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The Tempting of Tavernake

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Tempting of Tavernake




She nodded, and passed in through the swinging-doors. Standing
out there in the narrow, crooked street, Tavernake heard the
clapping and applause which greeted her entrance, he heard her
father's voice. Some one struck a note at the piano--she was
going to sing. Very slowly he turned away and walked down the
cobbled hill.




CHAPTER IV

PRITCHARD'S GOOD NEWS


Late in the afternoon of the following day, Ruth came home from
the village and found Tavernake hard at work on his boat. She
put down her basket and stopped by his side.

"So you are back again," she remarked.

"Yes, I am back again."

"And nothing has happened?"

"Nothing has happened," he assented, wearily. "Nothing ever will
happen now."

She smiled.

"You mean that you will stay here and build boats all your life?"

"That is what I mean to do," he announced.

She laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"Don't believe it, Leonard," she said. "There is other work for
you in the world somewhere, just as there is for me."

He shook his head and she picked up her basket again, smiling.

"Your time will come as it comes to the rest of us," she
declared, cheerfully. "You won't want to sit here and bury your
talents in the sands all your days. Have you heard what is going
to happen to me?"

"No! Something good, I hope."

"My father's favorite niece is coming to live with us--there are
seven of them altogether, and farming doesn't pay like it used
to, so Margaret is coming here. Father says that if she is as
handy as she used to be I may go back to the schools almost at
once."

Tavernake was silent for a moment. Then he got up and threw down
his tools.

"Great Heavens!" he exclaimed. "If I am not becoming the most
selfish brute that ever breathed! Do you know, the first thought
I had was that I should miss you? You are right, young woman, I
must get out of this."

She disappeared into the house, smiling, and Tavernake called out
to Nicholls, who was sitting on the wall.

"Mr. Nicholls," he asked, "how much notice do you want?"

Matthew Nicholls removed his pipe from his mouth.

"Why, I don't know that I'm particular," he replied, "being as
you want to go. Between you and me, I'm gettin' fat and lazy
since you came. There ain't enough work for two, and that's all
there is to it, and being as you're young and active, why, I've
left it to you, and look at my arms."

He held them up.

"Used to be all muscle, now they're nothin' but bloomin' pap.
And no' but two glasses of beer a day extra have I drunk, just to
pass the time. You can stay if you will, young man, but you can
go out fishin' and leave me the work, and I'll pay you just the
same, for I'm not saying that I don't like your company. Or you
can go when you please, and that's the end of it."

Matthew Nicholls spat upon the stones and replaced his pipe in
his mouth. Tavernake came in and sat down by his side.

"Look here," he said, "I believe you are right. I'll stay
another week but I'll take things easy. You get on with the boat
now. I'll sit here and have a smoke."

Nicholls grunted but obeyed, and for the next few days Tavernake
loafed. On his return one afternoon from a long walk, he saw a
familiar figure sitting upon the sea wall in front of the
workshop, a familiar figure but a strange one in these parts. It
was Mr. Pritchard, in an American felt hat, and smoking a very
black cigar. He leaned over and nodded to Tavernake, who was
staring at him aghast.

"Hallo, old man!" he called out. "Run you to earth, you see!"

"Yes, I see!" Tavernake exclaimed.

"Come right along up here and let's talk," Pritchard continued.

Tavernake obeyed. Pritchard looked him over approvingly.
Tavernake was roughly dressed in those days, but as a man he had
certainly developed.

"Say, you're looking fine," his visitor remarked. "What wouldn't
I give for that color and those shoulders!"

"It is a healthy life," Tavernake admitted. "Do you mean that
you've come down here to see me?"

"That's so," Pritchard announced; "down here to see you, and for
no other reason. Not but that the scenery isn't all it should
be, and that sort of thing," he went on, "but I am not putting up
any bluff about it. It's you I am here to talk to. Are you
ready? Shall I go straight ahead?"

"If you please," Tavernake said, slowly filling his pipe.

"You dropped out of things pretty sudden," Pritchard continued.
"It didn't take me much guessing to reckon up why. Between you
and me, you are not the first man who's been up against it on
account of that young woman. Don't stop me," he begged. "I know
how you've been feeling. It was a right good idea of yours to
come here. Others before you have tried the shady side of New
York and Paris, and it's the wrong treatment. It's Hell, that's
what it is, for them. Now that young woman--we got to speak of
her--is about the most beautiful and the most fascinating of her
sex--I'll grant that to start with--but she isn't worth the life
of a snail, much less the life of a strong man."

"You are, quite right," Tavernake confessed, shortly. "I know I
was a fool--a fool! If I could think of any adjective that would
meet the case, I'd use it, but there it is. I chucked things and
I came here. You haven't come down to tell me your opinion of
me, I suppose?"

"Not by any manner of means," Pritchard admitted. "I came down
first to tell you that you were a fool, if it was necessary.
Since you know it, it isn't. We'll pass on to the next stage,
and that is, what are you going to do about it?"

"It is in my mind at the present moment," Tavernake announced,
"to leave here. The only trouble is, I am not very keen about
London."

Pritchard nodded thoughtfully.

"That's all right," he agreed. "London's no place for a man,
anyway. You don't want to learn the usual tricks of
money-making. Money that's made in the cities is mostly made
with stained fingers. I have a different sort of proposal to
make."

"Go ahead," Tavernake said. "What is it?"

"A new country," Pritchard declared, altering the angle of his
cigar, "a virgin land, mountains and valleys, great rivers to be
crossed, all sorts of cold and heat to be borne with, a land rich
with minerals--some say gold, but never mind that. There is oil
in parts, there's tin, there's coal, and there's thousands and
thousands of miles of forest. You're a surveyor?"

"Passed all my exams," Tavernake agreed tersely.

"You are the man for out yonder," Pritchard insisted. "I've two
years' vacation--dead sick of this city life I am--and I am going
to put you on the track of it. You don't know much about
prospecting yet, I reckon?"

"Nothing at all!"

"You soon shall," Pritchard went on. "We'll start from Winnipeg.
A few horses, some guides, and a couple of tents. We'll spend
twenty weeks, my friend, without seeing a town. What do you
think of that?"

"Gorgeous!" Tavernake muttered.

"Twenty weeks we'll strike westward. I know the way to set about
the whole job. I know one or two of the capitalists, too, and if
we don't map out some of the grandest estates in British
Columbia, why, my name ain't Pritchard."

"But I haven't a penny in the world," Tavernake objected.

"That's where you're lying," Pritchard remarked, pulling a
newspaper from his pocket. "See the advertisement for yourself:
'Leonard Tavernake, something to his advantage.' Well, down I
went to those lawyers--your old lawyer it was--Martin. I told
him I was on your track, and he said--'For Heaven's sake, send
the fellow along!' Say, Tavernake, he made me laugh the way he
described your bursting in upon him and telling him to take your
land for his costs, and walking out of the room like something
almighty. Why, he worked that thing so that they had to buy your
land, and they took him into partnership. He's made a pot of
money, and needs no costs from you, and there's the money for
your land and what he had of yours besides, waiting for you."

Tavernake smoked stolidly at his pipe. His eyes were out
seaward, but his heart was beating to a new and splendid music.
To start life again, a man's life, out in the solitudes, out in
the great open spaces! It was gorgeous, this! He turned round
and grasped Pritchard by the shoulder.

"I say," he exclaimed, "why are you doing all this for me,
Pritchard?"

Pritchard laughed.

"You did me a good turn," he said, "and you're a man. You've the
pluck--that's what I like. You knew nothing, you were as green
and ignorant as a young man from behind the counter of a country
shop, but, my God! you'd got the right stuff, and I meant getting
even with you if I could. You'll leave here with me to-morrow,
and in three weeks we sail."

Ruth came smiling out from the house.

"Won't you bring your friend in to supper, Mr. Tavernake?" she
begged. "It's good news, I hope?" she added, lowering her voice
a little.

"It's the best," Tavernake declared, "the best!"




CHAPTER V

BEATRICE REFUSES


A week later Tavernake was in London. A visit to his friend Mr.
Martin had easily proved the truth of Pritchard's words, and he
found himself in possession of a sum of money at least twice as
great as he had anticipated. He stayed at a cheap hotel in the
Strand and made purchases under Pritchard's supervision. For the
first few days he was too busy for reflection. Then Pritchard
let him alone while he ran over to Paris, and Tavernake suddenly
realized that he was in the city to which he had thought never to
return. He passed the back of the theatre where he had waited
for Beatrice, he looked up at the entrance of the Milan Court; he
lunched alone, and with a curious mixture of feelings, at the
little restaurant where he had supped with Beatrice. It was
over, that part of his life, over and finished. Yet, with his
natural truthfulness, he never attempted to disguise from himself
the pain at his heart. Three times in one day he found himself,
under some pretext or another, in Imano's Restaurant. Once, in
the middle of the street, he burst into a fit of laughter. It
was while Pritchard was in London, and he asked him a question.

"Pritchard," he remarked, "you area man of experience. Did any
one ever care for two women at the same time?"

Pritchard removed his cigar from his teeth and stared at his
companion.

"Why, my young friend," he replied, "I've found no trouble myself
in being fond of a dozen."

Tavernake smiled and said no more. Pritchard was one of the good
fellows of the world, but there were things which were hidden
from him. Yet Tavernake, who had fallen into a habit, during his
solitude, of analyzing his sensations, was puzzled by this one
circumstance, that when he thought of Elizabeth, though his heart
never failed to beat more quickly, the sense of shame generally
stole over him; and when he thought of Beatrice, a curious
loneliness, a loneliness that brought with it a pain, seemed
suddenly to make the hours drag and his pleasures flavorless.
For two days he was puzzled. Then his habit of taking long walks
helped him toward a solution. In a small outlying music-hall in
the east-end of London, he saw the same announcement that he had
noticed in the Norfolk newspaper,--"Professor Franklin" in large
type, and "Miss Beatrice Franklin" in small.

That night he attended the music-hall. The scene was practically
a repetition of the one in Norwich, only with additions. The
professor's bombastic performance met with scarcely any applause.
Its termination was, indeed, interrupted by catcalls and whistles
from the gallery. Beatrice's songs, on the other hand, were
applauded more vociferously than ever. She had hard work to
avoid a third encore.

At the end of the performance, Tavernake made his way to the
stage-door and waited. The neighborhood was an unsavory one, and
the building itself seemed crowded in among a row of shops of the
worst order, fish stalls, and a glaring gin palace. Long before
Beatrice came out, Tavernake could hear the professor's voice
down the covered passage, the professor's voice apparently raised
in anger.

"Undutiful behavior, that's what I call it--undutiful!"

They emerged into the street, the professor very much the same as
usual; Beatrice paler, with a pathetic droop about her mouth.
Tavernake came eagerly forward.

"Beatrice!" he cried, holding out his hand.

The professor drew back. Beatrice stood still,--for a moment it
seemed as though she were about to faint. Tavernake grasped her
hands.

"I am so sorry!" he exclaimed, clumsily. "I ought not to have
come up like that."

She smiled a little wan smile.

"I am quite all right," she replied, "only the heat inside was
rather trying, and even out here the atmosphere isn't too good,
is it? How did you find us out?"

"By chance again," Tavernake answered. "I have news. May I walk
with you a few steps?"

She glanced timidly toward her father. The professor was holding
aloof in dignified silence.

"Perhaps," Tavernake said quickly, "you would take supper with
me? I am going abroad, and I should like to say good-bye
properly. A bottle of champagne and some supper. What do you
say, Professor?"

The professor suffered his features to relax.

"A very admirable idea," he declared. "Where shall we go?"

"Is it too late to get to Imano's?" Tavernake suggested.

The professor hesitated.

"A taxicab," he remarked, "would do it, if--"

He paused, and Tavernake smiled.

"A taxicab it shall be," he decided. "I am in funds just for the
moment. Come along, both of you, and I'll tell you all about
it."

He made her take his arm, although her fingers did no more than
touch his coat sleeve.

"Pritchard came and dug me out," he continued. "I am going
abroad with him. It's sort of prospecting in some new country at
the back of British Columbia. We see what we can find and then
go to a financier's and start companies, mining companies and oil
fields--anything. I am off in a week."

Beatrice half closed her eyes. They had hailed a passing cab and
she sank back among the cushions with a sigh of relief.

"Dear Leonard," she murmured, "I am so glad, so very happy for
your sake. This is the sort of thing which I hoped would
happen."

"And now tell me about yourselves," he went on.

There was a sudden silence. Tavernake was conscious that
Beatrice's clothes were distinctly shabbier, that the professor's
hat was shiny. The professor cleared his throat.

"I do not wish," he said, "to intrude our private matters upon
one who, although I will not call him a stranger, is assuredly
not one of our old friends. At the same time, I admit that a
little trouble has arisen between Beatrice and myself, and we
were discussing it at the moment you arrived. I shall appeal to
you now. As an unprejudiced member of the audience to-night, Mr.
Tavernake, you will give me your honest opinion?"

"Certainly," Tavernake promised, with a sinking premonition of
what was to come.

"What I complain of," the professor began, speaking with
elaborate and impressive slowness, "is that my performance is
hurried over and that too long a time is taken up by Beatrice's
songs. The management remark upon the applause which her efforts
occasionally ensure, but, as I would point out to you, sir," he
continued, "a performance such as mine makes too deep an
impression for the audience to show their appreciation of it by
such vulgar methods as hand-clapping and whistling. You follow
me, I trust, Mr. Tavernake?"

Why, yes, of course," Tavernake admitted.

"I take a sincere and earnest interest in my work," the professor
declared, "and I feel that when it has to be scamped that my
daughter may sing a music-hall ditty, the result is, to say the
least of it, undignified. For some reason or other, I have been
unable to induce the management to see entirely with me, but my
point is that Beatrice should sing one song only, and that the
additional ten minutes should be occupied by me in either a
further exposition of my extraordinary powers as a hypnotist, or
in a little address to the audience upon the hidden sciences.
Now I appeal to you, Mr. Tavernake, as a young man of common
sense. What is your opinion?"

Tavernake, much too honest to be capable in a general way of
duplicity, was on the point of giving it, but he caught
Beatrice's imploring gaze. Her lips were moving. He hesitated.

"Of course," he began, slowly, "you have to try and put yourself
into the position of the major part of the audience, who are
exceedingly uneducated people. It is very hard to give an
opinion, Professor. I must say that your entertainment this
evening was listened to with rapt interest."

The professor turned solemnly towards his daughter.

"You hear that, Beatrice?" he said severely. "You hear what Mr.
Tavernake says? 'With rapt interest!'"

"At the same time," Tavernake went on, "without a doubt Miss
Beatrice's songs were also extremely popular. It is rather a
pity that the management could not give you a little more time."

"Failing that, sir," the professor declared, "my point is, as I
explained before, that Beatrice should give up one of her songs.
What you have said this evening more than ever confirms me in my
view."

Beatrice smiled thankfully at Tavernake.

"Well," she suggested, "at any rate we will leave it for the
present. Sometimes I think, though, father, that you frighten
them with some of your work, and you must remember that they come
to be amused."

"That," the professor admitted, "is the most sensible remark you
have made, Beatrice. There is indeed something terrifying in
some of my manifestations, terrifying even to myself, who
understand so thoroughly my subject. However, as you say, we
will dismiss the matter for the present. The thought of this
supper party is a pleasant one. Do you remember, Mr. Tavernake,
the night when you and I met in the balcony at Imano's?"

"Perfectly well," Tavernake answered.

"Now I shall test your memory," the professor continued, with a
knowing smile. "Can you remember, sir, the brand of champagne
which I was then drinking, and which I declared, if you
recollect, was the one which best agreed with me, the one brand
worth drinking?"

"I am afraid I don't remember that," Tavernake confessed.
"Restaurant life is a thing I know so little of, and I have only
drunk champagne once or twice in my life."

"Dear, dear me!" the professor exclaimed. "You do astonish me,
sir. Well, that brand was Veuve Clicquot, and you may take my
word for it, Mr. Tavernake, and you may find this knowledge
useful to you when you have made a fortune in America and have
become a man of pleasure; there is no wine equal to it. Veuve
Clicquot, sir, if possible of the year 1899, though the year 1900
is quite drinkable."

"Veuve Clicquot," Tavernake repeated. "I'll remember it for this
evening."

The professor beamed.

"My dear," he said to Beatrice, "Mr. Tavernake will think that I
had a purpose in testing his memory."

Beatrice smiled.

"And hadn't you, father?" she asked.

They all laughed together.

"Well, it is pleasant," the professor admitted, "to have one's
weaknesses ministered to, especially when one is getting on in
life," he added, with a ponderous sigh. "Never mind, we will
think only of pleasant subjects this evening. It will be quite
interesting, Mr. Tavernake, to hear you order the supper."

"I sha'n't attempt it," Tavernake answered. "I shall pass it on
to you."

"This reminds me," the professor declared, "of the old days. I
feel sure that this is going to be a thoroughly enjoyable
evening. We shall think of it often, Mr. Tavernake, when you lie
sleeping under the stars. Why, what a wonderful thing these
taxicabs are! You see, we have arrived."

They secured a small table in a corner at Imano's, and Tavernake
found himself curiously moved as he watched Beatrice take off her
worn and much mended gloves and look around uneasily at the other
guests. Her clothes were indeed shabby, and there were hollows
now in her cheeks.

Again he felt that pain, a pain for which he could not account.
Suddenly America seemed so far away, the loneliness of the great
continent became an actual and appreciable thing. The professor
was very much occupied ordering the supper. Tavernake leaned
across the table.

"Do you remember our first supper here, Beatrice?" he asked.

She nodded, with an attempt at brightness which was a little
pitiful.

"Yes," she replied, "I remember it quite well. And now, please,
Leonard, don't talk to me again until I have had a glass of wine.
I am tired and worn out, that is all."

Even Tavernake knew that she was struggling against the tears
which already dimmed her eyes. He filled her glass himself. The
professor set his own down empty with the satisfied smile of a
connoisseur.

"I think," he said, "that you will agree with me about this
vintage. Beatrice, this is what will bring color into your
cheeks. My little girl," he continued, turning to Tavernake,
"will soon need a holiday. I am hoping presently to be able to
arrange a short tour by myself, and if so, I shall send her to
the seaside. Now I want you particularly to try the fish salad
--the second dish there. Beatrice, let me help you."

Presently the orchestra began to play. The warmth of the room,
the wine and the food--Tavernake had a horrible idea once that
she had eaten nothing that day--brought back some of the color to
Beatrice's cheeks and a little of the light to her eyes. She
began to talk something in the old fashion. She avoided,
however, any mention of that other supper they had had together.
As time went on, the professor, who had drunk the best part of
two bottles of wine and was talking now to a friend, became
almost negligible. Tavernake leaned across the table.

"Beatrice," he whispered, "you are not looking well. I am afraid
that life is getting harder with you."

She shook her head.

"I am doing what I must," she answered. "Please don't sympathize
with me. I am hysterical, I think, tonight. It will pass off."

"But, Beatrice," he ventured, timidly, "could one do nothing for
you? I don't like these performances, and between you and me, we
know they won't stand your father's show much longer. It will
certainly come to an end soon. Why don't you try and get back
your place at the theatre? You could still earn enough to keep
him."

"Already I have tried," she replied, sorrowfully. "My place is
filled up. You see," she added, with a forced laugh, "I have
lost some of my looks, Leonard. I am thinner, too. Of course, I
shall be all right presently, but it's rather against me at these
west-end places."

Again he felt that pain at his heart. He was sure now that he
was beginning to understand!

"Beatrice," he whispered, "give it up--marry me I will take care
of him."

The flush of color faded from her cheeks. She shivered a little
and looked at him piteously.

"Leonard," she pleaded, "you mustn't. I really am not very
strong just now. We have finished with all that--it distresses
me."

"But I mean it," he begged. "Somehow, I have felt all sorts of
things since we came in here. I think of that night, and I
believe--I do believe that what came to me before was madness.
It was not the same."

She was trembling now.

"Leonard," she implored, "if you care for me at all, be quiet.
Father will turn round directly and I can't bear it. I shall be
your very faithful friend; I shall think of you through the long
days before we meet again, but don't--don't spoil this last
evening."

The professor turned round, his face mottled, his eyes moist, a
great good-humor apparent in his tone.

"Well, I must say," he declared, "that this has been a most
delightful evening. I feel immensely better, and you, too, I
hope, Beatrice?"

She nodded, smiling.

"I trust that when Mr. Tavernake returns," the professor
continued, "he will give us the opportunity of entertaining him
in much the same manner. It will give me very much pleasure,
also Beatrice. And if, sir," he proceeded, "during your stay in
New York you will mention my name at the Goat's Club, or the
Mosquito Club, you will, I think, find yourself received with a
hospitality which will surprise you."

Tavernake thanked him and paid the bill. They walked slowly down
the room, and Tavernake was curiously reluctant to release the
little hand which clasped his.

"I have kept this to the last," Beatrice said, in a low tone.
"Elizabeth is in London."

He was curiously unmoved.

"Yes?" he murmured.

"I should like you--I think it would be well for you to go and
see her," she went on. "You know, Leonard, you were such a
strange person in those days. You may imagine things. You may
not realize where you are. I think that you ought to go and see
her now, now that you have lived through some suffering, now that
you understand things better. Will you?"

"Yes, I will go," Tavernake promised.

Beatrice glanced round towards where her father was standing.

"I don't want him to know," she whispered. "I don't want either
him or myself to be tempted to take any of her money. She is
living at Claridge's Hotel. Go there and see her before you
leave for your new life."

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