CHAPTER XVI
THE DESPOT
Prince Boris, upon leaving Sonia Turgeinov, ascended to the officers'deck. For some moments he paced the narrow confines between thelife-boats, then stepped into the wheel-house.
"How is she headed?"
An officer standing near the man at the helm, answered in French.
"This should bring us to"--the nobleman mentioned a group ofislands--"by to-morrow night?"
"Hardly, Excellency."
The prince stared moodily. "Have you sighted any other vessels?"
"One or two sailing-craft that have paid no attention to us. The onlyboat that seemed interested since we left port was the little naphtha."
The nobleman stood as if he had not heard this last remark. About tomove away, he suddenly lifted his head and listened. "What was that?" hesaid sharply.
"What, your Highness?"
"I thought I heard a sound like a cry."
"I heard nothing, Excellency. No doubt it was but the wind--it is loudhere."
"No doubt." A moment the nobleman continued to listen, then hisattention relaxed.
"Shall I come to your excellency later for orders?" said the officer asthe prince made as if to turn away.
"It will not be necessary. If I have any I can 'phone from the cabin--Ido not wish to be disturbed," he added and left.
"His excellency seems in rather an odd mood to-night," the officer,gazing after, muttered. "Nothing would surprise me--even if he commandedus to head for the pole next. Eh, Fedor?" The man at the helm madeanswer, moving the spokes mechanically. Nor' west, or sou' east--it wasall one to him.
Prince Boris walked back; before a little cabin that stood out like anafterthought, he again paused.
Click! click! The wireless! His excellency, stepping nearer, peeredthrough a window in upon the operator, a slender young man--French. Amessage was being received. Who were they that thus dared span space toreach out toward him? _Ei! ei_! "The devil has long arms." He recalledthis saying of the Siberian priests and the mad Cossack answer:"Therefore let us ride fast!" The swaying of the yacht was like therhythmic motion of his Arab through the long grass beyond the Dnieper,in that wild land where conventionality and laws were as naught.
He saw the operator now lean forward to write. The apparatus, which hadbecome silent again, spoke; the words came now fast, then slow. Flame offlames! What an instrument that harnessed the sparks, chased destinyitself with them! They crackled like whips. The operator threw down hispen.
"Excellency!" He almost ran into the tall motionless figure. "Pardon! Amessage--they want to establish communication with the _Nevski_--tolearn if we picked up a man from--"
"Have I not told you to receive all messages but to establishcommunication with no one? _Mon Dieu_! If I thought--"
"Your excellency, can depend upon me," Francois protested. "Did not myfather serve your illustrious mother, the Princess Alix, all his life ather palace at Biarritz? Did not--"
The prince made a gesture. "I can depend upon you because it is to youradvantage to serve me well," he said dryly. "Also, because if youdidn't--" He left the sentence unfinished but Francois understood; inthat part of the Czar's kingdom where the prince came from, life washeld cheap. Besides, the lad had heard tales from his father--agarrulous Gascon--of his excellency's temper--those mad outbursts evenwhen a child. There was a trace of the fierce, or half-insanetemperament of the great Ivan in the uncontrollable Strogareff line, sothe story went. Francois returned to his instrument; his excellency'slook swept beyond. He heard now only the sound of the sea--restless, inunending tumult. The wind blew colder and he went below.
But not to rest! He was in no mood for that. What then? He hesitated, atwar with himself. "Patience! patience!" What fool advice from SoniaTurgeinov! He helped himself liberally from a decanter on a Louis Quinzesideboard in the beautiful _salle a manger_. The soft lights revealedhim, and him only, a solitary figure in that luxurious place--master ofall he surveyed but not master of his own thoughts. He could order hismen, but he could not order that invisible host. They made him theirservant. He took a few steps back and forth; then suddenly encounteredhis own image reflected in a mirror.
"Boris, the superb"; "a tartar toreador of hearts"; "Prince of roublesand kopecs"! So they had jestingly called him in his own warm-coldcapital of the north, or in that merry-holy city of four hundredchurches. His glance now swept toward a distant door. "Faint heart ne'erwon--"
Had he a faint heart? In the past--no! Why, then, now? The passionatelines of the poets sang in his ears--rhythms to the "little dove", the"peerless white flower"! He passed a big hand across his brow. Hisheart-beats were like the galloping hoofs of a horse, bearing himwhither? Gold of her hair, violet of her eyes! Whither? The raving madpoets! Wine seemed running in his blood; he moved toward the distantdoor.
It was locked--of course! For the moment he had forgotten. Thrusting hishand into his pocket, he drew out a key and unsteadily fitted it. Butbefore turning it he stood an instant listening. No sound! Should hewait until the morrow? Prudence dictated that course; precipitancy,however, drove him on. Now, as well as ever! Better have anunderstanding! She would have to accede to his plans, anyway--and thesooner, the better. He had burned his bridges; there was no drawing backnow--
He turned slowly the knob, applied a sudden pressure to the door andentered.
A girl looked up and saw him. It was a superbly decorated salon he hadinvaded. Soft-hued rugs were on the floor and draperies of cloth of goldveiled the shadows. Betty Dalrymple had been standing at a window,gazing out at night--only night--or the white glimmer from an electriclight that frosting the rail, made the dark darker. She appeared neithersurprised nor perturbed at the appearance of the nobleman--doubtlesslyshe had been expecting that intrusion. He stopped short, his dark eyesgleaming. It was enough for the moment just to look at her. Place andcircumstance seemed forgotten; the spirit of an old ancestor--one of thegreat khans--looked out in his gaze. Passion and anger alternated on hisfeatures; when she regarded him like that he longed to crush her to him;instead, now, he continued to stand motionless.
"Pardon me," he could say it with a faint smile. Then threw out a hand."Ah, you are beautiful!" All that was oriental in him seemed to vibratein the words.
Betty Dalrymple's answer was calculated to dispel illusion and glamour."Don't you think we can dispense with superfluous words?" Her voice wasas ice. "Under the circumstances," she added, full mistress of herself.
His glance wavered, again concentrated on her, slender, warm-hued as anhouri in the ivory and gold palace of one of the old khans--but an houriwith disconcerting straightness of gaze, and crisp matter-of-factdirectness of utterance. "You are cruel; you have always been," he said."I offer you all--everything--my life, and you--"
"More superfluous words," said Betty Dalrymple in the same tone, theflash of her eyes meeting the darkening gleam of his. "Put me ashore,and as soon as may be. This farce has gone far enough."
"Farce?" he repeated.
"You have only succeeded in making yourself absurd and in placing me ina ridiculous position. Put me ashore and--"
"Ask of me the possible--the humanly possible--" He moved slightlynearer; her figure swayed from him.
"You are mad--mad--"
"Granted!" he said. "A Russian in love is always a madman. But it wasyou who--"
"Don't!" she returned. "It is like a play--" The red lips curved.
He looked at them and breathed harder. Her words kindled anew the flamein his breast. "A play? That is what it has been for you. A mild comedyof flirtation!" The girl flushed hotly. "Deny it if you can--that youdidn't flirt, as you Americans call it, outrageously."
An instant Betty Dalrymple bit her lip but she returned his gazesteadily enough. "The adjective is somewhat strong. Perhaps I might havedone what you say, a little bit--for which," with an accent ofself-scorn, "I am sorry, as I have already told you."
He brought together his hands. "Was it just a 'little bit'
when atHomburg you danced with me nearly every time at the grand duchess' ball?_Sapristi_! I have not forgotten. Was it only a 'little bit' when youlet me ride with you at Pau--those wild steeplechases!--or permittedme to follow you to Madrid, Nice, elsewhere?--wherever caprice tookyou?"
"I asked you not to--"
"But with a sparkle in your eyes--a challenge--"
"I knew you for a nobleman; I thought you a gentleman," said BettyDalrymple spiritedly.
Prince Boris made a savage gesture. "You thought--" He broke off. "Iwill tell you what you thought: That after amusing yourself with me youcould say, _'Va-t-en!'_ with a wave of the hand. As if I were a clodlike those we once had under us! American girls would make serfs oftheir admirers. Their men," contemptuously, "are fools where their womenare concerned. You dismiss them; they walk away meekly. Another comes._Voila!_" He snapped his fingers. "The game goes on."
A spark appeared in her eyes. "Don't you think you are slightlyinsulting?" she asked in a low tense tone.
"Is it not the truth? And more"--with a harsh laugh--"I am even toldthat in your wonderful country the rejected suitor--_mon Dieu!_--oftenacts as best man at the wedding--that the body-guard on the holyoccasion may be composed of a sad but sentimental phalanx from the armyof the refused. But with us Russians these matters are different. We cannot thus lightly control affairs of the heart; they control us,and--those who flirt, as you call it, must pay. The code of our honordemands it--"
"Your honor?" It was Betty Dalrymple who laughed now.
"You find that--me--very diverting?" slowly. "But you will learn this isno jest."
She disdained to answer and started toward a side door.
"No," he said, stepping between her and the threshold.
"Be good enough!" Miss Dalrymple's voice sounded imperiously; her eyesflashed.
"One moment!" He was fast losing self-control. "You hold yourself fromme--refuse to listen to me. Why? Do you know what I think?" Vehemently.The words of Sonia Turgeinov--"_Est ce qu'elle aime un autre_?"--flamedthrough his mind. "That there is some one else; that there always was.And that is the reason you were so gay--so very gay. You sought toforget--"
A change came over Betty Dalrymple's face; she seemed to grow whiter--tobecome like ice--
"You let me think there wasn't any one; but there was. That story ofsome one out west?--you laughed it away as idle gossip. And I believedyou then--but not now. Who is he--this American?" With a half-sneer.
"There is no one!--there never has been!" said the girl with suddenpassion, almost wildly. "I told you the truth."
"Ah," said Prince Boris. "You speak with feeling. When a woman denies ina voice like that--"
"Let me by!" The violet eyes were black now.
"Not yet!" He studied her--the cheeks aflame like roses. "He shall neverhave you, that some one--I will meet him and kill him first--I swearit--"
"Let me by!"
"_Carissima!_ Your eyes are like stars--the stars that look down on onealone on the wild steppe. Your lips are red flowers--poppies to lure todestruction. They are cruel, but the more beautiful--"
He suddenly reached out, took her in his arms.
The cry on her lips was stifled as his sought and almost touched them.At the same moment the door of the cabin, by which the prince hadentered, was abruptly thrown open.