What Mr. Milton Dante’s advance agent had predicted came to pass. Miss Montague-Vance’s triumph was absolute before the curtain had fallen upon the first act of “The Beauty of Gotham,” and by the time the first night’s performance came to an end, all Crumplesea—all masculine Crumplesea, that is to say—was, metaphorically, at her feet.
Whatever she might be off the stage, there was no gainsaying the fact that on it, hers was an alluring, lovely personality, and that her beautiful face, and her soft dovelike eyes seemed created to make men lose their heads and their hearts, and to become absolutely insane over her. She could sing, too—not merely carry a tune and let the orchestra furnish all the music, as so many of her kind do, but sing intelligently, sweetly, and with a voice that showed cultivation as well as the melody which had been put into it by nature—and as she exerted herself that night as none of her colleagues had ever known her to do before, it is scarcely to be wondered that she carried everything before her, and that the reception accorded to her by delighted Crumplesea partook of the nature of an ovation.
In all the crowd that filled the new opera house and cheered and shouted over her success, there was perhaps only one person—Dora—who did not delight in her triumph.
Seated in a proscenium box under the watchful eye and the close guardianship of Mr. Milton Dante, the girl, dumb with shame, and heartsick with despair, remained all the evening with her eyes cast down, and never, even once, looked toward the stage. It was a relief to her when the thing was over, and she was out in the cool night air again, driving back to Minorca Villa, with Mr. Milton Dante on one side of her, Mrs. Skivers—the wardrobe woman of the company, who had been told to look after her in future and to share her room at the villa—on the other, and her mother on the box with Mr. Bodwin, chattering and laughing as they drove home through the fragrant sea-scented darkness.
It was close to midnight when they came clattering up to Minorca Villa, to find the landlady—whose palm had been rubbed with the magic ointment of gold beforehand—awaiting them and a tempting little supper on the table.
“How sweet of you, dear Mrs. Burners,” said the siren of the evening, as she jumped down and led the way into the house. “I am positively famished. Are Miss Dora’s rooms ready? Thank you; she won’t sit up to-night, I fancy.”
“No, nor any other night,” supplemented Dora herself, in a low, firm voice. “I have made up my mind that I will never do what you wish me to do, and you may as well know that now as later. Let me go away; let me go back to Miss Skimmers. I tell you I will never do that thing, never while there is breath in my body.”
“Oh, are you going to begin on that strain again? Take her up to bed, Mrs. Skivers, and come down after she’s safely tucked in—and locked in, too, mind—and chaperon me! One has to make some concession to that awful British personage, Mrs. Grundy, you know.” And then with an airy wave of the hand, she passed into the room where the supper was spread, leaving Dora to trudge wearily and dejectedly up the stairs, in company with Mrs. Skivers.
“A glass of champagne and a cigarette, somebody! I feel like an eagle that has been shut up for hours in a cage. Milt, don’t stop to carve that chicken, when you must know that I’m on fire with impatience to hear if you have done what I told you?”
“About sending the wire to Mrs. Bonair, you mean? Oh, yes, I attended to that, all right. But not exactly in the manner we first planned it. Hasn’t Mr. Bodwin told you?”
“Told me? He’s told me nothing. How could he, with that stupid girl with us the whole time? What has been done? What was amiss with the original scheme?”
“Mr. Bodwin didn’t think it would work. He fancied Mrs. Bonair wouldn’t take any notice of it, so to make sure, he drove over to the next town, and as he knows the name of Mrs. Bonair’s lawyer, he hired a man to go over by trap to Morecome Junction and wire back this:
“‘Have missed connection, and am coming down by hired conveyance. Look for me. Must see you to-night on a matter of life and death.
“‘HAZLITT.’
“That will keep her up no matter how late the hour is, and she will see you when you go.”
“As she wouldn’t, I am convinced, dear Miss Montague, if you acted on your original plan,” put in Mr. Bodwin. “I don’t mind telling you that I owe her a grudge for trying to ruin the opening of the opera house; and besides, I—I would do anything in the world for you.”
“What a dear you are,” she said, with a laugh, and one of her arch glances. “You shall take me for a ride to-morrow for that, and I will take care that our dear, sweet friend never finds out that you had anything to do with this business. Now another glass to the success of the venture, Milt, and then away we go! Show her claws to me, will she, the cat? Look here! there will be some fur flying to-night, unless I’m out in my reckoning.”
The second glass of champagne was poured out and drained, but—the start was not yet; for just then Mrs. Skivers reappeared upon the scene with word that she had seen Dora up to her room and locked her in, and there had to be a third glass in consequence.
“Stop here, Mrs. Skivers, and wait for us,” said Rosalind, when she finally rose and let Mr. Bodwin again wrap her in the long cloak she had discarded on entering. “I’m going for a short drive with the gentlemen. You’ll find plenty to eat and drink, but mind you, don’t take too much for your own good.”
“I’ll look out for that,” said Dante, as he slid an unopened bottle into each pocket of his coat and took possession of three clean glasses.
“‘Lead on; I follow thee.’”
Outside, Mr. Bodwin’s private carriage still stood waiting. They trooped out and got into it and went skimming off through the darkness again.
Crumplesea was like a cemetery now, so still and black and lifeless it was. They scudded through it and whirled out upon the cliffs, with the sea droning and curling long zigzag lines of froth far down below them, and the moonless sky stretching velvet-dark above.
For twenty minutes or so they drove along with the wind in their faces, the blown salt scent of the sea in their nostrils; then the carriage swung suddenly round a curve that took it inland, bowled along a quiet road hedged with brambles and overhung with trees, and, whirling at length out of this, came full upon an immense double row of oaks leading up to a building set in the midst of a sort of park.
What it was like, this building, the darkness made it impossible to ascertain with any degree of certainty, but in the lower windows of it lights were burning and gave vague glimpses of a long, broad veranda curtained with flowering vines and of a stone-railed terrace dotted at regular intervals with urns that were full of flowers.
“Here we are; this is Thetford Towers,” said Mr. Bodwin, in a whisper. But before he could say more, a flash of nearer light revealed the presence of a lodge—half lost in a wilderness of vines—and of a man looming out to open the gates.
“It’s you at last, sir,” the man said, as he made everything ready for the vehicle to enter the grounds. “Mrs. Bonair has been watching for you this long time, sir. I think you’ll find her in the veranda, sir. It’s an uncommon hot night, and she is a rare one for fresh air, as no doubt you know.”
“Well, she will get something more than ‘fresh air’ in this case,” said Rosalind, with a soft, low laugh, as the carriage swept by and bowled up the broad driveway to the house. “Fancy the old cat living in such luxury as this and never giving a farthing piece to me. You wait! I’ll make her pay dear for it! She shall pour out sacks of money to me before to-morrow night, or I’ll disgrace her so that she’ll never show her face in public again. Look, will you? Look! There’s somebody walking up and down that terrace, and it’s a woman, I can see her passing by those lighted windows.”
“’S-h-h-! it’s Mrs. Bonair herself,” whispered Mr. Bodwin. “I’ve seen her too many years to be mistaken in her. My dear, if you wouldn’t mind my stopping here——”
“Of course, I don’t. Didn’t I say you shouldn’t be known in the affair? Stop at once and let me go on alone. Milt, if there’s another glassful left in that bottle I’ll take it.”
“Better not, Rose; you’ve had enough, I’m thinking.”
“Never mind what you are ‘thinking,’ I’m the best judge of what I want. A fresh glassful and a fresh cigarette, please; I’m going to interview my sister-in-law. Thank you so much! Here’s health and prosperity to all of us. And now—for trouble.”
Speaking, she scrambled down from the vehicle—a little unsteadily, as both Mr. Bodwin and Mr. Dante observed—and, cigarette in mouth, ran jauntily up to the veranda.
“Good evening, my dear,” she said, as she skipped airily into the veranda and confronted Mrs. Bonair. “You needn’t wait any longer for Mr. Hazlitt, because he hasn’t the slightest knowledge of the wire that was sent you, and I dare say that he has been in bed and asleep for hours. Need I introduce myself?”
Berry turned quickly, and faced her visitor. There was a brief pause; then she answered with cold, calm, scornful dignity:
“No, that is not in the least necessary. But you may tell me, if you wish, why you presume to come here.”
“I have come to either open your precious moneybags or to make you pay dearly for trying to shut me out of Crumplesea.”
Berry gave a sort of faint gasp—so low that it was scarcely audible—then pulled herself together and tapped on the pane of the nearest window.
“Thompson,” she said imperatively; “Thompson, come out here at once and take this creature away.”