CHAPTER XXIX

THE COURAGE OF DESPERATION

Captain Vandermere had a friend from the country, and was giving him supper at the _Savoy_. He was also pointing out the different people who were worthy of note.

"That," he said, pointing to an adjoining table, "is really one of the most interesting men in London."

"He looks like an actor," his friend remarked.

"So he may be," Vandermere answered grimly, "but his is not the Thespian stage. He is a lecturer and writer on occultism, and in his way, I suppose, he is amazingly clever."

"Do you mean Bertrand Saton?" his friend asked, with interest.

Vandermere nodded.

"You have heard the fellow's name, of course," he said. "For the last month or so one seems to meet him everywhere, and in all sorts of society. The ill.u.s.trated papers, and even the magazines, have been full of the fellow's photograph. Women especially seem to regard him as something supernatural. Look at the way they are hanging upon his words now. That is the old d.u.c.h.ess of Ampthill on his left, and the others are all decent enough people of a sort."

"I gather from your tone," his friend remarked, "that the young man is not a favorite of yours."

"He is not," Vandermere answered. "I don't understand the breed, and that's a fact. Apart from that, he has had the confounded impertinence to make love to--to a very charming young lady of my acquaintance."

"He isn't particularly good-looking," the friend remarked--"striking I suppose people would say."

"He has a sort of unwholesome way of attracting women," Vandermere remarked. "Look how they all manoeuvre to walk out with him."

Saton was exercising his rights as lion of the party, and leaving early. The d.u.c.h.ess whispered something in his ear, at which he only laughed. Half-a-dozen invitations were showered upon him, which he accepted conditionally.

"I never accept invitations," he said, "except with a proviso. As a matter of fact, I never can tell exactly when I shall want to work, and when the feeling for work comes, everything else must go. It is not always that one is in the right mood."

"How interesting!" one of the women sighed.

"Must be like writing poetry, only far more exciting," another murmured.

"Tell me," a girl asked him, as he stooped over her fingers to say good night, "is it really true, Mr. Saton, that if you liked you could make me do things even against my will--that you could put ideas into my head which I should be forced to carry out?"

"Certainly."

"And you never make use of your power?"

"Very seldom," he answered. "That is the chicanery of science. It is because people when they have discovered a little are so anxious to exploit their knowledge, that they never go any further. It is very easy indeed to dominate the will of certain individuals, but what we really want to understand before we use our power, is the law that governs it. Good night, once more!"

"A wonderful man!" they sighed one to another as he pa.s.sed out.

"I am one of the few," the d.u.c.h.ess remarked complacently, "who has seen a real manifestation of his powers. It is true," she added, with a little shudder, "there was a mistake toward the end. The experiment wasn't wholly successful, but it was wonderful, all the same--wonderful!"

Saton left the restaurant, and entered the small electric brougham which was waiting for him. He lit a cigarette and leaned back amongst the cushions, musing over the events of the evening with a complacent smile. The last few weeks seemed to have wrought some subtle change in the man. His face was at once stronger and weaker, more determined, and yet in a sense less trustworthy. His manner had gained in a.s.sertion, his bearing in confidence. There was an air of resolve about him, as though he knew exactly where he was going--how far, and in what direction. And with it all he had aged. There were lines under his eyes, and his face was worn--at times almost haggard.

He let himself into the little house in Berkeley Square with his latchkey, and turned at once into Rachael's room. She was sitting over the fire in a brilliant red dressing-gown, her head elaborately coiffured, her fingers and neck brilliant with jewels. Yet when she turned her head one saw a change. Age had laid its grip upon her at last. Her voice had lost its decision. Her hands trembled in her lap.

"You are late, Bertrand," she said--"very late."

"Not so very," he answered. "I have been supping at the _Savoy_ with the d.u.c.h.ess of Ampthill and some friends."

She looked at him searchingly, looked at him from head to foot, noted the trim exactness of his evening attire, and his enamel links and waistcoat b.u.t.tons, the air of confidence with which he crossed the room to mix himself a whiskey and soda. It was she who had been like that a few months ago, and he the timid one. They seemed to have changed places.

"Bertrand," she said, "you frighten me. You go so far, nowadays."

"Why not?" he answered.

"Huntley has been here to-night," she went on. "He tells me that you have opened even another place, and that all the old ones are going.

He tells me that the offices are hard at work, too."

"Business is good," remarked Saton, drily.

"I thought that we were going quietly for a time," she said. "It was you who were so terrified at the risk. Do you imagine that the danger is over?"

"My dear Rachael," he answered, coming over to her, "I have come to the conclusion that I was over-timid. There is no success in life to be won without daring. Money we must have, and these places are like a gold mine to us. If things go wrong, we must take our chance. I am content. In the meantime, for all our sakes, it suits me to be in evidence everywhere. The papers publish my portrait, the Society journals record my name, people point me out at the theatres and at the restaurants. This is not vanity--this is business. I am giving a lecture the week after next, and every seat is already taken. I am going to say some daring things. Afterwards, I am going to Naudheim for a month. When I come back, I shall give another lecture. After that, perhaps these places will not be necessary any more. But who can tell? Money we must have, money all the time. Science is great, but men and women must live."

She looked at him with a grim smile.

"You amuse me," she said. "Are you really the half-starved boy who flung himself at my horses' heads in the Bois?"

"I am what the Fates have made of that boy."

She shook her head.

"You are going too fast," she said. "You terrify me. What about Lois?"

"Lois is of age in six weeks," he replied. "On the day she is of age, I shall go to Rochester and demand her hand. He will refuse, of course. I shall marry her at once."

"Why not now?" Rachael asked. "Why wait a day? The money will come later."

"I will tell you why," Saton answered. "Because I have ambitions, and because it would do them harm if people believed that I had exercised any sort of influence to make that girl marry me against her guardian's wishes. I do use my influence as it is, although," he added, frowning, "I find it harder every day. She walked with me in the Park this morning; she came to tea with me the day before."

"What do you mean when you say that you find it harder?" Rachael asked.

"I mean that I have lost some of my hold over her," he answered. "It is the sort of thing which is likely to happen at any time. She has very weak receptive currents. It is like trying to drive water with a sieve."

"You must not fail," she muttered. "I am nervous these days. I would rather you were married to Lois, and her money was in the bank, and that these places were closed. I start when the bell rings. Huntley himself said that you were rash."

"Huntley is a fool," Saton answered. "Let me help you upstairs, Rachael."