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The Survivor, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Chapter 18. The Taste Of The Lotus |
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_ CHAPTER XVIII. THE TASTE OF THE LOTUS Douglas was kept waiting for a minute or two in the long, cool drawing-room at Grosvenor Square. The effect of Rice's story was still strong upon him. The perfume of the flowers, the elegance of the room, and its peculiar atmosphere of taste and luxury irritated rather than soothed him. Even the deference which the servants had shown him, the apologetic butler, her ladyship's own maid with a special message, acquired new significance now, looking at things from Rice's point of view. There was so much in his own circumstances which had lent weight to what he had been told. He was earning a good deal of money, but he was spending more. Emily had insisted upon rooms of her own choosing in a fashionable neighbourhood, and had herself selected the furniture--which was not yet paid for. She had insisted gently but firmly upon his going to the best tailors. The little expeditions in which he had been permitted to act as her escort, the luncheons and dinners at restaurants, although they were not many, were expensive. Yes, Rice was right. To be near Emily de Reuss was to live within a maze of fascination, but the end to it could only be the end of the others. Already he was in debt, a trifle behind with his work--a trifle less keen about it. Already the memory of his sufferings seemed to lie far back in another world--his realisation of them had grown faint. There was something paralysing about the atmosphere of pleasure with which she knew so well how to surround herself. The door opened and she came in, a dream of spotless muslin and glinting colours. She came over to him with outstretched hands and a brilliant smile upon her lips. "How is it, my friend," she cried, "that you always come exactly when I want you? You must be a very clever person. I have to go for a minute or two to the stupidest of garden parties at Surbiton. You shall drive with me, and afterwards, if you like, we will come back by Richmond and dine. What do you say?" "Delightful," he answered, "and if I were an idle man nothing in the world would give me more pleasure. But this afternoon I must not think of it. I am behind with my work already. I only came round for a few minutes' talk with you." She looked at him curiously. She was not used to be denied. "Surely," she said, "your work is not so important as all that?" "I am afraid," he said, "that lately I have been forgetting how important my work really is. That is precisely what I came to talk to you about." She sat down composedly, but he fancied that her long, dark eyes had narrowed a little, and the smile had gone from her face. "You will think I am ungrateful, I am afraid," he began, "but, do you know, I am losing hold upon my work, and I have come to the conclusion that I am giving a good deal too much of my time to going out. Thanks to you, I seem to have invitations for almost every day--I go to polo matches, to river parties, to dinners and dances, I do everything except work. You know that I have made a fair start, and I feel that I ought to be making some uses of my opportunities. Besides--I may be quite frank with you, I know--I am spending a great deal more than I am earning, and that won't do, will it?" She came over and sat by his side on the couch. There was not the slightest sign of disapproval in her manner. "Do you know, that sounds very sensible, Douglas my friend," she said, quietly. "I should hate to think that I was selfish in liking to have you with me so much, and your work is the first thing, of course. Only you mustn't forget this. Your profession is settled now irrevocably. You will be a writer, and a famous writer, and one reason why I have procured all these invitations for you, and encouraged you to accept them, has been because I want you to grasp life as a whole. You think that you are idling now. You are not. Every new experience you gain is of value to you. Hitherto you have only seen life through dun-coloured spectacles. I want you also to understand the other side. It is your business to know and grasp it from all points. Can't you see that I have found it a pleasure to help you to see that side of which you were ignorant?" "That is all very true," he answered, "only I have already had more opportunities than most men. Don't you think yourself that it is almost time I buckled to and started life more seriously?" "It is for you to say," she answered quietly. "You know better than I. If you have work in your brain and you are weary of other things--well, _au revoir_, and good luck to you. Only you will come and see me now and then, and tell me how you are getting on, for I shall be a little lonely just at first." She looked at him with eyes a trifle dim, and Douglas felt his heart beat thickly, and the memory of Rice's passionate words seemed suddenly weak. "I shall come and see you always," he said, "as often as you would have me come. You know that." She shook her head as though but half convinced. Then she rose to her feet. "There is just one thing I should like to ask you," she said. "This new resolution of yours--did you come by it alone, or has any one been advising you?" Douglas hesitated. "I have been talking to a man," he admitted, "who certainly seemed to think that I was neglecting my work." "Will you tell me who it was?" Douglas looked into her face and became suddenly grave. The eyes were narrower and brighter, a glint of white teeth showed through the momentarily parted lips. A tiny spot of colour burned in her cheeks--something of the wild animal seemed suddenly to have leaped up in her. Yet how beautiful she was! "I cannot do that," he faltered. "Then it was some one who spoke to you of me," she continued calmly. "You need not trouble to contradict me. Hadn't you better hurry away before I have the chance to do you any harm? There is one young man I know, of a melodramatic turn of mind, who persists in looking upon me as a sort of siren, calling my victims on to the rocks. I expect that is the person with whom you have been talking. Douglas Jesson, I think that I am a little disappointed in you." She stood up and smoothed out her skirts thoughtfully. He was very near at that moment throwing all thoughts of Rice's words to the winds, and retracting all that he had said. After all, it was she who had brought him back from death. Whatever his future might be, he owed it to her. She looked into his eyes and felt that she had conquered. Yet the very fascination of that smile which parted her lips was like a chill warning to him. "I will tell you who it was who has been talking to me," he said. "It is a clerk of Drexley's, a man named Rice." She nodded. "I thought so. Poor boy. He will never forgive me." "For what?" Douglas asked quickly. That was the crux of the whole matter. "For his own folly," she answered quietly. "I was good to him--helped him in many ways. He tried to make love to me. I had to send him away, of course. That is the worst of you young men. If a woman tries to help you, you seem to think it your duty to fall in love with her. What is she to do then?" "Can't a woman--always make it clear--if she wants to--that that sort of thing is not permitted?" "Do you think that she can? Do you think that she knows what she wishes herself until the last moment, until it is too late?" Douglas rose up a little unsteadily. "Take my own case," he cried, with a sudden little burst of passion. "You are the most beautiful woman whom I have ever seen, you are kind to me, you suffer me to be your companion. Yet if I commit the folly of falling in love with you, you will dismiss me in a moment without a sigh. I am only an ordinary being. Don't you think that I am wise if I try to avoid running such a risk?" She laughed softly. "What a calculating mortal. Is this all the effect of Mr. Rice's warning?" Well, isn't it truth? She shook her head. "I can't pretend to say. Do any of us really know, I wonder, what we would do under any given circumstances? I wish you would tell me exactly what your friend complained of in my treatment of him." "He spoke--not only of himself," Douglas answered. "There was a man called Silverton." "What?" He looked across at her in swift surprise. It seemed to him that her anger had suddenly changed into a wonderful and speechless terror. Her left hand was buried in the sofa cushions, the pupils of her eyes were dilated, she was bloodless to the lips. When she spoke it was hard to recognise her voice. "What of him? What did he know? What did he tell you--of him?" Douglas's expression of blank surprise seemed an immense relief to her. "Only--something like what he told me of himself. He also was foolish enough to fall in love with you, and--" She rose suddenly and held out her hand. "Come, my friend," she said, "I have had enough of this. Take me out to my carriage. I think you are very wise to avoid such a dangerous person." She swept out of the room before him, and down the broad stairs. A footman stood by the side of her victoria until she had settled herself in the most comfortable corner. Then he mounted the box, and she leaned for a moment forward. "You won't come?" she asked, with a slight gesture of invitation towards the vacant seat. But Douglas, to whom the invitation seemed, in a sense, allegorical, shook his head. He pointed eastwards. "The taste of the lotus is sweet," he said, "but one must live." _ |
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