The Vision of Desire Part 62

"Tell Mr. Coventry Miss Lovell is not on board the _Sphinx_," she said quietly.

"Coventry!" broke violently from Brett. "Where is he, Achille?"

"He come in a boat from the sh.o.r.e, monsieur. Just now. He wait only an answer to zis lettaire." The man bowed and retired, leaving Brett and Cara staring at each other.

"You would not have come between Eliot and Ann, after all," she said proudly. "Your trick would have misfired. He trusts her--absolutely."

She had hardly finished speaking when the sound of a scuffle came from the companion-way, accompanied by a stream of voluble French. Then: "Get out of my way!" came in good, robust English, and an instant later Eliot's big frame appeared in the doorway.

"I want an explanation, Forrester--" he began sternly. Then fell silent, while his senses quietly absorbed the whole scene before him--the man and woman in evening dress, the flower-decked table with its half-emptied coffee-cups and evidences of a recent gay little supper, the mingled scent of cigarette smoke and carnations. Last of all, his glance, cold and contemptuous, swept over Cara's white face.

He gave a short laugh.

"Bradley misled me," he observed coolly. "There's no one here in whom I'm interested." For a moment his eyes--accusing, utterly scornful--met and held Cara's. Then he looked across at Brett. "I understood you were alone, Forrester. I regret my intrusion." With a curt bow he was gone.

As the door closed behind him Cara sank down mutely into her chair. She gazed wearily in front of her. There was no need to ask herself what Eliot thought. It had been written plainly in his eyes.

Presently she turned her head and looked across at Brett.

"Well?" she said tonelessly. "I hope you're satisfied. I don't think you need bother any more about--punis.h.i.+ng me."

The savage anger had died out of his face. He was regarding her with an odd look of surprise. There had been no mistaking the anguish of her expression as she had grasped Eliot's swift and cruel interpretation of the scene. She had looked like a woman on the rack.

"So ... Coventry was the man ... before you married that bounder, Dene."

Brett spoke very quietly, like a man communing with himself, fitting together the pieces of a puzzle.

She nodded.

"Yes," was all she said.

He sat down on the opposite side of the table and leaned forward, still with that half-surprised curiosity on his face.

"Then why didn't you clear yourself just now? You could have done. Why on earth didn't you explain?"

A twisted little smile tilted her mouth.

"Because--because I wanted to keep Ann out of it. Don't you see--he thinks Bradley made a mistake. He need never know--now--that Ann even thought of coming. I've ... made sure ... of his happiness. I took it away once. Now I've given it back."

Brett got up abruptly. That twisted little smile hiding a supreme agony touched him as no woman's grief had ever touched him yet.... The low, toneless confession with its quiet immolation of self.... He put his hand into his pocket, and, drawing out a packet of loose papers, banded together with elastic, flung them down on to the table.

"Oh, hang!" he said gruffly. "There are the bills Brabazon gave me. By G.o.d, you've earned them!"

Cara stretched her hand out slowly and touched the packet with hesitating fingers.

"Do you mean this, Brett?"

"Certainly I mean it."

She stared at him almost incredulously.

"I believe you're--sorry," she said slowly.

But in that she miscalculated. Brett would be an unrepentant sinner to the end of his days. He laughed and shook his head.

"Not in the way you mean. Frankly and honestly--Oh, yes"--catching the faint quizzical gleam in her eyes--"I can be both when I want to. The Devil quoting Scripture, you know! Frankly, then, I'm merely sorry that my plan miscarried. It was a splendid plan! Its only fault was that it didn't succeed.... But I know when I'm beaten. And you've beaten me."

A few minutes later they stood together on the deck, waiting for the dinghy to come alongside.

"Good-night, Brett," she said, holding out her hand.

He lifted it to his lips with audacious grace.

"It will be a bad night--thanks to you!" he returned with a last flash of mocking humour.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

THE VISION FULFILLED

Ann opened her next morning's mail with nervously eager fingers. A couple of tradesmen's bills, an advertis.e.m.e.nt for somebody's infallible cure-all, and a letter from Robin saying that he would reach home the following day--that was all. Not a line from Brett. Nothing in explanation of his last evening's telegram.

There is a wise old saw which a.s.serts that "no news is good news," but Ann could extract no comfort from it. Such hackneyed sayings did not take into consideration people of Brett Forrester's temperament, she reflected bitterly. Something had occurred to prevent the carrying out of his plans for last night, but not for one moment did she imagine that he would allow anything to divert him permanently from his intention of compelling her to buy Tony's freedom on the terms he had already fixed. That fact must still be faced, and the absence of any word from Brett this morning increased illimitably the sense of strain under which she was labouring. Last evening she had keyed herself up to the required pitch for the ordeal which awaited her. And now the whole agony and terror would have to be gone through again!

She wandered restlessly from the house to the garden and then back again, her nerves ragged-edged with suspense. If she could only know what had occurred last night to prompt that wire, what Brett now proposed, what further troubles there were in store, she felt she could have borne it better. She was never afraid to face definite difficulties. It was this terrible inaction and uncertainty which she found so unendurable.

The minutes crawled by on leaden feet. When she returned from feeding her poultry she was absolutely aghast to hear the church clock only striking ten! It seemed to her that a whole eternity of time had elapsed since the moment when the delivery of the morning post, dest.i.tute of news from Brett, had plunged her into this dreadful agony of uncertainty.

Suddenly she heard the gate click. She had been unconsciously listening for that sound with an intensity of which she was unaware--expecting, hoping, almost praying for tidings of some kind. Surely, if he did not come himself, Brett would at least send her a message of some sort!

When at last the click and rattle of the wooden gate, as it swung to, smote on her ears, she felt powerless to go and meet whoever it might be whose coming the sound heralded. A curious numbness pervaded all her limbs, and she leaned against the table, almost holding her breath, while the measured tread of Maria's st.u.r.dy feet resounded along the pa.s.sage leading from the kitchen to the front of the house.

Ann heard the opening of the cottage door, followed by the soft murmur of women's voices instead of by the high treble of the telegraph boy which she had expected. Then the swish of a skirt, the lifting of a latch, and Cara came quickly into the room.

The tension of Ann's nerves relaxed, giving place to a spiritless acceptance of the inevitable. There was no message from Brett, after all!

It was only Cara--Cara who had come to ask the success or failure of her last night's interview with him. The irony of it!

Ann began to speak at once, antic.i.p.ating the first question which she knew the other would be sure to put. It would be better to get it over at once.

"I didn't go to the yacht," she said baldly. "Brett wired me not to come."

Cara nodded.

"I know. But I went," she answered quietly.

"You?" Ann stared at her. "You went--to the yacht!" she repeated in tones of stupefaction.