Читать книгу The Crooked House - Brandon Fleming - Страница 5

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The Endless Garden

Confusion followed. Copplestone knelt beside her, calling her by name in a strange excess of fear. The theatrical manager tore a flask from his pocket, and administered its contents freely. The spirit revived her. She opened her eyes. They lifted her gently, and laid her on a couch.

"It was that madman rushing in unnerved her," Copplestone cried fiercely. "Wish I'd called in the police. Curse him!"

Her hand closed on his. "No, no," she whispered. "He must not be touched. He didn't mean it."

"Mean it be damned!" said Copplestone savagely. "If I see any more of him, he'll find himself in jail in less time than it takes to say it."

The manager proffered further stimulant. The color began to return to her face, but her eyes were wide and strained. Copplestone watched her closely.

"Look here," said the manager, re-corking his empty flask, "she'd better rest. Let's all clear off, and go on with this another night."

"Thertainly," agreed the financier.

But Christine Manderson rose, and leant on Copplestone's arm. Her self-control was exerted to the utmost, but she trembled.

"Forgive me," she said softly. "I am all right now. Please don't go."

"Good!" Copplestone exclaimed, recovering his equanimity. "It would be a pity to break up. We'll have a jolly night." He laughed loudly. "Tranter, of all people!" he cried boisterously. "And——" he looked towards Monsieur Dupont.

"I was sure you wouldn't mind my bringing a friend with me," Tranter said. "Monsieur Dupont has just arrived from Paris."

"Delighted," said Copplestone, shaking hands with great heartiness. "Forgive this unhappy beginning. We'll make up for it now. Come along to dinner. It's all ready."

In the dining-room they sat down to a table that glittered and gleamed with a hundred lights, concealed under strands of white crystallized leaves, springing from a frosted tree. Such a table might have been set in Fairyland, for the betrothal feast of Oberon.

"Glad we didn't miss this," said the theatrical manager.

He regaled the company with a selection of his less offensive stories, and found ready applause. The gayety was loud and forced. Every one attempted to keep it at fever-heat. Jest followed jest with increasing rapidity. Laughter rang out on the smallest provocation. It was a competition in hilarity. And the gayest of all were Christine Manderson, and Mrs. Astley-Rolfe.

The night was hot and sultry. The distant roll of thunder added to the tenseness of the atmosphere. And hearing it, Christine Manderson shuddered.

"Storms are unlucky to me," she said, listening until the sullen roll died away. "Why should we have one to-night—of all nights?"

The clergyman adroitly twisted the subject of lightning into a compliment. As the dinner drew to a somewhat loud conclusion, Copplestone's face grew flushed, and his hands unsteady. The manager's voice and stories thickened, and the thoughts of the Russian danseuse became fixed on Aberdeen. Tranter and Monsieur Dupont were abstemious guests. But the Frenchman seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

They rose from the fairy table, and strolled out through the open windows into the garden. The air had grown hotter and more oppressive, the thunder louder. Frequent flashes lit up the darkness.

The glowing tips of cigars and cigarettes disappeared in various directions across the lawns.

Monsieur Dupont discovered, to his cost, the truth of his remark that the house was surrounded by crooked paths. The grounds were a veritable maze. He had purposely slipped away alone, and in five minutes was involved in a network of twisting, thickly-hedged paths, all of which seemed only to lead still further into the darkness.

He stopped, and listened. He could hear no voices. Not a sound, except the gathering thunder, disturbed the silence. He was completely cut off. Even the lights of the house were hidden from him. He had turned about so many times that he did not even know in which direction it lay. Coupled with the effect of what had happened in the house, the influence of this tortuous garden was sinister and unnerving. In the lightning flashes, now more vivid and frequent, he tried in vain to determine his position. He wandered about, trying path after path, doubling back on his own tracks—only to find himself more and more helplessly lost.

"Nom de Dieu," said Monsieur Dupont, in despair.

He halted suddenly, standing as still as a figure of stone. On his right the hedge was thick and high. He could see nothing. But the whisper of a voice had reached him.

The path took a sharp turn. He stepped noiselessly on to the grass border, and crept round, with wonderful agility for a man of his size. The foliage gradually thinned, and kneeling down he was able to listen and peer through until the next flash should reveal what lay beyond.

The whisper thrilled with indescribable passion.

"I love you. You are my body, my soul, my god, my all. I love you—I love you—I love you."

It was the voice of Christine Manderson.

Not a tremor escaped the listener. Parting the leaves with a hand as steady as the ground itself, he waited for the light.

"I have no world but you—no thought but you. I want nothing but you … you … you." A sob broke her voice.

"Go," the answer was almost inaudible in its tenseness. "Go—and forget. I have nothing for you."

The lightning came. In a small open space on the other side of the hedge it illuminated the wild tortured face of Christine Manderson. And standing before her, gripping both her hands and holding her away from him—John Tranter.

She struggled to bring herself closer to him.

"I thought you were dead," she gasped.

"I am dead," he answered. "I am dead to you. Let me go."

The listener could almost hear the effort of her breathing.

"I waited for you," she panted. "I was broken. I had to seem happy—but my heart was a tomb. You were all my life—all my hope. I know I wasn't what I might have been. I was what people call an adventuress. But my love for you was the one great, true thing of my life. Oh, why did you leave me?"

"For your own sake," he said slowly. "I am no mate for such a woman as you."

"My own sake?" she repeated. "My own sake—to take from me the only thing I had—my only chance?—to throw my life into the shadows? My own sake … to have made me what I am?"

"I would have spared you this meeting," he returned, "if I had known. But the name Christine Manderson was strange to me. I had never heard it before."

"I changed my name," she said sadly. "I couldn't bear that any one should use the name that you had used. I called myself Christine Manderson, and went on the stage in New York. Oh, it was dreadful. All those long years since you left me I have lived under a mask—as you have seen me to-night. You thought I was smiling—but I didn't smile. You thought I was laughing—but I didn't laugh. It was all … only disguised tears … to hide myself."

"Go," his voice was torn. "For God's sake go … Thea."

A second flash showed them again to the listener. Tranter was still holding her away from him. In that vivid fraction of a second the agony of her face was terrible.

"Thea!" she echoed pitifully. "Ah, yes—call me Thea! Poor Thea! Oh, doesn't that name awaken … something? Hasn't it still some charm? Once you said it was the only name in all the world. Is it nothing to you now?"

"Nothing," he answered.

In spite of his resistance she was forcing herself nearer to him. The magic of her presence was binding him.

"Am I less beautiful?" she whispered. "Have I lost anything that used to draw you? Is not my hair as golden? Are not my eyes as bright—my lips as red? Am I not as soft to touch? Where could you find anything better than me?"

"Keep back!" he muttered.

Her hands were about him. In the darkness he could feel the deadly loveliness of her face almost touching his own. He was yielding, inch by inch. The warmth of her breath … the perfume of her body. … Her closeness was intoxicating—maddening.

"Oh, let me come to you," she prayed. "I will follow you barefooted to the end of the world. I will live for you—slave for you—die for you. Only let me come. Let me leave all this—and come to you … to-morrow. … "

A groan was wrung from him. He crushed her to him.

"Come then!" he cried desperately. "Come, if you will! … "

A vivid flash, which seemed to burst almost over their heads, showed them locked in each other's arms, their lips pressed together.

Monsieur Dupont raised himself quickly. There was the sound of running footsteps on the path behind him. Monsieur Dupont had just time to turn the corner before the disordered figure of the theatrical manager loomed up before him.

"The madman is in the garden! He ran this way."

"Diable!" said Monsieur Dupont.

"I found him sneaking towards the house. He bolted out here."

Unaccustomed to physical exertion, the manager laid a heavy hand on Monsieur Dupont's shoulder, and mopped his forehead breathlessly.

"The scoundrel means mischief," he declared. "He must be found."

"Where is Mr. Copplestone?"

"I called him, but couldn't get an answer. He must be away at the other end of the garden."

"No one has passed this way," Monsieur Dupont assured him. "For a half-hour I have been wandering about these horrible paths."

"It's a devil of a garden," the manager admitted. "The fellow won't get very far. Let's look about here."

Fortified with a fresh supply of breath, he released Monsieur Dupont's shoulder, and made a brisk movement towards the direction from which the Frenchman had come.

Monsieur Dupont blocked the way.

"No, no—it would be a waste of time. I have come from there."

"To the river, then," the manager cried, bearing him round. "He may be trying to get across."

He was evidently familiar with the intricacies of the garden. In a few minutes, after a dozen turnings, they reached the gleam of water.

"Keep your eyes open for the next flash," the manager directed.

He peered about. A moment later the lightning lit up the calm stretch of the river and the broad lawns sloping down to it. Monsieur Dupont detected no form or movement—but with a startling shout, the manager bounded away from him across the lawns.

Monsieur Dupont blinked after him in astonishment.

He was alone again—in a new and even darker part of the endless garden.