Chapter XIX: “Will I do?” Myrtile asked demurely

“You are wonderful!” Gerald exclaimed. “But--what does it mean?”

“I have come to your party,” Myrtile announced, “and even Monsieur Christopher shall not send me away. I went to Madame Lénore. She dressed me and she had my hair arranged. It was so droll. When I looked in the glass I scarcely knew myself. You are pleased?”

“I am more than pleased,” Gerald answered, taking her hand. “But about this party. I am not sure----”

“You don’t want me?” she whispered.

He could no longer resist the invitation of her lips. After a moment, however, she sprang away. The violinist in the room beyond had commenced a waltz. She dragged Gerald through the open door and gave a little cry of delight when she saw the room.

“Dance with me,” she begged, “just you and I, all alone. Dance with me, Gerald!”

They moved off to the music. The violinist smiled with pleasure. The other instruments took up the strain. Myrtile was as light as a feather in her partner’s arms, her feet flashed or lingered upon the floor like flecks of sunlight upon a wave-stirred sea. She closed her eyes, half fainting with the joy of the music, the smooth floor, Gerald’s arms. Presently he stopped. He was unaccountably out of breath. He took one of the gold-foiled bottles from the sideboard, opened it and filled two glasses with the foaming wine. Myrtile’s eyes shone like stars as she drank.

“Oh, I am happy!” she murmured. “This is wonderful! Promise, Gerald, that you will never send me away. Promise?”

There was a shriek of voices as the room was invaded. Nadine came through the door which led from his own suite.

“Gerald,” she cried, “there is a cloak already upon your bed! I am on fire with jealousy. Who is your early guest?--Ah! A thousand pardons!”

Gerald’s movement had disclosed Myrtile. Nadine, daringly, almost shamelessly dressed, raised her bare arms.

“Heaven!” she exclaimed. “Gerald has robbed a convent!”

Some men followed, accompanied by a little crowd of girls. Every one was curious about Myrtile. She shook hands shyly with those whom Gerald presented to her. When they asked for her name, however, he shook his head.

“Mademoiselle is our guest for this evening,” he announced. “She is not, alas! of our world. Let us call her Mademoiselle X.”

“Mademoiselle the Spirit, rather!” a Frenchman exclaimed. “I think that you have dragged her down from the skies. Present me, Gerald, or I shall be your enemy for life.”

“The Marquis Chantelaine,” Gerald murmured, “Mademoiselle X. The Marquis is a shameless fellow, Myrtile, and you must not believe a word he says.”

“I am shameless or not according to my surroundings,” the Frenchman declared. “No one could look into the eyes of Mademoiselle and speak other than the truth.”

Chlotilde pouted.

“Is no one going to say nice things to us others?” she complained. “Gerald, you ought to have warned us. I would have worn my new gown. It is exactly the colour of the sky. Even my maid declared that I, too, slipped down from heaven.”

There was a little chorus of laughter. Cocktails were brought in and cigarettes lit. Every one gathered around and talked to Myrtile. She answered them naturally enough, but every now and then with embarrassment.

“Mademoiselle X may be asked no questions,” Gerald insisted. “Where she comes from I shall not tell any of you. Whither she goes after to-night, you will none of you know.”

“Mademoiselle is of the _haut monde_, perhaps?” Nadine whispered maliciously, under her breath.

“Mademoiselle belongs to a world we are none of us privileged to enter,” Gerald answered. “It is the one favour I ask, as your host. Please accept my guest as a butterfly, born this evening, passing away to-morrow.”

“Oh, là, là!” Chlotilde exclaimed. “We are all like that. Give me another cocktail, Charles. I have not had a drink all the evening, and my sylph dance was twice encored.”

They made their way presently to the supper table. Myrtile sat at Gerald’s right hand, and next her, on the other side, was the Marquis de Chantelaine. Any form of tête-à-tête conversation, however, was impossible from the first. They all seemed to be talking together at the top of their voices in an almost incomprehensible argot, a jumble of personal quips and sallies. Myrtile listened sympathetically but understood little. Occasionally she laughed when the others laughed, but as a matter of fact she needed nothing to complete her happiness. She was next to Gerald, who whispered every now and then little words of encouragement in her ear. The Marquis, too, murmured occasional compliments, but he was man of the world enough partially to understand the situation, and he restrained his natural instincts towards unbridled gallantry. Presently Chlotilde jumped up and danced. Phrynette followed suit and executed a wonderful _pas seul_. There was a good deal of boisterous applause. Myrtile felt the colour burning in her cheeks. She glanced towards Gerald. He was laughing, so it must be all right. Nevertheless, she was relieved when at last Phrynette sat down.

“I will show you,” Nadine suggested, “how they dance in Algiers.”

There was a little chorus of applause. Gerald alone for a moment looked doubtful. He glanced towards Myrtile at his side.

“Don’t overdo it, Nadine,” he begged.

Nadine laughed subtly.

“Is it for your ingénue you fear, or yourself?” she asked. “Very well, I will give you both something to think about.”

She danced at first with all the quivering grace of restrained but passionate movements. Myrtile watched her with fascinated eyes. Then she suddenly broke loose. Myrtile looked down at her plate and gripped Gerald’s hand.

“Remember I warned you, dear,” he whispered. “Don’t watch.”

“Mademoiselle would perhaps care for a little stroll upon the balcony?” the Marquis whispered in her ear.

Myrtile shook her head.

“Thank you,” she murmured, “I do not wish to leave Gerald. As for the dancing, it is foolish of me but I have never seen anything like it. It never seemed to me possible that women could do such things. That is because I have not lived in the world. I shall progress.”

The dance came to an end amidst uproarious applause. Nadine, dishevelled and breathless, pirouetted towards the door leading to Gerald’s suite.

“I shall go into your bedroom and make myself tidy,” she called out. “You can come and fetch me when you want me,” she added, looking over her shoulder at her host.

The corks began to fly faster still. Presently, couples stood up and danced. Then, indeed, happiness began for Myrtile. She danced with Gerald again and again, danced to music which was indeed of the best, for Gerald was somewhat of an epicure in such matters, until she forgot the loud voices, the haze of cigarette smoke, the slightly unsteady condition of one or two of the guests. To her, so long as it was Gerald’s arm which controlled her, it was all beautiful. By degrees she seemed to slip into her place, however incongruous it might be, in the little company. The first impulse of resentment against her presence, shown most clearly by Nadine after her prolonged but useless wait before Gerald’s looking-glass, soon passed away. She was accepted as one of the kaleidoscopic pictures of Monte Carlo flirtations. She had come, and there was an end of it. There were other hosts besides Gerald, other Englishmen crowding all the time into the place. The very singleness of her devotion made her to some extent a rival to be accepted philosophically. She at least made not the slightest response to the advances which were offered her freely enough by the other men of the party.

It seemed incredible that four o’clock had arrived when Louis presented himself with many apologies. There was a ball that night at the Carlton, however, so every one was resigned. They invaded Gerald’s rooms for their coats and wraps. Myrtile remained talking with the Marquis, with whom she had been dancing. Her body was still swaying a little to the rhythm of the music.

“So this is your first night, Mademoiselle?” her companion said softly. “I shall hope that we may meet many more times.”

“If you are a friend of Gerald’s, I hope that we may,” Myrtile replied.

“You have enjoyed yourself, on the whole?” he asked, looking at her curiously.

Her ears were straining for Gerald’s voice. She could hear all the time the shrill laughter of Nadine and her friends.

“I have enjoyed the dancing,” she said.

“But not the dancing of Mademoiselle Nadine?”

Her cheeks were suddenly hot. There was a look of trouble in her eyes which he had noticed before and wondered at.

“No, I did not like that,” she acknowledged. “I cannot believe that Gerald liked it, really. It was not beautiful.”

“She is very famous,” the Marquis remarked.

“It was not beautiful,” Myrtile repeated. “It frightened me a little.”

The Frenchman, a little intrigued, smiled.

“I begin to believe,” he said, “that you are really as young as you look.”

“I am eighteen,” she told him.

“For that moment I was not thinking of your actual years,” he explained. “How long have you known Lord Dombey?”

“Gerald?” she queried. “Only a very short time. I have never danced with him before to-day.”

“It seems easy to believe,” he said, “that you slipped down from the skies, only nowadays Heaven does not part with its children so easily. Tell me, where did you come from, really?”

“A little farm on the other side of the mountains,” she said. “Gerald and Monsieur Christopher brought me here. Monsieur Christopher wants me to go to England, but I hope that Gerald will not let me go.”

“But what shall you do if you stay here?” he asked.

“Gerald will take care of me,” she answered. “I shall be very happy if he lets me stay.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. He was inclined to be a disbeliever, the accepted pose towards women at his age, but a little flicker of genuine feeling disturbed for a moment his placid and cultivated cynicism.

“I am not at all sure,” he said, “if you are what you seem to be, that it would not be better if you went to England.”

They all came trooping out. Myrtile got up to fetch her own cloak, but Gerald detained her. She stood by his side, bidding good night to his guests with him. The Marquis frowned slightly as he made his adieux. The look in his eyes haunted her for a moment as he turned away. Then she was conscious of a curious sense of disturbance. Throughout the dancing she had been soothed into a state of ecstatic happiness. Suddenly there was a change. She was alone with Gerald and he was looking at her strangely. Two of the musicians were packing up their music. Once more the violinist was playing softly, as though to himself.

“You have been happy, Myrtile?” Gerald asked, and his voice seemed to come from a long way off.

“Wonderfully,” she answered. “I--there is my cloak.”

She moved towards the open door leading into Gerald’s suite. She seemed suddenly torn by a strange medley of sensations and memories. She saw Nadine pass through it, dishevelled and indecent, with that backward glance at Gerald which, even to her ignorance, seemed ugly. She heard the voices of all of them laughing stridently. Little half-understood sentences puzzled her. She passed into the sitting room. Gerald followed, closing the door. The sound of the music came more quietly. Myrtile felt suddenly faint.

“You are tired!” Gerald exclaimed, bending anxiously over her.

She put her arms around his neck like a child.

“Gerald,” she whispered, “take care of me. I am afraid. Be good to me, Gerald.”

Their lips met, but there was something absent from the warm joy of that first kiss. Side by side with her happiness came the feeling of discordant music all around her. Rank perfumes seemed to hang in the air. A ribbon from one of Nadine’s discarded garments lay upon the sofa. Yet when Gerald leaned towards her and his eyes sought for hers, a strange content seemed to creep like a flood over all these other things.

The door of the sitting room was suddenly opened and closed. Christopher stood there, a little breathless, as though he had run up the stairs, pale, and with a look in his eyes from which both Gerald and Myrtile quailed,--Gerald with fuller understanding. His arms dropped. He was nearer fear than ever before in his life. Christopher spoke with marvellous calmness.

“Gerald,” he said, “were you thinking of breaking your trust?”

“Yes!” Gerald answered hoarsely. “Drop this Don Quixote business, Christopher. I’m sick of it.”

Christopher came a step nearer.

“Myrtile is coming back to her lodgings with me,” he announced. “She is going to England to-morrow morning. Your sister has promised to take her.”

“But it is impossible!” Myrtile cried passionately.

“It is arranged,” Christopher declared. “I went to your rooms to-night, Myrtile, to tell you. I received Annette’s lying message. I was told that you were in bed and asleep. I left a note. Then, for the first time since I have been here, I went to the Club and stayed late. I heard your guests downstairs speak of your good fortune, Gerald.”

Gerald laid his hand upon Myrtile’s wrist.

“Well,” he said, “what are you going to do about it?”

“I am going to take Myrtile home,” Christopher insisted.

“I refuse to let her go,” Gerald declared.

Christopher looked for a moment away at Myrtile. She clung to Gerald like a frightened child.

“Listen,” Christopher went on, “you and I have been friends all our lives, Gerald. We know one another pretty well. You know of me that I am a man of my word. I know of you that, though you are selfish and worship pleasure, you are white enough when the hour strikes. The hour has struck, Gerald. Let me take Myrtile home.”

“Myrtile shall choose,” Gerald proposed.

“Myrtile shall do nothing of the sort,” was the prompt reply. “You might as well ask her to choose the right path through a strange city. Gerald, old chap, don’t take this hardly. I am not here to sling abuse at you. And Myrtile--just doesn’t understand. Thank God I was in time!--Myrtile, take your cloak.”

She clung to Gerald’s arm, looking anxiously into his face. Something else discordant had come into the room, something unbeautiful, something to be feared. She looked from one to the other of the two men. Gerald’s fist was clenched. For all his calm, there was a subtle threat in Christopher’s attitude.

“I don’t want to quarrel,” Christopher went on. “Don’t let it come to that, Gerald, but you see it is inevitable that Myrtile should leave with me to-night. I shall not go without her. You know what that means.”

“I am to remember, I suppose,” Gerald said thickly, “that you were the Varsity boxing champion?”

“Please don’t,” Christopher begged. “Myrtile must come. I can’t always be in the way. To-night I am. To-night, at any rate, you have a reprieve.--Myrtile!”

She stooped for her cloak. Christopher arranged it around her shoulders. His fingers shivered at the touch of the filmy laciness, as though he loathed it.

“You are ready, Myrtile?” he asked.

She looked once more at Gerald. He seemed so far away. And was it her fancy, or was there something in his face which she had seen in the faces of those others?--He lit a cigarette almost ostentatiously.

“You had better go, Myrtile,” he said. “Christopher has the whip hand of us. We can’t have a row here.”

“Good-by, Gerald,” she faltered. “It isn’t my fault.”

“Of course not,” Gerald answered. “We are all a little overstrung, I think. Good-by, little one!”

He kissed her almost carelessly and nodded to Christopher. The two left the room. The music had ceased.

They walked through the empty streets in silence. When they arrived within a few yards of Myrtile’s lodgings, Christopher slackened his pace. Myrtile was crying quietly.

“Myrtile,” he begged, “please listen to me.”

“I am listening,” she told him drearily.

“This morning at eight o’clock I shall be here to take you to the station. Please leave behind the clothes you are wearing, and I will return them to Madame Lénore. You will go to London, and Lady Mary will take care of you. Lady Mary is Gerald’s sister. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“Please don’t think of me as an executioner,” Christopher went on, with a note of unusual feeling in his tone. “Love is a very wonderful thing, Myrtile, but it is also a very dangerous paradise. If you care for Gerald, and he cares for you, believe me, some day, you will belong to one another and you will be happy, but the love which brings happiness is not of a moment’s growth. It is not a matter of feeling only. To-day you love Gerald with your whole soul. Gerald has simply a little affection for you. You are a whim to him, a child whose softness and prettiness attracts him. The kingdom of love is a wonderful place, but no two people who are in the position of you and Gerald can enter it by the lower gates. If you are faithful, remember this. A year or two of life will bring womanhood to you, and you will understand just what was lacking to-night, just what, in a corner of your heart, Myrtile, I believe that you guessed was lacking. That something would have poisoned even your wonderful happiness. You must wait, dear. Nothing in the world will keep you and Gerald apart if your love for one another becomes the love that endures.”

Myrtile crept away without a word. For an hour Christopher waited, unseen, at the darkened corner of the street. He waited until he saw the light go out in Myrtile’s room. Then he went back to the hotel, changed his clothes and rested for a couple of hours. When he returned to her room, she was waiting for him, dressed in her little blue serge suit, pale, mutely pathetic. Christopher carried her small bag and they made their way to the station.

“Myrtile,” he said, as they stood together, watching the train come round the bay, “this morning I think that you are hating me. You think me very cruel. Try and not judge me for a year.”

“I think that you mean well,” she sighed, “but you do not understand.”

Christopher put money into her purse and took her up to where Lady Mary was standing with her little array of dependents. She spoke a few kindly words to Myrtile, who answered her politely but without any trace of feeling in her tone. Myrtile sat down on one of the trunks and looked steadily across at the sleeping white-fronted hotel. Christopher and Lady Mary walked for a moment apart.

“I don’t know why I am doing this thing for you,” Mary said. “If you want to know the truth, I dislike the young woman intensely.”

“If you can’t feel that you are doing it for my sake,” Christopher replied, “think that you are doing it for Gerald’s.”

Lady Mary stared at him for a moment, and Christopher fancied that he could read in her somewhat haughty look some trace of that patrician superstition which claimed for its people the bodies and souls of their satellites.--The train thundered in.

“You will come and see me in London?” she asked, a little softened.

“Directly I return,” he promised. “I shan’t forget this, Mary,” he added, a little awkwardly. “You’ve been a brick.”

She smiled, curiously gratified at his hesitating words. Christopher leaned towards Myrtile.

“Good-by, Myrtile,” he said.

She removed her eyes from the window for a moment.

“Good-by, Christopher,” she answered--and looked back again at the white building, with its irregular front and close-drawn curtains. Behind one of them Gerald was sleeping. With a cloud of black smoke and a succession of hoarse, sobbing pants, the long train steamed slowly out of the station.

BOOK TWO