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The Tempting of Tavernake

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




"I have had an offer," he said guardedly. "I cannot say much
about it at present, for nothing is certain, but I am sure that I
shall be able to raise the money somehow."

His tone was calm and confident. There was no self-assurance or
bluster about it, and yet it was convincing. She looked at him
curiously.

"You are a very positive person, Leonard," she remarked. "You
must have great faith in yourself, I think."

He considered the question for a moment.

"Perhaps I have," he admitted. "I do not think that there is any
other way to succeed."

The atmosphere of the place was becoming now almost languorous.
The band had ceased to play; little parties of men and women were
standing about, bidding one another goodnight. The lamps had
been lowered, and in the gloom the voices and laughter seemed to
have become lower and more insinuating; the lights in the eyes of
the women, as they passed down the room on their way out, softer
and more irresistible.

"I suppose we must go," she said reluctantly.

Tavernake paid his bill and they turned into the street. She
took his arm and they turned westward. Even out here, the
atmosphere of the restaurant appeared to have found its way. The
soberness of life, its harder and more practical side, was for
the moment obscured. It was not the daytime crowd, this, whose
footsteps pressed the pavements. The careworn faces of the
money-seekers had vanished. The men and women to whom life was
something of a struggle had sought their homes--resting, perhaps,
before they took up their labors again. Every moment taxicabs
and motor-cars whirled by, flashing upon the night a momentary
impression of men in evening dress, of women in soft garments
with jewels in their hair. The spirit of pleasure seemed to have
crept into the atmosphere. Even the poorer people whom they
passed in the street, were laughing or singing.

Tavernake stopped short.

"To-night," he declared, "is not the night for omnibuses. We are
going to have a taxicab. I know that you are tired."

"I should love it," she admitted.

They hailed one and drove off. Beatrice leaned back among the
cushions and closed her eyes, her ungloved hand rested almost
caressingly upon his. He leaned forward. There were new things
in the world--he was sure of it now, sure though they were coming
to him through the mists, coming to him so vaguely that even
while he obeyed he did not understand. Her full, soft lips were
slightly parted; her heavily-fringed eyelids closed; her deep
brown hair, which had escaped bounds a little, drooping over her
ear. His fingers suddenly clasped hers tightly.

"Beatrice!" he whispered.

She sat up with a start, her eyes questioning his, the breath
coming quickly through her parted lips.

"Once you asked me to kiss you, Beatrice," he said. "To-night
-- I am going to."

She made no attempt to repulse him. He took her in his arms and
kissed her. Even in that moment he knew that he had made a
mistake. Nevertheless, he kissed her again and again, crushing
her lips against his.

"Please let me go, Leonard," she begged at last.

He obeyed at once. He understood quite well that some strange
thing had happened. It seemed to him during those next few
minutes that everything which had passed that night was a dream,
that this vivid picture of a life more intense, making larger
demands upon the senses than anything he had yet experienced, was
a mirage, a thing which would live only in his memory, a life in
which he could never take any part. He had blundered; he had
come into a new world and he had blundered. A sense of guilt was
upon him. He had a sudden wild desire to cry out that it was
Elizabeth whom he had kissed. Beatrice was sitting upright in
her place, her head turned a little away from him. He felt that
she was expecting him to speak--that there were inevitable words
which he should say. His silence was a confession. He would
have lied but the seal was upon his lips. So the moment passed,
and Tavernake had taken another step forward towards his destiny!
. . .

As he helped her out of the cab, her fingers tightened for a
moment upon his hand. She patted it gently as she passed out
before him into the house, leaving the door open. When he had
paid the cabman and followed, she had disappeared. He looked
into the sitting-room; it was empty. Overhead, he could hear her
footsteps as she ascended to her room.




CHAPTER XIII

AN EVENING CALL


In the morning, when he left for the city, she was not down.
When he came home in the evening, she was gone. Without removing
his hat or overcoat, he took the letter which he found propped up
on the mantelpiece and addressed to him to the window and read
it.

DEAR BROTHER LEONARD,--It wasn't your fault and I don't think it
was mine. If either of us is to blame, it is certainly I, for
though you are such a clever and ambitious young person, you
really know very little indeed of the world,--not so much, I
think, as I do. I am going to stay for a few nights, at any
rate, with one of the girls at the theatre, who I know wants some
one to share her tiny flat with her. Afterwards, I shall see.

Don't throw this letter in the fire and don't think me
ungrateful. I shall never forget what you did for me. How could
I?

I will send you my address as soon as I am sure of it, or you can
always write me to the theatre.

Good-bye, dear Leonard,
YOUR SISTER BEATRICE.

Tavernake looked from the sheet of notepaper out across the gray
square. He knew that he was very angry, angry though he
deliberately folded the letter up and placed it in his pocket,
angry though he took off his overcoat and hung it up with his
usual care; but his anger was with himself. He had blundered
badly. This episode of his life was one which he had better
forget. It was absolutely out of harmony with all his ideas. He
told himself that he was glad Beatrice was gone. Housekeeping
with an imaginary sister in this practical world was an
absurdity. Sooner or later it must have come to an end. Better
now, before it had gone too far--better now, much better! All
the same, he knew that he was going to be very lonely.

He rang the bell for the woman who waited upon them, and whom he
seldom saw, for Beatrice herself had supplied their immediate
wants. He found some dinner ready, which he ate with absolute
unconsciousness. Then he threw himself fiercely into his work.
It was all very well for the first hour or so, but as ten o'clock
grew near he began to find a curious difficulty in keeping his
attention fixed upon those calculations. The matter of average
rentals, percentage upon capital--things which but yesterday he
had found fascinating--seemed suddenly irksome. He could fix his
attention upon nothing. At last he pushed his papers away, put
on his hat and coat, and walked into the street.

At the Milan Court, the hall-porter received his inquiry for
Elizabeth with an air of faint but well-bred surprise.
Tavernake, in those days, was a person exceedingly difficult to
place. His clothes so obviously denoted the station in life
which he really occupied, while the slight imperiousness of his
manner, his absolute freedom from any sort of nervousness or
awkwardness, seemed to bespeak a consideration which those who
had to deal with him as a stranger found sometimes a little
puzzling.

"Mrs. Wenham Gardner is in her rooms, I believe, sir," the man
said. "If you will wait for a moment, I will inquire."

He disappeared into his office, thrusting his head out, a moment
or two later, with the telephone receiver still in his hand.

"Mrs. Gardner would like the name again, sir, please," he
remarked.

Tavernake repeated it firmly.

"You might say," he added, "that I shall not detain her for more
than a few minutes."

The man disappeared once more. When he returned, he indicated
the lift to Tavernake.

"If you will go up to the fifth floor, sir," he said, " Mrs.
Gardner will see you."

Tavernake found his courage almost leaving him as he knocked at
the door of her rooms. Her French maid ushered him into the
little sitting-room, where, to his dismay, he found three men,
one sitting on the table, the other two in easy-chairs.
Elizabeth, in a dress of pale blue satin, was standing before the
mirror. She turned round as Tavernake entered.

"Mr. Tavernake shall decide!" she exclaimed, waving her hand to
him. " Mr. Tavernake, there is a difference of opinion about my
earrings. Major Post here,"--she indicated a distinguished-
looking elderly gentleman, with carefully trimmed beard and
moustache, and an eyeglass attached to a thin band of black
ribbon--" Major Post wants me to wear turquoises. I prefer my
pearls. Mr. Crease half agrees with me, but as he never agrees
with any one, on principle, he hates to say so. Mr. Faulkes is
wavering. You shall decide; you, I know, are one of those people
who never waver."

"I should wear the pearls," Tavernake said.

Elizabeth made them a little courtesy.

"You see, my dear friends," she declared, " you have to come to
England, after all, to find a man who knows his own mind and
speaks it without fear. The pearls it shall be."

"It may be decision," Crease drawled, speaking with a slight
American accent, "or it may be gallantry. Mr. Tavernake knew
your own choice."

"The last word, as usual," she sighed. "Now, if you good people
will kindly go on downstairs, I will join you in a few minutes.
Mr. Tavernake is my man of business and I am sure he has
something to say to me."

She dismissed them all pleasantly. As soon as the door was
closed she turned to Tavernake. Her manner seemed to become a
shade less gracious.

"Well?"

"I don't know why I came," Tavernake confessed bluntly. "I was
restless and I wanted to see you."

She looked at him for a moment and then she laughed. Tavernake
felt a sense of relief; at least she was not angry.

"Oh, you strangest of mortals!" she exclaimed, holding out her
hands. "Well, you see me--in one of my most becoming gowns, too.
What do you think of the fit?"

She swept round and faced him again with an expectant look.
Tavernake, who knew nothing of women's fashions, still realized
the superbness of that one unbroken line.

"I can't think how you can move a step in it," he said, "but you
look--"

He paused. It was as though he had lost his breath. Then he set
his teeth and finished.

"You look beautiful," he declared. "I suppose you know that. I
suppose they've all been telling you so."

She shook her head.

"They haven't all your courage, dear Briton," she remarked, "and
if they did tell me so, I am not sure that I should be convinced.
You see, most of my friends have lived so long and lived so
quickly that they have learned to play with words until one never
knows whether the things they speak come from their hearts. With
you it is different."

"Yes," Tavernake admitted, "with me it is different!"

She glanced at the clock.

"Well," she said, "you have seen me and I am glad to have seen
you, and you may kiss my fingers if you like, and then you must
run away. I am engaged to have supper with my friends
downstairs."

He raised her fingers clumsily enough to his lips and kept them
there for a moment. When he let them go, she wrung them as
though in pain, and looked at him. She turned abruptly away. In
a sense she was disappointed. After all, he was an easy victim!

"Elise," she called out, "my cloak."

Her maid came hurrying from the next room. Elizabeth turned
towards her, holding out her shoulders. She nodded to Tavernake.

"You know the way down, Mr. Tavernake? I shall see you again
soon, sha'n't I? Good-night!"

She scarcely glanced at him as she sent him away, yet Tavernake
walked on air.




CHAPTER XIV

A WARNING FROM Mr. PRITCHARD


Tavernake hesitated for a moment under the portico of the Milan
Court, looking out at the rain which had suddenly commenced to
descend. He scarcely noticed that he had a companion until the
man who was standing by his side addressed him.

"Say, your name is Tavernake, isn't it?"

Tavernake, who had been on the point of striding away, turned
sharply around. The man who had spoken to him was wearing
morning clothes of dark gray tweed and a soft Homburg hat. His
complexion was a little sallow and he was clean-shaven except for
a slight black moustache. He was smoking a black cigar and his
accent was transatlantic. Something about his appearance struck
Tavernake as being vaguely familiar, but he could not at first
recall where he had seen him before.

"That is my name, certainly," Tavernake admitted.

"I am going to ask you a somewhat impertinent question," his
neighbor remarked.

"I suppose you can ask it," Tavernake rejoined. "I am not
obliged to answer, am I?"

The man smiled.

"Come," he said, "that's honest, at any rate. Are you in a hurry
for a few minutes?"

"I am in no particular hurry," Tavernake answered. "What do you
want?"

"A few nights ago," the stranger continued, lowering his voice a
little, "I met you with a young lady whose appearance, for some
reason which we needn't go into, interested me. To-night I
happened to overhear you inquiring, only a few minutes ago, for
the sister of the same young lady."

"What you heard doesn't concern me in the least," Tavernake
retorted. "I should say that you had no business to listen."

His companion smiled.

"Well," he declared, "I have always heard a good deal about
British frankness, and it seems to me that I'm getting some.
Anyway, I'll tell you where I come in. I am interested in Mrs.
Wenham Gardner. I am interested, also, in her sister, whom I
think you know--Miss Beatrice Franklin, not Miss Tavernake!"

Tavernake made no immediate reply. The man was an American,
without a doubt. Perhaps he knew something of Beatrice. Perhaps
this was one of the friends of that former life concerning which
she had told him nothing.

"You are not, by any chance, proposing," Tavernake said at last,
"to discuss either of these ladies with me? I do not know you or
what your business may be. In any case, I am going now."

The other laid his hand on Tavernake's shoulder.

"You'll be soaked to the skin," he protested. "I want you to
come into the smoking-room here with me for a few minutes. We
will have a drink together and a little conversation, if you
don't mind."

"But I do mind," Tavernake declared. "I don't know who you are
and I don't want to know you, and I am not going to talk about
Mrs. Gardner, or any other lady of my acquaintance, with
strangers. Good-night!"

"One moment, please, Mr. Tavernake."

Tavernake hesitated. There was something curiously compelling in
the other's smooth, distinct voice.

"I'd like you to take this card," he said. "I told you my name
before but I expect you've forgotten it,--Pritchard--Sam
Pritchard. Ever heard of me before?"

"Never!"

"Not to have heard of me in the United States," the other
continued, with a grim smile, "would be a tribute to your
respectability. Most of the crooks who find their way over here
know of Sam Pritchard. I am a detective and I come from New
York."

Tavernake turned and looked the man over. There was something
convincing about his tone and appearance. It did not occur to
him to doubt for a moment a word of this stranger's story.

"You haven't anything against her--against either of them?" he
asked, quickly.

"Nothing directly," the detective answered. "All the same, you
have been calling upon Mrs. Wenham Gardner this evening, and if
you are a friend of hers I think that you had better come along
with me and have that talk."

"I will come," Tavernake agreed, "but I come as a listener.
Remember that I have nothing to tell you. So far as you are
concerned, I do not know either of those ladies."

Pritchard smiled.

"Well," he said, "I guess we'll let it go at that. All the same,
if you don't mind, we'll talk. Come this way and we'll get to
the smoking-room through the hotel. It's under cover."

Tavernake moved restlessly in his chair.

"What the devil is all this talk about crooks!" he exclaimed
impatiently. "I didn't come here to listen to this sort of
thing. I am not sure that I believe a word of what you say."

"Why should you," Pritchard remarked, "without proof? Look
here."

He drew a leather case from his pocket and spread it out. There
were a dozen photographs there of men in prison attire. The
detective pointed to one, and with a little shiver Tavernake
recognized the face of the man who had been sitting at the right
hand of Elizabeth.

"You don't mean to say," he faltered, "that Mrs. Gardner--"

The detective folded up his case and replaced it in his pocket.

"No," he said, "we haven't any photographs of your lady friend
there, nor of her sister. And yet, it may not be so far off."

"If you are trying to fasten anything upon those ladies,--"
Tavernake began, threateningly.

The detective laughed and patted him on the shoulder.

"It isn't my business to try and fasten things upon any one," he
interrupted. "At the same time, you seem to be a friend of Mrs.
Wenham Gardner, and it is just as well that some one should warn
her."

"Warn her of what?" Tavernake asked.

The detective looked at his cigar meditatively.

"Make her understand that there is trouble ahead," he replied.

Tavernake sipped his whiskey and soda and lit a cigarette. Then
he turned in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his companion.
Pritchard was a striking-looking man, with hard, clean-cut
features--a man of determination.

"Mr. Pritchard, I am a clerk in an estate office. My people were
work-people and I am trying to better myself in the world. I
haven't learned how to beat about a subject, but I have learned a
little of the world, and I know that people such as you are not
in the habit of doing things without a reason. Why the devil
have you brought me in here to talk about Mrs. Gardner and her
sister? If you've anything to say, why don't you go to Mrs.
Gardner herself and say it? Why do you come and talk to
strangers about their affairs? I am here listening to you, but I
tell you straight I don't like it."

Pritchard nodded.

"Say, I am not sure that I don't like that sort of talk," he
declared. "I know all about you, young man. You're in Dowling &
Spence's office and you've got to quit. You've got an estate you
want financing. Miss Beatrice Franklin was living under your
roof--as your sister, I understand--until yesterday, and Mrs.
Gardner, for some reason of her own, seems to be doing her best
to add you to the list of her admirers. I am not sure what it
all means but I could make a pretty good guess. Here's my point,
though. You're right. I didn't bring you here for your health.
I brought you here because you can do me a service and yourself
one at the same time, and you'll be doing no one any harm, nobody
you care about, anyway. I have no grudge against Miss Beatrice.
I'd just as soon she kept out of the trouble that's coming."

"What is this service?" Tavernake asked.

Pritchard for the moment evaded the point.

"I dare say you can understand, Mr. Tavernake," he said, "that in
my profession one has to sometimes go a long way round to get a
man or a woman just where you want them. Now we merely glanced
at that table as we came in, and I can tell you this for gospel
truth--there isn't one of that crowd that I couldn't, if I liked,
haul back to New York on some charge or another. You wonder why
I don't do it. I'll tell you. It's because I am waiting
-- waiting until I can bring home something more serious,
something that will keep them out of the way for just as long as
possible. Do you follow me, Mr. Tavernake?"

"I suppose I do," Tavernake answered, doubtfully. "You are only
talking of the men, of course?"

Pritchard smiled.

"My young friend," he agreed, "I am only talking of the men. At
the same time, I guess I'm not betraying any confidence, or
telling you anything that Mrs. Wenham Gardner doesn't know
herself, when I say that she's doing her best to qualify for a
similar position."

"You mean that she is doing something against the law!" Tavernake
exclaimed, indignantly. "I don't believe it for a moment. If
she is associating with these people, it's because she doesn't
know who they are."

Pritchard flicked the ash from his cigar.

"Well," he said, "every man has a right to his own opinions, and
for my part I like to hear any one stick up for his friends. It
makes no odds to me. However, here are a few facts I am going to
bring before you. Four months ago, one of the turns at a
vaudeville show down Broadway consisted of a performance by a
Professor Franklin and his two daughters, Elizabeth and Beatrice.
The professor hypnotized, told fortunes, felt heads, and the
usual rigmarole. Beatrice sang, Elizabeth danced.

People came to see the show, not because it was any good but
because the girls, even in New York, were beautiful."

"A music-hall in New York!" Tavernake muttered.

The detective nodded.

"Among the young bloods of the city," he continued, "were two
brothers, as much alike as twins, although they aren't twins,
whose names were Wenham and Jerry Gardner. There's nothing in
fast life which those young men haven't tried. Between them, I
should say they represented everything that was known of
debauchery and dissipation. The eldest can't be more than
twenty-seven to-day, but if you were to see them in the morning,
either of them, before they had been massaged and galvanized into
life, you'd think they were little old men, with just strength
enough left to crawl about. Well, to cut a long story short,
both of them fell in love with Elizabeth."

"Brutes!" Tavernake interjected.

"I guess they found Miss Elizabeth a pretty tough nut to crack,"
the detective went on. "Anyhow, you know what her price was from
her name, which is hers right enough. Wenham, who was a year
younger than his brother, was the first to bid it. Three months
ago, Mr. and Mrs. Wenham Gardner, Miss Beatrice, and the devoted
father left New York in the Lusitania and came to London."

"Where is this Wenham Gardner, then?" Tavernake demanded.

Pritchard took his cigar case from his pocket and selected
another cigar.

"Say, that's where you strike the nail right on the head," he
remarked. "Where is this Wenham Gardner?

I don't mind telling you, Mr. Tavernake, that to discover his
whereabouts is exactly what I am over on this side for. I have a
commission from the family to find out, and a blank cheque to do
it with."

"Do you mean that he has disappeared, then?" asked Tavernake.

"Off the face of the earth, sir," Pritchard replied. "Something
like two months ago, the young married couple, with Miss
Beatrice, started for a holiday tour somewhere down in the west
of England. A few days after they started, Miss Beatrice comes
back to London alone. She goes to a boarding-house, is
practically penniless, but she has shaken her sister--has, I
believe, never spoken with her since. A little later, Elizabeth
alone turns up in London. She has plenty of money, more money
than she has ever had the control of before in her life, but no
husband."

"So far, I don't see anything remarkable about that," Tavernake
interposed.

"That may or may not be," Pritchard answered, drily. "This
creature, Wenham Gardner--I hate to call him a man--was her
abject slave--up till the time they reached London, at any rate.
He would never have quit of his own accord. He stopped quite
suddenly communicating with all his friends. None of their
cables, even, were answered."

"Why don't you go and ask Mrs. Gardner where he is?" Tavernake
demanded bluntly.

"I have already," Pritchard declared, "taken that liberty. With
tears in her eyes, she assured me that after some slight quarrel,
in which she admits that she was the one to blame, her husband
walked out of the house where they were staying, and she has not
seen him since. She was quite ready with all the particulars,
and even implored me to help find him."

"I cannot imagine," Tavernake said, "why any one should
disbelieve her."

The detective smiled.

"There are a few little outside circumstances," he remarked,
looking at the ash of his cigar. "In the first place, how do you
suppose that this young Wenham Gardner spent the last week of his
stay in New York?"

"How should I know?" Tavernake replied, impatiently.

"By realizing every cent of his property on which he could lay
his hands," the detective continued. "It isn't at any time an
easy business, and the Gardner interest is spread out in many
directions, but he must have sailed with something like forty
thousand pounds in hard cash. A suspicious person might presume
that that forty thousand pounds has found its way to the stronger
of the combination."

"Anything else?" Tavernake asked.

"I won't worry you much more," the detective answered. "There
are a few other circumstances which seem to need explanation, but
they can wait. There is one serious one, however, and that is
where you come in."

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