun slung across his
back. Nearer still, and he was down to the jutting pinnacle where the
vulture had sat, and she saw his black beard; still nearer by a few
feet and she knew him, and then her glance darted to the mouth of the
cave, at the other end of which the man she loved was toiling
desperately alone in the dark to pierce the dam of earth and stones.
It was only a glance, in a second of time, but when she looked up the
black-bearded man had already made another step downwards. Baraka
measured the distance. If he spoke loud now she could understand him,
and he could hear her answer. He paused and looked down, and he saw
her as plainly as she saw him. She knew him well, and she knew why he
had come, with his long gun. He was her father's brother's son, to
whom she was betrothed; he was Saäd, and he was risking his life to
come down and kill her and the man whom she had led to the ruby mines
for love's sake.

He would come down till he was within easy range, and then he would
wait till he had a fair chance at them, when they were standing still,
and she knew that he was a dead shot. The traveller's revolver could
never carry as far as the long gun, Baraka was sure, and Saäd could
come quite near with safety, since he seemed able to climb down the
face of a flat rock where there was not foothold for a cat. He was
still descending, he was getting very near; if the traveller were not
warned he might come out of the cave unsuspiciously and Saäd would
shoot him. Saäd would wish to shoot him first, because of his
revolver, and then he would kill Baraka at his leisure. If he fired at
her first the traveller would have a chance at him while he was
reloading his old gun. She understood why he had not killed her yet,
if indeed he wanted to, for it was barely possible that he loved her
enough to take her alive.

After hesitating for a few moments, not from fear but in doubt, she
gathered herself to spring, and made a dash like an antelope along the
sand for the mouth of the cave, for she knew that Saäd would not risk
wasting his shot on her while she was running. She stopped just under
the shelter of the rock and called inward.

'Saäd is coming down the rock with his gun!' she cried. 'Load your
weapon!'

When she had given this warning she went out again and stood before
the mouth of the cave with her back to it. Saäd was on the rock, not
fifty feet above the ground, at the other side of the natural wall,
but looked as if even he could get no farther down. He was standing
with both his heels on a ledge so narrow that more than half the
length of his brown feet stood over it; he was leaning back, flat
against the sloping cliff, and he had his gun before him, for he was
just able to use both his hands without falling. He pointed the gun at
her and spoke.

'Where is the man?'

'He is dead,' Baraka answered without hesitation.

'Dead? Already?'

'I killed him in his sleep,' she said, 'and I dragged his body into
the cave for fear of the vulture, and buried it in the sand. Be not
angry, Saäd, though he was my father's guest. Come down hither and I
will tell all. Then you shall shoot me or take me home to be your
wife, as you will, for I am quite innocent.'

She meant to entice him within range of the stranger's weapon.

'There is no foothold whereby to get lower,' he answered, but he
rested the stock of his gun on the narrow ledge behind him.

'Drag out the man's body, that I may see it.'

'I tell you I buried it. I killed him the night before last; I cannot
dig him up now.'

'Why did you run to the mouth of the cave when you saw me, if the man
is dead?'

'Because at first I was afraid you would shoot me from above,
therefore I took shelter.'

'Why did you come out again, if you were in fear?'

'After I had run in I was ashamed, for I felt sure that you would not
kill me without hearing the truth. So I came out to speak with you.
Get down, and I will show you the man's grave.'

'Have I wings? I cannot come down. It is impossible.'

Baraka felt a puff of hot air pass her, just above her right ankle,
and at the same instant she heard a sharp report, not very loud, and
more like the snapping of a strong but very dry stick than the
explosion of firearms. She instinctively sprang to the left, keeping
her eyes on Saäd.

For a moment he did not move. But he was already dead as he slowly
bent forward from the rock, making a deep obeisance with both arms
hanging down before him, so that his body shot down perpendicularly to
the sand, where it struck head first, rolled over and lay motionless
in a heap. The traveller's was a Mauser pistol that would have killed
as surely at five hundred yards as fifty; and the bullet had gone
through the Tartar's brain.

Baraka sprang up the sandy slope and ran along the narrow beach to the
body. In an instant she had detached the large brown water-gourd from
the thong by which it had hung over Saäd's shoulder, and she felt that
it was full. Without a thought for herself she hastened back to the
mouth of the cave where the traveller was now standing. His face was
dripping with perspiration that ran down into his matted golden beard,
his eyes were wild, his hands were bleeding.

'Drink!' cried Baraka joyfully, and she gave him the gourd.

He gripped it as a greedy dog snaps at a bit of meat, and pulling out
the wooden plug he set the gourd to his lips, with an expression of
beatitude. But he was an old traveller and only drank a little,
knowing that his life might depend on making the small supply last. A
gourd of water was worth more than many rubies just then.

'Are you very thirsty yet?' he asked in a harsh voice.

'No,' answered Baraka bravely; 'keep it for yourself.'

His hand closed round the neck of the gourd and he looked up towards
the rocks above. The vulture had come back and was circling slowly
down.

'You had better bury the body, while I go on working,' said the
traveller, turning back into the cave and taking the gourd with him.

Baraka had marked the place where he had tried to dig for water and
had almost disappeared in the quicksand. She took from the body the
wallet, in which were dates and some half-dry bread, and then dragged
and pushed, and rolled the dead man from the place where he had
fallen. The vulture sat on the lowest ledge where his claws could find
a hold, and though he watched her with horrible red eyes while she
robbed him of his prey, he did not dare go nearer.

The body sank into the moving sand, and Baraka had to roll herself
back to firmer ground in haste to escape being swallowed up with the
dead man. The last she saw of him was one brown foot sticking up. It
sank slowly out of sight, and then she went to the hollow where the
ruby mine was and took up a piece of the broken crust, full of
precious stones, and threw it at the vulture as hard as she could. It
did not hit him, but he at once tumbled off the ledge into the air,
opened his queer, bedraggled wings and struck upwards.

Then Baraka sat down in the shade and slowly brushed away the dry sand
that had got into the folds of her linen garment, and looked steadily
at the mouth of the cave and tried not to realise that her throat was
parched and her lips almost cracking with thirst, and that the
traveller had a gourd almost full of water with him. For she loved
him, and was willing to die that he might live a little longer;
besides, if he succeeded in digging his way out, there would be plenty
to drink, and when he was free she was sure that he would love her
because she had made him so rich.

The sun rose higher and at last shone down to the bottom of the chasm,
and she sat in the narrow strip of shade, where she had passed most of
the previous day. She was very thirsty and feverish, and felt tired,
and wished she could sleep, but could not. Still the traveller toiled
in the darkness, and from time to time she heard sounds from far away
as of stones and loose earth falling. He was still working hard, for
he was very strong and he was desperate.

Baraka thought that if he was able to dig through the dam the water
would run in again, and she watched the sand for hours, but it was
drier than ever. The shadow broadened again, and crept up the rock
quickly as the afternoon passed.

It was a long time since she had heard any sound from the cave; she
went to the entrance and listened, but all was quite still. Perhaps
the traveller had fallen asleep from exhaustion, too tired even to
drag himself out into the air when he could work no longer. She sat
down in the entrance and waited.

An hour passed. Perhaps he was dead. At the mere inward suggestion
Baraka sprang to her feet, and her heart beat frantically, and stood
still an instant, and then beat again as if it would burst, and she
could hardly breathe. She steadied herself against the rock, and then
went in to know the truth, feeling her way, and instinctively shading
her eyes as many people do in the dark.

A breath of cool air made her open them, and to her amazement there
was light before her. She thought she must have turned quite round
while she was walking, and that she was going back to the entrance, so
she turned again. But in a few seconds there was light before her once
more, and soon she saw the dry sand, full of her footprints and the
traveller's, and then the hollow where the mine was came in sight.

She retraced her steps a second time, saw the light as before, ran
forward on the smooth sand and stumbled upon a heap of earth and
stones, just as she saw the sky through an irregular opening on the
level of her face. Scarcely believing her senses she thrust out her
hand towards the hole. It was real, and she was not dreaming; the
traveller had got out and was gone, recking little of what might
happen to her, since he was free with his treasure.

Baraka crept up the slope of earth as quickly as she could and got
out; if she had hoped to find him waiting for her she was
disappointed, for he was nowhere to be seen. He had got clear away,
with his camel-bag full of rubies. A moment later she was lying on the
ground, with her face in the little stream, drinking her fill, and
forgetful even of the man she loved. In order to deprive them of water
the men had dug a channel by which it ran down directly from the
spring to the ravine on that side; then they had blocked up the
entrance with stones and earth, believing that one man's strength
could never suffice to break through, and they had gone away. They had
probably buried or burnt Baraka's clothes, for she did not see them
anywhere.

She ate some of the dates from the dead man's wallet, and a bit of
the dry black bread, and felt revived, since her greatest need had
been for water, and that was satisfied. But when she had eaten and
drunk, and had washed herself in the stream and twisted up her hair,
she sat down upon a rock; and she felt so tired that she would have
fallen asleep if the pain in her heart had not kept her awake. She
clasped her hands together on her knees and bent over them, rocking
herself.

When nearly an hour had passed she looked up and saw that the sun was
sinking, for the shadows were turning purple in the deep gorge, and
there was a golden light on the peaks above. She listened then,
holding her breath; but there was no sound except the tinkling of the
tiny stream as it fell over a ledge at some distance below her,
following its new way down into the valley.

She rose at last, looked upward, and seemed about to go away when a
thought occurred to her, which afterwards led to very singular
consequences. Instead of going down the valley or climbing up out of
it, she went back to the entrance of the cave, taking the wallet with
her, dragged herself in once more over the loose stones and earth,
reached the secret hollow where the pool had been, and made straight
for the little mine of precious stones. The traveller had broken out
many more than he had been able to carry, but she did not try to
collect them all. She was not altogether ignorant of the trade carried
on by the men of her family for generations, and though she had not
the least idea of the real value of the finest of the rubies, she knew
very well that it would be wise to take many small ones which she
could exchange for clothing and necessaries with the first women she
met in the hills, while hiding the rest of the supply she would be
able to carry in the wallet.

When she had made her wise selection, she looked once more towards the
quicksand, and left the place for ever. Once outside she began to
climb the rocks as fast as she could, for very soon it would be night
and she would have to lie down and wait many hours for the day, since
there was no moon, and the way was very dangerous, even for a Tartar
girl who could almost tread on air.

High up on the mountain, over the dry well where Baraka and the
stranger had been imprisoned, the vulture perched alone with empty
craw and drooping wings. But it was of no use for him to wait; the
living, who might have died of hunger and thirst, were gone, and the
body of dead Saäd lay fathoms deep in the quicksand, in the very maw
of the mountain.




CHAPTER II


There was good copy for the newspapers on both sides of the Atlantic
in the news that the famous lyric soprano, Margarita da Cordova, whose
real name was Miss Margaret Donne, was engaged to Monsieur Konstantin
Logotheti, a Greek financier of large fortune established in Paris,
and almost as well known to art-collectors as to needy governments,
would-be promoters, and mothers of marriageable daughters. The mothers
experienced a momentary depression such as Logotheti himself felt when
an historical Van Dyck which he wanted was secretly sold out of a
palace in Genoa to a rival collector and millionaire for a price which
he would willingly have given; the people he knew shrugged their
shoulders at the news that he was to marry a singer, or shook their
heads wisely, or smiled politely, according to the scale of the
manners they had inherited or acquired; the shopkeepers sent him
thousands of insinuating invitations to inspect and buy all the things
which a rich man is supposed to give to his bride, from diamonds and
lace and eighty horse-power motor-cars to dressing-cases, stationery
and silver saucepans; and the newspapers were generously jubilant, and
rioted for a few days in a perfect carnival of adjectives.

The people who made the least fuss about the marriage were Cordova
and Logotheti themselves. They were both so well used to perpetual
publicity that they did not resent being written and talked about for
a time as if they were a treaty, a revolution, a divorce, or a
fraudulent trust. But they did not encourage the noise, nor go about
side by side in an offensively happy way, nor accept all the two
hundred and eighty-seven invitations to dine out together which they
received from their friends during three weeks. It was as much as
their overworked secretaries could do to answer all these within a
reasonable and decent time.

The engagement was made known during the height of the London season,
not long after they had both been at a week-end party at Craythew,
Lord Creedmore's place in Derbyshire, where they had apparently come
to a final understanding after knowing each other more than two years.
Margaret was engaged to sing at Covent Garden that summer, and the
first mention of the match was coupled with the information that she
intended to cancel all her engagements and never appear in public
again. The result was that the next time she came down the stage to
sing the Waltz Song in _Romeo and Juliet_ she received a tremendous
ovation before she opened her handsome lips, and another when she had
finished the air; and she spent one of the happiest evenings she
remembered.

Though she was at heart a nice English girl, not much over twenty-four
years of age, the orphan daughter of an Oxford don who had married an
American, she had developed, or fallen, to the point at which very
popular and successful artists cannot live at all without applause,
and are not happy unless they receive a certain amount of adulation.
Even the envy they excite in their rivals is delicious, if not almost
necessary to them.

Margaret's real nature had not been changed by a success that had been
altogether phenomenal and had probably not been approached by any
soprano since Madame Bonanni; but a second nature had grown upon it
and threatened to hide it from all but those who knew her very well
indeed. The inward Margaret was honest and brave, rather sensitive,
and still generous; the outward woman, the primadonna whom most people
saw, was self-possessed to a fault, imperious when contradicted, and
coolly ruthless when her artistic fame was at stake. The two natures
did not agree well together, and made her wretched when they
quarrelled, but Logotheti, who was going to take her for better, for
worse, professed to like them both, and was the only man she had ever
known who did. That was one reason why she was going to marry him,
after having refused him about a dozen times.

She had loved another man as much as she was capable of loving, and at
one time he had loved her, but a misunderstanding and her devotion to
her art had temporarily separated them; and later, when she had almost
told him that she would have him if he asked her, he had answered her
quite frankly that she was no longer the girl he had cared for, and he
had suddenly disappeared from her life altogether. So Logotheti,
brilliant, very rich, gifted, gay, and rather exotic in appearance
and manner, but tenacious as a bloodhound, had won the prize after a
struggle that had lasted two years. She had accepted him without much
enthusiasm at the last, and without any great show of feeling.

'Let's try it,' she had said, and he had been more than satisfied.

After a time, therefore, they told their friends that they were going
to 'try it.'

The only woman with whom the great singer was at all intimate was the
Countess Leven, Lord Creedmore's daughter, generally called 'Lady
Maud,' whose husband had been in the diplomacy, and, after vainly
trying to divorce her, had been killed in St. Petersburg by a bomb
meant for a Minister. The explosion had been so terrific that the dead
man's identity had only been established by means of his pocket-book,
which somehow escaped destruction. So Lady Maud was a childless widow
of eight-and-twenty. Her father, when he had no prospect of ever
succeeding to the title, had been a successful barrister, and then a
hard-working Member of Parliament, and he had been from boyhood the
close friend of Margaret's father. Hence the intimacy that grew up
quickly between the two women when they at last met, though they had
not known each other as children, because the lawyer had lived in town
and his friend in Oxford.

'So you're going to try it, my dear!' said Lady Maud, when she heard
the news.

She had a sweet low voice, and when she spoke now it was a little sad;
for she had 'tried it,' and it had failed miserably. But she knew
that the trial had not been a fair one; the only man she had ever
cared for had been killed in South Africa, and as she had not even the
excuse of having been engaged to him, she had married with
indifference the first handsome man with a good name and a fair
fortune who offered himself. He chanced to be a Russian diplomatist,
and he turned out a spendthrift and an unfaithful husband. She was too
kind-hearted to be glad that he had been blown to atoms by dynamite,
but she was much too natural not to enjoy the liberty restored to her
by his destruction; and she had not the least intention of ever
'trying it' again.

'You don't sound very enthusiastic,' laughed Margaret, who had no
misgivings to speak of, and was generally a cheerful person. 'If you
don't encourage me I may not go on.'

'There are two kinds of ruined gamblers,' answered Lady Maud; 'there
are those that still like to watch other people play, and those who
cannot bear the sight of a roulette table. I'm one of the second kind,
but I'll come to the wedding all the same, and cheer like mad, if you
ask me.'

'That's nice of you. I really think I mean to marry him, and I wish
you would help me with my wedding-gown, dear. It would be dreadful if
I looked like Juliet, or Elsa, or Lucia! Everybody would laugh,
especially as Konstantin is rather of the Romeo type, with his
almond-shaped eyes and his little black moustache! I suppose he really
is, isn't he?'

'Perhaps--just a little. But he is a very handsome fellow.'

Lady Maud's lips quivered, but Margaret did not see.

'Oh, I know!' she cried, laughing and shaking her head. 'You once
called him "exotic," and he is--but I'm awfully fond of him all the
same. Isn't that enough to marry on when there's everything else? You
really will help me with my gown, won't you? You're such an angel!'

'Oh, yes, I'll do anything you like. Are you going to have a regular
knock-down-and-drag-out smash at St. George's? The usual thing?'

Lady Maud did not despise slang, but she made it sound like music.

'No,' answered Margaret, rather regretfully. 'We cannot possibly be
married till the season's quite over, or perhaps in the autumn, and
then there will be nobody here. I'm not sure when I shall feel like
it! Besides, Konstantin hates that sort of thing.'

'Do you mean to say that you would like a show wedding in Hanover
Square?' inquired Lady Maud.

'I've never done anything in a church,' said the Primadonna, rather
enigmatically, but as if she would like to.

'"Anything in a church,"' repeated her friend, vaguely thoughtful, and
with the slightest possible interrogation. 'That's a funny way of
looking at it!'

Margaret was a little ashamed of what she had said so naturally.

'I think Konstantin would like to have it in a chapel-of-ease in the
Old Kent Road!' she said, laughing. 'He sometimes talks of being
married in tweeds and driving off in a hansom! Then he suggests going
to Constantinople and getting it done by the Patriarch, who is his
uncle. Really, that would be rather smart, wouldn't it?'

'Distinctly,' assented Lady Maud. 'But if you do that, I'm afraid I
cannot help you with the wedding-gown. I don't know anything about the
dress of a Fanariote bride.'

'Konstantin says they dress very well,' Margaret said. 'But of course
it is out of the question to do anything so ridiculous. It will end in
the chapel-of-ease, I'm sure. He always has his own way. That's
probably why I'm going to marry him, just because he insists on it. I
don't see any other very convincing reason.'

Lady Maud could not think of anything to say in answer to this; but as
she really liked the singer she thought it was a pity.

Paul Griggs, the veteran man of letters, smiled rather sadly when she
met him shopping in New Bond Street, and told him of Margaret's
engagement. He said that most great singers married because the only
way to the divorce court led up the steps of the altar. Though he knew
the world he was not a cynic, and Lady Maud herself wondered how long
it would be before Logotheti and his wife separated.

'But they are not married yet,' Griggs added, looking at her with the
quietly ready expression of a man who is willing that his indifferent
words should be taken to have a special meaning if the person to whom
he has spoken chooses, or is able, to understand them as they may be
understood, but who is quite safe from being suspected of suggesting
anything if there is no answering word or glance.

Lady Maud returned his look, but her handsome face grew rather cold.

'Do you know of any reason why the marriage should not take place?'
she inquired after a moment.

'If I don't give any reason, am I ever afterwards to hold my peace?'
asked Griggs, with a faint smile on his weather-beaten face. 'Are you
publishing the bans? or are we thinking of the same thing?'

'I suppose we are. Good-morning.'

She nodded gravely and passed on, gathering up her black skirt a
little, for there had been a shower. He stood still a moment before
the shop window and looked after her, gravely admiring her figure and
her walk, as he might have admired a very valuable thoroughbred. She
was wearing mourning for her husband, not because any one would have
blamed her if she had not done so, considering how he had treated her,
but out of natural self-respect.

Griggs also looked after her as she went away because he felt that she
was not quite pleased with him for having suggested that he and she
had both been thinking of the same thing.

The thought concerned a third person, and one who rarely allowed
himself to be overlooked; no less a man, in fact, than Mr. Rufus Van
Torp, the American potentate of the great Nickel Trust, who was Lady
Maud's most intimate friend, and who had long desired to make the
Primadonna his wife. He had bought a place adjoining Lord Creedmore's,
and there had lately been a good deal of quite groundless gossip about
him and Lady Maud, which had very nearly become a scandal. The truth
was that they were the best friends in the world, and nothing more;
the millionaire had for some time been interested in an unusual sort
of charity which almost filled the lonely woman's life, and he had
given considerable sums of money to help it. During the months
preceding the beginning of this tale, he had also been the object of
one of those dastardly attacks to which very rich and important
financiers are more exposed than other men, and he had actually been
accused of having done away with his partner's daughter, who had come
to her end mysteriously during a panic in a New York theatre. But, as
I have told elsewhere, his innocence had been proved in the clearest
possible manner, and he had returned to the United States to look
after the interests of the Trust.

When Griggs heard the news of Margaret's engagement to Logotheti, he
immediately began to wonder how Mr. Van Torp would receive the
intelligence; and if it had not already occurred to Lady Maud that the
millionaire might make a final effort to rout his rival and marry the
Primadonna himself, the old author's observation suggested such a
possibility. Van Torp was a man who had fought up to success and
fortune with little regard for the obstacles he found in his way; he
had worked as a cowboy in his early youth, and was apt to look on his
adversaries and rivals in life either as refractory cattle or as
dangerous wild beasts; and though he had some of the old-fashioned
ranchero's sense of fair-play in a fight, he had much of the reckless
daring and ruthless savagery that characterise the fast-disappearing
Western desperado.

Logotheti, on the other hand, was in many respects a true Oriental,
supremely astute and superlatively calm, but imbued, at heart, with a
truly Eastern contempt for any law that chanced to oppose his wish.

Both men had practically inexhaustible resources at their command, and
both were determined to marry the Primadonna. It occurred to Paul
Griggs that a real struggle between such a pair of adversaries would
be worth watching. There was unlimited money on both sides, and equal
courage and determination. The Greek was the more cunning of the two,
by great odds, and had now the considerable advantage of having been
accepted by the lady; but the American was far more regardless of
consequences to himself or to others in the pursuit of what he wanted,
and, short of committing a crime, would put at least as broad an
interpretation on the law. Logotheti had always lived in a highly
civilised society, even in Constantinople, for it is the greatest
mistake to imagine that the upper classes of Greeks, in Greece or
Turkey, are at all deficient in cultivation. Van Torp, on the
contrary, had run away from civilisation when a half-educated boy, he
had grown to manhood in a community of men who had little respect for
anything and feared nothing at all, and he had won success in a field
where those who compete for it buy it at any price, from a lie to a
life.

Lady Maud was thinking of these things as she disappeared from
Griggs's sight, and not at all of him. It might have surprised her to
know that his eyes had followed her with sincere admiration, and
perhaps she would have been pleased. There is a sort of admiration
which acknowledged beauties take for granted, and to which they attach
no value unless it is refused them; but there is another kind that
brings them rare delight when they receive it, for it is always given
spontaneously, whether it be the wondering exclamation of a street boy
who has never seen anything so beautiful in his life, or a quiet look
and a short phrase from an elderly man who has seen what is worth
seeing for thirty or forty years, and who has given up making
compliments.

The young widow was quite unconscious of Griggs's look and was very
busy with her thoughts, for she was a little afraid that she had made
trouble. Ten days had passed since she had last written to Rufus Van
Torp, and she had told him, amongst other things, that Madame da
Cordova and Logotheti were engaged to be married, adding that it
seemed to her one of the most ill-assorted matches of the season, and
that her friend the singer was sure to be miserable herself and to
make her husband perfectly wretched, though he was a very good sort
in his way and she liked him. There had been no reason why she should
not write the news to Mr. Van Torp, even though it was not public
property yet, for he was her intimate friend, and she knew him to be
as reticent as all doctors ought to be and as some solicitors' clerks
are. She had asked him not to tell any one till he heard of the
engagement from some one else.

He had not spoken of it, but something else had happened. He had
cabled to Lady Maud that he was coming back to England by the next
steamer. He often came out and went back suddenly two or three times
at short intervals, and then stayed away for many months, but Lady
Maud thought there could not be much doubt as to his reason for coming
now. She knew well enough that he had tried to persuade the Primadonna
to marry him during the previous winter, and that if his passion for
her had not shown itself much of late, this was due to other causes,
chiefly to the persecution of which he had rid himself just before he
went to America, but to some extent also to the fact that Margaret had
not seemed inclined to accept any one else.

Lady Maud, who knew the man better than he knew himself, inwardly
compared him to a volcano, quiescent just now, so far as Margaret was
concerned, but ready to break out at any moment with unexpected and
destructive energy.

Margaret herself, who had known Logotheti for years, and had seen him
in his most dangerous moods as well as in his very best moments, would
have thought a similar comparison with an elemental force quite as
truly descriptive of him, if it had occurred to her. The enterprising
Greek had really attempted to carry her off by force on the night of
the final rehearsal before her first appearance on the stage, and had
only been thwarted because a royal rival had caused him to be locked
up, as if by mistake, in order to carry her off himself; in which he
also had failed most ridiculously, thanks to the young singer's
friend, the celebrated Madame Bonanni. That was a very amusing story.
But on another occasion Margaret had found herself shut up with her
Oriental adorer in a room from which she could not escape, and he had
quite lost his head; and if she had not been the woman she was, she
would have fared ill. After that he had behaved more like an ordinary
human being, and she had allowed the natural attraction he had for her
to draw her gradually to a promise of marriage; and now she talked to
Lady Maud about her gown, but she still put off naming a day for the
wedding, in spite of Logotheti's growing impatience.

This was the situation when the London season broke up and Mr. Van
Torp landed at Southampton from an ocean greyhound that had covered
the distance from New York in five days twelve hours and thirty-seven
minutes, which will doubtless seem very slow travelling if any one
takes the trouble to read this tale twenty years hence, though the
passengers were pleased because it was not much under the record time
for steamers coming east.

Five hours after he landed Van Torp entered Lady Maud's drawing-room
in the little house in Charles Street, Berkeley Square, where she had
lived with the departed Leven from the time when he had been attached
to the Russian Embassy till he had last gone away. She was giving it
up now, and it was already half dismantled. It was to see Van Torp
that she was in town in the middle of August, instead of with her
father at Craythew or with friends in Scotland.

London was as hot as it could be, which means that a New Yorker would
have found it chilly and an Italian delightfully cool; but the
Londoners were sweltering when Van Torp arrived, and were talking of
the oppressive atmosphere and the smell of the pavement, not at all
realising how blessed they were.

The American entered and stood still a moment to have a good look at
Lady Maud. He was a middle-sized, rather thick-set man, with rude
hands, sandy hair, an over-developed jaw, and sharp blue eyes, that
sometimes fixed themselves in a disagreeable way when he was
speaking--eyes that had looked into the barrel of another man's
revolver once or twice without wavering, hands that had caught and
saddled and bridled many an unridden colt in the plains, a mouth like
a carpet-bag when it opened, like a closed vice when it was shut. He
was not a handsome man, Mr. Rufus Van Torp, nor one with whom any one
short of a prize-fighter would meddle, nor one to haunt the dreams of
sweet sixteen. It was not for his face that Lady Maud, good and
beautiful, liked him better than any one in the world, except her own
father, and believed in him and trusted him, and it was assuredly not
for his money. The beggar did not live who would dare to ask him for a
penny after one look at his face, and there were not many men on
either side of the Atlantic who would have looked forward to any sort
of contest with him without grave misgivings.

'Well,' he said, advancing the last step after that momentary pause,
and taking the white hand in both his own, 'how have you been? Fair to
middling? About that? Well--I'm glad to see you, gladder than a
sitting hen at sunrise!'

Lady Maud laid her left hand affectionately on the man's right, which
was uppermost on hers, and her voice rippled with happiness.

'If you had only said a lark instead of a hen, Rufus!' she laughed.

'We could get along a great sight better without larks than without
hens,' answered her friend philosophically. 'But I'll make it a
nightingale next time, if I can remember, or a bald eagle, or any bird
that strikes you as cheerful.'

The terrible mouth had relaxed almost to gentleness, and the fierce
blue eyes were suddenly kind as they looked into the woman's face. She
led him to an old-fashioned sofa, their hands parted, and they sat
down side by side.

'Cheerful,' he said, in a tone of reflection. 'Yes, I'm feeling pretty
cheerful, and it's all over and settled.'

'Do you mean the trouble you were in last spring?'

'N--no--not that, though it wasn't as funny as a Sunday School treat
while it lasted, and I was thankful when it was through. It's another
matter altogether that I'm cheerful about--besides seeing you, my
dear. I've done it, Maud. I've done it at last.'

'What?'

'I've sold my interest in the Trust. It won't be made known for some
time, so don't talk about it, please. But it's settled and done, and
I've got the money.'

'You have sold the Nickel Trust?'

Lady Maud's lips remained parted in surprise.

'And I've bought you a little present with the proceeds,' he answered,
putting his large thumb and finger into the pocket of his white
waistcoat. 'It's only a funny little bit of glass I picked up,' he
continued, producing a small twist of stiff writing-paper. 'You
needn't think it's so very fine! But it's a pretty colour, and when
you're out of mourning I daresay you'll make a hat-pin of it. I like
handsome hat-pins myself, you know.'

He had untwisted the paper while speaking, it lay open in the palm of
his hand, and Lady Maud saw a stone of the size of an ordinary
hazel-nut, very perfectly cut, and of that wonderful transparent red
colour which is known as 'pigeon's blood,' and which it is almost
impossible to describe. Sunlight shining through Persian rose-leaf
sherbet upon white silk makes a little patch of colour that is perhaps
more like it than any other shade of red, but not many Europeans have
ever seen that, and it is a good deal easier to go and look at a
pigeon's blood ruby in a jeweller's window.

'What a beautiful colour!' exclaimed Lady Maud innocently, after a
moment. 'I didn't know they imitated rubies so well, though, of
course, I know nothing about it. If it were not an impossibility, I
should take it for a real one.'

'So should I,' assented Mr. Van Torp quietly. 'It'll make a pretty
hat-pin anyway. Shall I have it mounted for you?'

'Thanks, awfully, but I think I should like to keep it as it is for a
little while. It's such a lovely colour, just as it is. Thank you so
much! Do tell me where you got it.'

'Oh, well, there was a sort of a traveller came to New York the other
day selling them what they call privately. I guess he must be a
Russian or something, for he has a kind of an off-look of your
husband, only he wears a beard and an eyeglass. It must be about the
eyes. Maybe the forehead too. He'll most likely turn up in London one
of these days to sell this invention, or whatever it is.'

Lady Maud said nothing to this, but she took the stone from his hand,
looked at it some time with evident admiration, and then set it down
on its bit of paper, upon a little table by the end of the sofa.

'If I were you, I wouldn't leave it around much,' observed Mr. Van
Torp carelessly. 'Somebody might take a fancy to it. The colour's
attractive, you see, and it looks like real.'

'Oh, I'll be very careful of it, never fear! I can't tell you how much
I like it!' She twisted it up tightly in its bit of paper, rose to her
feet, and put it away in her writing-table.

'It'll be a sort of souvenir of the old Nickel Trust,' said her
friend, watching her with satisfaction.

'Have you really sold out all your interest in it?' she asked, sitting
down again; and now that she returned to the question her tone showed
that she had not yet recovered from her astonishment.

'That's what I've done. I always told you I would, when I was ready.
Why do you look so surprised? Would you rather I hadn't?'

Lady Maud shook her head and her voice rippled deliciously as she
answered.

'I can hardly imagine you without the Nickel Trust, that's all! What
in the world shall you do with yourself?'

'Oh, various kinds of things. I think I'll get married, for one. Then
I'll take a rest and sort of look around. Maybe something will turn
up. I've concluded to win the Derby next year--that's something
anyway.'

'Rather! Have you thought of anything else?'

She laughed a little, but was grave the next moment, for she knew him
much too well to believe that he had taken such a step out of caprice,
or a mere fancy for change; his announcement that he meant to marry
agreed too well with what she herself had suddenly foreseen when she
had parted with Griggs in Bond Street a few days earlier. If Margaret
had not at last made up her mind to accept Logotheti--supposing that
her decision was really final--Rufus Van Torp would not suddenly have
felt sure that he himself must marry her if she married at all. His
English friend could not have put into words what she felt had taken
place in his heart, but she understood him as no one else could, and
was certain that he had reached one of the great cross-roads of his
life.

A woman who has been married for years to such a man as Leven, and who
tries to do good to those fallen and cast-out ones who laugh and cry
and suffer out their lives, and are found dead behind the
Virtue-Curtain, is not ignorant of the human animal's instincts and
ways, and Lady Maud was not at all inclined to believe her friend a
Galahad. In the clean kingdom of her dreams men could be chaste, and
grown women could be as sweetly ignorant of harm as little children;
but when she opened her eyes and looked about her she saw, and she
understood, and did not shiver with delicate disgust, nor turn away
with prim disapproval, nor fancy that she would like to be a mediæval
nun and induce the beatific state by merciless mortification of the
body. She knew very well what the Virtue-Curtain was trying to hide;
she lifted it quietly, went behind it without fear, and did all she
could to help the unhappy ones she found there. She did not believe in
other people's theories at all, and had none herself; she did not even
put much faith in all the modern scientific talk about vicious
inheritance and degeneration; much more than half of the dwellers
behind the scenes had been lured there in ignorance, a good many had
been dragged there by force, a very considerable number had been
deliberately sold into slavery, and nine out of ten of them stayed
there because no one really tried to get them out. Perhaps no one who
did try was rich enough; for it is not to be expected that every human
sinner should learn in a day to prefer starving virtue to well-fed
vice, or, as Van Torp facetiously expressed it, a large capital locked
up in heavenly stocks to a handsome income accruing from the bonds of
sin. If Lady Maud succeeded, as she sometimes did, the good done was
partly due to the means he gave her for doing it.

'Come and be bad and you shall have a good time while you are young,'
the devil had said, assuming the appearance, dress, and manner of
fashion, without any particular regard for age.

'Give it up and I'll make you so comfortable that you'll really like
not being bad,' said Lady Maud, and the invitation was sometimes
accepted.

Evidently, a woman who occupied herself with this form of charity
could not help knowing and hearing a good deal about men which would
have surprised and even shocked her social sisters, and she was not in
danger of taking Rufus Van Torp for an ascetic in disguise.

On the contrary, she was quite able to understand that the tremendous
attraction the handsome singer had for him might be of the most
earthly kind, such as she herself would not care to call love, and
that, if she was right, it would not be partially dignified by any of
that true artistic appreciation which brought Logotheti such rare
delight, and disguised a passion not at all more ethereal than Van
Torp's might be. In refinement of taste, no comparison was possible
between the Western-bred millionaire and the cultivated Greek, who
knew every unfamiliar by-way and little hidden treasure of his
country's literature and art, besides very much of what other nations
had done and written. Yet Lady Maud, influenced, no doubt, by the
honest friendship of her American friend, believed that Van Torp would
be a better and more faithful husband, even to a primadonna, than his
Oriental rival.

Notwithstanding her opinion of him, however, she was not prepared for
his next move. He had noticed the grave look that had followed her
laughter, and he turned away and was silent for a few moments.

'The Derby's a side show,' he said at last. 'I've come over to get
married, and I want you to help me. Will you?'

'Can I?' asked Lady Maud, evasively.

'Yes, you can, and I believe there'll be trouble unless you do.'

'Who is she? Do I know her?' She was trying to put off the evil
moment.

'Oh, yes, you know her quite well. It's Madame Cordova.'

'But she's engaged to Monsieur Logotheti----'

'I don't care. I mean to marry her if she marries any one. He shan't
have her anyway.'

'But I cannot deliberately help you to break off her engagement! It's
impossible!'

'See here,' answered Mr. Van Torp. 'You know that Greek, and you know
me. Which of us will make the best husband for an English girl? That's
what Madame Cordova is, after all. I put it to you. If you were forced
to choose one of us yourself, which would you take? That's the way to
look at it.'

'But Miss Donne is not "forced" to take one of you----'

'She's going to be. It's the same. Besides, I said "if." Won't you
answer me?'

'She's in love with Monsieur Logotheti,' said Lady Maud, rather
desperately.

'Is she, now? I wonder. I don't much think so myself. He's clever and
he's obstinate, and he's just made her think she's in love, that's
all. Anyhow, that's not an answer to my question. Other things being
alike, if she had to choose, which of us would be the best husband for
her?--the better, I mean. You taught me to say "better," didn't you?'

Lady Maud tried to smile.

'Of two, yes,' she answered. 'You are forcing my hand, my dear
friend,' she went on very gravely. 'You know very well that I trust
you with all my heart. If it were possible to imagine a case in which
the safety of the world could depend on my choosing one of you for my
husband, you know very well that I should take you, though I never was
the least little bit in love with you, any more than you ever were
with me.'

'Well, but if you would, she ought,' argued Mr. Van Torp. 'It's for
her own good, and as you're a friend of hers, you ought to help her to
do what's good for her. That's only fair. If she doesn't marry me,
she's certain to marry that Greek, so it's a forced choice, it appears
to me.'

'But I can't----'

'She's a nice girl, isn't she?'

'Yes, very.'

'And you like her, don't you?'

'Very much. Her father was my father's best friend.'

'I don't believe in atavism,' observed the American, 'but that's
neither here nor there. You know what you wrote me. Do you believe
she'll be miserable with Logotheti or not?'

'I think she will,' Lady Maud answered truthfully. 'But I may be
wrong.'

'No; you're right. I know it. But marriage is a gamble anyway, as you
know better than any one. Are you equally sure that she would be
miserable with me? Dead sure, I mean.'

'No, I'm not sure. But that's not a reason----'

'It's a first-rate reason. I care for that lady, and I want her to be
happy, and as you admit that she will have a better chance of
happiness with me than with Logotheti, I'm going to marry her myself,
not only because I want to, but because it will be a long sight better
for her. See? No fault in that line of reasoning, is there?'

'So far as reasoning goes----' Lady Maud's tone was half an admission.

'That's all I wanted you to say,' interrupted the American. 'So that's
settled, and you're going to help me.'

'No,' answered Lady Maud quietly; 'I won't help you to break off that
engagement. But if it should come to nothing, without your
interfering--that is, by the girl's own free will and choice and
change of mind, I'd help you to marry her if I could.'

'But you admit that she's going to be miserable,' said Van Torp
stubbornly.

'I'm sorry for her, but it's none of my business. It's not honourable
to try and make trouble between engaged people, no matter how
ill-matched they may be.'

'Funny idea of honour,' observed the American, 'that you're bound to
let a friend of yours break her neck at the very gravel pit where you
were nearly smashed yourself! In the hunting field you'd grab her
bridle if she wouldn't listen to you, but in a matter of marriage--oh,
no! "It's dishonourable to interfere," "She's made her choice and she
must abide by it," and all that kind of stuff!'

Lady Maud's clear eyes met his angry blue ones calmly.

'I don't like you when you say such things,' she said, lowering her
voice a little.

'I didn't mean to be rude,' answered the millionaire, almost humbly.
'You see I don't always know. I learnt things differently from what
you did. I suppose you'd think it an insult if I said I'd give a large
sum of money to your charity the day I married Madame Cordova, if
you'd help me through.'

  [Illustration: "'Funny idea of honour,' observed the American."]

'Please stop.' Lady Maud's face darkened visibly. 'That's not like
you.'

'I'll give a million pounds sterling,' said Mr. Van Torp slowly.

Lady Maud leaned back in her corner of the sofa, clasping her hands
rather tightly together in her lap. Her white throat flushed as when
the light of dawn kisses Parian marble, and the fresh tint in her
cheeks deepened softly; her lips were tightly shut, her eyelids
quivered a little, and she looked straight before her across the room.

'You can do a pretty good deal with a million pounds,' said Mr. Van
Torp, after the silence had lasted nearly half a minute.

'Don't!' cried Lady Maud, in an odd voice.

'Forty thousand pounds a year,' observed the millionaire thoughtfully.
'You could do quite a great deal of good with that, couldn't you?'

'Don't! Please don't!'

She pressed her hands to her ears and rose at the same instant.
Perhaps it was she, after all, and not her friend who had been brought
suddenly to a great cross-road in life. She stood still one moment by
the sofa without looking down at her companion; then she left the room
abruptly, and shut the door behind her.

Van Torp got up from his seat slowly when she was gone, and went to
the window, softly blowing a queer tune between his closed teeth and
his open lips, without quite whistling.

'Well----' he said aloud, in a tone of doubt, after a minute or two.

But he said no more, for he was much too reticent and sensible a
person to talk to himself audibly even when he was alone, and much too
cautious to be sure that a servant might not be within hearing, though
the door was shut. He stood before the window nearly a quarter of an
hour, thinking that Lady Maud might come back, but as no sound of any
step broke the silence he understood that he was not to see her again
that day, and he quietly let himself out of the house and went off,
not altogether discontented with the extraordinary impression he had
made.

Lady Maud sat alone upstairs, so absorbed in her thoughts that she did
not hear the click of the lock as he opened and shut the front door.

She was much more amazed at herself than surprised by the offer he had
made. Temptation, in any reasonable sense of the word, had passed by
her in life, and she had never before understood what it could mean to
her. Indeed, she had thought of herself very little of late, and had
never had the least taste for self-examination or the analysis of her
conscience. She had done much good, because she wanted to do it, and
not at all as a duty, or with that idea of surprising the Deity by the
amount of her good works, which actuates many excellent persons. As
for doing anything seriously wrong, she had never wanted to, and it
had not even occurred to her that the opportunity for a wicked deed
could ever present itself to her together with the slightest desire to
do it. Her labours had taken her to strange places, and she knew what
real sin was, and even crime, and the most hideous vice, and its still
more awful consequences; but one reason why she had wrought fearlessly
was that she felt herself naturally invulnerable. She knew a good many
people in her own set whom she thought quite as bad as the worst she
had ever picked up on the dark side of the Virtue-Curtain; they were
people who seemed to have no moral sense, men who betrayed their wives
wantonly, young women who took money for themselves and old ones who
cheated at bridge, men who would deliberately ruin a rival in
politics, in finance, or in love, and ambitious women who had driven
their competitors to despair and destruction by a scientific use of
calumny. But she had never felt any inclination towards any of those
things, which all seemed to her disgusting, or cowardly, or otherwise
abominable. Her husband had gone astray after strange gods--and
goddesses--but she had never wished to be revenged on them, or him,
nor to say what was not true about any one, nor even what was true and
could hurt, nor to win a few sovereigns at cards otherwise than
fairly, nor to wish anybody dead who had a right to live.

She was eight-and-twenty years of age and a widow, when temptation
came to her suddenly in a shape of tremendous strength, through her
trusted friend, who had helped her for years to help others. It was
real temptation. The man who offered her a million pounds to save
miserable wretches from a life of unspeakable horror, could offer her
twice as much, four, five, or ten millions perhaps. No one knew the
vast extent of his wealth, and in an age of colossal fortunes she had
often heard his spoken of with the half-dozen greatest.

The worst of it was that she felt able to do what he asked; for she
was inwardly convinced that the great singer did not know her own mind
and was not profoundly attached to the man she had accepted. Of the
two women, Margaret was by far the weaker character; or, to be just,
the whole strength of her nature had long been concentrated in the
struggle for artistic supremacy, and could not easily be brought to
exert itself in other directions. Lady Maud's influence over her was
great, and Logotheti's had never been very strong. She was taken by
his vitality, his daring, his constancy, or obstinacy, and a little by
his good looks, as a mere girl might be, because the theatre had made
looks seem so important to her. But apart from his handsome face,
Logotheti was no match for Van Torp. Of that Lady Maud was sure.
Besides, the Primadonna's antipathy for the American had greatly
diminished of late, and had perhaps altogether given place to a
friendly feeling. She had said openly that she had misjudged him,
because he had pestered her with his attentions in New York, and that
she even liked him since he had shown more tact. Uncouth as he was in
some ways, Lady Maud knew that she herself might care for him more
than as a friend, if her heart were not buried for ever in a soldier's
grave on the Veldt.

That was the worst of it. She felt that it was probably not beyond her
power to bring about what Van Torp desired, at least so far as to
induce Margaret to break off the engagement which now blocked his way.
Under cover of roughness, too, he had argued with a subtlety that
frightened her now that she was alone; and with a consummate knowledge
of her nature he had offered her the only sort of bribe that could
possibly tempt her, the means to make permanent the good work she had
already carried so far.

He had placed her in such a dilemma as she had never dreamed of. To
accept such an offer as he made, would mean that she must do something
which she felt was dishonourable, if she gave 'honour' the meaning an
honest gentleman attaches to it, and that was the one she had learned
from her father, and which a good many women seem unable to
understand. To refuse, was to deprive hundreds of wretched and
suffering creatures of the only means of obtaining a hold on a decent
existence which Lady Maud had ever found to be at all efficacious. She
knew that she had not done much, compared with what was undone; it
looked almost nothing. But where law-making had failed altogether,
where religion was struggling bravely but almost in vain, where
enlightened philanthropy found itself paralysed and bankrupt, she had
accomplished something by merely using a little money in the right
way.

'You can do quite a great deal of good with forty thousand pounds a
year.'

Van Torp's rough-hewn speech rang through her head, and somehow its
reckless grammar gave it strength and made it stick in her memory,
word for word. In the drawer of the writing-table before which she was
sitting there was a little file of letters that meant more to her than
anything else in the world, except one dear memory. They were all from
women, they all told much the same little story, and it was good to
read. She had made many failures, and some terrible ones, which she
could never forget; but there were real successes, too, there were
over a dozen of them now, and she had only been at work for three
years. If she had more money, she could do more; if she had much, she
could do much; and she knew of one or two women who could help her.
What might she not accomplish in a lifetime with the vast sum her
friend offered her!--the price of hindering a marriage that was almost
sure to turn out badly, perhaps as badly as her own!--the money value
of a compromise with her conscience on a point of honour which many
women would have thought very vague indeed, if not quite absurd in
such a case. She knew what temptation meant, now, and she was to know
even better before long. The Primadonna had said that she was going to
marry Logotheti chiefly because he insisted on it.

The duel for Margaret's hand had begun; Van Torp had aimed a blow that
might well give him the advantage if it went home; and Logotheti
himself was quite unaware of the skilful attack that threatened his
happiness.




CHAPTER III


A few days after she had talked with Lady Maud, and before Mr. Van
Torp's arrival, Margaret had gone abroad, without waiting for the
promised advice in the matter of the wedding-gown. With admirable
regard for the proprieties she had quite declined to let Logotheti
cross the Channel with her, but had promised to see him at Versailles,
where she was going to stop a few days with her mother's old American
friend, the excellent Mrs. Rushmore, with whom she meant to go to
Bayreuth to hear _Parsifal_ for the first time.

Mrs. Rushmore had disapproved profoundly of Margaret's career, from
the first. After Mrs. Donne's death, she had taken the forlorn girl
under her protection, and had encouraged her to go on with what she
vaguely called her 'music lessons.' The good lady was one of those
dear, old-fashioned, kind, delicate-minded and golden-hearted American
women we may never see again, now that 'progress' has got civilisation
by the throat and is squeezing the life out of it. She called Margaret
her 'chickabiddy' and spread a motherly wing over her, without the
least idea that she was rearing a valuable lyric nightingale that
would not long be content to trill and quaver unheard.

Immense and deserved success had half reconciled the old lady to what
had happened, and after all Margaret had not married an Italian tenor,
a Russian prince, or a Parisian composer, the three shapes of man
which seemed the most dreadfully immoral to Mrs. Rushmore. She would
find it easier to put up with Logotheti than with one of those, though
it was bad enough to think of her old friend's daughter marrying a
Greek instead of a nice, clean Anglo-Saxon, like the learned Mr.
Donne, the girl's father, or the good Mr. Rushmore, her lamented
husband, who had been an upright pillar of the church in New York, and
the president of a Trust Company that could be trusted.

After all, though she thought all Greeks must be what she called
'designing,' the name of Konstantin Logotheti was associated with
everything that was most honourable in the financial world, and this
impressed Mrs. Rushmore very much. Her harmless weakness had always
been for lions, and none but the most genuine ones were allowed to
roar at her garden-parties or at her dinner table. When the Greek
financier had first got himself introduced to her more than two years
earlier, she had made the most careful inquiries about him and had
diligently searched the newspapers for every mention of him during a
whole month. The very first paragraph she had found was about a new
railway which he had taken under his protection, and the writer said
that his name was a guarantee of good faith. This impressed her
favourably, though the journalist might have had reasons for making
precisely the same statement if he had known Logotheti to be a
fraudulent promoter. One of the maxims she had learned in her youth,
which had been passed in the Golden Age of old New York, was that
'business was a test of character.' Mr. Rushmore used to say that, so
it must be true, she thought; and indeed the excellent man might have
said with equal wisdom that long-continued rain generally produces
dampness. He would have turned in his well-kept grave if he could have
heard a Wall Street cynic say that nowadays an honest man may get a
bare living, and a drunkard has been known to get rich, but that
integrity and whisky together will inevitably land anybody in the
workhouse.

Logotheti was undoubtedly considered honest, however, and Mrs.
Rushmore made quite sure of it, as well as of the fact that he had an
immense fortune. So far as the cynic's observation goes, it may not be
equally applicable everywhere, any more than it is true that all
Greeks are blacklegs, as the Parisians are fond of saying, or that all
Parisians are much worse, as their own novelists try to make out. If
anything is more worthless than most men's opinion of themselves, it
is their opinion of others, and it is unfortunately certain that the
people who understand human nature best, and lead it whither they
will, are not those that labour to save souls or to cure sickness, but
demagogues, quacks, fashionable dressmakers, and money-lenders. Mrs.
Rushmore was a judge of lions, but she knew nothing about humanity.

At Versailles, with its memories of her earlier youth, the Primadonna
wished to be Margaret Donne again, and to forget for the time that she
was the Cordova, whose name was always first on the opera posters in
New York, London, and Vienna; who covered her face with grease-paint
two or three times a week; who loved the indescribable mixed smell of
boards, glue, scenery, Manila ropes and cotton-velvet-clad chorus,
behind the scenes; who lived on applause, was made miserable now and
then by a criticism which any other singer would have thought
flattery, and who was, in fact, an extraordinary compound of genius
and simplicity, generosity and tetchiness, tremendous energy in one
direction and intellectual torpidity and total indifference in all
others. If she could have gone directly from Covent Garden to another
engagement, the other self would not have waked up just then; but she
meant to take a long holiday, and in order not to miss the stage too
much, it was indispensable to forget it for a while.

She travelled incognito. That is to say, she had sent her first maid
and theatrical dresser Alphonsine to see her relations in Nancy for a
month, and only brought the other with her; she had, moreover, caused
the stateroom on the Channel boat to be taken in the name of Miss
Donne, and she brought no more luggage to Versailles than could be
piled on an ordinary cart, whereas when she had last come from New
York her servants had seen eighty-seven pieces put on board the
steamer, and a hat-box had been missing after all.

Mrs. Rushmore came out to meet her on the steps in the hot sunshine,
portly and kind as ever, and she applied an embrace which was
affectionate, yet imposing.

'My dearest child!' she cried. 'I was sure I had not quite lost you
yet!'

'I hope you will never think you have,' Margaret answered, almost
quite in her girlish voice of old.

She was very glad to come back. As soon as they were alone in the cool
drawing-room, Mrs. Rushmore asked her about her engagement in a tone
of profound concern, as though it were a grave bodily ailment which
might turn out to be fatal.

'Don't take it so seriously,' Margaret answered with a little laugh;
'I'm not married yet!'

The elderly face brightened.

'Do you mean to say that--that there is any hope?' she asked eagerly.

Margaret laughed now, but in a gentle and affectionate sort of way.

'Perhaps, just a little! But don't ask me, please. I've come
home--this is always home for me, isn't it?--I've come home to forget
everything for a few weeks.'

'Thank heaven!' ejaculated Mrs. Rushmore in a tone of deep relief.
'Then if--if he should call this afternoon, or even to-morrow--may I
tell them to say that you are out?'

She was losing no time; and Margaret laughed again, though she put her
head a little on one side with an expression of doubt.

'I can't refuse to see him,' she said, 'though really I would much
rather be alone with you for a day or two.'

'My darling child!' cried Mrs. Rushmore, applying another embrace,
'you shall! Leave it to me!'

Mrs. Rushmore's delight was touching, for she could almost feel that
Margaret had come to see her quite for her own sake, whereas she had
pictured the 'child,' as she still called the great artist, spending
most of her time in carrying on inaudible conversations with Logotheti
under the trees in the lawn, or in the most remote corners of the
drawing-room; for that had been the accepted method of courtship in
Mrs. Rushmore's young days, and she was quite ignorant of the changes
that had taken place since then.

Half-an-hour later, Margaret was in her old room upstairs writing a
letter, and Mrs. Rushmore had given strict orders that until further
notice Miss Donne was 'not at home' for any one at all, no matter who
might call.

When the letter already covered ten pages, Margaret laid down her pen
and without the least pause or hesitation tore the sheets to tiny
bits, inking her fingers in the process because the last one was not
yet dry.

'What a wicked woman I am!' she exclaimed aloud, to the very great
surprise of Potts, her English maid, who was still unpacking in the
next room, the door being open.

'Beg pardon, ma'am?' the woman asked, putting in her head.

'I said I was a wicked woman,' Margaret answered, rising; 'and what's
more, I believe I am. But I quite forgot you were there, Potts, or I
probably should not have said it aloud.'

'Yes, ma'am,' answered Potts meekly, and she went back to her
unpacking.

Margaret had two maids, who were oddly suited to her two natures. She
had inherited Alphonsine from her friend the famous retired soprano,
Madame Bonanni, and the cadaverous, clever, ill-tempered, garrulous
dresser was as necessary to Cordova's theatrical existence as paint,
limelight, wigs, and an orchestra. The English Potts, the meek,
silent, busy, and intensely respectable maid, continually made it
clear that her mistress was Miss Donne, an English lady, and that
Madame Cordova, the celebrated singer, was what Mr. Van Torp would
have called 'only a side-show.'

Potts was quite as much surprised when she heard Miss Donne calling
herself a wicked woman as Alphonsine would have been if she had heard
Madame Cordova say that she sang completely out of tune, a statement
which would not have disturbed the English maid's equanimity in the
very least. It might have pleased her, for she always secretly hoped
that Margaret would give up the stage, marry an English gentleman with
a nice name, and live in Hans Crescent or Cadogan Gardens, or some
equally smart place, and send Alphonsine about her business for ever.

For the English maid and the French maid hated each other as
whole-heartedly as if Cressy or Agincourt had been fought yesterday.
Potts alluded to Alphonsine as 'that Frenchwoman,' and Alphonsine
spoke of Potts as 'l'Anglaise,' with a tone and look of withering
scorn, as if all English were nothing better than animals. Also she
disdained to understand a word of their 'abominable jargon'; and Potts
quietly called the French language 'frog-talk,' but spoke it quite
intelligibly, though without the least attempt at an accent.
Nevertheless, each of the two was devoted to Margaret, and they were
both such excellent servants that they never quarrelled or even
exchanged a rude word--to Margaret's knowledge. They treated each
other with almost exaggerated politeness, calling each other
respectively 'Meess' and 'Mamzell'; and if Alphonsine's black eyes
glared at Potts now and then, the English maid put on such an air of
sweetly serene unconsciousness as a woman of the world might have
envied.

The letter that had been torn up before it was finished was to have
gone to Lady Maud, but Margaret herself had been almost sure that she
would not send it, even while she was writing. She had poured out her
heart, now that she could do so with the consoling possibility of
destroying the confession before any one read it. She had made an
honest effort to get at the truth about herself by writing down all
she knew to be quite true, as if it were to go to her best friend; but
as soon as she realised that she had got to the end of her positive
knowledge and was writing fiction--which is what might be true, but is
not known to be--she had the weakness to tear up her letter, and to
call herself names for not knowing her own mind, as if every woman
did, or every man either.

She had written that she had done very wrong in engaging herself to
Logotheti; that was the 'wickedness' she accused herself of,
repeating the self-accusation to her astonished maid, because it was a
sort of relief to say the words to somebody. She had written that she
did not really care for him in that way; that when he was near she
could not resist a sort of natural attraction he had for her, but that
as soon as he was gone she felt it no longer and she wished he would
not come back; that his presence disturbed her and made her
uncomfortable, and, moreover, interfered with her art; but that she
had not the courage to tell him so, and wished that some one else
would do it for her; that he was not really the sort of man she could
ever be happy with; that her ideal of a husband was so and so, and
this and that--and here fiction had begun, and she had put a stop to
it by destroying the whole letter instead of crossing out a few
lines,--which was a pity; for if Lady Maud had received it, she would
have told Mr. Van Torp that he needed no help from her since Margaret
herself asked no better than to be freed from the engagement.

Logotheti did not come out to Versailles that afternoon, because he
was plentifully endowed with tact where women were concerned, and he
applied all the knowledge and skill he had to the single purpose of
pleasing Margaret. But before dinner he telephoned and asked to speak
with her, and this she could not possibly refuse. Besides, the day had
seemed long, and though she did not wish for his presence she wanted
something--that indescribable, mysterious something which disturbed
her and made her feel uncomfortable when she felt it, but which she
missed when she did not see him for a day or two.

'How are you?' asked his voice, and he ran on without waiting for an
answer. 'I hope you are not very tired after crossing yesterday. I
came by Boulogne--decent of me, wasn't it? You must be sick of seeing
me all the time, so I shall give you a rest for a day or two.
Telephone whenever you think you can bear the sight of me again, and
I'll be with you in thirty-five minutes. I shall not stir from home in
this baking weather. If you think I'm in mischief you're quite
mistaken, dear lady, for I'm up to my chin in work!'

'I envy you,' Margaret said, when he paused at last. 'I've nothing on
earth to do, and the piano here is out of tune. But you're quite
right, I don't want to see you a little bit, and I'm not jealous, nor
suspicious, nor anything disagreeable. So there!'

'How nice of you!'

'I'm very nice,' Margaret answered with laughing emphasis. 'I know it.
What sort of work are you doing? It's only idle curiosity, so don't
tell me if you would rather not! Have you got a new railway in Brazil,
or an overland route to the other side of beyond?'

'Nothing so easy! I'm brushing up my Tartar.'

'Brushing up what? I didn't hear.'

'Tartar--the Tartar language--T-a-r--'he began to spell the word.

'Yes, I hear now,' interrupted Margaret. 'But what in the world is
the use of knowing it? You must be awfully hard up for something to
do!'

'You can be understood from Constantinople to the Pacific Ocean if you
can speak Tartar,' Logotheti answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

'I daresay! But you're not going to travel from Constantinople to the
Pacific Ocean----'

'I might. One never can tell what one may like to do.'

'Oh, if it's because Tartar is useful "against the bites of sharks,"'
answered Margaret, quoting Alice, 'learn it by all means!'

'Besides, there are all sorts of people in Paris. I'm sure there must
be some Tartars. I might meet one, and it would be amusing to be able
to talk to him.'

'Nonsense! Why should you ever meet a Tartar? How absurd you are!'

'There's one with me now--close beside me, at my elbow.'

'Don't be silly, or I'll ring off.'

'If you don't believe me, listen!'

He said something in a language Margaret did not understand, and
another voice answered him at once in the same tongue. Margaret
started slightly and bent her brows with a puzzled and displeased
look.

'Is that your teacher?' she asked with more interest in her tone than
she had yet betrayed.

'Yes.'

'I begin to understand. Do you mind telling me how old she is?'

'It's not "she," it's a young man. I don't know how old he is. I'll
ask him if you like.'

Again she heard him speak a few incomprehensible words, which were
answered very briefly in the same tongue.

'He tells me he is twenty,' Logotheti said. 'He's a good-looking young
fellow. How is Mrs. Rushmore? I forgot to ask.'

'She's quite well, thank you. But I should like to know----'

'Will you be so very kind as to remember me to her, and to say that I
hope to find her at home the day after to-morrow?'

'Certainly. Come to-morrow if you like. But please tell me how you
happened to pick up that young Tartar. It sounds so interesting! He
has such a sweet voice.'

There was no reply to this question, and Margaret could not get
another word from Logotheti. The communication was apparently cut off.
She rang up the Central Office and asked for his number again, but the
young woman soon said that she could get no answer to the call, and
that something was probably wrong with the instrument of Number
One-hundred-and-six-thirty-seven.

Margaret was not pleased, and she was silent and absent-minded at
dinner and in the evening.

'It's the reaction after London,' she said with a smile, when Mrs.
Rushmore asked if anything was the matter. 'I find I am more tired
than I knew, now that it's all over.'

Mrs. Rushmore was quite of the same opinion, and it was still early
when she declared that she herself was sleepy and that Margaret had
much better go to bed and get a good night's rest.

But when the Primadonna was sitting before the glass and her maid was
brushing out her soft brown hair, she was not at all drowsy, and
though her eyes looked steadily at their own reflection in the mirror,
she was not aware that she saw anything.

'Potts,' she said suddenly, and stopped.

'Yes, ma'am?' answered the maid with meek interrogation, and without
checking the regular movement of the big brush.

But Margaret said no more for several moments. She enjoyed the
sensation of having her hair brushed; it made her understand exactly
how a cat feels when some one strokes its back steadily, and she could
almost have purred with pleasure as she held her handsome head back
and moved it a little in real enjoyment under each soft stroke.

'Potts,' she began again at last, 'you are not very imaginative, are
you?'

'No, ma'am,' the maid answered, because it seemed to be expected of
her, though she had never thought of the matter.

'Do you think you could possibly be mistaken about a voice, if you
didn't see the person who was speaking?'

'In what way, ma'am?'

'I mean, do you think you could take a man's voice for a woman's at a
distance?'

'Oh, I see!' Potts exclaimed. 'As it might be, at the telephone?'

'Well--at the telephone, if you like, or anywhere else. Do you think
you might?'

'It would depend on the voice, ma'am,' observed Potts, with caution.

'Of course it would,' assented Margaret rather impatiently.

'Well, ma'am, I'll say this, since you ask me. When I was last at home
I was mistaken in that way about my own brother, for I heard him
calling to me from downstairs, and I took him for my sister Milly.'

'Oh! That's interesting!' Margaret smiled. 'What sort of voice has
your brother? How old is he?'

'He's eight-and-twenty, ma'am; and as for his voice, he has a sweet
counter-tenor, and sings nicely. He's a song-man at the cathedral,
ma'am.'

'Really! How nice! Have you a voice too? Do you sing at all?'

'Oh, no, ma'am!' answered Potts in a deprecating tone. 'One in the
family is quite enough!'

Margaret vaguely wondered why, but did not inquire.

'You were quite sure that it was your brother who was speaking, I
suppose,' she said.

'Oh, yes, ma'am! I looked down over the banisters, and there he was!'

Margaret had the solid health of a great singer, and it would have
been a serious trouble indeed that could have interfered with her
unbroken and dreamless sleep during at least eight hours; but when she
closed her eyes that night she was quite sure that she could not have
slept at all but for Potts's comforting little story about the brother
with the 'counter-tenor' voice. Yet even so, at the moment before
waking in the morning, she dreamt that she was at the telephone again,
and that words in a strange language came to her along the wire in a
soft and caressing tone that could only be a woman's, and that for the
first time in all her life she knew what it was to be jealous. The
sensation was not an agreeable one.

The dream-voice was silent as soon as she opened her eyes, but she had
not been awake long without realising that she wished very much to see
Logotheti at once, and was profoundly thankful that she had torn up
her letter to Lady Maud. She was not prepared to admit, even now, that
Konstantin was the ideal she should have chosen for a husband, and
whom she had been describing from imagination when she had suddenly
stopped writing. But, on the other hand, the mere thought that he had
perhaps been amusing himself in the society of another woman all
yesterday afternoon made her so angry that she took refuge in trying
to believe that he had spoken the truth and that she had really been
mistaken about the voice.

It was all very well to talk about learning Tartar! How could she be
sure that it was not modern Greek, or Turkish? She could not have
known the difference. Was it so very unlikely that some charming
compatriot of his should have come from Constantinople to spend a few
weeks in Paris? She remembered the mysterious house in the Boulevard
Péreire where he lived, the beautiful upper hall where the statue of
Aphrodite stood, the doors that would not open like other doors, the
strangely-disturbing encaustic painting of Cleopatra in the
drawing-room--many things which she distrusted.

Besides, supposing that the language was really Tartar--were there not
Russians who spoke it? She thought there must be, because she had a
vague idea that all Russians were more or less Tartars. There was a
proverb about it. Moreover, to the English as well as to the French,
Russians represent romance and wickedness.

She would not go to the telephone herself, but she sent a message to
Logotheti, and he came out in the cool time of the afternoon. She
thought he had never looked so handsome and so little exotic since she
had known him. To please her he had altogether given up the terrific
ties, the lightning-struck waistcoats, the sunrise socks, and the
overpowering jewellery he had formerly affected, and had resigned
himself to the dictation of a London tailor, who told him what he
might, could, should, and must wear for each circumstance and hour of
daily life, in fine gradations, from deer-stalking to a royal
garden-party. The tailor, who dressed kings and made a specialty of
emperors, was a man of taste, and when he had worked on the Greek
financier for a few weeks the result was satisfactory; excepting for
his almond-shaped eyes no one could have told Logotheti from an
Englishman by his appearance, a fact which even Potts, who
disapproved of Margaret's choice, was obliged to admit.

Mrs. Rushmore was amazed and pleased.

'My dear,' she said afterwards to Margaret, 'what a perfectly
wonderful change! Think how he used to look! And now you might almost
take him for an American gentleman!'

He was received by Mrs. Rushmore and Margaret together, and he took
noticeable pains to make himself agreeable to the mistress of the
house. At first Margaret was pleased at this; but when she saw that he
was doing his best to keep Mrs. Rushmore from leaving the room, as she
probably would have done, Margaret did not like it. She was dying to
ask him questions about his lessons in Tartar, and especially about
his teacher, and she probably meant to cast her inquiries in such a
form as would make it preferable to examine him alone rather than
before Mrs. Rushmore; but he talked on and on, only pausing an instant
for the good lady's expressions of interest or approval. With
diabolical knowledge of her weakness he led the conversation to the
subject of political and diplomatic lions, and of lions of other
varieties, and made plans for bringing some noble specimens to tea
with her. She was not a snob; she distrusted foreign princes,
marquises, and counts, and could keep her head well in the presence of
an English peer; but lions were irresistible, and Logotheti offered
her a whole menagerie of them, and described their habits with
minuteness, if not with veracity.

He was telling her what a Prime Minister had told an Ambassador about
the Pope, when Margaret rose rather abruptly.

'I'm awfully sorry,' she said to Mrs. Rushmore, by way of apology,
'but I really must have a little air. I've not been out of the house
all day.'

Mrs. Rushmore understood, and was not hurt, though she was sorry not
to hear more. The 'dear child' should go out, by all means. Would
Monsieur Logotheti stay to dinner? No? She was sorry. She had
forgotten that she had a letter to write in time for the afternoon
post. So she went off and left the two together.

Margaret led the way out upon the lawn, and they sat down on garden
chairs under a big elm-tree. She said nothing while she settled
herself very deliberately, avoiding her companion's eyes till she was
quite ready, and then she suddenly looked at him with a sort of blank
stare that would have disconcerted any one less superlatively
self-possessed than he was. It was most distinctly Madame de Cordova,
the offended Primadonna, that spoke at last, and not Miss Margaret
Donne, the 'nice English girl.'

'What in the world has got into you?' she inquired in a chilly tone.

He opened his almond-shaped eyes a little wider, with an excellent
affectation of astonishment at her words and manner.

'Have I done anything you don't like?' he asked in a tone of anxiety
and concern. 'Was I rude to Mrs. Rushmore?'

Margaret looked at him a moment longer, and then turned her head away
in silence, as if scorning to answer such a silly question. The look
of surprise disappeared from his face, and he became very gloomy and
thoughtful but said nothing more. Possibly he had brought about
exactly what he wished, and was satisfied to await the inevitable
result. It came before long.

'I don't understand you at all,' Margaret said less icily, but with
the sad little air of a woman who believes herself misunderstood. 'It
was very odd yesterday, at the telephone, you know--very odd indeed. I
suppose you didn't realise it. And now, this afternoon, you have
evidently been doing your best to keep Mrs. Rushmore from leaving us
together. You would still be telling her stories about people if I
hadn't obliged you to come out!'

'Yes,' Logotheti asserted with exasperating calm and meekness, 'we
should still be there.'

'You did not want to be alone with me, I suppose. There's no other
explanation, and it's not a very flattering one, is it?'

'I never flatter you, dear lady,' said Logotheti gravely.

'But you do! How can you deny it? You often tell me that I make you
think of the Victory in the Louvre----'

'It's quite true. If the statue had a head it would be a portrait of
you.'

'Nonsense! And in your moments of enthusiasm you say that I sing
better than Madame Bonanni in her best days----'

'Yes. You know quite as much as she ever did, you are a much better
musician, and you began with a better voice. Therefore you sing
better. I maintain it.'

'You often maintain things you don't believe,' Margaret retorted,
though her manner momentarily relaxed a little.

'Only in matters of business,' answered the Greek with imperturbable
calm.

'Pray, is "learning Tartar" a matter of business?' Her eyes sparkled
angrily as she asked the question.

Logotheti smiled; she had reached the point to which he knew she must
come before long.

'Oh, yes!' he replied with alacrity. 'Of course it is.'

'That accounts for everything, since you are admitting that I need not
even try to believe it was a man whom I heard speaking.'

'To tell the truth, I have some suspicions about that myself,'
answered Logotheti.

'I have a great many.' Margaret laughed rather harshly. 'And you
behave as if you wanted me to have more. Who is this Eastern woman?
Come, be frank. She is some one from Constantinople, isn't she? A
Fanariote like yourself, I daresay--an old friend who is in Paris for
a few days, and would not pass through without seeing you. Say so, for
heaven's sake, and don't make such a mystery about it!'

'How very ingenious women are!' observed the Greek. 'If I had thought
of it I might have told you that story through the telephone
yesterday. But I didn't.'

Margaret was rapidly becoming exasperated, her eyes flashed, her firm
young cheeks reddened handsomely, and her generous lips made scornful
curves.

'Are you trying to quarrel with me?'

The words had a fierce ring; he glanced at her quickly and saw how
well her look agreed with her tone. She was very angry.

'If I were not afraid of boring you,' he said with quiet gravity, 'I
would tell you the whole story, but----' he pretended to hesitate.

He heard her harsh little laugh at once.

'Your worst enemy could not accuse you of being a bore!' she retorted.
'Oh, no! It's something quite different from boredom that I feel, I
assure you!'

'I wish I thought that you cared for me enough to be jealous,'
Logotheti said earnestly.

'Jealous!'

No one can describe the tone of indignant contempt in which a
thoroughly jealous woman disclaims the least thought of jealousy with
a single word; a man must have heard it to remember what it is like,
and most men have. Logotheti knew it well, and at the sound he put on
an expression of meek innocence which would have done credit to a cat
that had just eaten a canary.

'I'm so sorry,' he cried in a voice like a child's. 'I didn't mean to
make you angry, I was only wishing aloud. Please forgive me!'

'If your idea of caring for a woman is to make her jealous----'

This was such an obvious misinterpretation of his words that she
stopped short and bit her lip. He sighed audibly, as if he were very
sorry that he could do nothing to appease her, but this only made her
feel more injured. She made an effort to speak coldly.

'You seem to forget that so long as we are supposed to be engaged I
have some little claim to know how you spend your time!'

'I make no secret of what I do. That is why you were angry just now.
Nothing could have been easier than for me to say that I was busy with
one of the matters you suggested.'

'Oh, of course! Nothing could be easier than to tell me an untruth!'

This certainly looked like the feminine retort-triumphant, and
Margaret delivered it in a cutting tone.

'That is precisely what you seem to imply that I did,' Logotheti
objected. 'But if what I told you was untrue your argument goes to
pieces. There was no Tartar lesson, there was no Tartar teacher, and
it was all a fabrication of my own!'

'Just what I think!' returned Margaret. 'It was not Tartar you spoke,
and there was no teacher!'

'You have me there,' answered the Greek mildly, 'unless you would like
me to produce my young friend and talk to him before you in the
presence of witnesses who know his language.'

'I wish you would! I should like to see "him"! I should like to see
the colour of "his" eyes and hair!'

'Black as ink,' said Logotheti.

'And you'll tell me that "his" complexion is black too, no doubt!'

'Not at all; a sort of creamy complexion, I think, though I did not
pay much attention to his skin. He is a smallish chap, good-looking,
with hands and feet like a woman's. I noticed that. As I told you, a
doubt occurred to me at once, and I will not positively swear that it
is not a girl after all. He, or she, is really a Tartar from Central
Asia, and I know enough of the language to say what was necessary.'

'Necessary!'

'Yes. He--or she--came on a matter of business. What I said about a
teacher was mere nonsense. Now you know the whole thing.'

'Excepting what the business was,' Margaret said incredulously.

'The business was an uncut stone,' answered Logotheti with
indifference. 'He had one to sell, and I bought it. He was recommended
to me by a man in Constantinople. He came to Marseilles on a French
steamer with two Greek merchants who were coming to Paris, and they
brought him to my door. That is the whole story. And here is the ruby.
I bought it for you, because you like those things. Will you take it?'

He held out what looked like a little ball of white tissue-paper, but
Margaret turned her face from him.

'You treat me like a child!' she said.

To her own great surprise and indignation, her voice was unsteady and
she felt something burning in her eyes. She was almost frightened at
the thought that she might be going to cry, out of sheer
mortification.

Logotheti said nothing for a moment. He began to unroll the paper from
the precious stone, but changed his mind, wrapped it up again, and put
it back into his watch-pocket before he spoke.

'I did not mean it as you think,' he said softly.

She turned her eyes without moving her head, till she could just see
that he was leaning forward, resting his wrists on his knees, bending
his head, and apparently looking down at his loosely hanging hands.
His attitude expressed dejection and disappointment. She was glad of
it. He had no right to think that he could make her as angry as she
still was, angry even to tears, and then bribe her to smile again when
he was tired of teasing her. Her eyes turned away again, and she did
not answer him.

'I make mistakes sometimes,' he said, speaking still lower, 'I know I
do. When I am with you I cannot be always thinking of what I say. It's
too much to ask, when a man is as far gone as I am!'

'I should like to believe that,' Margaret said, without looking at
him.

'Is it so hard to believe?' he asked so gently that she only just
heard the words.

'You don't make it easy, you know,' said she with a little defiance,
for she felt that she was going to yield before long.

'I don't quite know how to. You're not in the least capricious--and
yet----'

'You're mistaken,' Margaret answered, turning to him suddenly. 'I'm
the most capricious woman in the world! Yesterday I wrote a long
letter to a friend, and then I suddenly tore it up--there were ever so
many pages! I daresay that if I had written just the same letter this
morning, I should have sent it. If that is not caprice, what is it?'

'It may have been wisdom to tear it up,' Logotheti suggested.

'I'm not sure. I never ask myself questions about what I do. I hate
people who are always measuring their wretched little souls and then
tinkering their consciences to make them fit! I don't believe I wish
to do anything really wrong, and so I do exactly what I like, always!'

Possibly she had forgotten that she had called herself a wicked woman
only yesterday; but that had been before the conversation at the
telephone.

'If you will only go on doing what you like,' Logotheti answered, 'it
will give me the greatest pleasure in the world to help you. I only
ask one kindness.'

'You have no right to ask me anything to-day. You've been quite the
most disagreeable person this afternoon that I ever met in my life.'

'I know I have,' Logotheti answered with admirable contrition. 'I'll
wait a day or two before I ask anything; perhaps you will have
forgiven me by that time.'

'I'm not sure. What was the thing you were going to ask?'

He was silent now that she wished to know his thought.

'Have you forgotten it already?' she inquired with a little laugh that
was encouraging rather than contemptuous, for her curiosity was
roused.

They looked at each other at last, and all at once she felt the deeply
disturbing sense of his near presence which she had missed for three
days, though she was secretly a little afraid and ashamed of it; and
to-day it had not come while her anger had lasted. But now it was
stronger than ever before, perhaps because it came so unexpectedly,
and it drew her to him, under the deep shadow of the elm-tree that
made strange reflections in their eyes--moving reflections of fire
when the lowering sun struck in between the leaves, and sudden, still
depths when the foliage stirred in the breeze and screened the
glancing ray.

He had played upon her moods for an hour, as a musician touches a
delicate and responsive instrument, and she had taken all for earnest
and had been angry and hurt, and was reconciled again at his will. Yet
he had not done it all to try his power over her, and surely not in
any careless contempt of her weaknesses. He cared for her in his way,
as he was able, and his love was great, if not of the most noble sort.
He was strong, and she waked his strength with fire; he worshipped
life, and her vital beauty thrilled the inner stronghold of his being;
when she moved, his passionate intuition felt and followed the lines
of her moving grace; if she rested, motionless and near him, his
waking dream enfolded her in a deep caress. He felt no high and mystic
emotion when he thought of her; he had never read of St. Clement's
celestial kingdom, where man and woman are to be one for ever, and
together neither woman nor man, for such a world could never seem
heavenly to him, whose love was altogether earthly. Yet it was Greek
love, not Roman; its deity was beauty, not lust; the tutelary goddess
of its temple was not Venus the deadly, the heavy-limbed, with a mouth
like a red wound and slumbrous, sombre eyes, but Cyprian Aphrodite,
immortal and golden, the very life of the sparkling sky itself sown in
the foam of the sea.

Between the two lies all the distance that separates gross idolatry
from the veneration of the symbol; the gulf that divides the animal
materialism of a twentieth-century rake from the half-divine dreams of
genius; the revolting coarseness of Catullus at his worst from himself
at his best, or from an epigram of Meleager or Antipater of Sidon; a
witty Greek comedy adapted by Plautus to the brutal humour of Rome
from Swinburne's immortal _Atalanta in Calydon_. Twenty-five centuries
of history, Hellenic, Byzantine and modern, have gone to make the
small band of cultivated Greeks of to-day what they are, two thousand
and five hundred years of astounding vicissitudes, of aristocracy,
democracy and despotism, of domination and subjection, mastery,
slavery and revolution, ending in freedom more than half regained. We
need not wonder why they are not like us, whose forefathers of a few
centuries ago were still fighting the elements for their existence,
and living and thinking like barbarians.

The eyes of the Greek and the great artist met, and they looked long
at one another in the shade of the elm-tree on the lawn, as the sun
was going down. Only a few minutes had passed since Margaret had been
very angry, and had almost believed that she was going to quarrel
finally, and break her engagement, and be free; and now she could not
even turn her face away, and when her hand felt his upon it, she let
him draw it slowly to him; and half unconsciously she followed her
hand, bending towards him sideways from her seat, nearer and nearer,
and very near.

And as she put up her lips to his, he would that she might drink his
soul from him at one deep draught--even as one of his people's poets
wished, in the world's spring-time, long ago.

It had been a strange love-making. They had been engaged during more
than two months, they were young, vital, passionate; yet they had
never kissed before that evening hour under the elm-tree at
Versailles. Perhaps it was for this that Konstantin had played, or at
least, for the certainty it meant to him, if he had doubted that she
was sincere.




CHAPTER IV


Without offending Mr. Van Torp, Lady Maud managed not to see him again
for some time, and when he understood, as he soon did, that this was
her wish, he made no attempt to force himself upon her. She was
probably thinking over what he had said, and in the end she would
exert her influence as he had begged her to do. He was thoroughly
persuaded that there was nothing unfair in his proposal and that, when
she was convinced that he was right, she would help him. In a
chequered career that had led to vast success, he had known people who
called themselves honest and respectable but who had done unpardonable
things for a hundredth part of what he offered. Like all real
financiers, he knew money as a force, not as a want, very much as any
strong working man knows approximately how much he can lift or carry,
and reckons with approximate certainty on his average strength. To
speak in his own language, Mr. Van Torp knew about how many
horse-power could be got out of any sum of money, from ten cents to
more millions than he chose to speak of in his own case.

And once more, before I go on with this tale, let me say that his
friendship for Lady Maud was so honest that he would never have asked
her to do anything he thought 'low down.' To paraphrase a wise saying
of Abraham Lincoln's, some millionaires mean to be bad all the time,
but are not, and some are bad all the time but do not mean to be, but
no millionaires mean to be bad all the time and really are. Rufus Van
Torp certainly did not mean to be, according to his lights, though in
his life he had done several things which he did not care to remember;
and the righteous had judged him with the ferocious integrity of men
who never take a penny unjustly nor give one away under any
circumstances.

But when he had taken the first step towards accomplishing his
purpose, he was very much at a loss as to the next, and he saw that he
had never undertaken anything so difficult since he had reorganised
the Nickel Trust, trebled the stock, cleared a profit of thirty
millions and ruined nobody but the small-fry, who of course deserved
it on the principle that people who cannot keep money ought not to
have any. Some unkind newspaper man had then nicknamed it the Brass
Trust, and had called him Brassy Van Torp; but it is of no use to
throw mud at the Golden Calf, for the dirt soon dries to dust and
falls off, leaving the animal as beautifully shiny as ever.

Mr. Van Torp did not quite see how he could immediately apply the
force of money to further his plans with effect. He knew his
adversary's financial position in Europe much too well to think of
trying to attack him on that ground; and besides, in his rough code
it would not be fair play to do that. It was 'all right' to ruin a
hostile millionaire in order to get his money. That was 'business.'
But to ruin him for the sake of a woman was 'low down.' It would be
much more 'all right' to shoot him, after fair and due warning, and to
carry off the lady. That was impossible in a civilised country, of
course; but as it occurred to him, while he was thinking, that he
might find it convenient to go somewhere in a hurry by sea, he bought
a perfectly new yacht that was for sale because the owner had died of
heart disease the week after she was quite ready to take him to the
Mediterranean. The vessel was at least as big as one of the ocean
liners of fifty years ago, and had done twenty-two and one-tenth knots
on her trial. Mr. Van Torp took her over as she was, with her
officers, crew, cook and stores, and rechristened her. She had been
launched as the _Alwayn_; he called her the _Lancashire Lass_--a bit
of sentiment on his part, for that was the name of a mare belonging to
Lady Maud's father, which he had once ridden bareback when he was in
an amazing hurry.

He had one interview with the Captain.

'See here, Captain,' he said, 'I may not want to take a trip this
season. I'm that sort of a man. I may or I may not. But if I do want
you, I'll want you quick. See?'

With the last word, he looked up suddenly, and the Captain 'saw,' for
he met a pair of eyes that astonished him.

'Yes, I see,' he answered mechanically.

'And if you're in one place with your boat, and I wire that I want you
in another, I'd like you to get there right away,' said Mr. Van Torp.

'Yes, sir.'

'They say she'll do twenty-two and a tenth,' continued the owner, 'but
when I wire I want you I'd like her to do as much more as she can
without bursting a lung. If you don't think you've got the kind of
engineer who'll keep her red-hot, tell me right off and we'll get
another. And don't you fuss about burning coal, Captain. And see that
the crew get all they can eat and not a drop of drink but tea and
coffee, and if you let 'em go on shore once in a way, see that they
come home right side up with care, Captain, and make each of 'em say
"truly rural" and "British Constitution" before he goes to bed, and if
he can't, you just unship him, or whatever you call it on a boat.
Understand, Captain?'

The Captain understood and kept his countenance.

'Now, I want to know one thing,' continued the new owner. 'What's the
nearest sea-port to Bayreuth, Bavaria?'

'Venice,' answered the Captain without the least hesitation, and so
quickly that Mr. Van Torp was immediately suspicious.

'If that's so, you're pretty smart,' he observed.

'You can telephone to Cook's office, sir, and ask them,' said the
Captain quietly.

The instrument was on the table at Mr. Van Torp's elbow. He looked
sharply at the Captain, as he unhooked the receiver and set it to his
ear. In a few seconds communication was given.

'Cook's office? Yes. Yes. This is Mr. Van Torp, Rufus Van Torp of New
York. Yes. I want to know what's the nearest sea-port to Bayreuth,
Bavaria. Yes. Yes. That's just what I want to know. Yes. I'll hold the
wire while you look it up.'

He was not kept waiting long.

'Venice, you say? You're sure you're right, I suppose? Yes. Yes. I was
only asking. No thank you. If I want a ticket I'll look in myself.
Much obliged. Good-bye.'

He hung the receiver in its place again, and turned to his Captain
with a different expression, in which admiration and satisfaction were
quite apparent.

'Well,' he said, 'you're right. It's Venice. I must say that, for an
Englishman, you're quite smart.'

The Captain smiled quietly, but did not think it worth while to
explain that the last owner with whom he had sailed had been
Wagner-mad and had gone to Bayreuth regularly. Moreover, he had judged
his man already.

'Am I to proceed to Venice at once, sir?' he asked.

'As quick as you can, Captain.'

The Englishman looked at his watch deliberately, and made a short
mental calculation before he said anything. It was eleven in the
morning.

'I can get to sea by five o'clock this afternoon, sir. Will that do?'

Mr. Van Torp was careful not to betray the least surprise.

'Yes,' he said, as if he were not more than fairly satisfied, 'that'll
do nicely.'

'Very well, sir, then I'll be off. It's about three thousand miles,
and she's supposed to do that at eighteen knots with her own coal. Say
eight days. But as this is her maiden trip we must make allowance for
having to stop the engines once or twice. Good-morning, sir.'

'Good-day, Captain. Get in some coal and provisions as soon as you
arrive in Venice. I may want to go to Timbuctoo, or to Andaman Islands
or something. I'm that sort of a man. I'm not sure where I'll go.
Good-bye.'

The Captain stopped at the first telegraph office on his way to the
Waterloo Station and telegraphed both to his chief engineer, Mr.
M'Cosh, and his chief mate, Mr. Johnson, for he thought it barely
possible that one or the other might be ashore.

'Must have steam by 4 P.M. to-day to sail at once long voyage. Coming
next train. Owner in hurry. Send ashore for my wash. Brown, Captain.'

When the clocks struck five on shore that afternoon, and the man at
the wheel struck two bells from the wheel-house, and the look-out
forward repeated them on the ship's bell, all according to the most
approved modern fashion on large steamers, the beautiful _Lancashire
Lass_ was steaming out upon Southampton Water.

Out of the merest curiosity Mr. Van Torp telegraphed to Cowes to be
informed of the exact moment at which his yacht was under way, and
before six o'clock he had a message.

'Yacht sailed at four thirty-nine.'

The new owner was so much pleased that he actually smiled, for Captain
Brown had been twenty-one minutes better than his word.

'I guess he'll do,' thought Mr. Van Torp. 'I only hope I may need
him.'

He was not at all sure that he should need the _Lancashire Lass_ and
Captain Brown; but it has often been noticed that in the lives of born
financiers even their caprices often turn out to their advantage, and
that their least logical impulses in business matters are worth more
than the sober judgment of ordinary men.

As for Captain Brown, he was a quiet little person with a rather pink
face and sparkling blue eyes, and he knew his business. In fact he had
passed as Extra Master. He knew that he was in the service of one of
the richest men in the world, and that he commanded a vessel likely to
turn out one of the finest yachts afloat, and he did not mean to lose
such a berth either by piling up his ship, or by being slow to do
whatever his owner wished done, within the boundaries of the possible;
but it had not occurred to him that his owner might order him to
exceed the limits of anything but mere possibility, such, for
instance, as those of the law, civil, criminal, national, or
international.

Mr. Van Torp had solid nerves, but when he had sent his yacht to the
only place where he thought he might possibly make use of it, he
realised that he was wasting valuable time while Logotheti was making
all the running, and his uncommon natural energy, finding nothing to
work upon as yet, made him furiously impatient. It seemed to hum and
sing in his head, like the steam in an express engine when it is
waiting to start.

He had come over to England on an impulse, as soon as he had heard of
Cordova's engagement. Until then he had not believed that she would
ever accept the Greek, and when he learned from Lady Maud's letter
that the fact was announced, he 'saw red,' and his resolution to
prevent the marriage was made then and there. He had no idea how he
should carry it out, but he knew that he must either succeed or come
to grief in the attempt, for as long as he had any money left, or any
strength, he would spend both lavishly for that one purpose.

Yet he did not know how to begin, and his lack of imagination
exasperated him beyond measure. He was sleepless and lost his
appetite, which had never happened to him before; he stayed on in
London instead of going down to his place in Derbyshire, because he
was always sure that he meant to start for the Continent in a few
hours, with an infallible plan for success; but he did not go.

The most absurd schemes suggested themselves. He was disgusted with
what he took for his own stupidity, and he tried to laugh at the
sentimental vein that ran through all his thoughts as the thread
through a string of beads. He grew hot and cold as he recalled the
time when he had asked Margaret to marry him, and he had frightened
her and she had fled and locked herself into her own room; his heart
beat faster when he thought of certain kindly words she had said to
him since then, and on which he built up a great hope now, though they
had meant nothing more to her than a general forgiveness, where she
really had very little to forgive. A genuine offer of marriage from a
millionaire is not usually considered an insult, but since she had
chosen to look at it in that light, he was humble enough to be
grateful for her pardon. If he had not been so miserably in love he
would have been even more amazed and alarmed at his own humility, for
he had not shown signs of such weakness before. In a life which had
been full of experience, though it was not yet long, he had convinced
himself that the 'softening' which comes with years, and of which kind
people often speak with so much feeling, generally begins in the
brain; and the thought that he himself was growing less hard than he
had been, already filled him with apprehension. He asked himself why
he had withdrawn from the Nickel Trust, unless it was because his
faculties were failing prematurely. At the mere thought, he craved the
long-familiar excitement of making money, and risking it, and he
wished he had a railway or a line of steamers to play with; since he
could not hit upon the scheme for which he was racking his brains. For
once in his life, too, he felt lonely, and to make it worse he had not
received a line from his friend Lady Maud since she had abruptly left
him in her own drawing-room. He wondered whether she had yet made up
her mind to help him.

He was living in a hotel in London, though he did not like it.
Americans, as a rule, would a little rather live in hotels than in
houses of their own, perhaps because it is less trouble and no dearer,
at least not in American cities. Housekeeping in New York can be done
with less risk by a company than by an individual, for companies do
not succumb to nervous prostration, whatever may happen to their
employees.

But Mr. Van Torp was an exception to the rule, for he liked privacy,
and even solitude, and though few men were better able to face a
newspaper reporter in fair fight, he very much preferred not to be
perpetually on the look-out lest he should be obliged to escape by
back stairs and side doors, like a hunted thief. He felt safer from
such visits in London than in New York or Paris, but only relatively
so.

He was meditating on the future one morning, over an almost untouched
breakfast, between nine and ten o'clock, when his man Stemp brought a
visiting card.

'Reporter?' he inquired, without looking up, as he leaned far back in
his chair, his gaze riveted on the cold buttered toast.

'No, sir. It's some sort of a foreigner, and he talks a heathen
language.'

'Oh, he does, does he?' The question was asked in a tone of far-away
indifference.

'Yes, sir.'

A long silence followed. Mr. Van Torp still stared at the buttered
toast and appeared to have forgotten all about the card. Stemp
endeavoured very tactfully to rouse him from his reverie.

'Shall I get you some more hot toast, sir?' he inquired very gently.

'Toast? No. No toast.'

He did not move; his steady gaze did not waver. Stemp waited a long
time, motionless, with his little salver in his hand. At last Van Torp
changed his position, threw his head so far back that it rested on the
top of the chair, thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his
trousers and stared at the ceiling as intently as he had gazed at the
plate. Then he spoke to his man again.

'Stemp.'

'Yes, sir.'

'What do you suppose that fellow wants, now, Stemp? Do you suppose he
thinks I speak his heathen language? What does he come bothering me
for? What's the good?'

'Well, sir,' answered Stemp, 'I can't quite say, but I believe there's
something written on the card if you care to look at it, sir, and he
has a person with him that speaks a little English. Shall I throw him
out, sir?'

Stemp asked the question with such perfect gravity that, being an
Englishman, he might very well have been thought to mean the words
literally. But he did not. He merely adopted Mr. Van Torp's usual way
of expressing that the master was not at home.

'I'll look at the card, anyway.'

He stretched out one hand without turning his eyes towards it; the
careful Stemp promptly brought the little salver into contact with the
large fingers, which picked up the card and raised it deliberately to
the line of vision. By this means Mr. Van Torp saved himself the
trouble of turning his head.

It was a rather large card, bearing in the middle two or three
odd-looking signs which meant nothing to him, but underneath them he
read in plain characters the single work 'Barak.'

'Barrack!' grumbled the American. 'Rubbish! Why not "teapot," or
"rocking-horse," or anything else that's appropriate?'

As he paused for an answer, Stemp ventured to speak.

'Can't say, sir. P'rhaps it's the only word he knows, sir, so he's had
it printed.'

Van Torp turned his head at last, and his eyes glared unpleasantly as
he examined his valet's face. But the Englishman's features were
utterly impassive; if they expressed anything it was contempt for the
heathen person outside, who only knew one word of English.

Mr. Van Torp seemed satisfied and glanced at the card again.

'I guess you didn't mean to be funny,' he said, as if acknowledging
that he had made a mistake.

'Certainly not, sir,' answered Stemp, drawing himself up with an air
of injured pride, for he felt that his professional manners were
suspected, if not actually criticised.

'That's all right,' observed Mr. Van Torp, turning the card over. 'Oh,
the writing's on the back, I see. Yes. Now, that's very curious, I
must say,' he said, after reading the words. 'That's very curious,' he
repeated, laying strong and equal emphasis on the last two words. 'Ask
him to walk in, Stemp.'

'Yes, sir. With the man who speaks English for him, I suppose, sir?'

'No. He can wait outside till I want him, and you can go away too.
I'll see the man alone.'

'Very good, sir.'

As the valet went out Mr. Van Torp turned his chair half round without
getting up, so that he sat facing the door. A moment later Stemp had
ushered in the visitor, and was gone.

A slim youth came forward without boldness, but without the least
timidity, as if he were approaching an equal. He had an oval face, no
moustache, a complexion like cream, short and thick black hair and
very clear dark eyes that met the American's fearlessly. He was under
the average height, and he wore rather thin, loose grey clothes that
had been made by a good tailor. His hands and feet were smaller than a
European's.

'So you're Mr. Barrack,' Mr. Van Torp said, nodding pleasantly.

The young face smiled, and the parted lips showed quite perfect
teeth.

'Barak,' answered the young man, giving the name the right sound.

'Yes, I understand, but I can't pronounce it like you. Take a chair,
Mr. Barrack, and draw up to the table.'

The young man understood the gesture that explained the speech and sat
down.

'So you're a friend of Mr. Logotheti's, and he advised you to come to
me? Understand? Logotheti of Paris.'

Barak smiled again, and nodded quickly as he recognised the name. The
American watched his face attentively.

'All right,' he continued. 'You can trot out your things now, right on
the table-cloth here.'

He had seen enough of Indians and Mexicans in his youth to learn the
simple art of using signs, and he easily made his meaning clear to his
visitor. Barak produced a little leathern bag, not much bigger than an
ordinary purse, and fastened with thin thongs, which he slowly untied.
Mr. Van Torp watched the movements of the delicate fingers with great
interest, for he was an observant man.

'With those hands,' he silently reflected, 'it's either a lady or a
thief, or both.'

Barak took several little twists of tissue paper from the bag, laid
them in a row on the table-cloth, and then began to open them one by
one. Each tiny parcel contained a ruby, and when the young man counted
them there were five in all, and they were fine stones if they were
genuine; but Mr. Van Torp was neither credulous nor easily surprised.
When Barak looked to see what impression he had produced on such a
desirable buyer, he was disappointed.

'Nice,' said the American carelessly; 'nice rubies, but I've seen
better. I wonder if they're real, anyway. They've found out how to
make them by chemistry now, you know.'

But Barak understood nothing, of course, beyond the fact that Mr. Van
Torp seemed indifferent, which was a common trick of wily customers;
but there was something about this one's manner that was not assumed.
Barak took the finest of the stones with the tips of his slender young
fingers, laid it in the palm of his other hand, and held it under Mr.
Van Torp's eyes, looking at him with an inquiring expression. But the
American shook his head.

'No rubies to-day, thank you,' he said.

Barak nodded quietly, and at once began to wrap up the stones, each in
its own bit of paper, putting the twists back into the bag one by one.
Then he drew the thongs together and tied them in a neat sort of knot
which Mr. Van Torp had never seen. The young man then rose to go, but
the millionaire stopped him.

'Say, don't go just yet. I'll show you a ruby that'll make you sit
up.'

He rose as he spoke, and Barak understood his smile and question, and
waited. Mr. Van Torp went into the next room, and came back almost
immediately, bringing a small black morocco case, which he set on the
table and unlocked with a little key that hung on his watch-chain. He
was not fond of wearing jewellery, and the box held all his
possessions of that sort, and was not full. There were three or four
sets of plain studs and links; there were half a dozen very big gold
collar-studs; there was a bit of an old gold chain, apparently cut off
at each end, and having one cheap little diamond set in each link; and
there was a thin old wedding-ring that must have been a woman's;
besides a few other valueless trinkets, all lying loose and in
confusion. Mr. Van Torp shook the box a little, poked the contents
about with one large finger, and soon found an uncut red stone about
the size of a hazel-nut, which he took out and placed on the white
cloth before his visitor.

'Now that's what I call a ruby,' he said, with a smile of
satisfaction. 'Got any like that, young man? Because if you have I'll
talk to you, maybe. Yes,' he continued, watching the Oriental's face,
'I told you I'd make you sit up. But I didn't mean to scare you
bald-headed. What's the matter with you, anyway? Your eyes are popping
out of your head. Do you feel as if you were going to have a fit? I
say! Stemp!'

Barak was indeed violently affected by the sight of the uncut ruby,
and his face had changed in a startling way; a great vein like a
whipcord suddenly showed itself on his smooth forehead straight up and
down; his lids had opened so wide that they uncovered the white of the
eye almost all round the iris; he was biting his lower lip so that it
was swollen and blood-red against the little white teeth; and a moment
before Mr. Van Torp had called out to his servant, the young man had
reeled visibly, and would perhaps have collapsed if the American had
not caught the slender waist and supported the small head against his
shoulder with his other hand.

Stemp was not within hearing. He had been told to go away, and he had
gone, and meant to be rung for when he was wanted, for he had suffered
a distinct slight in being suspected of a joke. Therefore Mr. Van Torp
called to him in vain, and meanwhile stood where he was with his arm
round Barak, and Barak's head on his shoulder; but as no one came at
his call, he lifted the slim figure gently and carried it towards the
sofa, and while he was crossing the large room with his burden the
palpable truth was forced upon him that his visitor's slimness was
more apparent than real, and an affair of shape rather than of pounds.
Before he had quite reached the lounge, however, Barak stirred,
wriggled in his arms, and sprang to the floor and stood upright,
blinking a little, like a person waking from a dream, but quite
steady, and trying to smile in an apologetic sort of way, though
evidently still deeply disturbed. Mr. Van Torp smiled, too, as if to
offer his congratulations on the quick recovery.

'Feel better now?' he inquired in a kindly tone, and nodded. 'I wonder
what on earth you're up to, young lady?' he soliloquised, watching
Barak's movements.

He was much too cautious and wise to like being left alone for many
minutes with a girl, and a good-looking one, who went about London
dressed in men's clothes and passed herself for a ruby merchant. Mr.
Van Torp was well aware that he was not a safe judge of precious
stones, that the rubies he had seen might very well be imitation, and
that the girl's emotion at the sight of the rough stone might be only
a piece of clever acting, the whole scene having been planned by a
gang of thieves for the purpose of robbing him of that very ruby,
which was worth a large sum, even in his estimation; for it was nearly
the counterpart of the one he had given Lady Maud, though still uncut.

Therefore he returned to the table and slipped the gem into his pocket
before going to the door to see whether Stemp was within hail.

But Barak now understood what he was going to do, and ran before him,
and stood before the door in an attitude which expressed entreaty so
clearly that Mr. Van Torp was puzzled.

'Well,' he said, standing still and looking into the beautiful
imploring eyes, 'what on earth do you want now, Miss Barrack? Try and
explain yourself.'

A very singular conversation by signs now began.

Barak pointed to the waistcoat-pocket into which he had put the stone.
The matter concerned that, of course, and Van Torp nodded. Next,
though after considerable difficulty, she made him understand that she
was asking how he had got it, and when this was clear, he answered by
pretending to count out coins with his right hand on the palm of his
left to explain that he had bought it. There was no mistaking this,
and Barak nodded quickly and went on to her next question. She wanted
to know what kind of man had sold him the ruby. She improvised a
pretty little dumb show in which she represented the seller and Mr.
Van Torp the buyer of the ruby, and then by gestures she asked if the
man who sold it was tall.

Van Torp raised his hand several inches higher than his own head. He
had bought the ruby from a very tall man. Putting both hands to her
chin and then drawing them down as if stroking a long beard, she
inquired if the man had one, and again the answer was affirmative. She
nodded excitedly and pointed first to Van Torp's sandy hair and then
to her own short black locks. The American pointed to his own, and
then touched his watch-chain and smiled. The man's hair was fair, and
even golden. By a similar process she ascertained that his eyes were
blue and not black, and her excitement grew. Last of all she tried to
ask where the man was, but it was some time before she could make Mr.
Van Torp understand what she meant. As if to help her out of her
difficulty, the sun shone through the clouds at that moment and
streamed into the room; she pointed to it at once, turned her back to
it, and then held out her right hand to indicate the east, and her
left to the west.

'Oh, yes,' said Van Torp, who had seen Indians do the same thing, 'it
was west of here that I bought it of him, a good way west.'

He pointed in that direction, and thrust out his arm as if he would
make it reach much further if he could. At this Barak looked deeply
disappointed. Several times, to show that she meant London, or at
least England, she pointed to the floor at her feet and looked
inquiringly at Van Torp, but he shook his head and pointed to the
west again, and made a gesture that meant crossing something. He spoke
to her as if she could understand.

'I've got your meaning,' he said. 'You're after the big man with the
yellow beard, who is selling rubies from the same place, and has very
likely gone off with yours. He looked like a bad egg in spite of his
handsome face.'

He turned his eyes thoughtfully to the window. Barak plucked gently at
his sleeve and pretended to write in the palm of her left hand, and
then went through all the descriptive gestures again, and then once
more pretended to write, and coaxingly pushed him towards a little
table on which she saw writing materials.

'You'd like to have his address, would you, Miss Barrack? I wonder why
you don't call in your interpreter and tell me so. It would be much
simpler than all this dumb crambo.'

Once more he made a step towards the door, but she caught at his
sleeve, and entreated him in her own language not to call any one; and
her voice was so deliciously soft and beseeching that he yielded, and
sat down at the small table and wrote out an address from memory. He
handed her the half-sheet of paper when he had dried the writing and
had looked over it carefully.

'Poor little thing!' he said in a tone of pity. 'If you ever find him
he'll eat you.'

  [Illustration: "'You want my blessing, do you, Miss Barrack?'"]

Barak again showed signs of great emotion when she put the address
into an inside pocket of her man's coat, but it was not of the same
kind as before. She took Van Torp's big hand in both her own, and,
bending down, she laid it on her head, meaning that he might
dispose of her life ever afterwards. But he did not understand.

'You want my blessing, do you, Miss Barrack? Some people don't think
Brassy Van Torp's blessing worth much, young lady, but you're welcome
to it, such as it is.'

He patted her thick hair and smiled as she looked up, and her eyes
were dewy with tears.

'That's all right, my dear,' he said. 'Don't cry!'

She smiled too, because his tone was kind, and, standing up, she took
out her little leathern bag again quickly, emptied the twists of paper
into her hand, selected one by touch, and slipped the rest back. She
unwrapped a large stone and held it up to the light, turning it a
little as she did so. Van Torp watched her with curiosity, and with an
amused suspicion that she had perhaps played the whole scene in order
to mollify him and induce him to buy something. So many people had
played much more elaborate tricks in the hope of getting money from
him, and the stones might be imitations after all, in spite of
Logotheti's pencilled line of recommendation.

But Barak's next action took Van Torp by surprise. To his amazement,
she pressed the ruby lightly to her heart, then to her lips, and last
of all to her forehead, and before he knew what she was doing she had
placed it in his right hand and closed his fingers upon it. It was a
thank-offering.

'Nonsense!' objected the millionaire, smiling, but holding out the
stone to her. 'It's very sweet of you, but you don't mean it, and I
don't take presents like that. Why, it's worth a thousand pounds in
Bond Street any day!'

But she put her hands behind her back and shook her head, to show that
she would not take it back. Then with her empty hand she again touched
her heart, her lips, and forehead, and turned towards the door.

'Here, stop!' said Mr. Van Torp, going after her. 'I can't take this
thing! See here, I say! Put it back into your pocket!'

She turned and met him, and made a gesture of protest and entreaty, as
if earnestly begging him to keep the gem. He looked at her keenly, and
he was a judge of humanity, and saw that she was hurt by his refusal.
As a last resource, he took out his pocket-book and showed her a
quantity of folded bank-notes.

'Well,' he said, 'since you insist, Miss Barrack, I'll buy the stone
of you, but I'll be everlastingly jiggered if I'll take it for
nothing.'

Barak's eyes suddenly flashed in a most surprising way, her lower lip
pouted, and her cheek faintly changed colour, as a drop of scarlet
pomegranate juice will tinge a bowl of cream.

She made one step forwards, plucked the stone from his fingers, rather
than took it, and with a quick, but girlishly awkward movement, threw
it towards the window as hard as she could, stamping angrily with her
little foot at the same moment. Mr. Van Torp was extremely
disconcerted, as he sometimes was by the sudden actions of the sex he
did not understand. Fortunately the stone hit the wall instead of
going out of the window.

'I'm really very sorry, Miss Barrack,' he said in a tone of humble
apology, and he went quickly and picked up the gem. 'I hadn't quite
understood, you see.'

She watched him, and drew back instinctively towards the door, as if
expecting that he would again try to give it back to her. But he shook
his head now, bowed with all the grace he could affect, which was
little, and by way of making her feel that he accepted the gift, he
pressed it to his heart, as she had done, and to his lips, but not to
his forehead, because he was afraid that might cause some new mistake,
as he did not know what the gesture meant.

Barak's face changed instantly; she smiled, nodded, and waved her hand
to him, to say that it was all right, and that she was quite
satisfied. Then she made a sort of salute that he thought very
graceful indeed, as if she were taking something from near the floor
and laying it on her forehead, and she laughed softly and was out of
the room and had shut the door before he could call her back again.

He stood still in the middle of the room, looking at the gem in his
hand with an expression of grave doubt.

'Well,' he said to himself, and his lips formed the words, though no
sound articulated them, 'that's a queer sort of a morning's work,
anyway.'

He reflected that the very last thing he had ever expected was a
present of a fine ruby from a pretty heathen girl in man's clothes,
recommended to him by Logotheti. Though he almost laughed at the
thought when it occurred to him, he did not like the idea of keeping
the stone; yet he did not know what to do with it, for it was more
than probable that he was never to see Barak again, and if he ever
did, it was at least likely that she would refuse to take back her
gift, and as energetically as on the first occasion.

At that moment it occurred to him that he might sell it to a dealer
and give the proceeds to Lady Maud for her good work. His
recollections of Sunday School were very misty, poor man, but a story
came back to him about some one who had observed that something
valuable might have been sold and the money given to the poor. If he
had remembered the rest, and especially that the person who made the
suggestion had been Judas Iscariot, he would certainly have hesitated,
for he would have been sure that there was something wrong with any
advice that came from that quarter. But, happily for the poor, the
name of Judas had dropped out of his memory in connexion with the
incident.

'At least it will do some good to somebody, and I shall not be keeping
what I've no right to.'

A mere acquaintance, judging him by his hard face and his
extraordinary financial past, would not have believed that such a
simple and highly moral reflexion could occur to him. But Lady Maud,
who knew him, would have given him credit for this and much more, even
though she felt that he had lately tempted her to do something which
her father would call dishonourable, and that the temptation had not
yet quite taken itself off to the bottomless pit, where temptations
are kept in pickle by the devil's housekeeper.

Mr. Van Torp took his hat and gloves, but as he was really a good
American, he had no stick to take; and he went out without even
telling Stemp that he was going. In spite of what Londoners were
calling the heat, he walked, and did not even feel warm; for in the
first place he had lately come from Washington and New York, where a
Hottentot would be very uncomfortable in July, and, moreover, he had
never been at all sensitive to heat or cold, and lived as soberly as
an Arab in the desert. Therefore London seemed as pleasantly cool to
him with the thermometer at eighty as it seems to a newly landed
Anglo-Indian who has lately seen the mercury at a hundred and
thirty-five on the shady side of the verandah.

He walked up at a leisurely pace from his hotel by the river to
Piccadilly and Bond Street, and he entered a jeweller's shop of modest
appearance but ancient reputation, which had been in the same place
for nearly a century, and had previously been on the other side of the
street.

Outside, two well-dressed men were looking at the things in the
window; within, a broad-shouldered, smart-looking man with black hair
and dressed in perfectly new blue serge was sitting by the counter
with his back to the door, talking with the old jeweller himself. He
turned on the chair when he heard the newcomer's step, and Mr. Van
Torp found himself face to face with Konstantin Logotheti, whom he had
supposed to be in Paris.

'Well,' he said, without betraying the surprise he felt, 'this is
what I call a very pleasant accident, Mr. Logotheti.'

The Greek rose and shook hands, and the American did not fail to
observe on the counter a small piece of tissue paper on which lay an
uncut stone, much larger than the one he had in his pocket.

'If you are in any hurry,' said Logotheti politely, 'I don't mind
waiting in the least. Mr. Pinney and I are in the midst of a
discussion that may never end, and I believe neither of us has
anything in the world to do.'

Mr. Pinney smiled benignly and put in a word in the mercantile plural,
which differs from that of royalty in being used every day.

'The truth is, we are not very busy just at this time of the year,' he
said.

'That's very kind of you, Mr. Logotheti,' said Van Torp, answering the
latter, 'but I'm not really in a hurry, thank you.'

The stress he laid on the word 'really' might have led one to the
conclusion that he was pretending to be, but was not. He sat down
deliberately at a little distance, took off his hat, and looked at the
gem on the counter.

'I don't know anything about such things, of course,' he said in a
tone of reflexion, 'but I should think that was quite a nice ruby.'

Again Mr. Pinney smiled benignly, for Mr. Van Torp had dealt with him
for years.

'It's a very fine stone indeed, sir,' he said, and then turned to
Logotheti again. 'I think we can undertake to cut it for you in
London,' he said. 'I will weigh it and give you a careful estimate.'

As a matter of fact, before Van Torp entered, Logotheti had got so far
as the question of setting the gem for a lady's ring, but Mr. Pinney,
like all the great jewellers, was as discreet and tactful as a
professional diplomatist. How could he be sure that one customer might
like another to know about a ring ordered for a lady? If Logotheti
preferred secrecy, he would only have to assent and go away, as if
leaving the ruby to be cut, and he could look in again when it was
convenient; and this was what he at once decided to do.

'I think you're right, Mr. Pinney,' he said. 'I shall leave it in your
hands. That's really all,' he added, turning to Mr. Van Torp.

'Really? My business won't take long either, and we'll go together, if
you like, and have a little chat. I only came to get another of those
extra large collar-studs you make for me, Mr. Pinney. Have you got
another?'

'We always keep them in stock for your convenience, sir,' answered the
famous jeweller, opening a special little drawer behind the counter
and producing a very small morocco case.

Mr. Van Torp did not even open it, and had already laid down the
money, for he knew precisely what it cost.

'Thanks,' he said. 'You're always so obliging about little things, Mr.
Pinney.'

'Thank you, sir. We do our best. Good-morning, sir, good morning.'

The two millionaires went out together. Two well-dressed men stood
aside to let them pass and then entered the shop.

'Which way?' asked Logotheti.

'Your way,' answered the American. 'I've nothing to do.'

'Nor have I,' laughed the Greek. 'Nothing in the world! What can
anybody find to do in London at this time of year?'

I'm sure I don't know,' echoed Van Torp, pleasantly. 'I supposed you
were on the Continent somewhere.'

'And I thought you were in America, and so, of course, we meet at old
Pinney's in London!'

'Really! Did you think I was in America? Your friend, the heathen girl
in boy's clothes, brought me your card this morning. I supposed you
knew I was here.'

'No, but I thought you might be, within six months, and I gave her
several cards for people I know. So she found you out! She's a born
ferret--she would find anything. Did you buy anything of her?'

'No. I'm not buying rubies to-day. Much obliged for sending her, all
the same. You take an interest in her, I suppose, Mr. Logotheti? Is
that so?'

'I?' Logotheti laughed a little. 'No, indeed! Those days were over
long ago. I'm engaged to be married.'

'By the bye, yes. I'd heard that, and I meant to congratulate you. I
do now, anyway. When is it to be? Settled that yet?'

'Some time in October, I think. So you guessed that Barak is a girl.'

'Yes, that's right. I guessed she was. Do you know anything about
her?'

'What she told me. But it may not be true.'

'Told you? Do you mean to say you understand her language?'

'Oh, yes. Tartar is spoken all over the East, you know. It's only a
sort of simplified Turkish, and I picked it up in the Crimea and the
Caucasus when I was travelling there some years ago. She comes from
some place in Central Asia within a possible distance of Samarkand and
the Transcaucasian railway, for that was the way she ultimately got to
the Caspian and to Tiflis, and then to Constantinople and Paris. How a
mere girl, brought up in a Tartar village, could have made such a
journey safely, carrying a small fortune with her in precious stones,
is something nobody can understand who has not lived in the East,
where anything is possible. A woman is practically sacred in a
Mohammedan country. Any man who molests her stands a good chance of
being torn to ribands by the other men.'

'It used to be something like that in the West, when I punched
cattle,' observed Mr. Van Torp, quietly. 'A man who interfered with a
lady there was liable to get into trouble. Progress works both ways,
up and down, doesn't it? Bears at one end and rots at the other. Isn't
that so?'

'It's just as true of civilisation,' answered the Greek.

'They're the same thing, I should say,' objected Mr. Van Torp.

'Oh, not quite, I think!'

Logotheti smiled at his own thoughts. To his thinking, civilisation
meant an epigram of Meleager, or Simonides' epitaph on the Spartans
who fell at Thermopylæ, or a Tragedy of Sophocles, or the Aphrodite of
Syracuse, or the Victory of the Louvre. Progress meant railways, the
Paris Bourse, the Nickel Trust, and Mr. Van Torp.

'Well,' said the latter, 'you were telling me about Miss Barrack.'

'Is that what you call her?' Logotheti laughed lightly.

He seemed to be in very good humour. Men often are, just before
marriage; and sometimes, it is said, when they are on the eve of great
misfortunes which they cannot possibly foresee. Fate loves unexpected
contrasts. Logotheti told his companion the story of the ruby mine,
substantially as it was narrated at the beginning of this tale, not
dreaming that Van Torp had perhaps met and talked with the man who had
played so large a part in it, and to find whom Baraka had traversed
many dangers and overcome many difficulties.

'It sounds like the _Arabian Nights_,' said Mr. Van Torp, as if he
found it hard to believe.

'Exactly,' assented Logotheti. 'And, oddly enough, the first of these
stories is about Samarkand, which is not so very far from Baraka's
native village. It seems to have taken the girl about a year to find
her way to Constantinople, and when she got there she naturally
supposed that it was the capital of the world, and that her man, being
very great and very rich, thanks to her, must of course live there. So
she searched Stamboul and Pera for him, during seven or eight months.
She lived in the house of a good old Persian merchant, under the
protection of his wife, and learned that there was a world called
Europe where her man might be living, and cities called Paris and
London, where people pay fabulous prices for precious stones. Persian
merchants are generally well-educated men, you know. At last she made
up her mind to dress like a man, she picked up an honest Turkish
man-servant who had been all over Europe with a diplomatist and could
speak some French and English as well as Tartar, she got a letter of
recommendation to me from a Greek banker, through the Persian who did
business with him, joined some Greeks who were coming to Marseilles by
sea, and here she is. Now you know as much as I do. She is perfectly
fearless, and as much more sure of herself than any man ever was, as
some young women can be in this queer world. Of course, she'll never
find the brute who thought he was leaving her to be murdered by her
relations, but if she ever did, she would either marry him or cut his
throat.'

'Nice, amiable kind of girl,' remarked Mr. Van Torp, who remembered
her behaviour when he had refused her proffered gift. 'That's very
interesting, Mr. Logotheti. How long do you count on being in London
this time? Three or four days, maybe?'

'I daresay. No longer, I fancy.'

'Why don't you come and take dinner with me some night?' asked the
American. 'Day after to-morrow, perhaps. I'd be pleased to have you.'

'Thank you very much,' Logotheti answered. 'Since you ask me, I see no
reason why I should not dine with you, if you want me.'

They agreed upon the place and hour, and each suddenly remembered an
engagement.

'By the way,' said Mr. Van Torp without apparent interest, 'I hope
Madame Cordova is quite well? Where's she hiding from you?'

'Just now the hiding-place is Bayreuth. She's gone there with Mrs.
Rushmore to hear _Parsifal_. I believe I'm not musical enough for
that, so I'm roving till it's over. That's my personal history at this
moment! And Miss Donne is quite well, I believe, thank you.'

'I notice you call her "Miss Donne" when you speak of her,' said Van
Torp. 'Excuse me if I made a mistake just now. I've always called her
Madame Cordova.'

'It doesn't matter at all,' answered Logotheti carelessly, 'but I
believe she prefers to be called by her own name amongst friends.
Good-bye till day after to-morrow, then.'

'At half after eight.'

'All right--half-past--I shall remember.'

But at two o'clock, on the next day but one, Logotheti received a
note, brought by hand, in which Mr. Van Torp said that to his very
great regret he had been called away suddenly, and hoped that
Logotheti would forgive him, as the matter was of such urgent
importance that he would have already left London when the note was
received.

This was more than true, if possible, for the writer had left town two
days earlier, very soon after he had parted from Logotheti in Pall
Mall, although the note had not been delivered till forty-eight hours
later.




CHAPTER V


Mr. Van Torp knew no more about Bayreuth than about Samarkand, beyond
the fact that at certain stated times performances of Wagner's operas
were given there with as much solemnity as great religious festivals,
and that musical people spoke of the Bayreuth season in a curiously
reverent manner. He would have been much surprised if any one had told
him that he often whistled fragments of _Parsifal_ to himself and
liked the sound of them; for he had a natural ear and a good memory,
and had whistled remarkably well when he was a boy.

The truth about this seemingly impossible circumstance was really very
simple. In what he called his cow-punching days, he had been for six
months in company with two young men who used to whistle softly
together by the hour beside the camp fire, and none of the other
'boys' had ever heard the strange tunes they seemed to like best, but
Van Torp had caught and remembered many fragments, almost
unconsciously, and he whistled them to himself because they gave him a
sensation which no 'real music' ever did. Extraordinary natures, like
his, are often endowed with unnoticed gifts and tastes quite unlike
those of most people. No one knew anything about the young men who
whistled Wagner; the 'Lost Legion' hides many secrets, and the two
were not popular with the rest, though they knew their business and
did their work fairly well. One of them was afterwards said to have
been killed in a shooting affray and the other had disappeared about
the same time, no one knew how, or cared, though Mr. Van Torp thought
he had recognised him once many years later. They were neither
Americans nor Englishmen, though they both spoke English well, and
never were heard to use any other language. But that is common enough
with emigrants to the United States and elsewhere. Every one who has
been to sea in an American vessel knows how the Scandinavian sailors
insist on speaking English amongst themselves, instead of their own
language.

Mr. Van Torp was fond of music, quite apart from his admiration for
the greatest living lyric soprano, and since it was his fancy to go to
Bayreuth in the hope of seeing her, he meant to hear Wagner's
masterpiece, and supposed that there would not be any difficulty about
such a simple matter, nor about obtaining the sort of rooms he was
accustomed to, in the sort of hotel he expected to find where so many
rich people went every other year. Any one who has been to the holy
place of the Wagnerians can imagine his surprise when, after infinite
difficulty, he found himself, his belongings and his man deposited in
one small attic room of a Bavarian tanner's house, with one
feather-bed, one basin and one towel for furniture.

'Stemp,' said Mr. Van Torp, 'this is a heathen town.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I suppose I'm thought close about money,' continued the millionaire,
thinking aloud, 'but I call five dollars a day dear, for this room,
don't you?'

'Yes, sir, I do indeed! I call it downright robbery. That's what I
call it, sir.'

'Well, I suppose they call it business here, and quite a good business
too. But I'd like to buy the whole thing and show 'em how to run it.
They'd make more in the end.'

'Yes, sir. I hope you will, sir. Beg pardon, sir, but do you think it
would cost a great deal?'

'They'd ask a great deal, anyway,' answered the millionaire
thoughtfully. 'Stemp, suppose you get me out some things and then take
a look around, while I try to get a wash in that--that tea-service
there.'

Mr. Van Torp eyed the exiguous basin and jug with some curiosity and
much contempt. Stemp, impassive and correct under all circumstances,
unstrapped a valise, laid out on the bed what his master might need,
and inquired if he wished anything else.

'There isn't anything else,' answered Mr. Van Torp, gloomily.

'When shall I come back, sir?'

'In twenty-five minutes. There isn't half an hour's wash in that
soup-plate, anyway.'

He eyed the wretched basin with a glance that might almost have
cracked it. When his man had gone, he proceeded to his toilet, such as
it was, and solaced himself by softly whistling as much of the 'Good
Friday' music as he remembered, little dreaming what it was, or that
his performance was followed with nervous and almost feverish interest
by the occupant of the next room in the attic, a poor musician who had
saved and scraped for years to sit at the musical feast during three
days.

'E sharp!' cried an agonised voice on the other side of the closed
door, in a strong German accent. 'I know it is E sharp! I know it!'

Mr. Van Torp stopped whistling at once, lowered his razor, and turned
a mask of soapsuds in the direction whence the sound came.

'Do you mean me?' he inquired in a displeased tone.

'I mean who whistles the "Good Friday" music,' answered the voice. 'I
tell you, I know it is E sharp in that place. I have the score. I
shall show you if you believe not.'

'He's mad,' observed Mr. Van Torp, beginning to shave again. 'Are you
a lunatic?' he asked, pausing after a moment. 'What's the matter with
you anyhow?'

'I am a musician, I tell you! I am a pianist!'

'It's the same thing,' said Mr. Van Torp, working carefully on his
upper lip, under his right nostril.

'I shall tell you that you are a barbarian!' retorted the voice.

'Well, that doesn't hurt,' answered Mr. Van Torp.

He heard a sort of snort of scorn on the other side and there was
silence again. But before long, as he got away from his upper lip with
the razor, he unconsciously began to whistle again, and he must have
made the same mistake as before, for he was interrupted by a deep
groan of pain from the next room.

'Not feeling very well?' he inquired in a tone of dry jocularity.
'Stomach upset?'

'E sharp!' screamed the wretched pianist.

Van Torp could hear him dancing with rage, or pain.

'See here, whoever you are, don't call names! I don't like it. See?
I've paid for this room and I'm going on whistling if I like, and just
as long as I like.'

'You say you make noises you like?' cried the infuriated musician.
'Oh, no! You shall not! There are rules! We are not in London, sir, we
are in Bayreuth! If you make noises, you shall be thrown out of the
house.'

'Shall I? Well, now, that's a funny sort of a rule for a hotel, isn't
it?'

'I go complain of you,' retorted the other, and Mr. Van Torp heard a
door opened and shut again.

In a few minutes he had done all that the conditions would permit in
the way of making himself presentable, and just as he left the room he
was met by Stemp, the twenty-five minutes being just over.

'Very good, sir. I'll do what I can, sir,' said the excellent man, as
Mr. Van Torp pointed to the things that lay about.

As he went out, he recognised the voice of his neighbour, who was
talking excitedly in voluble German, somewhere at the back of the
house.

'He's complaining now,' thought Mr. Van Torp, with something like a
smile.

He had already been to the best hotel, in the hope of obtaining rooms,
and he had no difficulty in finding it again. He asked for Madame da
Cordova. She was at home, for it was an off-day; he sent in his card,
and was presently led to her sitting-room. Times had changed. Six
months earlier he would have been told that there had been a mistake
and that she had gone out.

She was alone; a letter she had been writing lay unfinished on the
queer little desk near the shaded window, and her pen had fallen
across the paper. On the round table in the middle of the small bare
room there stood a plain white vase full of corn-flowers and poppies,
and Margaret was standing there, rearranging them, or pretending to do
so.

She was looking her very best, and as she raised her eyes and greeted
him with a friendly smile, Mr. Van Torp thought she had never been so
handsome before. It had not yet occurred to him to compare her with
Lady Maud, because for some mysterious natural cause the beautiful
Englishwoman who was his best friend had never exerted even the
slightest feminine influence on his being; he would have carried her
in his arms, if need had been, as he had carried the Tartar girl, and
not a thrill of his nerves nor one faster beat of his heart would have
disturbed his placidity; she knew it, as women know such things, and
the knowledge made her quite sure that he was not really the
coarse-grained and rather animal son of nature that many people said
he was, the sort of man to whom any one good-looking woman is much the
same as another, a little more amusing than good food, a little less
satisfactory than good wine.

But the handsome singer stirred his blood, the touch of her hand
electrified him, and the mere thought that any other man should ever
make her his own was unbearable. After he had first met her he had
pursued her with such pertinacity and such utter ignorance of women's
ways that he had frightened her, and she had frankly detested him for
a time; but he had learned a lesson and he profited by it with that
astounding adaptability which makes American men and women just what
they are.

Margaret held out her hand and he took it; and though its touch and
her friendly smile were like a taste of heaven just then, he pressed
her fingers neither too much nor too little, and his face betrayed no
emotion.

'It's very kind of you to receive me, Miss Donne,' he said quietly.

'I think it's very kind of you to come and see me,' Margaret answered.
'Come and sit down and tell me how you got here--and why!'

'Well,' he answered slowly, as they seated themselves side by side on
the hard green sofa, 'I don't suppose I can explain, so that you'll
understand, but I'll try. Different kinds of things brought me. I
heard you were here from Lady Maud, and I thought perhaps I might have
an opportunity for a little talk. And then--oh, I don't know. I've
seen everything worth seeing except a battle and _Parsifal_, and as it
seemed so easy, and you were here, I thought I'd have a look at the
opera, since I can't see the fight.'

Margaret laughed a little.

'I hope you will like it,' she said. 'Have you a good seat?'

'I haven't got a ticket yet,' answered Mr. Van Torp, in blissful
ignorance.

'No seat!' The Primadonna's surprise was almost dramatic. 'But how in
the world do you expect to get one now? 

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