Antonia Isola - "Simple Italian Cookery"

Rafael Sabatini - "The Trampling of the Lilies"

Nora Pembroke - "Verses and Rhymes by the way"

William Shakespeare - "King Richard III"

The Tempting of Tavernake

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




"I should like," she announced, laying down the carte, "a fried
sole, some cutlets, an ice, and black coffee."

The waiter bowed.

"And for Monsieur?"

Tavernake glanced at his watch; it was already ten o'clock.

"I will take the same," he declared.

"And to drink?"

She seemed indifferent.

"Any light wine," she answered, carelessly, "white or red."

Tavernake took up the wine list and ordered sauterne. They were
left alone in their corner for a few minutes, almost the only
occupants of the place.

"You are sure that you can afford this?" she asked, looking at
him critically. "It may cost you a sovereign or thirty
shillings."

He studied the prices on the menu.

"I can afford it quite well and I have plenty of money with me,"
he assured her, "but I do not think that it will cost more than
eighteen shillings. While we are waiting for the sole, shall we
talk? I can tell you, if you choose to hear, why I followed you
from the boardinghouse."

"I don't mind listening to you," she told him, "or I will talk
with you about anything you like. There is only one subject
which I cannot discuss; that subject is myself and my own
doings."

Tavernake was silent for a moment.

"That makes conversation a bit difficult," he remarked. She
leaned back in her chair.

"After this evening," she said, "I go out of your life as
completely and finally as though I had never existed. I have a
fancy to take my poor secrets with me. If you wish to talk, tell
me about yourself. You have gone out of your way to be kind to
me. I wonder why. It doesn't seem to be your role."

He smiled slowly. His face was fashioned upon broad lines and
the relaxing of his lips lightened it wonderfully. He had good
teeth, clear gray eyes, and coarse black hair which he wore a
trifle long; his forehead was too massive for good looks.

"No," he admitted, "I do not think that benevolence is one of my
characteristics."

Her dark eyes were turned full upon him; her red lips, redder
than ever they seemed against the pallor of her cheeks and her
deep brown hair, curled slightly. There was something almost
insolent in her tone.

"You understand, I hope," she continued, "that you have nothing
whatever to look for from me in return for this sum which you
propose to expend for my entertainment?"

"I understand that," he replied.

"Not even gratitude," she persisted. "I really do not feel
grateful to you. You are probably doing this to gratify some
selfish interest or curiosity. I warn you that I am quite
incapable of any of the proper sentiments of life."

"Your gratitude would be of no value to me whatever," he assured
her.

She was still not wholly satisfied. His complete stolidity
frustrated every effort she made to penetrate beneath the
surface.

"If I believed," she went on, "that you were one of those men--
the world is full of them, you know--who will help a woman with a
reasonable appearance so long as it does not seriously interfere
with their own comfort--"

"Your sex has nothing whatever to do with it," he interrupted.
"As to your appearance, I have not even considered it. I could
not tell you whether you are beautiful or ugly--I am no judge of
these matters. What I have done, I have done because it pleased
me to do it."

"Do you always do what pleases you?" she asked.

"Nearly always."

She looked him over again attentively, with an interest obviously
impersonal, a trifle supercilious.

"I suppose," she remarked, "you consider yourself one of the
strong people of the world?"

"I do not know about that," he answered. "I do not often think
about myself."

"I mean," she explained, "that you are one of those people who
struggle hard to get just what they want in life."

His jaw suddenly tightened and she saw the likeness to Napoleon.

"I do more than struggle," he affirmed, "I succeed. If I make up
my mind to do a thing, I do it; if I make up my mind to get a
thing, I get it. It means hard work sometimes, but that is all."

For the first time, a really natural interest shone out of her
eyes. The half sulky contempt with which she had received his
advances passed away. She became at that moment a human being,
self-forgetting, the heritage of her charms--for she really had a
curious but very poignant attractiveness--suddenly evident. It
was only a momentary lapse and it was entirely wasted. Not even
one of the waiters happened to be looking that way, and Tavernake
was thinking wholly of himself.

"It is a good deal to say--that," she remarked, reflectively.

"It is a good deal but it is not too much," he declared. "Every
man who takes life seriously should say it."

Then she laughed--actually laughed--and he had a vision of
flashing white teeth, of a mouth breaking into pleasant curves,
of dark mirth-lit eyes, lustreless no longer, provocative,
inspiring. A vague impression as of something pleasant warmed
his blood. It was a rare thing for him to be so stirred, but
even then it was not sufficient to disturb the focus of his
thoughts.

"Tell me," she demanded, "what do you do? What is your
profession or work?"

"I am with a firm of auctioneers and estate agents," he answered
readily,--"Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company the name is. Our
offices are in Waterloo Place."

"You find it interesting?"

"Of course," he answered. "Interesting? Why not? I work at
it."

"Are you a partner?"

"No," he admitted. "Six years ago I was a carpenter; then I
became an errand boy in Mr. Dowling's office I had to learn the
business, you see. To-day I am a sort of manager. In eighteen
months' time--perhaps before that if they do not offer me a
partnership--I shall start for myself."

Once more the subtlest of smiles flickered at the corners of her
lips.

"Do they know yet?" she asked, with faint irony.

"Not yet," he replied, with absolute seriousness. "They might
tell me to go, and I have a few things to learn yet. I would
rather make experiments for some one else than for myself. I can
use the results later; they will help me to make money."

She laughed softly and wiped the tears out of her eyes. They
were really very beautiful eyes notwithstanding the dark rims
encircling them.

"If only I had met you before!" she murmured.

"Why?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Don't ask me," she begged. "It would not be good for your
conceit, if you have any, to tell you."

"I have no conceit and I am not inquisitive," he said, "but I do
not see why you laughed."

Their period of waiting came to an end at this point. The fish
was brought and their conversation became disjointed. In the
silence which followed, the old shadow crept over her face. Once
only it lifted. It was while they were waiting for the cutlets.
She leaned towards him, her elbows upon the tablecloth, her face
supported by her fingers.

"I think that it is time we left these generalities," she
insisted, "and you told me something rather more personal,
something which I am very anxious to know. Tell me exactly why
so self-centered a person as yourself should interest himself in
a fellow-creature at all. It seems odd to me."

"It is odd," he admitted, frankly. "I will try to explain it to
you but it will sound very bald, and I do not think that you will
understand. I watched you a few nights ago out on the roof at
Blenheim House. You were looking across the house-tops and you
didn't seem to be seeing anything at all really, and yet all the
time I knew that you were seeing things I couldn't, you were
understanding and appreciating something which I knew nothing of,
and it worried me. I tried to talk to you that evening, but you
were rude."

"You really are a curious person," she remarked. "Are you always
worried, then, if you find that some one else is seeing things or
understanding things which are outside your comprehension?"

"Always," he replied promptly.

"You are too far-reaching," she affirmed. "You want to gather
everything into your life. You cannot. You will only be unhappy
if you try. No man can do it. You must learn your limitations
or suffer all your days."

"Limitations!" He repeated the words with measureless scorn. "If
I learn them at all," he declared, with unexpected force, "it
will be with scars and bruises, for nothing else will content
me."

"We are, I should say, almost the same age," she remarked slowly.

"I am twenty-five," he told her.

"I am twenty-two," she said. "It seems strange that two people
whose ideas of life are as far apart as the Poles should have
come together like this even for a moment. I do not understand
it at all. Did you expect that I should tell you just what I saw
in the clouds that night?"

"No," he answered, "not exactly. I have spoken of my first
interest in you only. There are other things. I told a lie
about the bracelet and I followed you out of the boarding-house
and I brought you here, for some other for quite a different
reason."

"Tell me what it was," she demanded.

"I do not know it myself," he declared solemnly. "I really and
honestly do not know it. It is because I hoped that it might
come to me while we were together, that I am here with you at
this moment. I do not like impulses which I do not understand."

She laughed at him a little scornfully.

"After all," she said, "although it may not have dawned upon you
yet, it is probably the same wretched reason. You are a man and
you have the poison somewhere in your blood. I am really not
bad-looking, you know."

He looked at her critically. She was a little over-slim,
perhaps, but she was certainly wonderfully graceful. Even the
poise of her head, the manner in which she leaned back in her
chair, had its individuality. Her features, too, were good,
though her mouth had grown a trifle hard. For the first time the
dead pallor of her cheeks was relieved by a touch of color. Even
Tavernake realized that there were great possibilities about her.
Nevertheless, he shook his head.

"I do not agree with you in the least," he asserted firmly.
"Your looks have nothing to do with it. I am sure that it is not
that."

"Let me cross-examine you," she suggested. "Think carefully now.
Does it give you no pleasure at all to be sitting here alone with
me?"

He answered her deliberately; it was obvious that he was speaking
the truth.

"I am not conscious that it does," he declared. "The only
feeling I am aware of at the present moment in connection with
you, is the curiosity of which I have already spoken."

She leaned a little towards him, extending her very shapely
fingers. Once more the smile at her lips transformed her face.

"Look at my hand," she said. "Tell me--wouldn't you like to hold
it just for a minute, if I gave it you?"

Her eyes challenged his, softly and yet imperiously. His whole
attention, however, seemed to be absorbed by her finger-nails.
It seemed strange to him that a girl in her straits should have
devoted so much care to her hands.

"No," he answered deliberately, "I have no wish to hold your
hand. Why should I?"

"Look at me," she insisted.

He did so without embarrassment or hesitation,--it was more than
ever apparent that he was entirely truthful. She leaned back in
her chair, laughing softly to herself.

"Oh, my friend Mr. Leonard Tavernake," she exclaimed, "if you
were not so crudely, so adorably, so miraculously truthful, what
a prig, prig, prig, you would be! The cutlets at last, thank
goodness! Your cross-examination is over. I pronounce you 'Not
Guilty!"'

During the progress of the rest of the meal, they talked very
little. At its conclusion, Tavernake discharged the bill, having
carefully checked each item and tipped the waiter the exact
amount which the man had the right to expect. They ascended the
stairs together to the street, the girl lingering a few steps
behind. On the pavement her fingers touched his arm.

"I wonder, would you mind driving me down to the Embankment?" she
asked almost humbly. "It was so close down there and I want some
air."

This was an extravagance which he had scarcely contemplated, but
he did not hesitate. He called a taxicab and seated himself by
her side. Her manner seemed to have grown quieter and more
subdued, her tone was no longer semi-belligerent.

"I will not keep you much longer," she promised. "I suppose I am
not so strong as I used to be. I have had scarcely anything to
eat for two days and conversation has become an unknown luxury.
I think--it seems absurd--but I think that I am feeling a little
faint."

"The air will soon revive you," he said. "As to our
conversation, I am disappointed. I think that you are very
foolish not to tell me more about yourself."

She closed her eyes, ignoring his remark. They turned presently
into a narrower thoroughfare. She leaned towards him.

"You have been very good to me," she admitted almost timidly,
"and I am afraid that I have not been very gracious. We shall
not see one another again after this evening. I wonder--would
you care to kiss me?"

He opened his lips and closed them again. He sat quite still,
his eyes fixed upon the road ahead, until he had strangled
something absolutely absurd, something unrecognizable.

"I would rather not," he decided quietly. "I know you mean to be
kind but that sort of thing--well, I don't think I understand it.
Besides," he added with a sudden na‹ve relief, as he clutched at
a fugitive but plausible thought, "if I did you would not believe
the things which I have been telling you."

He had a curious idea that she was disappointed as she turned her
head away, but she said nothing. Arrived at the Embankment, the
cab came slowly to a standstill. The girl descended. There was
something new in her manner; she looked away from him when she
spoke.

"You had better leave me here," she said. "I am going to sit
upon that seat."

Then came those few seconds' hesitation which were to count for a
great deal in his life. The impulse which bade him stay with her
was unaccountable but it conquered.

"If you do not object," he remarked with some stiffness, "I
should like to sit here with you for a little time. There is
certainly a breeze."

She made no comment but walked on. He paid the man and followed
her to the empty seat. Opposite, some illuminated advertisements
blazed their unsightly message across the murky sky. Between the
two curving rows of yellow lights the river flowed--black,
turgid, hopeless. Even here, though they had escaped from its
absolute thrall, the far-away roar of the city beat upon their
ears. She listened to it for a moment and then pressed her hands
to the side of her head.

"Oh, how I hate it!" she moaned. "The voices, always the voices,
calling, threatening, beating you away! Take my hands, Leonard
Tavernake,--hold me."

He did as she bade him, clumsily, as yet without comprehension.

"You are not well," he muttered.

Her eyes opened and a flash of her old manner returned. She
smiled at him, feebly but derisively.

"You foolish boy!" she cried. "Can't you see that I am dying?
Hold my hands tightly and watch--watch! Here is one more thing
you can see--that you cannot understand."

He saw the empty phial slip from her sleeve and fall on to the
pavement. With a cry he sprang up and, carrying her in his arms,
rushed out into the road.




CHAPTER III

AN UNPLEASANT MEETING

It was a quarter past eleven and the theatres were disgorging
their usual nightly crowds. The most human thoroughfare in any
of the world's great cities was at its best and brightest.
Everywhere commissionaires were blowing their whistles, the
streets were thronged with slowly-moving vehicles, the pavements
were stirring with life. The little crowd which had gathered in
front of the chemist's shop was swept away. After all, none of
them knew exactly what they had been waiting for. There was a
rumor that a woman had fainted or had met with an accident.
Certainly she had been carried into the shop and into the inner
room, the door of which was still closed. A few passers-by had
gathered together and stared and waited for a few minutes, but
had finally lost interest and melted away. A human thoroughfare,
this, indeed, one of the pulses of the great city beating time
night and day to the tragedies of life. The chemist's assistant,
with impassive features, was serving a couple of casual customers
from behind the counter. Only a few yards away, beyond the
closed door, the chemist himself and a hastily summoned doctor
fought with Death for the body of the girl who lay upon the
floor, faint moans coming every now and then from her blue lips.

Tavernake, whose forced inaction during that terrible struggle
had become a burden to him, slipped softly from the room as soon
as the doctor had whispered that the acute crisis was over, and
passed through the shop out into the street, a solemn, dazed
figure among the light-hearted crowd. Even in those grim
moments, the man's individualism spoke up to him. He was puzzled
at his own action, He asked himself a question--not, indeed, with
regret, but with something more than curiosity and actual
selfprobing--as though, by concentrating his mind upon his recent
course of action, he would be able to understand the motives
which had influenced him. Why had he chosen to burden himself
with the care of this desperate young woman? Supposing she
lived, what was to become of her? He had acquired a certain
definite responsibility with regard to her future, for whatever
the doctor and his assistant might do, it was his own promptitude
and presence of mind which had given her the first chance of
life. Without a doubt, he had behaved foolishly. Why not vanish
into the crowd and have done with it? What was it to him, after
all, whether this girl lived or died? He had done his duty
-- more than his duty. Why not disappear now and let her take
her chance? His common sense spoke to him loudly; such thoughts
as these beat upon his brain.

Just for once in his life, however, his common sense exercised an
altogether subordinate position. He knew very well, even while
he listened to these voices, that he was only counting the
minutes until he could return. Having absolutely decided that
the only reasonable course left for him to pursue was to return
home and leave the girl to her fate, he found himself back inside
the shop within a quarter of an hour. The chemist had just come
out from the inner room, and looked up at his entrance.

"She'll do now," he announced.

Tavernake nodded. He was amazed at his own sense of relief.

"I am glad," he declared.

The doctor joined them, his black bag in his hand, prepared for
departure. He addressed himself to Tavernake as the responsible
person.

"The young lady will be all right now," he said, "but she may be
rather queer for a day or two. Fortunately, she made the usual
mistake of people who are ignorant of medicine and its effects --
she took enough poison to kill a whole household. You had better
take care of her, young man," he added dryly. "She'll be getting
into trouble if she tries this sort of thing again."

"Will she need any special attention during the next few days?"
Tavernake asked. "The circumstances under which I brought her
here are a little unusual, and I am not quite sure--"

"Take her home to bed," the doctor interrupted, "and you'll find
she'll sleep it off. She seems to have a splendid constitution,
although she has let herself run down. If you need any further
advice and your own medical man is not available, I will come and
see her if you send for me. Camden, my name is; telephone number
734 Gerrard."

"I should be glad to know the amount of your fee, if you please,"
Tavernake said.

"My fee is two guineas," the doctor answered.

Tavernake paid him and he went away. Already the shadow of the
tragedy was passing. The chemist had joined his assistant and
was busy dispensing drugs behind his counter.

"You can go in to the young lady, if you like," he remarked to
Tavernake. "I dare say she'll feel better to have some one with
her."

Tavernake passed slowly into the inner room, closing the door
behind him. He was scarcely prepared for so piteous a sight.
The girl's face was white and drawn as she lay upon the couch to
which they had lifted her. The fighting spirit was dead; she was
in a state of absolute and complete collapse. She opened her
eyes at his coning, but closed them again almost immediately
-- less, it seemed, from any consciousness of his presence than
from sheer exhaustion.

"I am glad that you are better," he whispered crossing the room
to her side.

"Thank you," she murmured almost inaudibly.

Tavernake stood looking down upon her, and his sense of
perplexity increased. Stretched on the hard horsehair couch she
seemed, indeed, pitifully thin and younger than her years. The
scowl, which had passed from her face, had served in some measure
as a disguise.

"We shall have to leave here in a few minutes," he said, softly.
"They will want to close the shop."

"I am so sorry," she faltered, "to have given you all this
trouble. You must send me to a hospital or the workhouse
-- anywhere."

"You are sure that there are no friends to whom I can send?" he
asked.

"There is no one!"

She closed her eyes and Tavernake sat quite still on the end of
her couch, his elbow upon his knee, his head resting upon his
hand. Presently, the rush of customers having ceased, the
chemist came in.

"I think, if I were you, I should take her home now," he
remarked. "She'll probably drop off to sleep very soon and wake
up much stronger. I have made up a prescription here in case of
exhaustion."

Tavernake stared at the man. Take her home! His sense of humor
was faint enough but he found himself trying to imagine the faces
of Mrs. Lawrence or Mrs. Fitzgerald if he should return with her
to the boardinghouse at such an hour.

"I suppose you know where she lives?" the chemist inquired
curiously.

"Of course," Tavernake assented. "You are quite right. I dare
say she is strong enough now to walk as far as the pavement."

He paid the bill for the medicines, and they lifted her from the
couch. Between them she walked slowly into the outer shop. Then
she began to drag on their arms and she looked up at the chemist
a little piteously.

"May I sit down for a moment?" she begged. "I feel faint."

They placed her in one of the cane chairs facing the door. The
chemist mixed her some sal volatile.

"I am sorry," she murmured, "so sorry. In a few minutes--I shall
be better."

Outside, the throng of pedestrians had grown less, but from the
great restaurant opposite a constant stream of motor-cars and
carriages was slowly bringing away the supper guests. Tavernake
stood at the door, watching them idly. The traffic was
momentarily blocked and almost opposite to him a motor-car, the
simple magnificence of which filled him with wonder, had come to
a standstill. The chauffeur and footman both wore livery which
was almost white. Inside a swinging vase of flowers was
suspended from the roof. A man and a woman leaned back in
luxurious easy-chairs. The man was dark and had the look of a
foreigner. The woman was very fair. She wore a long ermine
cloak and a tiara of pearls.

Tavernake, whose interest in the passing throngs was entirely
superficial, found himself for some reason curiously attracted by
this glimpse into a world of luxury of which he knew nothing;
attracted, too, by the woman's delicate face with its uncommon
type of beauty. Their eyes met as he stood there, stolid and
motionless, framed in the doorway. Tavernake continued to stare,
unmindful, perhaps unconscious, of the rudeness of his action.
The woman, after a moment, glanced away at the shopwindow. A
sudden thought seemed to strike her. She spoke through the tube
at her side and turned to her companion. Meanwhile, the footman,
leaning from his place, held out his arm in warning and the car
was slowly backed to the side of the pavement. The lady felt for
a moment in a bag of white satin which lay upon the round table
in front of her, and handed a slip of paper through the open
window to the servant who had already descended and was standing
waiting. He came at once towards the shop, passing Tavernake,
who remained in the door-way.

"Will you make this up at once, please?" he directed, handing the
paper across to the chemist.

The chemist took it in his hand and turned away mechanically
toward the dispensing room. Suddenly he paused, and, looking
back, shook his head.

"For whom is this prescription required?" he asked.

"For my mistress," the man answered. "Her name is there."

"Where is she?"

"Outside; she is waiting for it."

"If she really wants this made up to-night," the chemist
declared, "she must come in and sign the book."

The footman looked across the counter, for a moment, a little
blankly.

"Am I to tell her that?" he inquired. "It's only a sleeping
draught. Her regular chemist makes it up all right."

"That may be," the man behind the counter replied, "but, you see,
I am not her regular chemist. You had better go and tell her
so."

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