The Masque of Love/Chapter 8

HE Hon. John Monkhouse, M.P., sat at the head of the small table with its brilliant burden of heavy-scented flowers and appeared to listen attentively. The woman on his right was noted for her epigrams, and from time to time  a smile of subtle appreciation flickered about the well-cut, repellent mouth, but he himself added very little to the general conversation. His attitude of close interest hid the fact, however,—from all save Gilbert Haig. Once or twice the eyes of the two men had crossed, and the first time Monkhouse had raised himself from his lethargy to fling himself into the vortex of sparkling small talk, and the second he had been content to sit back, returning the stare of the younger man's pale eyes with a satirical smile of challenge. So intent was Haig on his undisguised observation of his host that he forgot his partner, and her touch on his arm caused him a start of annoyance.

“I say, Gibby, who on earth is that ugly brute sitting over there? I seem to know his face, but I can't place him. Do you know?”

Haig glanced round over his shoulder and then grinned at his vivacious companion, whose hard-fought battle against oncoming middle age and determined efforts to entangle him in her fading fascinations usually caused him merely an ill-natured amusement.

“I should hope you couldn't place him, dear girl,” he said mockingly. “He's not for youth and beauty—in fact, I doubt if any woman, youthful or otherwise, would care to number him among her acquaintances. But don't look round again or you'll be drawing our host's attention and that wouldn't be tactful. It's his brother, Brian Monkhouse.”

“Brian!” The lady's carefully penciled brows frowned reflectively. “I don't quite remember—”

“No? Before your time, eh? Horrid scandal. Behaved like a blackguard to a girl in his brother's constituency and it all came out on the eve of the election. Nearly did for poor John. Not on speaking terms with him now.”

“And the girl?”

“Drowned herself,” was the terse answer.

At that moment the dinner-party broke up, and Haig, under the pretext of lost gloves, lingered behind his companions. As John Monkhouse's frail figure disappeared into the vestibule Haig discovered his gloves in his pocket and for the first time appeared to notice the lonely figure at a side table. He crossed over and held out his hand.

“Why, my dear fellow, just spotted you. How's the world?” Then, in a lower tone: “Pretty awkward, eh?”

“Not for me,” was the grimly amused answer.

Haig laughed.

“You've got nerve, I must say. By the way, it's Tuesday, Monkhouse. You've spoken to—to Margaret?”

“I left that to you.”

“H'm—yes. Well, I did speak. I explained the whole thing to her and she was damned reasonable—as cool as yourself. She said she'd think it over and write. I've not much fear—she saw my points too well—but for everybody's sake you'd better bring a little pressure to bear. I must have things fixed—settlements—and all before our contracts go up or—”

Monkhouse pressed out his cigarette and beckoned to the waiter.

“I quite understand,” he said. “You shall know to-morrow. In the meantime, your friends are waiting. Consider your reputation, my dear Haig.”

The young man threw an anxious glance at the vestibule.

“Well, perhaps you're right. Good night. Remember what I said.”

He hurried off, and Monkhouse, having paid his bill, made his way out of the restaurant. Half an hour later the big limousine had stopped outside his house and the doors had opened instantly to receive him. He glanced at Andrews' impassive face.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Margaret's better, sir.”

“Good. Tell her—tell her I should like to see her.”

A flicker of surprise passed over the carefully drilled features.

“Yes, sir. In the library?”

Monkhouse nodded, and without removing his hat and coat entered the great room dimly lit by the reflections of the log fire. Andrews, following noiselessly, switched on the table-lamp, and a flood of light poured onto the hard, set, ruthlessly cut face as it was bent over a pile of letters. As the door closed again, the letters were flung aside, and with a hand that shook with suppressed eagerness Monkhouse opened a drawer at the side of the writing-desk. It contained nothing but a small jewel-case, and the jewel only the old-fashioned mourning ring. He stared down at the insignificant ornament, mastered by an absorption which appeared to dissociate him from all outward consciousness. The door opened and closed, and he heard no sound. It was only when a voice called him by name that he started violently, and as he saw the figure standing on the opposite side of the table thrust the jewel-case hastily back into its place.

“Miss East!”

“Yes. I am afraid I startled you. You were very—intent on something. You did not hear.”

He turned the key of the drawer and flung it down carelessly. Then, with a rather twisted smile, he removed his hat.

“Nothing—only business. You see what a boor I am. I am scarcely civilized. Won't you sit down?” She did not move, and her stillness forced him to look up at her. “Good God, Miss East—” He controlled himself, pressing his lips into an iron line of self-mastery whilst the dark-hued face paled to a dead white. “There—I'm sorry. You startled me again. In that light you were very like someone I knew once—someone I loved.” He laughed a little, whimsically, without bitterness. “That sounds improbable, doesn't it, Miss East? You scarcely credit me with so much humanity. You don't believe that I could care?”

There was an unavoidable question in his voice which she answered coldly, antagonistically.

“No, I don't believe it, Mr. Monkhouse—not in the way that I understand caring. Selfishly, brutally, perhaps—”

He laughed again.

“That's straight from the shoulder, anyhow. Well, she didn't care for me. She felt about me as you do. You can believe that, can't you?”

He waited for the merciless answer, but none came. She sat down suddenly, her head bent under the light so that her face was in shadow, and he frowned at her with a humorous dismay.

“Come, Miss East, you don't shrink from saying what you think, and home truths are just what I need to-night. I have fits of day-dreaming, Miss East—hours at a stretch when I sit and weave romances about my sordid career. I imagine, for instance, that I am the object of some great passion—a passion that would stop at no sacrifice—which would sacrifice itself, its deepest hopes and convictions for my ugly sake. But I am outside the pale, and these imaginings are unhealthy. Administer an antidote. Tell me that I am incapable of inspiring any human feeling. Come, Miss East, you are a first-class surgeon—no shrinking!”

His self-mockery, at the outset merely facetious, rang now with a hardly suppressed recklessness. She forced herself to look at him. His eyes were too brilliant. They blazed the awful laughter of a wounded man who drives his nails into his wound in a rage of pain.

“It isn't true,” she said, enigmatically. “I know it isn't true. And you, too, know.”

He stared at her, then as though, a hand had passed over his face, smoothing out the traces of an emotional crisis, he regained a certain frigid tranquillity.

“Quite right, Miss East. I was sentimentalizing—cadging for undeserved sympathy. Forgive the lapse. And now tell me—I was expecting Margaret. Have you brought a message from her?”

“No, I have come for my own sake.”

“I am almost flattered.”

She leaned forward, her arms on the table, her hands clasped, and now her voice deepened—shook even—and her eyes had grown dark with earnest, passionate purpose.

“I have-come to do something I never meant to do in all my life. I have come to ask you for something—to plead with you, I won't pretend anything—I won't lie to you to gain my end. If I could gain it any other way, by threatening you, by ruining you even, I would do it.”

He interrupted her with a gesture of impatience.

“I know you hate me,” he said.

“Yes—I hate you.” She caught her breath and went on with a smothered gasp as though she had been suddenly caught by the throat. “I hate all you stand for—and for much more besides. You judge my feelings admirably, Mr. Monkhouse.”

“I can judge faces,” he said simply.

“Well, then—I come to you at least without hypocrisy. And if you do what I beg, I shall not count it as any bond between us. I shall owe you no gratitude; I shall show you none.”

He laughed grimly.

“You are a daring pleader, Miss East.

“You mean I am not tactful—but people who are trampling on every instinct in them are not tactful—they have no strength for that.” Her voice. wavered and broke. She no longer looked at him, and unseen by her he made a little groping movement as though he would have touched her hand. Then he drew back stiffly.

“Miss East, don't make yourself unhappy. Believe me, I am a business man. I expect no gratitude—I show none. Tell me what you want.”

“It is for Margaret.”

“My daughter? Not yourself after all, then.... Well—?”

“You know that Mr. Haig has asked her to marry him?”

“Yes. ”

“You approve?”

“I wish it.”

She drew herself up and once again her voice vibrated with an almost anguished pleading in which the antagonism was dead—for the moment forgotten.

“And if I told you that if she marries this man she will die—that she is dying—that she is eating her heart out for a man she loves—what then?”

“Miss East, I have not brought any pressure to bear on her. She is free to choose.”

She seemed to brush aside his hurried, uneasy interjection.

“Free? How often are women free to choose? She is not. The man is hopelessly poor. She will accept nothing from you. She will not remain here. You can't blame her. Even you”—with reawakened bitterness—“must understand—will understand that. much.”

“Good God—yes! Am I blaming her? Haven't I taken the blame—the whole curse' upon myself?”

He had now risen to his feet, towering over her, and his working features roused her to the recognition of some tragic conflict which she had hitherto ignored—frightened her almost into forgetfulness. Involuntarily she stretched out her hand.

“Mr. Monkhouse—what curse? I don't understand.”

“Don't try to—don't take any notice of me. Even a man of my caliber gets nerves—” He drew sharply away from her. “What do you want me to do? You say yourself she will accept nothing from me. If she marries Haig, she will be free—rich—respected. Why shouldn't she? He's not a bad man—” He was arguing fiercely, with a kind of desperation as though against an irresistible power. “What can I do? What is there to be done?” he demanded hoarsely.

She rose also. His back was toward her, and she came and stood almost at his elbow.

“See the man she loves. Give him what you would give her. He is a good man: He will take it for her sake, and you will both keep the secret. Let him take her away to his people and marry her. Give her the chance to forget you, the past, everything.” She waited a moment and then added slowly, weighing each word. “You might be glad to make your debt less, Mr. Monkhouse.”

He half turned, showing his blunted, ugly profile.

"Why do you insist? You don't know what you're asking of me. What is Margaret to you? Why should you plead for her—against your own inclination, in defiance of your hatred of me?”

“Isn't a common humanity excuse enough?”

“Humanity? You don't think I'm human? I'm too damned hideous for that—too blunted with my own blackguardism. Well, I thought so myself and I was proud of it—but it isn't true—not of any of us—not even of me. I found out my own humanity—in a minute—a flash almost. I was vulnerable like the rest of us—vulnerable and unarmed. I was the prey to every human feeling, but I was more helpless because—” He had turned fully to her, and she saw that the perspiration beaded his massive forehead. But his voice had softened. “Miss East—things are sometimes rather different to what we suppose. The greatest judges have erred. Let that consideration weigh with you. Just for a moment look on me with other eyes. Humor me—even Criminals are humored toward the end—for the sake of the man who saved your life once and who also perhaps sinned in. his day—let me pretend something. It will do you no harm—and afterward things will be as before. I will make no claim on you. Will you?”

She was breathing quickly, fighting down tears that had sprung from some unknown, deeply hidden source.

“What can I do?”

“Pretend—just that. If I do what you ask—will you ask it in your own name?”

Her dimmed eyes were lifted to his face. He was smiling wistfully.

“For my sake, then—”

The smile deepened. It seemed to touch his whole face with a softening, reclaiming content.

“Thank you. Now forget it. The memory is just mine alone—to take with me—wherever I go.” He squared his great shoulders and a new youth and strength crept into his bearing. “Now we must act quickly, and you must act for me. You love Margaret—and I—don't know what I feel. It is platitudinous to say so, but love and hatred are so close to one another—” He went back to his writing-table and sat down. “Now tell me what I am to do?”

But her passion and energy seemed to have left her. A great pallor had driven back the flush of excitement from her cheek and her lips quivered. He deliberately looked away from her.

“Miss East, you trust this man? You believe he will make her happy?”

She fought for her voice.

“Yes—I have seen him. Margaret didn't know. I told him the circumstances. He is waiting now to go to her—to take her to his own people.”

He laughed quietly.

“That was prompt and brave. Now it only remains for me to play my part.” He opened a drawer and taking out a checkbook hesitated. “But it must be a secret part. Neither of them must know. Let us pretend again. Why shouldn't you be an old friend of her mother's, playing the part of companion in order to safeguard her from me? Why shouldn't you lend them the money—till he is famous? Isn't that brilliant of me?” He ignored her startled movement and began to write. His manner was now subdued, almost gay. “There, that should tide them over some years. I shall write to my bankers to explain the largeness of the sum. It is made out in your name. Now they can run away and never see me again, Miss East.”

He folded the check and handed it to her. For a moment their eyes met, then as though mastered by an overpowering impulse, he took the hand which she had extended and held it in a hard, painful grip.

“That's a farewell, isn't it? You'll go, too?”

She nodded.

“Afterward.”

“So that ends the chapter.”

She made no answer, but went blindly past him. He held the door open for her.

“It's been a happier chapter than most of them,” he added, gently. “Good night.”

He waited until her soft, hurrying footfalls had died into the silence of the long corridor, then went hastily back to his place. A half-finished letter lay on the table, and the first sentences, written in his own hand, caught 'his attention.

He laughed and tore the letter carelessly in half.

The brass-mounted calendar on his table marked Tuesday the 22nd.