The Tempting of Tavernake Part 31

he went on, solemnly, "of which I am afraid, things which I do not begin even to understand. Can't you see how it is with me? I am really very ignorant. I want some one who understands; I want you, Beatrice, very badly."

She patted the back of his hand caressingly.

"You mustn't talk like that, Leonard," she said. "I shouldn't make you a good wife. I am not going to marry any one."

"And why?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"That is my secret," she told him, looking into the fire.

"You mean to say that, you will never marry?" he persisted.

"Oh, I suppose I shall change, like other women," she answered. "Just at present, I feel like that."

"Is it because your sister's marriage--"

She caught hold of both his hands; her eyes were suddenly full of terror.

"You mustn't talk about Elizabeth," she begged, "you please mustn't talk about her. Promise that you won't."

"But I came here to talk about her," he replied.

Beatrice, for a moment, said nothing. Then she threw down his hands and laughed once more. As she flung herself back in her place, it seemed to Tavernake that he saw once more the girl who had stood upon the roof of the boarding-house.

"You came to talk about Elizabeth!" she exclaimed. "I forgot. Well, go on, what is it?"

"Your sister is in trouble!"

"Are you her confidant?" Beatrice asked.

"I am not exactly that," he admitted, "but she has asked me to come and see you."

Beatrice had suddenly grown hard, her lips were set together, even her att.i.tude was uncompromising.

"Say exactly what you have to say," she told him. "I will not interrupt."

"It sounds foolish," Tavernake declared, "because I know so little, but it seems that your sister is being annoyed by a man named Pritchard, an American detective. She tells me that he suspects her of being concerned in some way with the disappearance of her husband. One of his reasons is that you left her abruptly and went into hiding, that you will not see or speak to her. She wishes you to be reconciled."

"Is that all?" Beatrice asked.

"It is all," he replied, "so long as you understand its significance.

If you go to see your sister, or let her come to see you, this man Pritchard will have one of his causes for suspicion removed."

"So you came as Elizabeth's amba.s.sador," Beatrice said, half as though to herself. "Well, here is my answer. I will not go to Elizabeth. If she finds out my whereabouts and comes here, then I shall go away again and hide. I shall never willingly exchange another word with her as long as I live."

Tavernake looked at her doubtfully.

"But she is your sister!" he explained.

"She is my sister," Beatrice repeated, "and yet what I have said to you I mean."

There was a short silence. Tavernake felt unaccountably ill at ease.

Something had sprung up between them which he did not understand. He was swift to recognize, however, the note of absolute finality in her tone.

"I have given my message," he declared. "I shall tell her what you say.

Perhaps I had better go now."

He half rose to his feet. Suddenly she lost control of herself.

"Leonard, Leonard," she cried, "don't you see that you are being very foolish indeed? You have been good to me. Let me try and repay it a little. Elizabeth is my sister, but listen! What I say to you now I say in deadly earnest. Elizabeth has no heart, she has no thought for other people, she makes use of them and they count for no more to her than the figures that pa.s.s through one's dreams. She has some sort of hateful gift," Beatrice continued, and her voice shook and her eyes flashed, "some hateful gift of attracting people to her and making them do her bidding, of spoiling their lives and throwing them away when they have ceased to be useful. Leonard, you must not let her do this with you."

He rose to his feet awkwardly. Very likely it was all true, and yet, what difference did it make?

"Thank you," he said.

They stood, for a moment, hand in hand. Then they heard the sound of a key in the lock.

"Here's Annie coming back!" Beatrice exclaimed.

Tavernake was introduced to Miss Annie Legarde, who thought he was a very strange person indeed because he did not fit in with any of the types of men, young or old, of whom she knew anything. And as for Tavernake, he considered that Miss Annie Legarde would have looked at least as well in a hat half the size, and much better without the powder upon her face. Her clothes were obviously more expensive than Beatrice's, but they were put on with less care and taste.

Beatrice came out on to the landing with him.

"So you won't marry me, Beatrice?" he said, as she held out her hand.

She looked at him for a moment and then turned away with a faint sob, without even a word of farewell. He watched her disappear and heard the door shut. Slowly he began to descend the stone steps. There was something to him a little fateful about the closed door above, the long yet easy descent into the street.

CHAPTER XVII. THE BALCONY AT IMANO'S

At six o'clock that evening, Tavernake rang up the Milan Court and inquired for Elizabeth. There was a moment or two's delay and then he heard her reply. Even over the telephone wires, even though he stood, cramped and uncomfortable, in that stuffy little telephone booth, he felt the quick start of pleasure, the thrill of something different in life, which came to him always at the sound of her voice, at the slightest suggestion of her presence.

"Well, my friend, what fortune?" she asked him.

"None," he answered. "I have done my best. Beatrice will not listen to me."

"She will not come and see me?"

"She will not."

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, there was a change in her tone.

"You have failed, then."

"I did everything that could be done," Tavernake insisted eagerly. "I am quite sure that nothing anybody could say would move Beatrice. She is very decided indeed."