The Hillman

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  XVII

  "Well?" the prince asked, as he handed Aida Calavera to her place at hisright hand.

  "I think not," she replied.

  He raised his eyebrows slightly. For a moment he glanced down thesupper-table with the care of a punctilious host, to see that his guestswere properly seated. He addressed a few trivialities to themusical-comedy star who was sitting on his left. Then he leaned oncemore toward the great dancer.

  "You surprise me," he said. "I should have thought that the enterprisewould have commended itself to you. You do not doubt the facts?"

  "They are obvious enough," she replied. "The young man is all that yousay, even more ingenuous than I had believed possible, but I fancy Imust be getting old. He tried to tell me that he was in love withanother woman, and I felt suddenly powerless. I think I must be gettingto that age when one prefers to achieve one's conquests with the liftingof a finger."

  The prince sighed.

  "I shall never understand your sex!" he declared. "I should havesupposed that the slight effort of resistance such a young man mightmake would have provided just the necessary stimulus to complete hissubjection."

  She turned her beautiful head and looked at the prince through narrowedeyes.

  "After all," she asked, "what should I gain? I am not like a child whorobs an insect of life for a few moments' amusement. Even if I have noconscience, it gives me no pleasure to be wanton. Besides, the young manis, in his way, a splendid work of art. Why should I be vandal enough todestroy it? I shall ask you another question."

  The prince slowly sipped the wine from the glass that he was holding tohis lips. Then he set it down deliberately.

  "Why not?"

  "What is your interest? Is it a bet, a whim, or--enmity?"

  "You may count it the latter," the prince replied deliberately.

  Calavera laughed softly to herself.

  "Now, for the first time," she confessed, "I feel interest. This iswhere one realizes that we live in the most impossible age of allhistory. The great noble who seeks to destroy the poor young man fromthe country is powerless to wreak harm upon him. You can neither makehim a pauper nor have him beaten to death. Why are there princes anylonger, I wonder? You are only as other men."

  "It is an unhappy reflection, but it is the truth," the prince admitted."My ancestors would have disposed of this young man as I should atroublesome fly, and it would have cost them no more than a few silverpieces and a cask of wine. To-day, alas, conditions are different. Itwill cost me more."

  She trifled for a moment with the salad upon her plate, which as yet shehad scarcely tasted.

  "I am feeling," she remarked, "magnificently Oriental--like Cleopatra.The sensation pleases me. We are bargaining, are we not--"

  "We shall not bargain," the prince interrupted softly. "It is you whoshall name your price."

  She raised her eyes and dropped them again.

  "The prince has spoken," she murmured.

  He touched her fingers for a moment with his, as if to seal theircompact; then he turned once more to the lady upon his left.

  Seyre House was one of the few mansions in London which boasted abanqueting-hall as well as a picture-gallery. Although the long tablewas laid for forty guests, it still seemed, with its shaded lights andits profusion of flowers, like an oasis of color in the middle of thehuge, somberly lighted apartment. The penny illustrated papers, whosecontributors know more of the doings of London society than anybodyelse, always hinted in mysterious terms at the saturnalian character ofthe prince's supper parties. John, who had heard a few whispersbeforehand, and whose interest in his surroundings was keen and intense,wondered whether this company of beautiful women and elegant men wereindeed a modern revival of those wonderful creations of Boccaccio, towhom they had so often been likened.

  Some of the faces of the guests were well known to him through theirpublished photographs; to others he had been presented by the princeupon their arrival. He was seated between a young American star ofmusical comedy and a lady who had only recently dropped from the socialfirmament through the medium of the divorce-court, to return to thetheater of her earlier fame. Both showed every desire to converse withhim between the intervals of eating and drinking, but were constantlybrought to a pause by John's lack of knowledge of current topics. Afterher third glass of champagne, the lady who had recently been a countessannounced her intention of taking him under her wing.

  "Some one must tell you all about things," she insisted. "What you needis a guide and a chaperon. Won't I do?"

  "Perfectly," he agreed.

  "Fair play!" protested the young lady on his left, whose name was RosieSharon. "I spoke to him first!"

  "Jolly bad luck!" Lord Amerton drawled from the other side of the table."Neither of you have an earthly. He's booked. Saw him out with her theother evening."

  "I sha'n't eat any more supper," Rosie Sharon pouted, pushing away herplate.

  "You ought to have told us about her at once," the lady who had been acountess declared severely.

  John preserved his equanimity.

  "It is to be presumed," he murmured, "that you ladies are both free fromany present attachment?"

  "Got you there!" Amerton chuckled. "What about Billy?"

  Rosie Sharon sighed.

  "We don't come to the prince's supper parties to remember our ties," shedeclared. "Let's all go on talking nonsense, please. Even if my heart isbroken, I could never resist the prince's _pate_!"

  Apparently every one was of the same mind. The hum of laughter steadilygrew. Jokes, mostly in the nature of personalities, were freely bandiedacross the table. It was becoming obvious that the contributors to thepenny illustrated papers knew what they were talking about. Undershelter of the fire of conversation, the prince leaned toward hiscompanion and reopened their previous discussion.

  "Do you know," he began, "I am inclined to be somewhat disappointed byyour lack of enthusiasm in a certain direction!"

  "I have disappointed many men in my time," she replied. "Do you doubt mypower, now that I have promised to exercise it?"

  "Who could?" he replied courteously. "Yet this young man poses, Ibelieve, as something of a St. Anthony. He may give you trouble."

  "He is then, what you call a prig?"

  "A most complete and perfect specimen, even in this nation of prigs!"

  "All that you tell me," she sighed, "makes the enterprise seem easier.It is, after all, rather like the lioness and the mouse, isn't it?"

  The prince made no reply, but upon his lips there lingered a faintlyincredulous smile. The woman by his side leaned back in her place. Shehad the air of accepting a challenge.

  "After supper," she said, "we will see!"

  * * * * *

  A single chord of music in a minor key floated across the room, soft atfirst, swelling later into a volume of sound, then dying away andceasing altogether. John, standing momentarily alone in a corner of thepicture-gallery, found it almost incredible that this wildly hilariousthrong of men and women could so soon, and without a single admonitoryword, break off in the midst of their conversation, stifle their mirth,almost hold their breath, in obedience to this unspoken appeal forsilence. Every light in the place was suddenly extinguished. Thereremained only the shaded lamps overhanging the pictures.

  Not a whisper was heard in the room. John, looking around him inastonishment, was conscious only of the half-suppressed breathing of themen and women who lined the walls, or were still standing in littlegroups at the end of the long hall. Again there came the music, thistime merged in a low but insistent clamor of other instruments. Then,suddenly, through the door at the farther end of the room came a dimlyseen figure in white. The place seemed wrapped in a mystical twilight,with long black rays of deeper shadow lying across the floor. There wasa little murmur of tense voices, and then again silence.

  For a few moments the figure in white was motionless. Then, without anyvisible comme
ncement, she seemed suddenly to blend into the waves oflow, passionate music. The dance itself was without form or definitemovement. She seemed at first like some white, limbless spirit, floatinghere and there across the dark bars of shadow at the calling of themelody. There was no apparent effort of the body. She was merely abeautiful, unearthly shape. It was like the flitting of a white moththrough the blackness of a moonless summer night.

  The impression it made upon John was indescribable. He watched withstraining eyes, conscious of a deep sense of pleasure. Here wassomething appealing insistently to his love of beauty pure and simple; anew joy, a new grace, something which thrilled him and which left noaftermath of uneasy thoughts.

  The music suddenly faded away into nothing. With no more effort thanwhen she had glided into her poem of movement, the dancer stood in apose of perfect stillness. There were a few moments of tense silence.Then came a crash of chords, and the slender white figure launched intothe dance.

  Her motions became more animated, more human. With feet which seemednever to meet the earth, she glided toward the corner where John wasstanding. He caught the smoldering fire in her eyes as she danced withina few feet of him. He felt a catch in his breath. Some subtle and onlyhalf-expressed emotion shook his whole being, seemed to tear at thelocked chamber of his soul.

  She had flung her arms forward, so near that they almost touched him. Hecould have sworn that her lips had called his name. He felt himselfbewitched, filled with an insane longing to throw out his arms inresponse to her passionate, unspoken invitation, in obedience to theclamoring of his seething senses. He had forgotten, even, that any oneelse was in the room.

  Then, suddenly, the music stopped. The lights flared out from theceiling and from every corner of the apartment. Slender and erect, herarms hanging limply at her sides, without a touch of color in her cheeksor a coil of her black hair disarranged, without a sign of heat ordisturbance or passion in her face, John found Aida Calavera standingwithin a few feet of him, her eyes seeking for his. She laid her fingersupon his arm. The room was ringing with shouts of applause, in whichJohn unconsciously joined. Every one was trying to press forward towardher. With her left hand she waved them back.

  "If I have pleased you," she said, "I am so glad! I go now to rest for alittle time."

  She tightened her clasp upon her companion's arm, and they passed out ofthe picture-gallery and down a long corridor. John felt as if he werewalking in a dream. Volition seemed to have left him. He only knew thatthe still, white hand upon his arm seemed like a vise burning into hisflesh.

  She led him to the end of the corridor, through another door, into asmall room furnished in plain but comfortable fashion.

  "We will invade the prince's own sanctum," she murmured. "Before Idance, I drink nothing but water. Now I want some champagne. Will youfetch me some, and bring it to me yourself?"

  She sank back upon a divan as she spoke. John turned to leave the room,but she called him back.

  "Come here," she invited, "close to my side! I can wait for thechampagne. Tell me, why you are so silent? And my dancing--that pleasedyou?"

  He felt the words stick in his throat. The sight of her cold, alluringbeauty, shining out of her eyes, proclaiming itself and her wishes fromher parted lips, filled him with a sudden resentment. He hated himselffor the tumult which raged within him, and her for having aroused it.

  "Your dancing was indeed wonderful," he stammered.

  "It was for you!" she whispered, her voice growing softer and lower. "Itwas for you I danced. Did you not feel it?"

  Her arms stole toward him. The unnatural calm with which she hadfinished her dance seemed suddenly to pass. Her bosom was rising andfalling more quickly. There was a faint spot of color in her cheek.

  "It was wonderful," he told her. "I will get you the champagne."

  Her lips were parted. She smiled up at him.

  "Go quickly," she whispered, "and come back quickly! I wait for you."

  He left the room and passed out again into the picture-gallery before hehad the least idea where he was. The band was playing a waltz, and oneor two couples were dancing. The people seemed suddenly to have becomelike puppets in some strange, unreal dream. He felt an almost feverishlonging for the open air, for a long draft of the fresh sweetness of thenight, far away from this overheated atmosphere charged with unnamablethings.

  As he passed through the farther doorway he came face to face with theprince.

  "Where are you going?" the latter asked.

  "Mme. Calavera has asked me to get her some champagne," he answered.

  The prince smiled.

  "I will see that it is sent to her at once," he promised. "You are in mysanctum, are you not? You can pursue your _tete-a-tete_ there withoutinterruption. You are a very much envied man!"

  "Mme. Calavera is there," John replied. "As for me, I am afraid I shallhave to go now."

  The smile faded from the prince's lips. His eyebrows came slowlytogether.

  "You are leaving?" he repeated.

  "I must!" John insisted. "I can't help it. Forgive my behaving like aboor, but I must go. Good night!"

  The prince stretched out his hand, but he was too late.

  It was twenty minutes past two o'clock when John left Grosvenor Square,and it was twenty minutes to five when a sleepy hall-porter took him upin the lift to his rooms on the fourth floor at the Milan. Theintervening space of time was never anything to him but an ugly andtangled sheaf of memories.

  His first overwhelming desire had been simply to escape from thatenervating and perfervid atmosphere, to feel the morning air cool uponhis forehead, to drink in great gulps of the fresh, windy sweetness. Hefelt as if poison had been poured into his veins, as if he had tamperedwith the unclean things of life.

  He found himself, after a few minutes' hurried walking, in Piccadilly.The shadows that flitted by him, lingering as he approached and offeringtheir stereotyped greeting, filled him with a new horror. He turnedabruptly down Duke Street and made his way to St. James's Park. Fromhere he walked slowly eastward. When he reached the Strand, however, thestorm in his soul was still unabated. He turned away from the Milan. Theturmoil of his passions drove him to the thoughts of flight. Half anhour later he entered St. Pancras Station.

  "What time is the next train north to Kendal or Carlisle?" he inquired.

  The porter stared at him. John's evening clothes were spattered withmud, the rain-drops were glistening on his coat and face, his new silkhat was ruined. It was not only his clothes, however, which attractedthe man's attention. There was the strained look of a fugitive in John'sface, a fugitive flying from some threatened fate.

  "The newspaper train at five thirty is the earliest, sir," he said. "Idon't know whether you can get to Kendal by it, but it stops atCarlisle."

  John looked at the clock. There was an hour to wait. He wandered aboutthe station, gloomy, chill, deserted. The place sickened him, and hestrolled out into the streets again. By chance he left the station bythe same exit as on the day of his arrival in London. He stopped short.

  How could he have forgotten, even for a moment? This was not the worldwhich he had come to discover. This was just some plague-spot upon whichhe had stumbled. Through the murky dawn and across the ugly streets helooked into Louise's drawing-room. She would be there waiting for him onthe morrow!

  Louise! The thought of her was like a sweet, purifying stimulant. Hefelt the throbbing of his nerves soothed. He felt himself growing calm.The terror of the last few hours was like a nightmare which had passed.He summoned a taxicab and was driven to the Milan. His wanderings forthe night were over.