Juggernaut Part 31

"Steady on. What right have you got to order me out of this house?"

"Never you mind what right I've got," Roger blazed at him, but keeping his voice low. "You get out, or I'll throw you out. You've heard me."

Holliday looked at Therese, who, pale and shaken, nodded slightly.

"Go," she murmured; "you can do no good by staying."

He made a faint show of standing his ground, then with a contemptuous shrug went out through the garden doors.

Roger took three strides after him and closed the doors, bolting them quietly. When he turned he saw a change in his stepmother. Her eyes regarded him with a Medusa-like stare; a spot of dull red smouldered in each cheek. Her lips seemed suddenly thin, were working slightly. He knew that her anger was even greater than his own, though she might express it in a different way.

"And now perhaps you will explain what you mean by coming into my salon and ordering my friends to leave my house?"

Her tone burnt like vitriol. All the suppressed hatred of six years had compressed itself into that single sentence. He paused, eyeing her curiously, and choosing his words with a certain care, trying not to let his anger run away with him.

"See here, Therese," he said at last, "I don't intend to discuss the matter of my right to do anything in this house. I am simply going to tell you something. It makes no difference to me what lovers you have, it is not my affair, so long as you conduct your liaisons with discretion. But while my father is ill and I am here to protect his interests, I shall make it my business to see that this sort of thing doesn't happen under his roof."

"Ah, indeed!" she exclaimed with a touch of bitter contempt.

"You know as well as I that anyone might have come in that door just now--my aunt, the nurse, one of the servants. You may not care yourself, but you've got to have respect for my father."

Her breath came hard, the spots of red throbbed like wounds, while all the time her eyes remained glued to his face with a stare of fascination. He thought she seemed torn between rage and a reluctant fear.

"Now listen to me: I shall not say it again. From now on Arthur Holliday is not to come inside this place until my father is well again. Is that quite clear?"

An odd mutinous gleam came into her eyes.

"Must I remind you that I am at liberty to do as I like in my own house?" she said monotonously.

"I don't think I have made myself clear, Therese. I am not arguing; I am telling you that Holliday must keep away."

He was anxious to go. The scene and her scent nauseated him.

"And suppose I do not choose to do as you say? What then?"

"I'm sorry you asked that, but of course I'll answer it. If I catch Holliday here again, I shall quite simply tell my father all that I know about you and him. You may be sure he will divorce you."

She made no sign beyond a little intake of her breath and a dilation of her nostrils.

"That is a threat, is it not?"

"Of course it's a threat. It is the only way one is able to deal with a woman like you," he retorted, too irate to soften his words.

"I see."

Her composure was greater than his. He had expected her to fly at him with abuse. Something in her manner egged him on to say more:

"You may pull the wool over my father's eyes, but you have never deceived me. You have been waiting for years for him to die, hoping every illness would finish him, so that you could spend his money.

Well, he's not dead yet. Suppose, after all, you found he had altered his will? It's not too late for that; he could get a solicitor here in an hour, and he would do it, too, if he knew what had gone on here to-night. Oh, don't misunderstand me, I don't want him to know, for his own peace of mind. As long as you behave yourself decently inside his house you are safe from me. But this sort of thing has got to stop. That's all."

As he turned to go he glanced at her again. She was almost unrecognisable. Her eyes had narrowed to slits, her cheekbones showed an unexpected prominence under their patches of red. One hand fumbled and twisted the heavy pearls at her throat; he could hear her laboured breathing. How she was going to hate him now! The thought suddenly came to him that if there had been a revolver or a knife handy she would have tried to use it on him. Well, he had the upper hand of her; that was all that mattered. She could hate him as much as she chose....

He left her standing there, staring after him fixedly. Once outside, he had to admit he had taken a pretty strong line. Of course, in a way it was not his business to issue ultimatums of this sort. Yet he would have done the same again. The thought that his aunt or Esther Rowe might easily have come upon the scene he had just interrupted filled him with rage. Of course, from now on it was going to be still more difficult to remain under the same roof with Therese; it would require a skin thicker than his to endure it. Still, it would not be for long.

When he reached his room he discovered with a reaction of amus.e.m.e.nt that he still held the bottle of Evian water upright in the crook of his arm. There it had been throughout the foregoing pa.s.sage at arms.

He laughed, and his anger began to recede. Still, he could not sleep, and it was three o'clock when he put out his light. As he did so he listened to a faint sound outside.

It was Therese, who, only after this long time, was coming upstairs to bed.

CHAPTER XIX

Of the foregoing incident Esther remained in total ignorance.

Accordingly, when next morning she heard Lady Clifford's maid, Aline, say that her mistress had had a bad night and was indisposed in consequence, it meant nothing special to her. She had come to regard the beautiful Frenchwoman as spoiled and self-indulgent, p.r.o.ne, like many others of her type, to exaggerate trifling ailments--though she concluded that the explanation of this tendency lay in the boredom of the woman's daily life. If she had been indulging in a round of gaiety she would have proved equal to enormous exertion, but there is a vast difference between dancing all night and lying awake in bed. Esther knew that fact well.

At about twelve o'clock the doctor sent Esther with a message to Lady Clifford. It seemed Sir Charles had been asking for her. The voice that called out "_Entrez!_" in reply to Esther's knock sounded sharp and strained.

Lady Clifford was sitting before her rather elaborate dressing-table, partly dressed, wrapped in a peignoir of heavy white crepe. The face she turned upon Esther was pale and shadowed about the eyes, the lips tightly compressed. She really did look ill.

"As soon as you are dressed, Lady Clifford, would you mind going in to Sir Charles? He has been asking for you. I believe he must have something rather special to say to you."

"Ah?"

A quick look of both apprehension and suspicion sprang into the grey eyes. What was she afraid of, wondered Esther?

"The doctor thinks he's not up to much conversation, so perhaps you'll make it as brief as possible," added Esther tactfully.

"Yes, yes; I understand!" Lady Clifford replied, nodding impatiently.

"I will come at once."

She hastily dabbed some rouge on her cheeks, powdered her face and neck with her heavily scented powder, and followed Esther across the boudoir and into the other bedroom.

There Esther left her and, returning to the boudoir, sat down before the blazing log-fire with a magazine, less to read than to review with lazy enjoyment the whole of last night. She saw and felt it all again, the lights, the dresses, the music, the little table with its shaded lamp that shut the two of them into an enchanted circle, Roger's arm about her as they danced, the drive home in the dark. Why had it all been so thrilling? She had no doubt as to the answer, indeed her certainty on this point made her pull herself up sharply, resolving to restrain her errant fancy, not to allow herself to take too much for granted.

Suddenly across the fabric of her thoughts the old man's voice reached her in a faint, indistinguishable drone. She had not the slightest interest in what he wished to say to Lady Clifford, nor in the effect it would have upon the latter. All at once she heard the Frenchwoman shriek out with a piercing sharpness.

"No, no, it's impossible! You can't do it! You sha'n't!"

The words, half supplication, half angry protest, seemed wrung from their owner out of sheer anguish. A low monotone made reply, but it was interrupted by a fresh burst.

"But it is ridiculous, stupid! I am not a child, it's not in the least necessary. I don't have to be watched. _Ah! c'est insupportable!_"

Esther rose uncertainly, wondering if she ought to intervene. While she hesitated, a still wilder tirade decided her. She opened the door just in time to behold a startling spectacle. Lady Clifford was that instant seizing hold of her husband by his emaciated shoulders and shaking him furiously, crying in a strangled voice:

"_Pas lui, pas lui! Vieux monstre que tu es!_"