HE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVIII, Issue 14701, 19 June 1911, Page 4

HE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE.

TUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT'

BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM, Author of '-'The Mysterious Mr. Sabin," "A Maker of History," " The Secret Conspirators," <Ho., etc. [COPYRIGHT.] CHAPTER Xll.—(Continued.) I" Beatrice," lie asked! her suddenly, ."have you ever drunk champagne?" She laughed at him. "Often, my dear brother," she answered. "Why?" "I never have," he confessed. "We are going to have some now." She would have checked him, hut he had summoned a waiter imperiously and given his order. "My dear Leonard," she protested, ■" this is shocking extravagance." "Is it':" he replied. "I don't care. Tell me about the theatre. Were they lurid to you there? Wilt you bo able to lceep your place?" "The girls were all much nicer than I expected," she told him, "and the musical director said that my voice was much too good for tho chorus. Oh, I do hope that they will keep me!"

"They would be idiots if they didn't," he declared, vigorously. " You sing better and you dance more gracefully, and to me you seemed much prettier than anyone else there." She laughed into his eyes. "My dear brother," she exclaimed, "your education is progressing indeed! It is positively the first evening 1 have ever heard you attempt to make pretty speeches, and you are quite an adept already." "I don't know about that," he protested. "1 suppose it never occurred to mo before that you were good-looking," ho added, examining her critically, "or I daresay 1 should have told you so. You see, one doesn't notice these things in an ordinary way. Lots of other people must have told you so, though." ." 1 was never spoilt with compliment*," she paid. "You see, I had a beautiful sister." The words seemed to have escaped her unconsciously. Almost as they passed her lips her expression changed. She shivered, as though reminded of something unpleasant. Tavernake, however, noticed nothing. For the greater part of the day he .had been sedulously fighting against a new and unaccustomed state of mind. He had found his thoughts slipping away, time after time, until he had had to set his teeth and use till his will power to keep his attention concentrated upon his .work. And now once more they had escaped, again he felt the strange stir in his blood. The slight flush on his cheek grew suddenly deeper. He looked past the girl opposite to him, out of the restaurant, across the street, into that little sittingroom in the Milan Court. It was Elizabeth who was. there in front of him. Again he heard her voice, saw the turn of her head, the slow, delightful curve of the lips, the eyes that looked into his and spoke to him the first strange whispers of a new language. His heart gave a quick throb. He was for the moment transformed, a prisoner no longer, a different person, indeed, from the stolid, wellbehaved young man who found himself for the first time in his life in these unaccustomed surroundings. Then Beatrice leaned towards him, her voice brought him back to the present—not, alas, the voice which at that moment he would have given so ■much to have heard.

"To-night," she murmured, "J feel as though we were at the beginning of new things. We must drink a toast.", Tavernake filled her glass and his own. " Luck to you in your new profession ,he said. "And here is one after your own heart, " you most curious of men .'" she exclaimed, a few seconds later. "To the undiscovered in life!" He,,- drained his glass and set it down empty. "The undiscovered," he muttered, looking around. "It is a very good toast, Beatrice. There are many things of which one might remain ignorant all one's life if one relied wholly upon one's own perceptions." "I believe," she agreed, "that if I had 1 not appeared you were in great danger of becoming narrow." "I am sure of it," he answered, "but you see you came." She was thoughtful for a moment. "This reminds me just a little of that first dreary feast of ours," she said. "You knew what it was like then to feed a genuinely starving girl. And I was miserable, Leonard. It didn't seem to me that there was any other end save one." "You've got over all that nonsense," he asked, anxiously. ; "Yes, I suppose so," she answered. "You see, I've started life again, and one get stronger. Hut there are times, even now," she added, "when I am afrajd." The mirth had suddenly died from her face. She looked older, 'tired, and careworn. The shadows were back under her eyes; she glanced around almost timorously. He filled her glass. "That is foolishness," he said. "Nothing nor anybody can harm you now." Somo note in his voice attracted her attention. Strong and square, with hard, forceful face, he sat wholly at his ease amongst these unfamiliar surroundings, a very tower of refuge, she felt, to the weak. His face was not strikingly intellectual—sho was not sure now about his mouth—but or.© seemed to feel that dogged nature, the tireless pains by which he would pursue any aim dear to him. The shadows passed away from her mind. "What was dead, was gone! It was not reasonable that she should be haunted all her days by the ghosts of other people's sins. The atmosphere of the place, the atmosphere of the last few hours, found its way again into her blood. After all, she was young, the music was sweet, her pulses were throbbing to the. "tune of ne.v life. Sho drank her wine and laughed, her* head beating time to the music. "We have been sad long enough," she 'declared. "You and I, my dear serious ' "brother, will embark in earnest now upon the paths of frivolity. Tell mo, how did things go to-day?" It flashed into his mind that, he had .great news, but that it was not for her. About that matter there was still doubt in his mind, but be could not speak of it. " I have an offer," be said, guardedly. " I cannot say much about it at present, for nothing is certain ; but I am sure that I shall bo able to raise the money some"how."

His tone was calm and confident. There was no solkassurance or bluster about, it, and yet it was convincing, Sho looked at him curiously. "You are a very positive person, Leonard," she remarked. "You must have great, faith in yourself, I think." He considered the question for a moment. "Perhaps I have," ho admitted. "I do : not think that there is any other way to succeed." .',, The atmosphere of the place was becoming now almost languorous. The band shad ceased to play; little parties of men -and women were standing about, bidding •''■ one another good-night. "The lamps had "been lowered, and in the gloom the voices ,: and laughter seemed to have become 'lower, and the voices more insinuating; the light in the. eyes of tho women as "they; passed down the room on their way out, softer and more irresistible. ,:'.',." I. suppose wo must go," she- said, reluctantly. Tavernako paid the bill, and they .turned into the street. She took bis arm, ? and . they turned westward. Even out *; here, the atmosphere of the restaurant appeared to have found its way. The • soberness of life, its harder and more l! practical side, was for the moment ob}.,scured. It was not the daytime crowd, .this, whoso footsteps pressed the pave- ' Sights..',', The care-worn faces of the money- . seokers had vanished. The men and women to/whom life was something of a ''Wrugglo, had sought their homes—rcstiag, -oarhaps, .before they took up their labours

again. Every moment taxi-cabs and motorcars whirled by, flashing upon the night a momentary impression of men in evening dress, oi women in soft garments with jewels in their hair. The spirit of pleasure seemed to have crept into the atmosphere. Even the poorer people whom they passed in the street were laughing or singing. Tavernako stopped short. "To-night," lie declared, "is not the night for omnibuses. Wo are going to have a taxi-cab. I know that you are tired."

"I should love it," she admitted. They hailed ono and drove off. Beatrice leaned back among the cushions and closed her eyes, her ungloved hand rested almost caressingly upon his. He leaned forward. There were new things in the world—he was sure of it now, sure though they were coming to him through tho mists, coming to him so vaguely that even while he obeyed ho did not understand. Her full, 'soft lips were slightly parted; her heavily-fringed eyelids closed ; 'tier deep brown hair, which had escaped bounds a little, drooping over her ear. His fingers suddenly clasped her tightly. '• Beatrice ho whispered. She sat up with a start, her eyes questioning him, the breath coming quickly through her parted lips. " Once you asked me to kiss you, Heatrice,' 'said. " To-night—l tun going to." She made no attempt to repulse him. lie took her in his arms and kissed her. Even in that moment ho knew that lie had made a mistake. Nevertheless, ho kissed her again and again, crushing her lips against his. "Please let mo go, Leonard," she begged at last. He obeyed at once. Ho understood quite well that some strange thing had "happened. It seemed to him during those next few minutes that everything winch bad passed that night was a dream, that this vivid picture of a life more intense, making larger demands upon the senses than anything he had yet experienced, was a mirage, a thing which would live only in his memory, a life in which ho could never take any part. He had blundered ; he had come into a new world, and he had blundered. A sense of guilt was upon him. He had a sudden wild desire to cry out that it was Elizabeth whom he had kissed. Beatrice was sitting upright in her place, her head turned a little away from him. He felt that she was expecting him to speak—that there were "inevitable words which ho should say. His silence was a confession. He would have lied but the seal was upon his lips. So the. moment passed, and Tavernake had taken another step forward towards his destiny! ■ %'■%%. As he helped her out of tho cab her fingers tightened for a moment upon his hand. She patted it gently as she passed out before Vim into the house, leaving the door open. When he had paid the cabman and followed, she had disappeared. He looked into the sitting-room —it was empty. Overhead, ho could hear her footsteps as she ascended to her room.

CHAPTER XIII. In the morning, when ho left for the city, Beatrice- was not down. When ho came- home in the evening, she was gone. Without removing his hat or overcoat, ho took the letter, which he' found propped up on the mantelpiece and addressed to him, to the window and read it. "Dear Brother Leonard, — " It wasn't your fault and I don't, think it was mine, "if either of us is to blame, it is certainly I, for though you are such a clever and ambitious young person, you really know very little indeed of the world so much, I think, as I do. I am going to stay for a few nights, at any rate, with one of the girls at the theatre, who I know wants someone to share her tiny flat with her. Afterwards, 1 shall see. " Don't throw this letter in the fire, and don't think me ungrateful. I shall never forget what you did for me. How could I? " I will send you my address as soon as I am sure of it, or you can always write me to the theatre.—Good-bye, dear Leonard. ' ~ "Your Sister, Beatrice. Tavernake looked from the sheet of notepapor out across the grey square. Ho "knew that he was very angry, angry though ho deliberately folded the letter up and placed it in his pocket, angry though he took off his overcoat and hung it up with his usual care, but his anger was with himself. He had blundered badly. This episode of his life was one which he had better forget. It was absolutely out of harmony with all his ideas. He told himself that he was glad Beatrice was gone. Housekeeping'with an imaginary sister in this practical world was an absurdity. Sooner or later it must have come to an end. Better now, before it had gone too far—better now, much better ! All the same, he knew that he was going to be very lonely. He rang the bell for the woman who waited upon them, and whom he seldom saw. for Beatrice herself had supplied their immediate wants. He found some dinner ready, which he ate with absolute unconsciousness. Then he threw himself fiercely into his work. It was all very well lor the first hour or so, but as ten o'clock grow near ho began to find a curious difficulty in keeping his attention fixed upon those calculations. The matter of average rentals, percentage upon capital—things which but yesterday ho had found fascinating—seemed suddenly irksome. He could fix his attention upon nothing. At last he pushed his papers away, put on his hat and coat, and walked into the street. At the Milan Court, the hall porter received his inquiry for Elizabeth with an air of faint but well-bred surprise. Tavernake in those days, was a person exceedingly difficult to place. His clothes so obviously denoted the station in life which he really occupied, whilst the slight imperiousness of his manner, bis absolute freedom from any sort of nervousness or awkwardness, seemed to bespeak a consideration which those who had to deal with him as a stranger found sometimes a little puzzling. . . , "Mrs. Wenham Gardner is in her rooms. I believe, sir," the man said. "If you will wait for a moment I will inquire." He disappeared into his office, thrusting his head out a moment or two later with the telephono receiver still in his hand. "Mrs. Gardner would like the name again, sir, please," he remarked. Tavernake repeated it firmly. • "You might Bay," he added, "that I shall not detain her for more than a few minutes." The man disappeared once more. When he returned ho indicated the lift to Tavernake. ' "If you will go up to the fifth floor, sir," he said, " Mrs. Gardner will see you." Tavernake found bis courage almost leave him as he knocked at the door of her rooms. Her French maid ushered him into the little sitting-room, where, to his dismay, he found three men—one sitting on the table, the other two in easy chairs. Elizabeth, in a dress of pale blue satin, was standing before the mirror. She turned round as Tavernake entered. (To bo continued daily.)