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Mystery of the Ravenspurs

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[Pg 107] <h2>CHAPTER XX A FASCINATING WOMAN</h2> Mrs. Jessop's simple parlor had been transformed beyond recognition. The fine Chippendale furniture had been brought forward; the gaudy settees and sofas had been covered with fine, Eastern silks and tapestries. A pair of old Dresden candlesticks stood on the table, and under pink shades the candles cast a glamor of subdued light upon damask and silver and china. As Geoffrey was ushered in Mrs. May came forward. She was dressed entirely in black, her wonderfully fine arms and shoulders gleamed dazzling almost as the diamonds that were as frosty stars in the glorious night of her hair. One great red bloom of some flower unknown to Geoffrey was in her breast. As to the rest, the flowers were all scarlet. The effect was slightly dazzling. Mrs. May came forward with a smile. "So you have managed to elude the Philistines," she said. "Ah, I guessed that you would say nothing to your friends about our little dinner." There was an eager note in the words that conveyed a half question. Geoffrey smiled. "May I venture to suggest that the knowledge is not displeasing to you?" he said. "Well, I admit it. In the circumstances to explain would have been a bore. Your people cannot call on me and, being old-fashioned, they might not care for you to come here alone. Therefore, being a man of the world, you told them nothing about it." Geoffrey smiled, as he took the proffered cigarette. Had he not been warned against this woman by Ralph,[Pg 108] her subtle flattery would have put him off his guard. It is always so sweet and soothing for a youngster to be taken for a man of the world. "You have guessed it all," he said. "My grandfather is a grand seigneur. He has no toleration for anything that is not en règle. What an exquisite cigarette!" Mrs. May nodded. They were excellent cigarettes, as also was the liqueur she insisted upon pouring out for Geoffrey with her own hands. He had never tasted anything like it before. And the dinner when it came was a perfect little poem in its way. Not a flask of wine on the table that had not a history. Long before the meal was over Geoffrey found himself forgetting his caution. Not that Geoffrey had anything to be afraid of. He knew that in some way this woman was connected with the tragedy of his race; for all that he knew to the contrary, she might be the spirit directing the tragedies. She was his enemy, though she smiled upon him with a dazzling fascination calculated to turn cooler heads than his. But, at any rate, she had not asked him here to poison him at her own table. Mrs. Mona May was too fine an artist for that. Presently Geoffrey came out of his dream to find himself talking. Mrs. May seemed to be putting all the questions and he was giving all the answers. And yet, directly, she asked no questions at all. She was sympathetic and interested in the family, as she explained with kindness and feeling. "And there is that poor blind gentleman," she said sweetly. Her eyes were bent over her dessert plate. She was peeling a peach daintily. There was just for the fraction of a second a ring in her voice that acted on Geoffrey as a cold douche does to a man whose senses are blurred with liquor. Some instinct told him that they were approaching the crux of the interview. "My uncle Ralph," he said carelessly. "He is a[Pg 109] mystery. He keeps himself to himself and says nothing to anybody. Sometimes I fancy he is a clever man, who despises us, and at other times I regard him as a man whose misfortunes have dulled his brain and that he strives to conceal the fact." Mrs. May smiled. But she returned to the charge again. But strive as she would, she could get no more on this head out of Geoffrey. She wanted to know who the man was and all about him. And she learned nothing beyond the fact that he was a poor nonentity, despised by his relations. Geoffrey's open sincerity puzzled her. Perhaps there was nothing to learn after all. "Strange that he did not stay away," she murmured, "knowing that the family curse must overtake him." Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "What can an unfortunate like that have to live for?" he asked. "He is broken in mind and in body and has no money of his own. It is just like the old fox who crawls to the hole to die. And we are getting used to the curse by this time." "You have no hope, no expectation of the truth coming to light?" It was on the tip of Geoffrey's tongue to speak freely of his hopes for the future. Instead he bent his head over the table, saying nothing till he felt he had full control of his voice once more. Then he spoke in the same hopeless tones. "I have become a fatalist," he said. "Please change the subject." Mrs. May did so discreetly and easily. And yet in a few moments the doings of the Ravenspurs were on her tongue again and, almost unconsciously, Geoffrey found himself talking about Marion, Mrs. May listening quietly. "I have seen the young lady," she said. "She has a nice face." "Marion is an angel," Geoffrey cried. "Her face is perfect. You have only to look at her to see what she[Pg 110] is. Nobody with a countenance like that could do wrong, even if she wished it. No matter who and what it is everybody comes under Marion's sway. Men, women, children, dogs, all turn to her with the same implicit confidence." "Marion seems to be a warm favorite," Mrs. May smiled. "And yet I rather gather that she does not hold first place in your affections?" "I am engaged to my cousin Vera," Geoffrey explained. "We were boy and girl lovers before Marion came to us. Otherwise—well, we need not go into that. But I never saw any one like Marion till to-night." Mrs. May looked up swiftly. "What do you mean by that?" she asked. "I mean exactly what I say. In certain ways, in certain lights, under certain conditions your face is marvelously like that of Marion." As Geoffrey spoke he saw that the blood had left the cheek of his companion. Her face was deadly pale, so pale that the crimson flower in her breast seemed to grow vivid. There was a motion of the elbow and a wine glass went crashing to the floor. The woman stooped to raise the fragments. "How clumsy of me!" she said. "And why are you regarding me so intently? My heart is a little wrong, the doctors tell me—nothing serious, however. There!" She looked up again. She had recovered and her face was tinged with the red flush of health again. But her hands still shook. But Geoffrey was taking no heed. He had dropped the match he was about to apply to his cigarette and was staring out of the window. The blind had not been drawn; the panes were framed with flowers. And inside that dark circle there came a face, a dark Eastern face, with awful eyes, filled with agony and rage and pain. Across the dusky forehead was a cut from which blood streamed freely. [Pg 111] "You are not listening to me," Mrs. May cried. "What is the matter?" "The face, a face at the window," Geoffrey gasped. "A horrible-looking man, not of this country at all; a man with a gash in his forehead. He seemed to be looking for something. When he caught sight of me he disappeared." Mrs. May had risen and crossed to the long French window opening on to the lawn. Her back was towards Geoffrey and she seemed determined, or so he imagined, to keep her face concealed from him. "Strange," she said, carelessly, though she was obviously disturbed. "Surely you were mistaken. Some trick of the brain, a freak of imagination." Geoffrey laughed. Young men at his time of life, men, who follow healthy pursuits, are not given to tricks of the imagination. His pulse was beating steadily; his skin was moist and cool. "I am certain of it," he said. "What is that noise?" Something was calling down the garden. Long before this time the good people of the farm had gone to bed. "Shall I go and see what it is?" Geoffrey asked. "No, no," Mrs. May whispered. "Stay here, I implore you. I would not have had this happen for anything. What am I saying?" She passed her hand cross her face and laughed unsteadily. "There are secrets in everybody's life and there are in mine," she said. "Stay till I return. There will be no danger for me, I assure you." She slipped out into the darkness and was gone. Geoffrey stooped and bent over a dark blot or two that lay on the stone still at the bottom of the window. "Blood," he muttered, "blood beyond a doubt. It was no delusion of mine." From outside came the swish of silken drapery. It was Mrs. May returning. She seemed herself again by this time. [Pg 112] "The danger is past," she said, "if danger you choose to call it. The next time we meet we shall laugh together over this comedy. I assure you it is a comedy. And now I am going to ask you to leave me." The woman was playing a part and playing it extremely well. With less innate knowledge, Geoffrey would have been thoroughly deceived. As it was, he affected to make light of the matter. He held out his hand with a smile. "I am glad of that," he said. "You must let me come again, when, perhaps, you may be disposed to allow me to assist you. Good-night and thank you for one of the pleasantest evenings of my life." The door closed behind Geoffrey, and he stumbled along in the darkness until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Out in the road some one crept up to him and laid a hand on his arm. Like a flash Geoffrey had him by the throat. "Speak, or I will kill you," he whispered. "Who are you?" "Come with me at once," came the hoarse reply. "And release that grip of my throat. I am Sergius Tchigorsky." <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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