Читать книгу Mysterious Mr. Sabin - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 17

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Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell was not at home to ordinary callers. Nevertheless when a discreet servant brought her Mr. Francis Densham’s card she gave orders for his admittance without hesitation.

That he was a privileged person it was easy to see. Mrs. Satchell received him with the most charming of smiles.

“My dear Francis,” she exclaimed, “I do hope that you have lost that wretched headache! You looked perfectly miserable last night. I was so sorry for you.”

Densham drew an easy chair to her side and accepted a cup of tea.

“I am quite well again,” he said. “It was very bad indeed for a little time, but it did not last long. Still I felt that it made me so utterly stupid that I was half afraid you would have written me off your visitors’ list altogether as a dull person. I was immensely relieved to be told that you were at home.”

Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughed gaily. She was a bright, blonde little woman with an exquisite figure and piquante face. She had a husband whom no one knew, and gave excellent parties to which every one went. In her way she was something of a celebrity. She and Densham had known each other for many years.

“I am not sure,” she said, “that you did not deserve it; but then, you see, you are too old a friend to be so summarily dealt with.”

She raised her blue eyes to his and dropped them, smiling softly.

Densham looked steadily away into the fire, wondering how to broach the subject which had so suddenly taken the foremost place in his thoughts. He had not come to make even the idlest of love this afternoon. The time when he had been content to do so seemed very far away just now. Somehow this dainty little woman with her Watteau-like grace and delicate mannerisms had, for the present, at any rate, lost all her attractiveness for him, and he was able to meet the flash of her bright eyes and feel the touch of her soft fingers without any corresponding thrill.

“You are very good to me,” he said, thoughtfully. “May I have some more tea?”

Now Densham was no strategist. He had come to ask a question, and he was dying to ask it. He knew very well that it would not do to hurry matters—that he must put it as casually as possible towards the close of his visit. But at the same time, the period of probation, during which he should have been more than usually entertaining, was scarcely a success, and his manner was restless and constrained. Every now and then there were long and unusual pauses, and he continuously and with obvious effort kept bringing back the conversation to the reception last night, in the hope that some remark from her might make the way easier for him. But nothing of the sort happened. The reception had not interested her in the slightest, and she had nothing to say about it, and his pre-occupation at last became manifest. She looked at him curiously after one of those awkward pauses to which she was quite unaccustomed, and his thoughts were evidently far away. As a matter of fact, he was at that moment actually framing the question which he had come to ask.

“My dear Francis,” she said, quietly, “why don’t you tell me what is the matter with you? You are not amusing. You have something on your mind. Is it anything you wish to ask of me?”

“Yes,” he said, boldly, “I have come to ask you a favour.”

She smiled at him encouragingly.

“Well, do ask it,” she said, “and get rid of your woebegone face. You ought to know that if it is anything within my power I shall not hesitate.”

“I want,” he said, “to paint your portrait for next year’s Academy.”

This was a master stroke. To have Densham paint her picture was just at that moment the height of Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell’s ambition. A flush of pleasure came into her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.

“Do you really mean it?” she exclaimed, leaning over towards him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I mean it,” he answered. “If only I can do you justice, I think it ought to be the portrait of the year. I have been studying you for a long time in an indefinite sort of way, and I think that I have some good ideas.”

Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughed softly. Densham, although not a great artist, was the most fashionable portrait painter of the minute, and he had the knack of giving a chic touch to his women—of investing them with a certain style without the sacrifice of similitude. He refused quite as many commissions as he accepted, and he could scarcely have flattered Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell more than by his request. She was delightfully amiable.

“You are a dear old thing,” she said, beaming upon him. “What shall I wear? That yellow satin gown that you like, or say you like, so much?”

He discussed the question with her gravely. It was not until he rose to go that he actually broached the question which had been engrossing all his thoughts.

“By the bye,” he said, “I wanted to ask you something. You know Harcutt?”

She nodded. Of course she knew Harcutt. Were her first suspicions correct! Had he some other reason for this visit of his?

“Well,” Densham went on, “he is immensely interested in some people who were at that stupid reception last night. He tried to get an introduction but he couldn’t find any one who knew them, and he doesn’t know the Princess well enough to ask her. He thought that he saw you speaking to the man, so I promised that when I saw you I would ask about them.”

“I spoke to a good many men,” she said. “What is his name?”

“Sabin—Mr. Sabin; and there is a girl, his daughter, or niece, I suppose.”

Was it Densham’s fancy or had she indeed turned a shade paler. The little be-jewelled hand, which had been resting close to his, suddenly buried itself in the cushions. Densham, who was watching her closely, was conscious of a hardness about her mouth which he had never noticed before. She was silent some time before she answered him.

“I am sorry,” she said, slowly, “but I can tell you scarcely anything about them. I only met him once in India many years ago, and I have not the slightest idea as to who he is or where he came from. I am quite sure that I should not have recollected him last night but for his deformity.”

Densham tried very hard to hide his disappointment.

“So you met him in India,” he remarked. “Do you know what he was doing there? He was not in the service at all, I suppose.”

“I really do not know,” she answered, “but I think not. I believe that he is, or was, very wealthy. I remember hearing a few things about him—nothing of much importance. But if Mr. Harcutt is your friend,” she added, looking at him fixedly, “you can give him some excellent advice.”

“Harcutt is a very decent fellow,” Densham said, “and I know that he will be glad of it.”

“Tell him to have nothing whatever to do with Mr. Sabin.”

Densham looked at her keenly.

“Then you do know something about him,” he exclaimed.

She moved her chair back a little to where the light no longer played upon her face, and she answered him without looking up.

“Very little. It was so long ago and my memory is not what it used to be. Never mind that. The advice is good anyhow. If,” she continued, looking steadily up at Densham, “if it were not Mr. Harcutt who was interested in these people, if it were any one, Francis, for whose welfare I had a greater care, who was really my friend, I would make that advice, if I could, a thousand times stronger. I would implore him to have nothing whatever to do with this man or any of his creatures.”

Densham laughed—not very easily. His disappointment was great, but his interest was stimulated.

“At any rate,” he said, “the girl is harmless. She cannot have left school a year.”

“A year with that man,” she answered, bitterly, “is a liberal education in corruption. Don’t misunderstand me. I have no personal grievance against him. We have never come together, thank God! But there were stories—I cannot remember them now—I do not wish to remember them, but the impression they made still remains. If a little of what people said about him is true he is a prince of wickedness.”

“The girl herself——?”

“I know nothing of,” she admitted.

Densham determined upon a bold stroke.

“Look here,” he said, “do me this favour—you shall never regret it. You and the Princess are intimate, I know: order your carriage and go and see her this afternoon. Ask her what she knows about that girl. Get her to tell you everything. Then let me know. Don’t ask me to explain just now—simply remember that we are old friends and that I ask you to do this thing for me.”

She rang the bell.

“My victoria at once,” she told the servant. Then she turned to Densham. “I will do exactly what you ask,” she said. “You can come with me and wait while I see the Princess—if she is at home. You see I am doing for you what I would do for no one else in the world. Don’t trouble about thanking me now. Do you mind waiting while I get my things on? I shall only be a minute or two.”

Her minute or two was half an hour. Densham waited impatiently. He scarcely knew whether to be satisfied with the result of his mission or not. He had learnt a very little—he was probably going to learn a little more, but he was quite aware that he had not conducted the negotiations with any particular skill, and the bribe which he had offered was a heavy one. He was still uncertain about it when Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell reappeared. She had changed her indoor gown for a soft petunia-coloured costume trimmed with sable, and she held out her hands towards him with a delightful smile.

“Céleste is wretchedly awkward with gloves,” she said, “so I have left them for you. Do you like my gown?”

“You look charming,” he said, bending over his task, “and you know it.”

“I always wear my smartest clothes when I am going to see my particular friends,” she declared. “They quiz one so! Besides, I do not always have an escort! Come!”

She talked to him gaily on the stairs, as he handed her into the carriage, and all the way to their destination, yet he was conscious all the time of a subtle change in her demeanour towards him. She was a proud little woman, and she had received a shock. Densham was making use of her—Densham, of all men, was making use of her, of all women. He had been perfectly correct in those vague fears of his. She did not believe that he had come to her for his friend’s sake. She never doubted but that it was he himself who was interested in this girl, and she looked upon his visit and his request to her as something very nearly approaching brutality. He must be interested in the girl, very deeply interested, or he would never have resorted to such means of gaining information about her. She was suddenly silent and turned a little pale as the carriage turned into the square. Her errand was not a pleasant one to her.

Densham was left alone in the carriage for nearly an hour. He was impatient, and yet her prolonged absence pleased him. She had found the Princess in, she would bring him the information he desired. He sat gazing idly into the faces of the passers-by with his thoughts very far away. How that girl’s face had taken hold of his fancy; had excited in some strange way his whole artistic temperament! She was the exquisite embodiment of a new type of girlhood, from which was excluded all that was crude and unpleasing and unfinished. She seemed to him to combine in some mysterious manner all the dainty freshness of youth with the delicate grace and savoir faire of a Frenchwoman of the best period. He scarcely fancied himself in love with her; at any rate if it had been suggested to him he would have denied it. Her beauty had certainly taken a singular hold of him. His imagination was touched. He was immensely attracted, but as to anything serious—well, he would not have admitted it even to himself. Liberty meant so much to him, he had told himself over and over again that, for many years at least, his art must be his sole mistress. Besides, he was no boy to lose his heart, as certainly Wolfenden had done, to a girl with whom he had never even spoken. It was ridiculous, and yet——

A soft voice in his ear suddenly recalled him to the present. Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell was standing upon the pavement. The slight pallor had gone from her cheeks and the light had come back to her eyes. He looked at her, irresistibly attracted. She had never appeared more charming.

She stepped into the carriage, and the soft folds of her gown spread themselves out over the cushions. She drew them on one side to make room for him.

“Come,” she said, “let us have one turn in the Park. It is quite early, although I am afraid that I have been a very long time.”

He stepped in at once and they drove off. Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughingly repeated some story which the Princess had just told her. Evidently she was in high spirits. The strained look had gone from her face. Her gaiety was no longer forced.

“You want to know the result of my mission, I suppose,” she remarked, pleasantly. “Well, I am afraid you will call it a failure. The moment I mentioned the man’s name the Princess stopped me.

“‘You mustn’t talk to me about that man,’ she said. ‘Don’t ask why, only you must not talk about him.’

“‘I don’t want to,’ I assured her; ‘but the girl.’”

“What did she say about the girl?” Densham asked.

“Well she did tell me something about her,” Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell said, slowly, “but, unfortunately, it will not help your friend. She only told me when I had promised unconditionally and upon my honour to keep her information a profound secret. So I am sorry, Francis, but even to you——”

“Of course, you must not repeat it,” Densham said, hastily. “I would not ask you for the world; but is there not a single scrap of information about the man or the girl, who he is, what he is, of what family or nationality the girl is—anything at all which I can take to Harcutt?”

Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell looked straight at him with a faint smile at the corners of her lips.

“Yes, there is one thing which you can tell Mr. Harcutt,” she said.

Densham drew a little breath. At last, then!

“You can tell him this,” Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell said, slowly and impressively, “that if it is the girl, as I suppose it is, in whom he is interested, that the very best thing he can do is to forget that he has ever seen her. I cannot tell you who she is or what, although I know. But we are old friends, Francis, and I know that my word will be sufficient for you. You can take this from me as the solemn truth. Your friend had better hope for the love of the Sphinx, or fix his heart upon the statue of Diana, as think of that girl.”

Densham was looking straight ahead along the stream of vehicles. His eyes were set, but he saw nothing. He did not doubt her word for a moment. He knew that she had spoken the truth. The atmosphere seemed suddenly grey and sunless. He shivered a little—he was positively chilled. Just for a moment he saw the girl’s face, heard the swirl of her skirts as she had passed their table and the sound of her voice as she had bent over the great cluster of white roses whose faint perfume reached even to where they were sitting. Then he half closed his eyes. He had come very near making a terrible mistake.

“Thank you,” he said. “I will tell Harcutt.”