CHAPTER XIV
DINNER FOR TWO
At a few minutes before eight o'clock that evening Lady Hunterleysdescended the steps of the Casino and crossed the square towards theHotel de Paris. She walked very slowly and she looked neither to theright nor to the left. She had the air of seeing no one. Sheacknowledged mechanically the low bow of the commissionaire who openedthe door for her. A reception clerk who stood on one side to let herpass, she ignored altogether. She crossed the hall to the lift andpressed the bell. Draconmeyer, who had been lounging in an easy-chairwaiting for her, watched her entrance and noticed her abstracted mannerwith kindling eyes. He threw away his newspaper and, hastily approachingher, touched her arm.
"You are late," he remarked.
She started.
"Yes, I am late."
"I did not see you at the Club."
"I have been to the Casino instead," she told him. "I thought that itmight change my luck."
"Successful, I trust?"
She shook her head. Then she opened her gold satchel and showed him. Itwas empty.
"The luck must turn sometime," he reminded her soothingly. "How longwill you be changing?"
"I am tired," she confessed. "I thought that to-night I would not dine.I will have something sent up to my room."
He was obviously disappointed.
"Couldn't you dine as you are?" he begged. "You could change later, ifyou wished to. It is always such a disappointment when you do notappear--and to-night," he added, "especially."
Violet hesitated. She was really longing only to be alone and to rest.She thought, however, of the poor invalid to whom their meeting atdinner-time was the one break of the day.
"Very well," she promised, "I will be down in ten minutes."
Draconmeyer, as the lift bore her upwards, strolled away. Although thecustom was a strange one to him, he sought out the American bar anddrank a cocktail. Then he lit a cigarette and made his way back into thelounge, moving restlessly about, his hands behind his back, his foreheadknitted. In his way he had been a great schemer, and in the crowded hallof the hotel that night, surrounded by a wonderfully cosmopolitan throngof loungers and passers-by, he lived again through the birth anddevelopment of many of the schemes which his brain had conceived sincehe had left his mother-country. One and all they had been successful. Heseemed, indeed, to have been imbued with the gift of success. He hadfloated immense loans where other men had failed; he had sustained thecredit of his country on a high level through more than one seriousfinancial crisis; he had pulled down or built up as his judgment orfancy had dictated; and all the time the man's relaxations, apart fromthe actual trend of great affairs, had been few and slight. Then hadcome his acquaintance with Linda's school-friend. He looked back throughthe years. At first he had scarcely noticed her visits. Gradually he hadbecome conscious of a dim feeling of thankfulness to the woman whoalways seemed able to soothe his invalid wife. Then, scarcely more thana year or so ago, he had found himself watching her at unexpectedmoments, admiring the soft grace of her movements, the pleasant cadenceof her voice, the turn of her head, the colour of her hair, the eleganceof her clothes, her thin, fashionable figure. Gradually he had begun tolook for her, to welcome her at his table--and from that, the rest.Finally the birth of this last scheme of his. He had very nearly made afatal mistake at the very commencement, had pulled himself right againonly with a supreme effort. His heart beat quicker even now as hethought of that moment. They had been alone together one evening. Shehad sat talking with him after Linda had gone to bed worse than usual,and in the dim light he had almost lost his head, he had almost saidthose words, let her see the things in his eyes for which the time wasnot yet ripe. She had kept away for a while after that. He had treatedit as a mistake but he had been very careful not to err again. Bydegrees she forgot. The estrangement between husband and wife was partof his scheme, largely his doing. He was all the time working to makethe breach wider. The visit to Monte Carlo, rather a difficultaccomplishment, he had arranged. He had seen with delight the necessityfor some form of excitement growing up in her, had watched her lossesand only wished that they had been larger. He had encouraged her to playfor higher stakes and found that she needed very little encouragementindeed. To-night he felt that a crisis was at hand. There was a new lookupon her face. She had probably lost everything. He knew exactly how shewould feel about asking her husband for help. His eyes grew brighter ashe waited for the lift.
She came at last and they walked together into the dining-room. When shereached their accustomed table, it was empty, and only their two placeswere laid. She looked at him in surprise.
"But I thought you said that Linda would be so disappointed!" shereminded him.
He shook his head.
"I do not think that I mentioned Linda's name," he protested. "She wentto bed soon after tea in an absolutely hopeless state. I am afraid thatto-night I was selfish. I was thinking of myself. I have had nothing inthe shape of companionship all day. I came and looked at the table, andthe thought of dining alone wearied me. I have to spend a great deal oftime alone, unfortunately. You and I are, perhaps, a little alike inthat respect."
She seated herself after a moment's hesitation. He moved his chair alittle closer to hers. The pink-shaded lamp seemed to shut them off fromthe rest of the room. A waiter poured wine into their glasses.
"I ordered champagne to-night," he remarked. "You looked so tired whenyou came in. Drink a glass at once."
She obeyed him, smiling faintly. She was, as a matter of fact, cravingfor something of the sort.
"It was thoughtful of you," she declared. "I am tired. I have beenlosing all day, and altogether I have had a most depressing time."
"It is not as it should be, that," he observed, smiling. "This is a cityof pleasure. One was meant to leave one's cares behind here. If any onein this world," he added, "should be without them, it should be you."
He looked at her respectfully yet with an admiration which he made noeffort to conceal. There was nothing in the look over-personal. Sheaccepted it with gratitude.
"You are always kind," she murmured.
"This reminds me of some of our evenings in London," he went on, "whenwe used to talk music before we went to the Opera. I always found thoseevenings so restful and pleasant. Won't you try and forget that you havelost a few pennies; forget, also, your other worries, whatever they maybe? I have had a letter to-day from the one great writer whom we bothadmire. I shall read it to you. And I have a list of the operas for nextweek. I see that your husband's little protegee, Felicia Roche, ishere."
"My husband's protegee?" she repeated. "I don't quite understand."
He seemed, for a moment, embarrassed.
"I am sorry," he said. "I had no idea. But your husband will tell you ifyou ask him. It was he who paid for her singing education, and hertriumph is his. But the name must be known to you."
"I have never heard it in connection with my husband," she declared,frowning slightly. "Henry does not always take me into his confidence."
"Then I am sorry," he continued penitently, "that I mentioned thematter. It was clumsy of me. I had an idea that he must have told youall about her.... Another glass of wine, please, and you will find yourappetite comes. Jules has prepared that salmon trout specially. I'llread you the letter from Maurice, if you like, and afterwards there is astory I must tell you."
The earlier stages of dinner slipped pleasantly away. Draconmeyer was aborn conversationalist,--a good talker and a keen tactician. The foodand the wine, too, did their part. Presently Violet lifted her head, thecolour came back to her cheeks, she too began to talk and laugh. All thetime he was careful not to press home his advantage. He remembered thatone night in the library at Grosvenor Square, when she had turned herhead and looked at him for a moment before leaving. She must bedifferent now, he told himself fiercely. It was impossible that shecould continue to love a husband who neglected her, a man whose mistakensense of dignity kept him away from her!
> "I want you," he begged, as they drew towards the close of the meal, "totreat me, if you will, just a little more confidentially."
She glanced up at him quickly, almost suspiciously.
"What do you mean?"
"You have troubles of which you do not speak," he went on. "If myfriendship is worth anything, it ought to enable me to share thosetroubles with you. You have had a little further disagreement with yourhusband, I think, and bad luck at the tables. You ought not to leteither of these things depress you too much. Tell me, do you think thatI could help with Sir Henry?"
"No one could help," she replied, her tone unconsciously hardening."Henry is obstinate, and it is my firm conviction that he has ceased tocare for me at all. This afternoon--this very afternoon," she went on,leaning across the table, her voice trembling a little, her eyes verybright, "I offered to go away with him."
"To leave Monte Carlo?"
"Yes! He refused. He said that he must stay here, for some mysteriousreason. I begged him to tell me what that reason was, and he was silent.It was the end. He gives me no confidence. He has refused the one effortI made at reconciliation. I am convinced that it is useless. We haveparted finally."
Draconmeyer tried hard to keep the light from his eyes as he leanedtowards her.
"Dear lady," he said, "if I do not admit that I am sorry--well, thereare reasons. Your husband did well to be mysterious. I can tell you thereason why he will not leave Monte Carlo. It is because Felicia Rochemakes her debut at the Opera House to-morrow night. There! I didn't meanto tell you but the whole world knows it. Even now I would not have toldyou but for other things. It is best that you know the truth. It is myfirm belief that your husband does not deserve your interest, much moreyour affection. If only I dared--"
He paused for a moment. Every word he was compelled to measure.
"Sometimes," he continued, "your condition reminds me so much of my own.I think that there is no one so lonely in life as I am. For the last fewyears Linda has been fading away, physically and mentally. I touch herfingers at morning and night, we speak of the slight happenings of theday. She has no longer any mind or any power of sympathy. Her lips areas cold as her understanding. For that I know she is not to blame, yetit has left me very lonely. If I had had a child," he went on, "even ifthere were one single soul of whom I was fond, to whom I might look forsympathy; even if you, my dear friend--you see, I am bold, and I ventureto call you my dear friend--could be a little kinder sometimes, it wouldmake all the difference in the world."
She turned her head and looked at him. His teeth came together hastily.It seemed to him that already she was on her guard.
"You have something more to say, haven't you?" she asked.
He hesitated. Her tone was non-committal. It was a moment when he mighthave risked everything, but he feared to make a mistake.
"This is what I mean," he declared, with the appearance of greatfrankness. "I am going to speak to you upon the absurd question ofmoney. I have an income of which, even if I were boundlesslyextravagant, I could not hope to spend half. A speculation, the weekbefore I left England, brought me a profit of a million marks. But forthe banking interests of my country and the feeling that I am thetrustee for thousands of other people, it would weary me to look forinvestments. And you--you came in to-night, looking worn out justbecause you had lost a handful or so of those wretched plaques. There,you see it is coming now. I should like permission to do more than callmyself your friend. I should like permission to be also your banker."
She looked at him quietly and searchingly. His heart began to beatfaster. At least she was in doubt. He had not wholly lost. His chance,even, was good.
"My friend," she said, "I believe that you are honest. I do indeedrecognise your point of view. The thing is an absurdity, but, you know,all conventions, even the most foolish, have some human and naturalright beneath them. I think that the convention which forbids a womanaccepting money from a man, however close a friend, is like that.Frankly, my first impulse, a few minutes ago, was to ask you to lend mea thousand pounds. Now I know that I cannot do it."
"Do you really mean that?" he asked, in a tone of deep disappointment."If you do, I am hurt. It proves that the friendship which to me is sodear, is to you a very slight thing."
"You mustn't think that," she pleaded. "And please, Mr. Draconmeyer,don't think that I don't appreciate all your kindness. Short ofaccepting your money, I would do anything to prove it."
"There need be no question of a gift," he reminded her, in a low tone."If I were a perfect stranger, I might still be your banker. You musthave money from somewhere. Are you going to ask your husband?"
She bit her lip for a moment. If indeed he had known her actualposition, his hopes would have been higher still.
"I cannot possibly ask Henry for anything," she confessed. "I had madeup my mind to ask him to authorise the lawyers to advance me my nextquarter's allowance. After--what has passed between us, though,and--considering everything, I don't feel that I can do it."
"Then may I ask how you really mean to get more money?" he went ongently.
She looked at him a little piteously.
"Honestly, I don't know," she admitted. "I will be quite frank with you.Henry allows me two thousand, five hundred a year. I brought ninehundred pounds out with me, and I have nothing more to come until June."
"And how much have you left of the nine hundred pounds?" he asked.
"Not enough to pay my hotel bill," she groaned.
He smiled.
"Circumstances are too strong for you," he declared. "You must go to abanker. I claim the right of being that banker. I shall draw up apromissory note--no, we needn't do that--two or three cheques, perhaps,dated June, August and October. I shall charge you five per cent.interest and I shall lend you a thousand pounds."
Her eyes sparkled. The thought of the money was wonderful to her. Athousand pounds in mille notes that very night! She thought it all overrapidly. She would never run such risks again. She would play for smallamounts each day--just enough to amuse herself. Then, if she were lucky,she would plunge, only she would choose the right moment. Very likelyshe would be able to pay the whole amount back in a day or two. If Henryminded, well, it was his own fault. He should have been different.
"You put it so kindly," she said gratefully, "that I am afraid I cannotrefuse. You are very, very considerate, Mr. Draconmeyer. It certainlywill be nicer to owe you the money than a stranger."
"I am only glad that you are going to be reasonable," heremarked,--"glad, really, for both our sakes. And remember," he went oncheerfully, "that one isn't young and at Monte Carlo too many times inone's life. Make up your mind to enjoy yourself. If the luck goesagainst you for a little longer, come again. You are bound to win in theend. Now, if you like, we'll have our coffee outside. I'll go and fetchthe money and you shall make out your cheques."
He scribbled hastily on a piece of paper for a moment.
"These are the amounts," he pointed out. "I have charged you five percent. per annum interest. As I can deal with money at something underfour, I shall make quite a respectable profit--more than enough," headded good-naturedly, "to pay for our dinner!"
She seemed suddenly years younger. The prospect of the evening beforeher was enchanting.
"You really are delightful!" she exclaimed. "You can't think howdifferently I shall feel when I go into the Club to-night. I amperfectly certain that it's having plenty of money that helps one towin."
He smiled.
"And plenty of courage," he added. "Don't waste your time trifling withsmall stakes. Bid up for the big things. It is the only way in gamblingand in life."
He rose to his feet and their eyes met for a moment. Once more she feltvaguely troubled. She put that disturbing thought away from her,however. It was foolish to think of drawing back now. If he admiredher--well, so did most men!