Chapter XXV
Mr. Stepney had become more bearable. A week ago she would have shrunkfrom taking luncheon with him, but now such a prospect had no terrors.His views of things and people were more generous than she had expected.She had anticipated his attitude would be a little cynical, but to hersurprise he oozed loving-kindness. Had she known Mr. Marcus Stepney aswell as Jean knew him, she would have realised that he adapted hismental attitude to his audience. He was a man whose stock-in-trade was aknowledge of human nature, and the ability to please. He would no morehave attempted to shock or frighten her, than a first-class salesmanwould shock or annoy a possible customer.
He had goods to sell, and it was his business to see that they satisfiedthe buyer. In this case the goods were represented by sixty-nine inchesof good-looking, well-dressed man, and it was rather important that heshould present the best face of the article to the purchaser. It wasalmost as important that the sale should be a quick one. Mr. Stepneylived from week to week. What might happen next year seldom interestedhim, therefore his courting must be rapid.
He told the story of his life at lunch, a story liable to move atender-hearted woman to at least a sympathetic interest. The story ofhis life varied also with the audience. In this case, it was designedfor one whom he knew had had a hard struggle, whose father had beenheavily in debt, and who had tasted some of the bitterness of defeat.Jean had given him a very precise story of the girl's career, and Mr.Marcus Stepney adapted it for his own purpose.
"Why, your life has almost run parallel with mine," said Lydia.
"I hope it may continue," said Mr. Stepney not without a touch ofsadness in his voice. "I am a very lonely man--I have no friends exceptthe acquaintances one can pick up at night clubs, and the places wherethe smart people go in the season, and there is an artificiality aboutsociety friends which rather depresses me."
"I feel that, too," said the sympathetic Lydia.
"If I could only settle down!" he said, shaking his head. "A littlehouse in the country, a few horses, a few cows, a woman who understoodme...."
A false move this.
"And a few pet chickens to follow you about?" she laughed. "No, itdoesn't sound quite like you, Mr. Stepney."
He lowered his eyes.
"I am sorry you think that," he said. "All the world thinks that I'm agadabout, an idler, with no interest in existence, except the pleasure Ican extract."
"And a jolly good existence, too," said Lydia briskly. She had detecteda note of sentiment creeping into the conversation, and had slain itwith the most effective weapon in woman's armoury.
"And now tell me all about the great Moorish Pretender who is staying atyour hotel--I caught a glimpse of him on the promenade--and there was alot about him in the paper."
Mr. Stepney sighed and related all that he knew of the redoubtable MuleyHafiz on the way to the rooms. Muley Hafiz was being lionised in Francejust then, to the annoyance of the Spanish authorities, who had put aprice on his head.
Lydia showed much more interest in the Moorish Pretender than she did inthe pretender who walked by her side.
He was not in the best of tempers when he brought her back to the VillaCasa, and Jean, who entertained him whilst Lydia was changing, saw thathis first advances had not met with a very encouraging result.
"There will be no wedding bells, Jean," he said.
"You take a rebuff very easily," said the girl, but he shook his head.
"My dear Jean, I know women as well as I know the back of my hand, and Itell you that there's nothing doing with this girl. I'm not a fool."
She looked at him earnestly.
"No, you're not a fool," she said at last. "You're hardly likely to makea mistake about that sort of thing. I'm afraid you'll have to dosomething more romantic."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"You'll have to run away with her; and like the knights of old carry offthe lady of your choice."
"The knights of old didn't have to go before a judge and jury and serveseven years at Dartmoor for their sins," he said unpleasantly.
She was sitting on a low chair overlooking the sea, whittling a twigwith a silver-handled knife she had taken from her bag--a favouriteoccupation of hers in moments of cogitation.
"All the ladies of old didn't go to the police," she said. "Some of themwere quite happy with their powerful lords, especially delicate-mindedladies who shrank from advertising their misfortune to the readers ofthe Sunday press. I think most women like to be wooed in the cave-manfashion, Marcus."
"Is that the kind of treatment you'd like, Jean?"
There was a new note in his voice. Had she looked at him she would haveseen a strange light in his eyes.
"I'm merely advancing a theory," she said, "a theory which has beensupported throughout the ages."
"I'd let her go and her money, too," he said. He was speaking quickly,almost incoherently. "There's only one woman in the world for me, Jean,and I've told you that before. I'd give my life and soul for her."
He bent over, and caught her arm in his big hand.
"You believe in the cave-man method, do you?" he breathed. "It is thekind of treatment you'd like, eh, Jean?"
She did not attempt to release her arm.
"Keep your hand to yourself, Marcus, please," she said quietly.
"You'd like it, wouldn't you, Jean? My God, I'd sacrifice my soul foryou, you little devil!"
"Be sensible," she said. It was not her words or her firm tone that madehim draw back. Twice and deliberately she drew the edge of her littleknife across the back of his hand, and he leapt away with a howl ofpain.
"You--you beast," he stammered, and she looked at him with her slysmile.
"There must have been cave women, too, Marcus," she said coolly, as sherose. "They had their methods--give me your handkerchief, I want towipe this knife."
His face was grey now. He was looking at her like a man bereft of hissenses.
He did not move when she took his handkerchief from his pocket, wipedthe knife, closed and slipped it into her bag, before she replaced thehandkerchief tidily. And all the time he stood there with his handstreaming with blood, incapable of movement. It was not until she haddisappeared round the corner of the house that he pulled out thehandkerchief and wrapped it about his hand.
"A devil," he whimpered, almost in tears, "a devil!"
The Angel of Terror Page 25
