“Tell Mr. Quentin I cannot see him,” was Miss Garrison's response when his card was sent to her late that afternoon. The man who waited nervously in the hall was stunned by this brief, summary dismissal. If he was hurt, bewildered by the stinging rebuff, his wounds would have been healed instantly had he seen the sender of that cruel message. She sat, weak, pale and distressed, before her escritoire, striving to put her mind and her heart to the note she was writing to him whose card, by strange coincidence, had just come up. An hour ago he was in her thoughts so differently and he was in her heart, how deeply she had not realized, until there came the crash which shattered the ideal. He was a coward!
Prince Ugo had been out of her presence not more than ten minutes, leaving her stunned, horrified, crushed by the story he laughingly told, when Quentin was announced. What she heard from Ugo overwhelmed her. She had worshiped, unknown to herself, the very thing in Philip Quentin that had been destroyed almost before her eyes—his manliness, his courage, his strength. Ugo deliberately told of the duel in his rooms, of Savage's heroism in taking up the battles of his timorous friend, of his own challenge in the morning, and of Quentin's abject, cringing refusal to fight. How deliciously he painted the portrait of the coward without exposing his true motive in doing so, can only be appreciated when it is said that Dorothy Garrison came to despise the object of his ridicule.
She forgot his encounter with the porch visitor a fortnight previous; she forgot that the wound inflicted on that occasion was scarcely healed; she forgot all but his disgraceful behavior in the presence of that company of nobles and his cowardice when called to account by one brave man. And he an American, a man from her own land, from the side of the world on which, she had boasted, there lived none but the valorous. This man was the one to whom, a week ago, she had personally addressed an invitation to the wedding in St. Gudule—the envelope was doubtless in his pocket now, perhaps above his heart—and the writing of his name at that time had brought to her the deadly, sinking realization that he was more to her than she had thought.
“Tell Miss Garrison that, if it is at all possible, I must see her at once,” said Quentin to the bearer of the message. He was cold with apprehension, hot with humiliation.
“Miss Garrison cannot see you,” said the man, returning from his second visit to the room above. Even the servant spoke with a curtness that could not be mistaken. It meant dismissal, cold and decisive, with no explanation, no excuse.
He left the house with his ears burning, his nerves tingling, his brain whirling. What had caused this astonishing change? Why had she turned against him so suddenly, so strangely? Prince Ugo! The truth flashed into his mind with startling force, dispelling all uncertainty, all doubt. Her lover had forstalled him, had requested or demanded his banishment and she had acquiesced, with a heartlessness that was beyond belief. He had been mistaken as to the extent of her regard for him; he had misjudged the progress of his wooing; he awoke to the truth that her heart was impregnable and that he had not so much as approached the citadel of her love.
Dickey was pacing their rooms excitedly when Quentin entered. Turk stared gloomily from the open window, and there was a sort of savageness in his silent, sturdy back that bespoke volumes of restraint.
“Good Lord, Phil, everybody knows you have refused to fight the prince. The newspaper men have been here and they have tried to pump me dry. Turk says one of the men downstairs is telling everybody that you are afraid of Ravorelli. What are we going to do?” He stopped before the newcomer and there was reproach in his manner. Quentin dejectedly threw himself into a chair and stared at the floor in silence.
“Turk!” he called at last. “I want you to carry a note to Miss Garrison, and I want you to make sure that she reads it. I don't know how the devil you are to do it, but you must. Don't bother me, Dickey. I don't care a continental what the fellow downstairs says; I've got something else to think about.” He threw open the lid to one of his trunks and ruthlessly grabbed up some stationery. In a minute he was at the table, writing.
“Is Kapolski dead?” asked Dickey.
“I don't know and don't care. I'll explain in a minute. Sit down somewhere and don't stare, Dickey—for the Lord's sake, don't stare like a scared baby.” He completed the feverishly written note, sealed the envelope, and thrust it into Turk's hands. “Now, get that note to her, or don't come back to me. Be quick about it, too.”
Turk was off, full of fresh wonder and the importance of his mission. Quentin took a few turns up and down the room before he remembered that he owed some sort of an explanation to his companion.
“She wouldn't see me,” he said, briefly.
“What's the matter? Sick?”
“No explanation. Just wouldn't see me, that's all.”
“Which means it's all off, eh? The prince got there first and spiked your guns. Well? What have you written to her?”
“That I am going to see her to-night if I have to break into the house.”
“Bravely done! Good! And you'll awake in a dungeon cell to-morrow morning, clubbed to a pulp by the police. You may break into the house, but it will be just your luck to be unable to break out of jail in time for the wedding on the 16th. What you need is a guardian.”
“I'm in no humor for joking, Dickey.”
“It won't be a joke, my boy. Now, tell me just what you wrote to her. Gad, I never knew what trouble meant until I struck Brussels. The hot water here is scalding me to a creamy consistency.”
“I simply said that she had no right to treat me as she did to-day and that she shall listen to me. I ended the note by saying I would come to her to-night, and that I would not be driven away until I had seen her.”
“You can't see her if she refuses to receive you.”
“But she will see me. She's fair enough to give me a chance.”
“Do you want me to accompany you?”
“I intend to go alone.”
“You will find Ugo there, you know. It is bound to be rather trying, Phil. Besides, you are not sure that Turk can deliver the note.”
“I'd like to have Ravorelli hear everything I have to say to her, and if he's there he'll hear a few things he will not relish.”
“And he'll laugh at you, too.”
An hour later Turk returned. He was grinning broadly as he entered the room.
“Did you succeed?” demanded Quentin, leaping to his feet. For answer the little man daintily, gingerly dropped a small envelope into his hand.
“She says to give th' note to you an' to nobody else,” he said, triumphantly. Quentin hesitated an instant before tearing open the envelope, the contents of which meant so much to him. As he read, the gloom lifted from his face and his figure straightened to its full height. The old light came back to his eyes.
“She says I may come, Dickey. I knew she would,” he exclaimed, joyously.
“When?”
“At nine to-night.”
“Is that all she says?”
“Well—er—no. She says she will see me for the last time.”
“Not very comforting, I should say.”
“I'll risk it's being the last time. I tell you, Savage, I'm desperate. This damnable game has gone far enough. She'll know the truth about the man she's going to marry. If she wants to marry him after what I tell her, I'll—I'll—well, I'll give it up, that's all.”
“If she believes what you tell her, she won't care to marry him.”
“She knows I'm not a liar, Dickey, confound you.”
“Possibly; but she is hardly fool enough to break with the prince unless you produce something more substantial than your own accusation. Where is your proof?”
This led to an argument that lasted until the time came for him to go to her home When he left the hotel in a cab he was thoroughly unstrung, but more determined than ever. As if by magic, there came to life the forces of the prince. While Ugo sat calmly in his apartment, his patient agents were dogging the man he feared, dogging him with the persistence and glee of blood-hounds. Courant and his hirelings, two of them, garbed as city watchmen, were on the Avenue Louise almost as soon as the man they were watching. By virtue of fate and the obstinacy of one Dickey Savage, two of Quentin's supporters, in direct disobedience of his commands, were whirling toward the spot on which so many minds were centered. From a distance Savage and Turk saw him rush from the carriage and up the broad stone steps that led to the darkened veranda. From other points of view, Jules Courant and his men saw the same and the former knew that Turk's visit in the afternoon had resulted in the granting of an interview. No sooner had Quentin entered the house than a man was despatched swiftly to inform Prince Ugo that he had not been denied.
Mrs. Garrison met him in the hall alone. There was defiance in her manner, but he had not come thus far to be repulsed by such a trifle as her opposition. With rare cordiality he advanced and extended his hand.
“Good evening, Mrs. Garrison. I hardly expected to find you and Dorothy quite alone at this time of night.” She gave him her hand involuntarily. He had a way about him and she forgot her resolve under its influence. There was no smile on her cold face, however.
“We are usually engaged at this hour, Mr. Quentin, but to-night we are at home to no one but you,” she said, meaningly.
“It's very good of you. Perhaps I would better begin by ending your suspense. Dorothy refused to see me to-day and I suspect the cause. I am here for an explanation from her because I think it is due me. I came also to tell you that I love her and to ask her if she loves me. If she does not, I have but to retire, first apologizing for what you may call reprehensibility on my part in presuming to address her on such a matter when I know she is the promised wife of another. If she loves me, I shall have the honor to ask you for her hand, and to ask her to terminate an engagement with a man she does not love. I trust my mission here to-night is fully understood.”
“It is very plain to me, Mr. Quentin, and I may be equally frank with you. It is useless.”
“You will of course permit me to hear that from the one who has the right to decide,” he said.
“My daughter consented to receive you only because I advised her to do so. I will not speak now of your unusual and unwarranted behavior during the past month, nor will I undertake to say how much annoyance and displeasure you have caused. She is the affianced wife of Prince Ravorelli and she marries him because she loves him. I have given you her decision.” For a moment their eyes met like the clashing of swords.
“Has she commissioned you to say this to me?” he asked, his eyes penetrating like a knife.
“I am her mother, not her agent.”
“Then I shall respectfully insist that she speak for herself.” If a look could kill a man, hers would have been guilty of murder.
“She is coming now, Mr. Quentin. You have but a moment of doubt left. She despises you.” For the first time his composure wavered, and his lips parted, as if to exclaim against such an assumption. But Dorothy was already at the foot of the stairs, pale, cold and unfriendly. She was the personification of a tragedy queen as she paused at the foot of the stairs, her nand on the newell post, the lights from above shining directly into a face so disdainful that he could hardly believe it was hers. There was no warmth in her voice when she spoke to him, who stood immovable, speechless, before her.
“What have you to say to me, Phil?”
“I have first to ask if you despise me,” he found voice to say.
“I decline to answer that question.''
“Your mother has said so.”
“She should not have done so.”
“Then she has misrepresented you?” he cried, taking several steps toward her.
“I did not say that she had.”
“Dorothy, what do you mean by this? What right have you to—” he began, fiercely.
“Mr. Quentin!” exclaimed Mrs. Garrison, haughtily.
“Well,” cried he, at bay and doggedly, “I must know the truth. Will you come to the veranda with me, Dorothy?”
“No,” she replied, without a quaver.
“I must talk with you alone. What I have to say is of the gravest importance. It is for your welfare, and I shall leave my own feelings out of it, if you like. But I must and will say what I came here to say.”
“There is nothing that I care to hear from you.”
“By all that's holy, you shall hear it, and alone, too,” he exclaimed so commandingly that both women started. He caught a quick flutter in Dorothy's eyes and saw the impulse that moved her lips almost to the point of parting. “I demand—yes, demand—to be heard! Come! Dorothy, for God's sake, come!”
He was at her side and, before she could prevent it, had grasped her hand in his own. All resistance was swept away like chaff before the whirlwind. The elder woman so far forgot her cold reserve as to blink her austere eyes, while Dorothy caught her breath, looked startled and suffered herself to be led to the door without a word of protest. There he paused and turned to Mrs. Garrison, whose thunderstruck countenance was afterward the subject of more or less amusement to him, and, if the truth were known, to her daughter.
“When I have said all that I have to say to her, Mrs. Garrison, I'll bring her back to you.”
Neither he nor Dorothy uttered a word until they stood before each other in the dark palm-surrounded nook where, on one memorable night, he had felt the first savage blow of the enemy.
“Dorothy, there can no longer be any dissembling. I love you. You have doubtless known it for weeks and weeks. It will avail you nothing to deny that you love me. I have seen—” he was charging, hastily, feverishly.
“I do deny it. How dare you make such an assertion?” she cried, hotly.
“I said it would avail you nothing to deny it, but I expected the denial. You have not forgotten those dear days when we were boy and girl. We both thought they had gone from us forever, but we were mistaken. To-day I love you as a man loves, only as a man can love who has but one woman in his world. Sit here beside me, Dorothy.”
“I will not!” she exclaimed, trembling in every fiber, but he gently, firmly took her arm and drew her to the wicker bench. “I hate you, Philip Quentin!” she half sobbed, the powerlessness to resist infuriating her beyond expression.
“Forget that I was rough or harsh, dear. Sit still,” he cried, as at the word of endearment she attempted to rise.
“You forget yourself! You forget—” was all she could say.
“Why did you refuse to see me this afternoon?” he asked, heedlessly.
“Because I believed you to be what I now know you are,” she said, turning on him quickly, a look of scorn in her eyes.
“Your adorer?” he half-whispered.
“A coward!” she said, slowly, distinctly.
“Coward?” he gasped, unwilling to believe his ears. “What—I know I may deserve the word now, but—but this afternoon? What do you mean?”
“Your memory is very short.”
“Don't speak in riddles, Dorothy,” he cried.
“You know how I loathe a coward, and I thought you were a brave man. When I heard—when I was told—O, it does not seem possible that you could be so craven.”
“Tell me what you have heard,” he said, calmly, divining the truth.
“Why did you let Dickey Savage fight for you last night? Where was your manhood? Why did you slink away from Prince Ravorelli this morning?” she said, intensely.
“Who has told you all this?” he demanded.
“No matter who has told me. You did play the part of a coward. What else can you call it?”
“I did not have the chance to fight last night; your informant's plans went wrong Dickey was my unintentional substitute. As for Ravorelli's challenge this morning, I did not refuse to meet him.”
“That is untrue!”
“I declined to fight the duel with him, but I said I would fight as we do at home, with my hands. Would you have me meet him with deadly weapons?”
“I only know that you refused to do so, and that Brussels calls you a coward.”
“You would have had me accept his challenge? Answer!”
“You lost every vestige of my respect by refusing to do so.”
“Then you wanted me to meet and to kill him,” he said, accusingly.
“I—I—Oh, it would not have meant that,” she gasped.
“Did you want him to kill me?” he went on, relentlessly.
“They would have prevented the duel! It could not have gone so far as that,” she said, trembling and terrified.
“You know better than that, Dorothy. I would have killed him had we met. Do you understand? I would have killed the man you expect to marry. Have you thought of that?” She sank back in the seat and looked at him dumbly, horror in her face. “That is one reason why I laughed at his ridiculous challenge. How could I hope to claim the love of the woman whose affianced husband I had slain? I can win you with him alive, but I would have built an insurmountable barrier between us had he died by my hand. Could you have gone to the altar with him if he had killed me?”
“O, Phil,” she whispered.
“Another reason why I refused to accept his challenge was that I could not fight a cur.”
“Phil Quentin!” she cried, indignantly,
“I came here to tell you the truth about the man you have promised to marry. You shall hear me to the end, too. He is as black a coward, as mean a scoundrel as ever came into the world.”
Despite her protests, despite her angry denials, he told her the story of Ugo's plotting, from the hour when he received the mysterious warning to the moment when he entered her home that evening. As he proceeded hotly to paint the prince in colors ugly and revolting she grew calmer, colder. At the end she met his flaming gaze steadily.
“Do you expect me to believe this?” she asked.
“I mean that you shall,” he said, imperatively. “It is the truth.”
“If you have finished this vile story you may go. I cannot forgive myself for listening to you. How contemptible you are,” she said, arising and facing him with blazing eyes. He came to his feet and met the look of scorn with one which sent conviction to her soul.
“I have told you the truth, Dorothy,” he said simply. The light in her eyes changed perceptibly. “You know I am not a liar, and you know I am not a coward. Every drop of blood in my veins sings out its love for you. Rather than see you marry this man I would kill him, as you advise, even though it cost me my happiness. You have heard me out, and you know in your heart that I have told the truth.”
“I cannot, I will not believe it! He is the noblest of men, and he loves me. You do not know how he loves me. I will not believe you,” she murmured, and he knew his story had found a home. She sank to the seat again and put her hand to her throat, as if choking. Her eyes were upon the strong face above her, and her heart raced back to the hour not far gone when it whispered to itself that she loved the sweetheart of other days.
“Dorothy, do you love me?” he whispered, dropping to her side, taking her hand in his. “Have you not loved me all these days and nights?”
“You must not ask—you must not ask,” she whispered.
“But I do ask. You love me?”
“No!” she cried, recovering herself with a mighty effort. “Listen! I did love you—yes, I loved you—until to-day. You filled me with your old self, you conquered and I was grieving myself to madness over it all. But, I do not love you now! You must go! I do not believe what you have said of him and I despise you! Go!”
“Dorothy!” he cried, as she sped past him. “Think what you are saying!”
“Good-by! Go! I hate you!” she cried, and was gone. For a moment he stood as if turned to stone. Then there came a rush of glad life to his heart and he could have shouted in his jubilance.
“God, she loves me! I was not too late! She shall be mine!” He dashed into the house, but the closing of a door upstairs told him she was beyond his reach. The hall was empty; Mrs. Garrison was nowhere to be seen. Filled with the new fire, the new courage, he clutched his hat from the chair on which he had thrown it and rushed forth into the night.
At the top of the steps he met Prince Ugo. The two men stopped stockstill, within a yard of each other, and neither spoke for the longest of minutes.
“You call rather late, prince,” said Phil, a double meaning in his words.
“Dog!” hissed the prince.
“Permit me to inform you that Miss Garrison has retired. It will save you the trouble of ringing. Good-night.”
He bowed, laughed sarcastically, and was off down the steps. Ravorelli's hand stole to an inside pocket and a moment later the light from the window flashed on a shining thing in his fingers. He did not shoot, but Quentin never knew how near he was to death at the hand of the silent statue that stood there and watched him until he was lost in the shadows. Then the prince put his hand suddenly to his eyes, moaned as if in pain, and slowly descended the steps.
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