Читать книгу The Kingdom of Earth - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

CHAPTER II

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"IF I had not suddenly remembered, and bowed to you," the girl remarked, "I suppose you would have gone away without a word?"

"I myself," the man answered, with some slight hesitation, "was not quite sure."

"Then you ought to have been—considering how nice I was to you at St. Moritz," the girl declared. "But, then, I think I should have been nice to any one who could teach me to waltz. Do you remember those beautiful clear mornings, with the sunshine blazing down upon us, and the music, and that wonderful black ice? I used to think that little skating-rink, with the mountains all around, was the most perfect' place on earth."

"It was very beautiful," he answered. "Did you go this year?"

She shook her head. "My aunt thought that she couldn't stand it, so we went to Bordighera instead. By the by," she added, turning to the elderly lady by her side, "you remember Mr. Peters? He was at St. Moritz two years ago."

Mrs. Pellisier bowed a little dubiously. "I am very glad to meet Mr. Peters again," she said.

"My aunt," Grace Pellisier continued, smiling at him, "has been making spasmodic attempts to chaperon me during the last few years. Now, however, she is finally giving it up. She sails for America to-morrow, and is going to leave me to my own devices. No wonder, aunt," she added, turning to her companion, "that you don't remember Mr. Peters at St. Moritz. He was a most mysterious person there."

"I wonder why you thought that?" he asked.

"Well, you were staying in the Kulm," she replied, "but one never saw you in the dining-room or in the lounge. I never saw you in the hotel at all, in fact. You were always out skiing on the mountains, or skating. And then you disappeared quite suddenly. The mysterious Mr. Peters, they used for call you."

"I was summoned away unexpectedly," he remarked. "For the rest, I did not go there to make acquaintances. I had a private room."

"Superior person," she laughed. "What did you go there for, then?"

"The climate—and to escape from an uncomfortable situation," he answered.

"Do you know that I have seen you once since then?" she asked.

He looked at her quickly. She met his eyes and was suddenly a little afraid of him. Certainly there was nothing kindly in his expression. "Where?" he asked.

His eyes held hers. There was something compelling in his monosyllable. She would have liked to delay her answer, but she knew that she was powerless to do so. The man's insistence was irresistible.

"I saw you driving from the President's reception in Paris once," she answered. "You were coming out of the Tuileries, and you had a soldier on either side of your carriage. That was why I was so surprised to see—and to recognize—you!"

"It sounds as though I were under arrest," he remarked grimly.

"It looked more like a guard of honour," she answered.

"Then it certainly was not I," he said. "You come often to this place?" he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

"We are here for the first time," she answered. "My aunt does not care much for restaurants, but Sir Gilbert Ferringhall is an old friend, and this is by way of being a farewell dinner."

"Where have you been living during the last two years?" he asked.

"In America some of the time," she answered. "Earning my living at the Empress Theatre since then."

"But you are not American?" he asked.

"No more than you are English," she answered, smiling.

He seemed struck by the openness of her retort. "How do you know that I am not English?" he asked.

"Little things," she answered, "and some inspiration."

"My mother was an Englishwoman," he answered.

"Your mother only! And your name is Peters!"

He smiled. His eyes swept the girl's face. For the first time he realized, perhaps, that she was astonishingly beautiful. "Peters," he said, "is not my name."

"You called yourself that at St. Moritz," she reminded him.

"It suited me to," he answered.

"And now?" she asked.

"It suits me to remain Mr. Peters."

"Even to your friends?" she asked, dropping her voice. He smiled. "I have none," he answered.

She moved her fan a little, and the words which reached him from the back of it were almost whispered. "You might have," she murmured.

He looked at her deliberately. "I might find people who would call themselves my friends," he said, "but their friendship would scarcely be likely to survive the discovery of who and what I am."

"You do not really believe that," she murmured.

"I do," he answered calmly.

She leaned a little toward him. Her hand flashed out for a moment only, but in that moment it seemed to gather into a common focus the crowd of loungers by whom they were surrounded. They were suddenly resolved into a type, these women in their elaborate gowns and elaborately coiffured hair, shining with jewels, the whole gallery of their charms at work to its ancient end. The men, too, came under its influence, the men, pleased with their dinner, with themselves, with their womankind, or some one else's womankind, tolerant, fatuous, satisfied with their appeasement of a purely earthly hunger. There was no scorn in the girl's gesture, nor in her looks. Yet the man at her side understood. He understood, too, that she understood, and something new was aroused in him.

"This is the world," she said, "which presses upon us always, intolerably. Is crime itself much worse? Why should you not have friends?"

There was without doubt something new in the man's face; its slow immovability seemed kindled into a certain responsiveness as he met her eyes. "Have you any idea who I am?" he asked abruptly.

"None," she answered. "I only wish to know when you wish to tell me. I—"

Ferringhall had approached with a murmured word, and the stranger at once rose from his seat. The girl introduced the two men.

"This is Mr. Peters," she said, "Sir Gilbert Ferringhall. Mr. Peters taught me to waltz at the skating-rink at St. Moritz two years ago. I told you that I was sure we had met before."

"Mr. Peters's face was familiar to me, too," Ferringhall said. "Haven't I also come across you somewhere?"

"Not to my knowledge," was the quiet answer. "I am afraid that I have taken your chair. You must allow me to say good-evening."

"Please don't disturb yourself," Ferringhall said. "The waiter can bring another."

"Don't go," the girl said softly.

Mr. Peters bowed an unmistakable adieu. "You are very good," he said. "As a matter of fact, I had forgotten for a moment that I have an appointment which is already overdue. I am pleased to have met you, Sir Gilbert. Your name is well known to me. I hope that some day," he added, bowing over the girl's fingers, "I may have the pleasure of another skate with you."

"Won't you come to Prince's one afternoon—or come to the theatre and see me?" she asked a little eagerly. "I am quite a successful actress now, you know."

He smiled, and seemed about to ask a question. Then he changed his mind. "You are very kind," he answered. "I shall be very pleased."

He left them after all a little abruptly, and the girl's eyes followed him intently as he passed along the carpeted way, erect, unbending, the cynosure of many eyes, owing to his height and the uncommon quality of his good looks. Then she turned to Ferringhall.

"Well, did you find out?" she asked.

"Nothing," he answered. "The young cubs actually had the cheek to lie to me. Vlasto told me that their bow was a mistake, they had thought that he was some one else. Still, you have discovered for yourself."

She smiled a little doubtfully.

"I have discovered," she said, "that his name is Peters."

* * *

The third meeting was scarcely a meeting at all. Every one was a little nervous at the theatre; only a few hours before the performance some one had telephoned from Buckingham Palace that the royal box would be required. The play was a new one, the dialogue difficult. An extra prompter was put on. Grace Pellisier alone remained unmoved. It was not until the curtain went down upon the first act that she even glanced toward the royal party. Then for a moment her inimitable composure seemed to leave her. She barely repressed a start, and a ridiculous pain caught her heart. In the place of honour, and in a uniform ablaze with decorations, sat Mr. Peters! She recovered herself and left the stage. In the wings she met the manager.

"Mr. Felce," she said, "who is the guest in the royal box to-night?"

"The Crown Prince of Bergeland, Miss Pellisier," he answered. "Arrived this morning on a four-days' visit. Fine-looking chap, isn't he?"

"Arrived this morning," she repeated, scarcely conscious of what she said.

"Sure! It was all in the paper. King met him at Victoria. I saw the soldiers as I came up. Say, Miss Pellisier, what a nerve you've got!" he continued admiringly. "You were the only one who wasn't a bit shaky."

"Nevertheless," Miss Pellisier said, "I should like a glass of water."

The manager darted away, and Grace walked slowly to her dressing-room. If this were the Crown Prince of Bergeland, who arrived on Monday morning, who was Mr. Peters, and what was he doing at the Savoy Hotel on Sunday night?