Читать книгу Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7 - Karel Čapek, August Nemo, John Dos Passos - Страница 32

“So you will not?”

“A thousand times, no!”

They are standing facing each other are the speakers—one a beautiful, tall, graceful woman, with masses of rich gold hair coiled upon her noble head, and eyes whose light is like the turquoise gem, the other a middle-sized, handsome, good-looking man, whose dark eyes gleam with fury and disappointed passion.

We have seen them both before, this man and woman, seen them on more than one occasion; for it is not difficult to recognise in that evil-featured man the person of Lord Westray, or in that beautiful woman that of Speranza de Lara.

He has come here for no good purpose has the “wicked earl.” Ever since, on the Burton Flats, he had fallen across the lovely woman whose life he had made a desert, Lord Westray had been a prey to a consuming passion to regain that which he had lost. Twice in her life Speranza had defied him, and on each occasion he had had his revenge. The first was when, as a girl of seventeen, she had refused him, and he, through the instrumentality of his cruel mother, who had played on her love for her brothers, had forced her to become his wife. The second was when, in defiance of man’s laws, she had fled from his vile brutality and hateful presence, with the first and last love of her young life, poor Harry Kintore; and he, following up those two to the sunny land where they had sought a refuge, and where they asked for no other boon but to be allowed to live with and for each other, had shot down in her very presence the man to save whom she would have given a thousand lives of her own.

And now he is here, oblivious of all his past brutality, to insult her with yet another proposal, one more hideous than any he has ever made before. Consumed with passion for this woman, who had defied him, he has actually come to propose that she shall forget the past and remarry him!

Forget the past! Is it likely? Will the memory of her suffering childhood ever pass away? Will the recollection of her wedding day fade from her mind? Will the six years of torture as his wedded wife disappear like a dream? Above all, can she ever forget her first meeting with Harry Kintore, the heart’s awakening that came with it, or the terrible moment when, struck down at her feet, his dear eyes looked their love for the last time? Impossible.

He grinds his teeth with rage does Lord Westray as her clear, sad voice distinctly gives him his answer. He is racking his brain for a means of overcoming her, and forcing her once more to obey his will. The fact that she defies him, hates him, loathes him, has refused him, only arouses in him more madly than ever the desire to become possessed of her once again. Lord Westray possesses, in a heightened degree, in an aggravated form, the characteristic peculiar to all men, of desiring that which is either hard to get, or which denies itself to them, and which, if once obtained, fades in value in their eyes. It is Speranza’s resistance to his wishes that fires him with the fury of a wild animal to regain her.

“You shall repent this!” he mutters angrily. “Speranza, you should know better than to defy me. Have I not been a match for you twice? and, by God I if you do not do as I ask now I will be again.”

She shudders with horror as she hears his cold-blooded words, triumphing at his past deeds of brutality and crime. She pulls herself together, however. She is alone with him, and must keep him at bay. Speranza is no coward.

“I do not fear you,” she answers haughtily; “you cannot do me more evil than you have already. I am beyond the reach of your vengeance now. Nothing you can do can harm me!”

“I don’t know so much about that,” he replies savagely. “How about Hector D’Estrange?”

She starts, and the rich blood flushes to her face as she eyes him with evident terror. Can it be that he knows? that he will unveil the secret before—but no, it is impossible; she has it safe enough.

He notes the start, the crimson blush, and the look of terror, and he congratulates himself on having, by a chance shot, hit on the right point to cow her.

“You’re a fine person to play the prude and the proper,” he says, with a sneer. “They used to tell me that you were inconsolable over that ass Kintore, but the beauty of Hector D’Estrange appears to have effected a sudden cure. I congratulate you on your new conquest. You have aimed high. He is the rising man of his day, and you have thrown your net well to catch the golden fish. Are you not ashamed of yourself, however, woman,—you who are over the forties, to take up with a boy of twenty-one?”

She flushes again. Then he does not know? Thank God for that! How young she looks as she stands there in her unfading beauty, with a look in her blue eyes of contemptuous loathing. She will let him believe what he likes, so that he does not know the truth; that is all she desires to hide from him.

In pursuance of this desire she answers:

“Hector D’Estrange and I are friends. I am not ashamed to own it. Neither he nor I require your advice, however, as to how our friendship is to be conducted. And now I bid you leave me. I order you from my house, which I inhabit not by your charity.”

“No, but by the charity of Harry Kintore, you wanton!” he answers with an oath. “You knew pretty well what you were about when you got the fool to settle all his estates and money on you, which you now lavish on Hector D’Estrange, but——”

“Peace, devil! fiend in human shape!” she cries furiously, as she clenches her hands, and brings the right one down with a crash on the table beside her. He notices a flash on one of the fingers. All the others are ringless but this one, and on it sparkles two splendid diamonds and sapphires set deep in their .broad thick band of gold. He knows this ring of old. He saw it long ago, when she held the dying head of Harry Kintore in her hands, and he knows that it was the young man’s gift to her. That she should wear it, now that she has taken up with Hector D’Estrange, mystifies him.

He is about to reply, when the door of the room they are in opens, and Lord Westray finds himself face to face with Hector. He is a head and shoulders taller than the earl is this young man, and as he advances into the room the latter’s face falls slightly, and his fingers move nervously by his side. Like all bullies, Lord Westray is a coward, and doesn’t half fancy his position.

But there is no angry look in Hector D’Estrange’s eyes; only from their sapphire depths looks out a cold, calm expression of contempt.

“Lord Westray,” he remarks, in a voice impressive because of its very quietness, “for what reason have we the honour of your presence here? Allow me to inform you that this honour is not desired by Mrs. de Lara. Your brougham is at the door. I must request you to seek it.”

He says no more, but stands with the handle of the door in his hand, waiting for the earl to obey. This latter looks at him fiercely, the eyes of the two meet. Those of the bully and depraved coward cannot face the calm, disdainful look of Hector D’Estrange; they fall before it, and in another moment the earl is gone.

They listen to the wheels of the departing brougham as it rattles through the streets in the direction of South Kensington. As its echoes die away the young man turns to Speranza.

“Mother,” he exclaims, “has he been here to insult you? Ah, mother! God only knows the strain I put upon myself, or I would have shot him down where he stood, the brute, the fiend! I nearly lost control of myself, but I heard your last words, and understood what you were striving to hide from him. Thank God I did, or in a hasty moment I might have laid bare our secret.”

“And I, too, say thank God, Gloria. At one moment I fancied he was in possession of it, but I quickly found out that he was on another tack. Horrible as the idea was, it was better to let him foster it, than to give him a chance of learning the truth. Ah, Gloria dearest! if once the secret is in his hands, we need look for no mercy in that quarter.”

“I know it, mother,” answers Gloria, in other words Hector D’Estrange; for the reader must have had no difficulty in recognising in this latter, the beautiful girl who had made her vow to the wild sea waves, ten years previously on the sunny shores of the Adriatic, and who now, as Hector D’Estrange, is working out the accomplishment of that vow.

And she has worked well has Gloria de Lara, patiently and perseveringly, never losing an opportunity, never casting a chance aside. Her beauty and her genius have gone straight to the hearts of men, and she uses these gifts given her by God, not for vain glory and fleeting popularity, but in pursuit of justice and in furtherance of the one great aim of her life.

“Let us change the subject, my darling,” exclaims Speranza, with a shudder; “let us drive from our minds the thought of one so horrible and contemptible. Tell me, my precious child,” she continues, laying her hand on Gloria’s shoulder, and kissing her gently on the forehead, “how have you got on with the clubs today?”

“Excellently, mother. I came to tell you all about them, or I should not have been here until tomorrow,” answers Gloria, as she seats herself on a low stool at her mother’s feet.

It is the middle of May, the sun is shining brightly, and the sparrows are hopping and chirping merrily about in the square outside. The early green on the trees is as yet unclouded by the dust of London’s busy season, and all is fair, and soft, and young to look upon.

The large fortune and noble estates left to Speranza de Lara by young Harry Kintore have been well and wisely wielded by the woman, in whose heart the memory of her darling still shines as brightly as on the day he died. She has never misspent a farthing of the vast wealth that he confided to her care. It has been used in carrying out philanthropic works, alleviating suffering, and helping on the accomplishment of their child’s design, his child and hers.

They are busy over a new one just now. With her mother’s money at her command, Gloria, under the name of Hector D’Estrange, is establishing throughout London, and in the different large towns of Great Britain and Ireland, institutions where women and girls can meet each other, and for a mere nominal fee learn to ride, to shoot with gun and rifle, to swim, to run, and to indulge in the invigorating influences of gymnastics and other exercises, calculated to strengthen and improve the physique of those taking part therein. Classes, too, technical and otherwise, for the education of girls and women on an equality with boys and men, as well as free libraries, form part of these institutions, each of which, as it is founded, becomes crowded to overflowing.

In connection with these institutions Gloria has lately set on foot clubs, the members of which she is forming into volunteer companies, who are drilled by the hand of discipline into smartness and efficiency. The movement has been enthusiastically taken up by the women of Great Britain and Ireland, thousands of whom have been enrolled in these volunteer forces. Of course Hector D’Estrange has his enemies. The jealous and the narrow-minded; the old fogies who would have a great wrong continue for ever, rather than fly in the face of prejudice to right it; the women who love their degradation and hug their chains; the men who think the world must be coming to an end if women are to be acknowledged as their equals, have all fought tooth and nail against the splendid idea and the practical conception of Hector D’Estrange. Ridicule, abuse, calumny, false testimony, have been hurled against his giant work. They have each and all failed to disturb or harm it, for its foundation is built on the rock of justice, of right, and of nature.

“Well, mother,” continues the girl, “we have had a great consultation today. All the details for a big review have been discussed. We shall want two good years more to get everything efficiently arranged, when I calculate that Hector D’Estrange will be able to bring into the field quite 100,000 well-drilled troops. But I am in no hurry yet; there is still much to be done. And now I have some more news to give you, mother. I have been invited to stand by the Douglasdale division of Dumfriesshire for Parliament, and to contest the seat when Mr. Reform resigns. I saw Archie Douglasdale today; he has promised to give me all his support. And what do you think, mother? Why, his sister, Lady Flora Desmond, has joined our new club. It is to be called the Desmond Lodge, and I have put her in command of it.”

“She will be a great help to you, Gloria,” answers Speranza. “From all you have told me of her, she is the right sort in the right place.”

“She is indeed, mother. Although I have many a good and true lieutenant thoroughly in touch with my ideas in our volunteer force, there is not one that can come up to Lady Flora. She will be a mountain of help to me, and I know I can trust her, I could trust her even with our secret.”

“Oh! never divulge that, Gloria.”

“Not I, mother! It was only an allegory, to give you an idea of my high opinion of her. But, till the right time comes, our secret will be with me as silent as the grave.”

They talk on, busy with their plans, hopeful of the future, and what it is to bring, do these two women. The afternoon flits by, the chirp of the sparrows grows dull, the sun is sinking aslant the roofs of the opposite houses, the evening is creeping on apace. Gloria de Lara rises from her seat, and throws her arms around Speranza’s neck.

“I must go now, mother,” she says gently. “I wish I could stay, but I have an engagement. Good-night, my precious mother. Kiss Gloria before she goes.”

“God bless you, my child,” answers the mother, as she presses the girl to her heart; “God bless you, and keep you prospering in your work, my valiant young Hector D’Estrange.”

And the girl passes out from her mother’s presence into the silent square. She is echoing Speranza s prayer, and is pulling herself together, for out of that mother’s presence she has her part to play. She is no longer Gloria de Lara, but popular, successful Hector D’Estrange.

There is yet another scene at which we must glance before this closes. Let us enter Lord Westray’s house in Grosvenor Square. He is in the drawing-room pacing up and down, his face dark with anger and passion. A footman enters, bearing on a massive silver salver a tiny scented bijou note. He hands the missive respectfully to his lordship, who takes it impatiently.

“The bearer is to wait for an answer, my lord.”

“Answer be d——d!” begins Lord Westray; but suddenly recollecting himself, he continues, “Very well, Walter, come up when I ring.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The servant retires. His face is very grave, but it relaxes into a leer as he closes the door.

“‘Spec’s the old un’s rather tired of her by now. Gives her another week before they sez good-morning to each other,” he soliloquises to himself as he goes downstairs. As he does so. Lord Westray opens the note. It is from Lady Manderton, and runs as follows:—

“Dearest old Potsie,—Have got a ripping little supper on to-night. Man’s away, and we will have some fun. Have asked several kindred spirits. Shall look for you at ten.

“Your ever-devoted ‘Dodo.’”

“I can’t go,” he mutters. “Hang the woman, I’m sick of her! She was all very well a little while ago, but nothing will satisfy me but Speranza now. I will have her or nobody; and if I don’t have her, I will have what’s next best, revenge.”

He writes a note hastily. It is to excuse himself. He has an awful headache, and cannot come.

Lady Manderton gets the note a quarter of an hour later, and bites her lip as she reads it. “Never mind,” she says quietly, “he sha’n’t have another chance. My next man is Spicer. He’s rich, he’s good-looking, he’s awfully in love, and he’ll be very useful. He’ll do.”

She sits down and writes another note. It is addressed to the Hon. Amias Spicer, Grenadier Guards. She sends him the same sort of Invitation which she sent to Lord Westray.

It is not long before an answer comes back. Amias Spicer is in the seventh heaven. He will be sure to come.

And at ten o’clock he comes punctually. Poor young fool!