THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVIII, Issue 14714, 23 June 1911, Page 3

THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

by E. philips OPPENIIEIM, Author of "The Mysterious Mr. Suhin," "A Maker of History," " The Secret Conspirators," etc., ctc. [COPYRIGHT.] OH APT Kit XVII. At six o'clock that evening Tavernake rang up the Milan Court and inquired for Elizabeth. There was a moment or two's delay, and then ho heard her reply. Even over the telephone wires, even though ho stood, cramped and uncomfortable, in that stuffy little telephone booth, he felt the quick start of pleasure, the thrill of something different in lifo, which came to him always at the sound of her voice, at the slightest suggestion of her presence. "Well, my friend, what fortune?" she asked him. " None," he answered. " I have done my best, Beatrice will not listen to me." "She will not come and see me?" "She will not." Elizabeth was silent for a moment. When film spoke again, there was a change in her tone. "You have failed, then." " I did everything that could be done," Tavernako insisted eagerly. I am quite sure that nothing anybody could say would move Beatrice. She is very decided indeed." '' I have another idea," Elizabeth remarked, after a brief pause. " She will not come to mo ; very well, I must go to her. You must take mo there." " I cannot do that," Tavernake answered. "Why not?" "Beatrice has refused absolutely to permit me to tell you or anyone else of her whereabouts," lie declared. Without her permission I cannot do it." "Do you mean that?" she asked. "Of course," lie answered, uncomfortably. There was another eilence. When she spoke again, her voice had changed for the second time. Tavernake felt his heart sink as he listened. "'Very well," she said. "I thought that you were my friend, that you wished to help me." " 1 do,'' he replied, " but von would not wish me to break my word ?" "You are breaking your word with me," sho told him. " It is a different thing," he insisted. " You will not take me there?" she said once more. "1 cannot," Tavernake answered. "Very well, good-bye!" " Don't go," he begged, " Can't I tea you somewhere for a few minutes this evening?" " I am afraid not," Elizabeth replied, coolly. j Arc you going out?" he persisted. "I am going to the Duke of York's Theatre with some friends." she answered. "I I am sorry. You have disappointed me." j

She rang off,-and lie turned away from the telephone booth into the street. It. .seemed to him as he walked down tho crowded thoroughfare, that, sonic reflection of his own self-contempt was visible in the countenances of the men and -women who weit hurrying past him. Wherever ho looked lie was acutely cftnreiou.y of it. In his heart ho felt the bitter sense of shame of a man who wilfully succumbs to weaknew. Yot that night he made his effort. For hours he sat in his lonely rooms and worked. Then the unequal struggle was ended. With a groan he caught up his hat and coat and left the house. Half-nn-hour later, he was amongst the little crowd of loiterers and footmen standing outside the doors of the Duke of York's Theatre.

It was still some time before the termination of the performance. As the slow minutes dragged by, he grew to hate himself, to hate this new thing in his life, which had torn down his everyday standards, which had carried him off his feet in this strange and detestable fashion. It. was a dormant sense, without a doubt, which Elizabeth had stirred into life—tho sense of sex. quiescent in him so long, chiefly through his perfect physical sanity ; perhaps, too,' in some measure, from his half-starved imagination. It was significant, though, that, once aroused, it, bunted with surprising and unwavering fidelitv. The whole world of women now were different creatures to him, but they left him as utterly unmoved as in his unawakened days. It was Elizabeth only he wanted, craved for fiercely, with all thus late-born passion of mingled sentiment and desire. He felt himself, as he hung round there upon the pavement, rubbing shoulders with the liveried servants, the loafers and the passers-by. a thing to be despised. He was like a whipped dog fawning back to his master. Yet if only he could persuade her to come with him, if it were but for an hour! If only she would sit opposite to him in that wonderful little restaurant, where the lights and the music, the laughter and the wine, were all outward symbols of this new life from before which her fingers seemed to have torn aside the curtains!

His heart, beat with a fierce impatience. He watched the thin .stream of people who left before the play was over, suburbanites mostly, in a hurry for their train. Very soon the whole audience followed, commissionaires were busy with their whistles, the servants looking eagerly for their master.''. And then Elizabeth! She came out, in the midst of half-a-dozen others, brilliant in a wonderful cloak and dress of turcpioiso blue, laughing with her friends, to all appearance the gayest of the party. Tavernake stepped quickly forward, but at that moment there was a crush, and he could not advance. She passed within a yard of him, escorted by a couple of men, and for a moment their eyes met. She raised her eyebrows, as though in surprise, and her recognition was of the slightest. She passed on, and entered a waiting motor car, accompanied by the two men. Tavernake stood and looked after it. She did not even glance round. Kxccpt, for that little gesture of cold surprise, she had ignored him. Tavernake. scarcely knowing what he did, turned slowly towards the Strand.

He was fare to face now with a crisis before which he seemed powerless. Men were there in the world to he bullied, cajoled or swept, out, of the, way. What did one do with a woman who was kind one moment and insolent the next, who raised her eyebrows and passed on when ho wanted her, when he was there longing for her! Those old solid dreams of his wealth, power, his name on great prospectuses, a jxieition in the worldtheso things now appeared like the day fancies of a child. He had seen his way towards them. Already he had felt, his feet upon the rungs of the ladder which leads to material success. This was something difrent, something greater. Then a sense of despair chilled his' heart. He felt how ignorant, how helpless he was. He had Dot. even studied the first textbook of life. Those very qualities which had served him s > well before were hopeless here. Persistence, Beatrice had told him once, only annoys a woman. Ho came to a standstill outside the entrance to the Milan Court, and retraced his steps. The thought, of Beatrice had brought something soothing with it. He felt that he must t=ee her, see her at once. He walked back along the Strand, and entered t.ho restaurant, where. Beatrice and lie had had their memorable supper. From the vestibule he could just see Crier's back as he stood talking to a waiter by the sido of a round table in the middle of the room. He seated himself at, one, handing his coat and hat mechanically to the waiter, who came hurrying up. "But, monsieur," the man explained, with a deprecating gesture, "these tables are all taken." T:\vernake. who kept an account book in which he registered oven his car fares, put live shillings in the man's hand. "This 0110 I will have," he said, firmly, and sat down. The man looked at him and turned aside to speak to the head-waiter. They conversed together in whispers. Tavernako took no notice. His jaw was eet. Himself unseen, he was gazing steadfastly at that table below. The head-waiter shrugged his

shoulders and departed: his other clients must ho mollified. There was a finality about Tavernake's methods which was unanswerable. Tavernake ate and drank what they brought him—a to and drank and suffered. Everything was as it had been the other nightthe popping of corks, the soft music, the laughter of women, the pleasant, luxurious sense of warmth and gaiety pervading the whole place. It was all just tho same, but this time he sat. outside ami looked on. Beatrice war, seated next drier, and on her other side was a young man of the type which Tavernake detested, partly because it inspired him with a reluctant, but insistent sense of inferiority. The young man was handsome, tall, and thin. His evening clothes fitted him perfectly, his studs and links were of the latest mode, his white tie arranged as though by the fingers of an artist. And yet liewas no tailor's model. A gentleman, beyond a doubt, Tavernake decided, watching grudgingly the courteous movement of his head, listening sometimes to his well-bred but rather languid voice. Beatrico laughed often into his face. She him, of course. How could she help it! Orier sat at, her other side. He, too, talked to her whenever lie had the chance.

It was a new life which Tavernake was lasting, a new fever burning in his blood. He was jealous; lie hated the whole party below, in imagination he saw Elizabeth with her friends, supping most likely in that other more resplendent restaurant only a few yards away. He imagined her the centre of every attention. Without a doubt, she was looking at her neighbour as she had looked at him. Tavernake bit his lip. frowning. If he had had it in his power, in those black moments, to have thrown a thunderbolt from his place, he would have wrecked every table in the room, he would have watched with joy the white, startled faces of the revellers as they Had away into the night. It was a. new torture, indescribable, bitter. Indeed, this curiosity of his, of which lie had spoken to Beatrice as they had walked together down Oxford-street, on that first, evening, was being satisfied with a vengeance! He was learning of those other things of life. He had sipped at the sweetness ; he was drinking the bitters ! An altercation by his side distracted him. Again there was the head waiter and a protesting guest. Tavernake looked up and recognised Professor Franklin. With his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, the professor, in fluent phraseology and a strong American accent, was making himself decidedly disagreeable. " You had better send for your manager light away, young man," he declared. " On Tuesday night he brought me here himself, and I engaged this table for tho week. No, I tell you I won't have any other. I guess my- order was good enough. You send for Luigi right here. You know who 1 am? Professor Franklin's my name, from New York, and if I say I mean to have a thing, I expect to get it?" For the first time lie recognised Tavernake, and paused for a moment in bis speech. "Ha I got your table, professor," Tayernake asked, slowly. " You have, air," the professor answered. " I did not recognise you when I. came in, or I would have addressed you personally. I have particular reasons for occupying a front table here every night this week."

! The thoughts began to crowd in upon i Tavernake's brain. He hesitated, j "Why not sit down with me?" he suggested. The professor acquiesced without a word. I The head waiter, with a sigh of relief, ! took his hat and overcoat and accepted his order Tavernake leaned across the table. "Professor," ho said, "why do you insist, upon sitting up here?" The professor bowed his head slowly downwards. " My young friend,"' he replied, "I speak to you in confidence?" "In confidence," Tavernake repeated. "I came here secretly," the professor continued. " because it is the only chance I havo of seeing a very dear relative of mine. I am obliged to keep away from her just now. but from here I can watch, I can sec that she is well." "You mean your daughter Beatrice?" Tavernake said, calmly. The professor trembled all over. " You know !" he muttered. •' Yes. 1 know," Tavernake answered. " I have been able to be of some slight assistance to your daughter Beatrice." The orofessor grasped his hand. " Yes", yes," lie said, " Elizabeth is very angry with you because you will not tell" her where to'find the little girl. You arc right. .Mr. Tavernake. You must never tell her." "I don't intend to," Tavernake declared. • ~ "Say, this is a great evening for me! the professor went on, eagerly. "I found out by accident myself. 1 was at the bar and 1 saw her come in with a lot of others." "Why don't you go and speak to her?" Tavernake asked.

The professor shivered. " There lias been a disagreementbo explained. " Beatrice and Elizabeth have quarrelled. .Mind you, Beatrice was right." '••Then why don't you got, (o her instead of staying ' with Elizabeth?" Tavernake demanded bluntly. The professor temporarily collapsed. T{e drank heavily of the whisky and soda bv his side, and answered gloomily. *" Mv voung friend," he said. "Beatrice ■when she left us. was penniless. _ Mind you. Elizabeth is the one with brains. It is Elizabeth who has the money. She has a strong will, too. She keeps mo there whether" I. will or not. She makes me do ma iv things—many things, surelywhich I hate. But, Elizabeth lias her way. If I had gono with Beatrice, if 1 were to go to her now, I should be only a burden upon her." "You have no money, then?" Tavcrnake remarked. The professor shook his head sadly. "Speculations, my young friend." he said gloomily, "speculations undertaken sol v with the object of making a fortune)' for my children. I have had money and lost' it." ~ "Can't you earn any? Tavernake asked. "Beatrice doesn't seem extravagant." (To be continued daily.)