CHAPTER XXXVIII
The carriage drew up at the theatre and he handed her out--a littleawkwardly perhaps, but without absolute clumsiness. They found all therest of the party already in their seats and the curtain about to go up.They took the two end stalls, Trent on the outside. One chair only, nextto him, remained unoccupied.
"You people haven't hurried," Lady Tresham remarked, leaning forward.
"We are in time at any rate," Ernestine answered, letting her cloak fallupon the back of the stall.
The curtain was rung up and the play began. It was a modern societydrama, full of all the most up-to-date fashionable jargon and topicalillusions. Trent grew more and more bewildered at every moment.Suddenly, towards the end of the first act, a fine dramatic situationleaped out like a tongue of fire. The interest of the whole audience, upto then only mildly amused, became suddenly intense. Trent sat forwardin his seat. Ernestine ceased to fan herself. The man and the womanstood face to face--the light badinage which had been passing betweenthem suddenly ended--the man, with his sin stripped bare, mercilesslyexposed, the woman, his accuser, passionately eloquent, pouring out herscorn upon a mute victim. The audience knew what the woman in the playdid not know, that it was for love of her that the man had sinned, tosave her from a terrible danger which had hovered very near her life.The curtain fell, the woman leaving the room with a final taunt flungover her shoulder, the man seated at a table looking steadfastly intothe fire with fixed, unseeing eyes. The audience drew a little breathand then applauded; the orchestra struck up and a buzz of conversationbegan.
It was then that Ernestine first noticed how absorbed the man at herside had become. His hands were gripping the arms of the stall, his eyeswere fixed upon the spot somewhere behind the curtain where this suddenlittle drama had been played out, as though indeed they could pierce theheavy upholstery and see beyond into the room where the very air seemedquivering still with the vehemence of the woman's outpoured scorn.Ernestine spoke to him at last, the sound of her voice brought him backwith a start to the present.
"You like it?"
"The latter part," he answered. "What a sudden change! At first Ithought it rubbish, afterwards it was wonderful!"
"Hubert is a fine actor," she remarked, fanning herself. "It was hisfirst opportunity in the play, and he certainly took advantage of it."
He turned deliberately round in his seat towards her, and she was struckwith the forceful eagerness of his dark, set face.
"The man," he whispered hoarsely, "sinned for the love of the woman.Was he right? Would a woman forgive a man who deceived her for her ownsake--when she knew?"
Ernestine held up her programme and studied it deeply.
"I cannot tell," she said, "it depends."
Trent drew a little breath and turned away. A quiet voice from his otherside whispered in his ear--"The woman would forgive if she cared for theman."
* * * * *
Trent turned sharply and the light died out of his voice. Surely itwas an evil omen, this man's coming; for it was Captain Francis whohad taken the vacant seat and who was watching his astonishment with asomewhat saturnine smile.
"Rather a stupid play, isn't it? By the by, Trent, I wish you would askMiss Wendermott's permission to present me. I met her young cousin outat Attra."
Ernestine heard and leaned forward smiling. Trent did as he was asked,with set teeth and an ill grace. From then, until the curtain went upfor the next act, he had only to sit still and listen.
Afterwards the play scarcely fulfilled the promise of its commencement.At the third act Trent had lost all interest in it. Suddenly an ideaoccurred to him. He drew a card from his pocket and, scribbling a wordor two on it, passed it along to Lady Tresham. She leaned forward andsmiled approval upon him.
"Delightful!"
Trent reached for his hat and whispered in Ernestine's ear.
"You are all coming to supper with me at the 'Milan,'" he said; "I amgoing on now to see about it."
She smiled upon him, evidently pleased.
"What a charming idea! But do you mean all of us?"
"Why not?"
He found his carriage outside without much difficulty and drove quicklyround to the Milan Restaurant. The director looked doubtful.
"A table for eighteen, sir! It is quite too late to arrange it, exceptin a private room."
"The ladies prefer the large room," Trent answered decidedly, "and youmust arrange it somehow. I'll give you carte blanche as to what youserve, but it must be of the best."
The man bowed. This must be a millionaire, for the restaurant was the"Milan."
"And the name, sir?"
"Scarlett Trent--you may not know me, but Lady Tresham, Lord Colliston,and the Earl of Howton are amongst my guests."
The man saw no more difficulties. The name of Scarlett Trent was thename which impressed him. The English aristocrat he had but littlerespect for, but a millionaire was certainly next to the gods.
"We must arrange the table crossways, sir, at the end of the room," hesaid. "And about the flowers?"
"The best, and as many as you can get," Trent answered shortly. "I havea 100 pound note with me. I shall not grumble if I get little change outof it, but I want value for the money."
"You shall have it, sir!" the man answered significantly--and he kepthis word.
Trent reached the theatre only as the people were streaming out. In thelobby he came face to face with Ernestine and Francis. They were talkingtogether earnestly, but ceased directly they saw him.
"I have been telling Captain Francis," Ernestine said, "of yourdelightful invitation."
"I hope that Captain Francis will join us," Trent said coldly.
Francis stepped behind for a moment to light a cigarette.
"I shall be delighted," he answered.
* * * * *
The supper party was one of those absolute and complete successes whichrarely fall to the lot of even the most carefully thought out of socialfunctions. Every one of Lady Tresham's guests had accepted the hurriedinvitation, every one seemed in good spirits, and delighted at theopportunity of unrestrained conversation after several hours at thetheatre. The supper itself, absolutely the best of its kind, from thecaviare and plovers' eggs to the marvellous ices, and served in one ofthe handsomest rooms in London, was really beyond criticism. To Trentit seemed almost like a dream, as he leaned back in his chair andlooked down at the little party--the women with their bare shoulders andjewels, bathed in the soft glow of the rose-shaded electric lights, thepiles of beautiful pink and white flowers, the gleaming silver, and thewine which frothed in their glasses. The music of the violins on thebalcony blended with the soft, gay voices of the women. Ernestine was byhis side, every one was good-humoured and enjoying his hospitality.Only one face at the table was a reminder of the instability of hisfortunes--a face he had grown to hate during the last few hours witha passionate, concentrated hatred. Yet the man was of the same race asthese people, his connections were known to many of them, he was makingnew friends and reviving old ties every moment. During a brief lull inthe conversation his clear, soft voice suddenly reached Trent's ears. Hewas telling a story.
"Africa," he was saying, "is a country of surprises. Attra seems to bea city of hopeless exile for all white people. Last time I was there Iused to notice every day a very old man making a pretence of workingin a kitchen garden attached to a little white mission-house--a BasleSociety depot. He always seemed to be leaning on his spade, alwaysgazing out seawards in the same intent, fascinated way. Some one told mehis history at last. He was an Englishman of good position who had gotinto trouble in his younger days and served a term of years in prison.When he came out, sooner than disgrace his family further, he publisheda false account of his death and sailed under a disguised name forAfrica. There he has lived ever since, growing older and sinking lower,often near fortune but always missing it, a slave to bad habits, weak
and dissolute if you like, but ever keeping up his voluntary sacrifice,ever with that unconquerable longing for one last glimpse of his owncountry and his own people. I saw him, not many months ago, still there,still with his eyes turned seawards and with the same wistful droop ofthe head. Somehow I can't help thinking that that old man was also ahero."
The tinkling of glasses and the sort murmuring of whispered conversationhad ceased during Francis' story. Every one was a little affected--thesoft throbbing of the violins upon the balcony was almost a relief. Thenthere was a little murmur of sympathetic remarks--but amongst it allTrent sat at the head of the table with white, set face but with redfire before his eyes. This man had played him false. He dared not lookat Ernestine--only he knew that her eyes were wet with tears and thather bosom was heaving.
The spirits of men and women who sup are mercurial things, and it was agay leave-taking half an hour or so later in the little Moorish roomat the head of the staircase. But Ernestine left her host without evenappearing to see his outstretched hand, and he let her go without aword. Only when Francis would have followed her Trent laid a heavy handupon his shoulder.
"I must have a word with you, Francis," he said.
"I will come back," he said. "I must see Miss Wendermott into hercarriage."
But Trent's hand remained there, a grip of iron from which there was noescaping. He said nothing, but Francis knew his man and had no idea ofmaking a scene. So he remained till the last had gone and a tall, blackservant had brought their coats from the cloak-room.
"You will come with me please," Trent said, "I have a few words to sayto you."
Francis shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.