Chapter 2

It was one of the great moments in Lionel's life when he handed her into
the prosaic vehicle. From the chemist's shop to the cab was only a few
feet, but for that paltry space the young man felt as a king must feel
when he makes a royal progress abroad. There was no cheering from the
crowd that had gathered, hoping for blood, or at least bandages; but the
whispers ("That's him! That's him! Torfs! He's all right!" etc.)
thrilled him with a sense of self-importance to which he had long been a
stranger. He found it a little difficult to refrain from raising his hat
and bowing his thanks to the kindly creatures. As for the lady, she
walked on air and seemed unconscious of an audience.

The cab was reached all too soon. Lionel waved aside a cloud of would-be
helpers, and with a sigh of misery opened the door. The lady got in; but
just as he was on the point of shutting himself off from every hope, she
leaned forward.

"There is room for two!" she breathed.

It was a fine thing for him that his hand was upon the door, for the
invitation shook him as the wind the rushes. The crowd, the pavement,
even the gross material substance of the constable, reeled before him.
He heard but dimly the voice of the chauffeur asking whither he was to
drive. "To Heaven!" he muttered, and then recklessly, "Or hell, if you
like!" The chauffeur looked anxiously at him, fearing he had suffered
mentally from his exertions. Lionel caught the suspicion in his eye and
steadied himself. "I beg your pardon," he said brokenly; "I was
repeating some poetry of my childhood--_Paradise Lost_--Milton, you
know. Can't imagine what put it in my head. Drive round and round the
park."

"Which park?" asked the man gruffly.

"The farthest and biggest," said Lionel, and clambered in.

They drove for several minutes without a word being spoken. Lionel was
so amazed by the aptness and desirability of the adventure that he could
not utter a word. He could only think, "What a perfectly topping girl!
How will it end? What shall I do--say--think? She is the most charming
creature I have met; she invites a kiss--might I?... Be careful, Lionel!
Your fortune is at stake! The secretaryship! Mrs. Barker and her rent!
A false step would ruin all! Besides, she is such a dear ..." These and
a hundred other fancies flickered through his brain.

The strange lady was silent, too. It may have been that she felt she had
been a little imprudent in her invitation to the cavalier, hero though
he was. Leaning back against the cushion, she gazed pensively out of the
window at the streets and traffic, lost in thought. Her companion stared
fixedly at the stolid back of the chauffeur: that, at least, was real
and a corrective.

It was the lady who spoke first, and with a sympathetic engaging accent,
nicely calculated to stir the most sluggish blood.

"Well?" she said.

Lionel awoke from his trance and turned. "Ah!" he murmured, and seized
her hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it with a passionate
reverence. "Ah!" he said again, and "Ah!" punctuating the exclamations
with tender salutes.

"You should not do that," reproved the lady, though her voice betrayed
neither astonishment nor indignation. "It is foolish." She laughed
musically.

"Foolish!" echoed Lionel with a fine contempt. "Madam, it is anything
but that. If this be foolishness, then youth and joy and a careless
heart are folly, and woman is folly----"

"I thought that men were agreed upon that," she said.

"Cynics and pedagogues may hold the heresy," admitted Lionel, "but not
the happy, the young and the wise."

"Your youth and happiness are patent," she retorted, "but how am I to be
sure of your wisdom?"

He laughed.

"If you accept my youth and gaiety, I have good hopes of convincing you
of that."

She withdrew her hand from his ardent clasp, as if he had been too
presumptuous, or at least premature. Lionel cursed himself for a coxcomb
and hastened to make his peace.

"You are not angry?" he asked anxiously. "I have not offended you----?"

"No," she said, after an infinitesimal pause. "I am ... not ... angry."

There was a query in her tone that restored his self-confidence, a
quality of which he had usually good store. With a resolute movement he
took her in his arms. Possibly she was too amazed to protest; certainly
at first she made not the least resistence to the onset. It was not
until his lips touched hers that she gave a little cry as of shame. "No,
no!" she pleaded. "You must not ... my husband ..."

Lionel was a man of the world, but as chance would have it, he was a man
of honor, too. He dropped the lady like a hot coal at the appalling
word, and sat back rigid in his own corner of the cab. His companion,
mastered by emotion, covered her face with her hands. Presently she
peeped between her fingers and repeated his words, almost his accent.

"You are ... not ... angry?"

"I am never angry with a woman," he replied; but the lie was obvious.
She laid a soft hand upon his arm.

"You have not told me your name yet," she murmured. "I must always
cherish in my memory a brave man who is not too brave to be a
gentleman."

He moved uneasily, reflecting that _noblesse_ sometimes finds it
difficult to _oblige_.

"I am called Lionel Mortimer."

"I am called Beatrice Blair. Lionel ..." she went on with a reflective
sweetness, and he started as if stung. Her hand restrained while it
aroused him. "No: you must not mind that. I call you Lionel
because"--she turned aside as if struggling with her feelings--"I am a
mother. My little boy is called--was called Lionel."

"I am sorry," he said sincerely. "Go on."

"You must think hardly of me." He shook his head. "Yes, you must--it is
only natural. But I should like you to know the reason why I asked you
to----"

By this time Lionel was in a very good humor with himself. Warned by his
recent heroism and virtue, flattered by the interest shown in him by
this delightful creature, he was prepared for anything.

"I never ask a woman for a reason," he said, smiling. "I have the most
complete faith."

"How old are you?" she asked; and when he answered "Twenty-seven," she
laughed.

They drove in silence for a space; presently she asked what time it was.
He put his hand to his pocket and then withdrew it. She had observed the
action--"Your pocket has been picked?"

"No," he said frankly. "As a matter of fact, I pawned my watch a week
ago."

"Then you are poor!" she cried impulsively. "Oh! I beg your pardon,--I
did not mean----"

Lionel was never disconcerted by his lack of means, and the chuckle was
perfectly honest as he replied, "Distinctly poor. I am glad to think I
can still create an illusion of wealth in an artificial light, but
really I am worth very little."

"You do not mind?" she said, her eyes dancing.

"I admit," he said, "that I should prefer to be well off. But, being
poor, I see no use in making myself unhappy. I should prefer to pay half
a guinea for a stall rather than a shilling for the gallery. Still, I
contrive pretty tolerably to enjoy the play."

"You are a philosopher," she approved.

"A poor man can't afford to be anything else."

After a pause she said, "It must be getting late. Will you please tell
the man to drive to the Macready Theater?--the stage-door."

He opened the window, smiling to himself. "An actress!" he thought; "the
young man's dream of an adventure! This is absurdly conventional." After
directing the chauffeur, he sat back, wondering what the end would be,
content to wait on fortune. The lady, too, did not speak again until
they had almost reached their destination. Then she took a purse from
her satchel and said with friendly good-humor, "This is my frolic, and I
wish to pay for it. Please!"

Lionel was too well-bred to interpose bourgeois objections. Besides, it
was a case of necessity: his sixpence-ha'penny had been burning a hole
in his pocket for the last ten minutes.

"Fair lady," he said lightly, "I would if I could, but I can not. Five
shillings will be more than enough."

She gave him half a sovereign, and he wished he had been a street arab
to whom she could have said, "And keep the change." This, however, was
clearly impossible, nor did it appear to enter the lady's head. After he
had paid the man she received the balance with a careless gravity. He
raised his hat.

"You are not going?" she asked in surprise.

"Unless I can be of further service."

"But that is why I have brought you here! You have not heard my reason
yet, and you must--at least in justice to myself. This is only the
beginning: you can be of the greatest service if you will. Come!"

Lionel followed her through the stage-door. Adventure beckoned, and he
was not the man to disobey the seductive finger. True, the lady had a
husband--a scurvy thought--but he had proved himself as strong as she.
And she was deucedly pretty.

They passed the janitor, who touched his hat to the lady, and went along
a passage. Then up a flight of stairs and down another corridor, where
sundry couples were lounging and chatting between their entrances. It
was evidently a costume play, and the sight of doublets, rapiers and
helmets was a pleasant thing after the drabness of the threshold.
Illusion again threw her veil over the crudities of life; romance
sounded the horn of hope and hallooed Lionel to the pursuit.

The lady stopped suddenly before a door. This she opened and entered the
room beyond. Lionel followed, closed the door, and looked about him. He
was no stranger to the regions "behind," for in his younger days he had
been the friend of many actors and actresses not a few. With the
dressing-rooms of the men he was well acquainted,--those dingy
color-washed chambers, lighted by flaring gas, divided by racks for
dresses, equipped at times with but the washing-basin, stifling of
atmosphere, with little room to turn about in. In his younger days, as
has been observed, he had savored the delights of these unromantic
barracks, and had thoroughly enjoyed the experience; now he was blase.

Of the women's dressing-rooms he was ignorant, but in truth he was far
from curious. He supposed they were something of a replica of what he
had seen already,--four or five creatures herded in a bare loose-box, in
the intervals of painting and dressing, engaged with talk of frills or
scandal. The private dressing-rooms of those great creatures, the
leading men and ladies, were still a sealed book. He had never known
(oh, horrid thought!) a "lead," and he surveyed the present room with
interest.

There was little to reward him, for it was a very ordinary room, quietly
furnished with two or three easy chairs, a dressing-table covered with
"making-up" apparatus, a number of photographs scattered about in
various coigns of vantage, a wall-paper of a warm terra-cotta tint, a
soft carpet to correspond. A brass curtain-rod divided the room in two,
but the curtain was not drawn. "Will you sit down?" said the hostess; "I
must leave you for a moment. Try that chair in the corner,--it is the
best. And do smoke--the cigarettes are close to you on that little
table."

With a swift movement she pulled the curtain along its rod and
disappeared behind it. There followed a slight clicking as if she was
switching on more light; then a soft rustling and the sound of her voice
humming an air from _Carmen_. Lionel obediently lighted a cigarette and
patiently awaited events.

In less than ten minutes she drew the curtain and stood before him
again. But now she was a different creature. Her Bond Street costume had
disappeared, the twentieth-century had gone. The piquant head was
covered only with the dark masses of hair that gleamed seductively. She
was clad in a sort of peignoir, a loose flowing robe of Oriental
texture, crimson of hue, with dull gold braiding and tassels. Her face
was rouged and powdered, but in the brilliant electric glare it seemed
neither out of keeping nor meretricious. As she stood, holding the drawn
curtain with one hand, she looked as if she had stepped straight out of
the pages of the _Arabian Nights_.

"Do you like it?" she asked carelessly, sure of the effect. Poor Lionel,
on most occasions ready of tongue, who took a pride in never showing
surprise, could only murmur "Admirable!" With this, however, she seemed
content, and sat down in a convenient chair.

"Luckily, it is a straight make-up," she said, taking a cigarette and
lighting it. "As a rule I use grease-paint, but to-night I was in a
hurry and made-up dry. I want to talk. I am not on for a while, and my
dress can be slipped on in five minutes. I mean to tell you as briefly
as I can my history. It is your due."

Lionel made a noble gesture of dissent. "I am sure," he said
chivalrously, "it is all it should have been--"

She interrupted with some acerbity. "That is not my reason. I have
nothing either to excuse or condone. But as I have already put you to
considerable trouble, and mean (if you are willing to help, me) to put
you to still more, it is but fair that you should know all."

Lionel bowed as gracefully as he could.

"I will make it as short as I can," she continued. "There is much that
is strange and improbable in it, but I beg you to keep silent and
forbear to question me until the end. I was born in a little village on
the southeast coast. I was a twin, the other child being a sister, the
replica of myself. My mother died when I was only two years old. When I
was seventeen I was kidnaped by a tribe of Rumanian gipsies who wished
to be revenged on my father. He had prosecuted some of them for
poaching on his land. I was smuggled to the coast, and then across to
the continent.

"I do not mean to waste time in lingering over details immaterial to my
purpose. Were I writing a book I could fill a volume with the strange
incidents of my abduction and wanderings. But as time is short I will
come to the point at once. We journeyed by slow stages across the
continent, and of course I was jealously guarded the whole time. My
English dress was burned, my skin stained a brownish hue. Whenever
observation threatened I was immured in a small black hole, made at the
end of one of the caravans by a false partition. The police failed to
trace me, for the gipsies had been cunning enough to stay some weeks in
England after my capture to throw my relatives off the scent, keeping a
strict watch upon me. So with this inadequate resume you must realize
that we have passed through Germany, Austria, Rumania, Bulgaria and
Rumelia. We crossed the Turkish frontier, and I still had no plan of
escape. Oh, yes! I had tried--once! The threats they used on my
detection were more than enough to prevent me trying a second time.

"At last we reached Constantinople, where we stayed a night in a huge
caravansary. I was too well watched to be able to write a letter. The
next evening I was sold to a Turkish officer of the sultan's body-guard.
Blindfolded and gagged, I was put into a kind of sedan-chair under cover
of darkness and carried to his palace. I was escorted to a fine suite of
apartments, furnished in the eastern manner, but lit with electric
light. By this time I was so inured to tribulation that I slept
peacefully the whole night.

"The next morning the lord of the household arrived. He salaamed
profoundly and plunged at once into the business of the day. 'Fair
lady,' he began--and I was surprised at his excellent English and
supreme courtesy--'believe me when I say that I regret your sufferings.
But as I am not the man to beat about the bush, I make bold to inform
you, with all possible respect and determination, that you are destined
to become my wife.'

"I was not unprepared for this, but replied firmly that I would never
marry any one against my will. I added that I was a British subject, and
that as soon as my plight was known I should be rescued and vengeance
exacted.

"He laughed pleasantly. 'This is not England,' he said, 'and you will
never be rescued. Let me put the matter plainly. I have bought you to
satisfy a whim. I have long wished for an English wife, because I
happen to admire English women more than any others. I have made efforts
to contract an alliance by orthodox methods, but have not succeeded. Set
your mind at rest, however; I intend no violence against your lovely
person. If you refuse me, you will remain a prisoner in a gilded cage,
but no harm shall come to you.'

"'But why----' I began. He waved his hand.

"'Because I could wish that you might learn to love me. At present I can
not expect it; for the future, who knows? I am a bachelor by choice--you
need have no western fears of polygamy. I am rich, young and powerful.
And I hope that you will find out that, though of another civilization,
I can fulfil your idea of a gentleman. For the present your jailer and
lover bids you farewell.'

"He left me in a state of stupefaction. For some days after this I saw
nothing of him. I was treated with the utmost respect, as if I were
mistress of the household, but I was a prisoner. I was allowed to walk
in the spacious high-walled garden; but devoted slaves were close at
hand to prevent my communicating with the outer world.

"After a week had elapsed, Lukos--for that was my master's name--began
to pay regular visits to my chamber. He exerted himself to the utmost to
interest and charm, but as yet he never mentioned love. He would talk of
a thousand things--books, philosophy, the drama, even of fashion--and
being most versatile and accomplished, I found him excellent company. I
did not feel much resentment, for I had begun to learn the world and
understand his point of view, but I was inflexibly opposed to a marriage
by force. I was resolved to die a captive, if necessary, rather than
yield.

"This went on for two years. You start? It is true. No breath of my
imprisonment reached the embassy--much less my home. For a captive, my
life was easy, and during the long months my hopes had died, though my
determination was as English and stubborn as ever. Lukos was equally
persistent in maintaining his original attitude--gentle, persuasive,
polite, though now he often urged his suit. I admit that in other
circumstances I might have yielded, but pride kept me strong.

"But I must hurry on--"

As she said these words there was a knock, and a dresser entered.

"Twenty minutes, Miss Blair," she said, without a glance at Lionel.

"More than enough," said the strange lady, but she rose as she spoke.
"You will stay to hear the end, Mr. Mortimer? I am on for most of this
act, but if you find it interesting, please stay and smoke. You must
excuse me."

"By all means," said Lionel, rising. "Shall I--?"

He looked toward the door. "Oh, no!" she replied, and drew the curtain
once more. Then she and the dresser disappeared behind it. A brief
interval elapsed and she came forth dressed to play her part. She threw
him a bright smile as he sprang to the door. "You must theorize till I
come again," she said cheerfully, and he smiled back. The dresser
followed her mistress, and he was left alone.