Читать книгу The Light Beyond - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 4

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The three men found a table in the lounge which commanded a view of the departing guests, and the eyes of two of them scarcely ever wandered from the exit to the restaurant. They still conversed, but in a disconnected fashion, and under Mark’s manner there was always a vein of almost feverish impatience. At last the inevitable happened.

“They’re coming right along now,” the latter declared eagerly, “You’ll have to look alive, Raoul. The old man seems to be in a hurry.”

De Fontanay, with a little gesture of resignation, rose to his feet, and the two young men leaned forward, their eyes fixed upon the advancing pair. There was not the slightest personal resemblance between father and daughter. Felix Dukane was a short man, powerfully built, with a head large in proportion to his body, and a protruding under lip. He had masses of grey-black hair, a pallid complexion and cold, grey eyes, set, as he walked down the carpeted way from the restaurant, in a hard, unseeing stare. The girl by his side possessed without a doubt those insidious gifts of charm which, coupled with an exquisite physique alike defy description and disarm criticism. She was a trifle taller than her father, slim, with light brown hair, coiffured in the Italian fashion, hazel eyes, which looked about her with pleasant curiosity, the smooth, perfect complexion of youth and health, a mouth large, but wonderfully attractive, with indications of humour in its sensitive corners. Whilst her father’s one object seemed to be to get out of the place as speedily as possible, to look at no one, to remain unrecognised if possible, she, on the other hand, showed some disposition towards loitering, and was obviously taking in her surroundings with a certain amount of interest and pleasure. De Fontanay, summoning up all his courage, as he afterwards confessed, intercepted Dukane with a courteous bow, and outstretched hand.

“This is the first time, I think, Mr. Dukane, that I have had the pleasure of meeting you in London,” he remarked. “You will remember that we met at the French Embassy in Rome, and subsequently at the President’s week-end party at Rambouillet. My name is de Fontanay—Colonel Raoul de Fontanay.”

“I remember you, Colonel,” Dukane admitted, without rudeness, but certainly without enthusiasm.

“You will perhaps give me the great pleasure,” the other continued, “of presenting me to your daughter?”

The introduction was made, stiffly enough by Dukane, but accepted with obvious pleasure by the young lady. The three stood talking together pleasantly enough, yet even then the final issue of de Fontanay’s efforts on his friends’ behalf appeared to be in doubt. Felix Dukane’s manner had lost none of its brusqueness, and he showed distinct signs of a desire to escape. The two young men in the background sat and watched anxiously, conversing in nervous undertones.

“I am forced to acknowledge, Mark,” Dorchester confided, “that you have better taste than I gave you credit for. With one possible exception, I should say that Felix Dukane’s daughter is the most attractive young woman I have ever seen.”

“I guess that shows you don’t know what you’re talking about then,” was the gruff retort. “There couldn’t be an exception.”

Dorchester tapped a cigarette upon the table, and lit it.

“The times have gone by,” he answered, “when it would have been my duty to encase myself in unwieldy armour, mount a spirited dray horse and perform prodigies of valour with the most ineffectual weapon the mind of man ever conceived, to prove—Mark, they’re coming! Good old Raoul! He’s brought it off!”

De Fontanay had indeed succeeded, by the only strategy possible—by making a request and anticipating the reply. The girl had readily enough followed his lead. The enterprise was smoothly and successfully concluded.

“Mademoiselle,” de Fontanay said, “will you permit that I present to you my two friends—Lord Henry Dorchester, Mr. Van Stratton—Miss Dukane, Mr. Felix Dukane. I have persuaded Mr. and Miss Dukane to take coffee with us.”

Attentive waiters hurried up with chairs, and the little party subsided into a semicircle, the cynosure for many eyes as the identity of the small man with the big head, the “Mystery Millionaire” of finance began to be whispered about. Dukane responded to his host’s courteous attempts at conversation with cold monosyllables. He had the air of a man who is unwillingly submitting to a social act which he would have avoided if possible. It was Dorchester who first engaged the young lady’s attention. They talked for several moments of trifles. Then during a temporary lapse in the conversation, she turned with a flash of graciousness towards Mark, as though desirous of including him.

“You are an American?” she enquired.

“I am,” he answered, “although I am afraid not a very patriotic one. Most of my time is spent over on this side.”

“I was in New York last year,” she confided. “A very wonderful place! My father was immersed in business all the time, however, and I was a little dull. Tell me—your friend Lord Henry’s profession, I know; only last week I heard him speak in the House of Commons; and Colonel de Fontanay is of course a famous soldier—how do you interest yourself in life?”

For a moment, Mark was taken aback. The directness of the question, the friendly yet inquisitive regard of her bewildering eyes almost embarrassed him.

“I am afraid,” he confessed, “that I am rather what they call over here a ‘slacker.’ There are more of them on this side than in my country, as a rule. Of course, there was the War. Since then I haven’t done anything particular.”

“You play games, do you not? I have seen your name amongst the polo players. I think I saw you play once at Ranelagh.”

“It is quite likely,” he admitted.

“But when the season for games passes?” she persisted. “How do you spend your time then? You have still perhaps business affairs to attend to. In your country these become so absorbing that you men sometimes find leisure for little else.”

He shook his head.

“I know better than to attempt anything of the sort,” he confided. “Banking in Wall Street is rather too intricate an affair for an amateur to meddle with. When I left college, I went to Washington for a time. I had some idea of studying diplomacy. They sent me down to two places in South America, but I couldn’t seem to make good anyway. Then the War came, and since then—well, I’ve just drifted around.”

She had the air of beginning to lose interest in him. Mark noticed it, and sought desperately to re-establish himself.

“Of course,” he argued, “it’s all very well for Dorchester. He is living in his own country, and he has his own interests and the interests of his class to work for. For me there is nothing. America doesn’t need men of my kind, who have no commercial training. If I were to try, for instance, to manage my own affairs over there, it would simply mean that money would be wasted.”

“A somewhat indolent excuse,” she murmured disapprovingly. “Why not return to diplomacy?”

“I thought of it once,” he admitted.

She turned away, and addressed some remark to de Fontanay, whose gallant efforts to entertain Dukane had come momentarily to an end. Mark had a queer and disconcerting feeling that he had somehow fallen into disfavour with the one person in the world he was most anxious to conciliate. He watched her admiringly, the eloquent turn of her head, her white neck with its single row of beautiful pearls, her full, unbecarmined lips, the transparent, untouched complexion. He watched her smile, and found it adorable—a smile accompanied by the deepening of the fascinating little lines at the corners of her eyes. She was discussing with de Fontanay the poetry of a Russian whom they had both met in Paris, and for the first time Mark realised that she possessed, notwithstanding the precision of her speech, distinct traces of a foreign accent—an accent, however, which seemed to make her voice even more attractive. He leaned forward, and, taking his courage into his hands, addressed her father.

“You live in Paris, don’t you, sir?” he asked. “I remember once having your house in the Bois pointed out to me.”

“It is my headquarters,” Dukane admitted. “I have, however, a pied-à-terre in a good many places. Just now my affairs make it necessary that I stay some time in London.”

“You are spending the season here, you and your daughter?” Mark continued eagerly.

Dukane knocked the ash from the cigar which de Fontanay had persuaded him to light.

“I don’t know what you mean by the ‘season’,” he answered. “Social things do not interest me. I am here for another six weeks, or two months, until certain affairs in which I am concerned are concluded. When they are, I shall get away as soon as I can. The English climate and cooking are the worst in the world. What did you say your name was?”

“Van Stratton,” Mark replied, a little taken aback by the abruptness of the question.

“And you’re American? Are you connected in any way with the firm of Van Stratton and Arbuthnot of Wall Street?”

“My grandfather founded the business, I am the only Van Stratton left.”

“Your grandfather then,” Felix Dukane declared, “was one of the shrewdest men of his generation. You have still interests in the firm?”

“All my interests are in it,” Mark assented—“my financial ones, that is to say. I am not a banker myself though.”

Felix Dukane looked at him keenly—appraisingly, as Mark felt. There was something covert about the intensity of his regard.

“It is a pity,” he said. “I could give you good advice. Your people are still money-makers, but they are too conservative. Modern banking requires new methods.”

The girl turned suddenly back to Mark. She had apparently concluded her conversation with de Fontanay, who was leaning back in his chair with the satisfied air of one who has just produced a successful repartee.

“Colonel de Fontanay is too literary to be human,” she declared. “Are you a great reader, Mr. Van Stratton?”

“I am afraid not,” he confessed, a little gloomily, “and I am afraid that, except for one or two of my favourites, what I do read in a general way could scarcely be called literature.”

She concentrated upon him a regard which might almost have been termed critical. He was over six feet, with broad shoulders and long athletic body, with the blue eyes and fair hair of his Dutch ancestors, but little of their stolidity. His expression at the moment was certainly a little anxious and discontented, but he had by no means the appearance of a man lacking in intelligence. De Fontanay had bravely resumed his attempts at conversation with Dukane, a passing acquaintance had paused to speak to Dorchester. Mark and his companion were practically isolated.

“Should you very much resent a word of advice from a complete stranger?” she asked, dropping her voice a little.

“If you mean yourself, I should welcome it,” was the eager reply. “You see, if you took so much interest in me as to offer it, I should feel that after all we were not complete strangers. I don’t feel that way myself at all.”

She laughed softly. His intense earnestness redeemed his speech from any suggestion of impertinence.

“Very well then,” she continued, “I will speak to you not as a stranger, but as a friend. If, by any chance, the opportunity should come for you to take up some useful work—I do not mean wasting time in Bolivia or Ecuador or one of those terrible countries, but if at any time you should have a position offered you which meant a certain amount of responsibility, but which occupied some of your idle time, promise me not to refuse it.”

He was a little bewildered, but he did not hesitate.

“I won’t refuse anything,” he assured her. “If I am offered a job as Consul to the North Pole, or President of the United States, I’ll take either on if you wish me to.”

“Brave man!” she murmured, under her breath. “Don’t forget.”

She rose to her feet in response to an imperative gesture from her father, and after farewells, which the latter’s impatience restricted to the merest conventionalities, they took their leave. The three men resumed their seats.

“Well?” de Fontanay enquired, as he lit a fresh cigarette.

“She is just as wonderful as I knew she would be,” Mark declared fervently.

“She is the most attractive human being I have ever met,” Dorchester pronounced. “Ambitious, too,—no use for idlers. She is coming down to the House to hear me speak one day next week. I warn you, Mark, that if you are in earnest, you may possibly find in me a rival.”

There was a gleam of cynical amusement in de Fontanay’s eyes as he leaned back and laughed softly.

“I suppose in your way,” he mused, “you are both of you eligible enough partis. You, Henry, the son of a peer—second in succession, by-the-by, aren’t you?—and Mark here, a millionaire. All the same,” he went on, with a note of seriousness in his tone, “when Estelle Dukane makes up her mind to marry, her father could buy her a kingdom if he chose. If either of you two are in earnest, take my advice and forget it.”