CHAPTER XXVI
THE EMPRESS
YES, I will try to forgive you!" said Jasmine.
But her face was radiant, and she smiled at the telephone in a manner which must have moved any instrument less chilly. She listened awhile to the voice at the other end of the wires, and:
"Of course I understand," she declared. "But you see I was in the same boat. The things I told you sounded like deliberate lies, but so did the things you told me!"
"Jasmine!" Carey spoke eagerly. "There is more in this than a mere misunderstanding. You realize that?"
"I do," Jasmine replied.
"We have both been played upon," Carey continued, "by someone possessing strange mental powers. I have lots of things to tell you. I cannot possibly be down in time for dinner. If I arrive a little later, will it matter?"
"Not at all," said Jasmine, "but come as soon as you can."
"I have seen your father," Carey continued "and he realizes, as I do, that we all have a hidden enemy."
Awhile longer they talked; and when at last Jasmine hung up the receiver she literally danced to her room. Theories touching the destruction of masculine control and the triumph of feminism had been brushed aside at the sound of a man's voice as thistledown is swept by the breeze.
She was radiantly happy. No longer did she regard the county of Surrey as a spot forgotten by the gods. Twilight was painting shadows in the quaint nooks and rambling corridors of Low Ketley, and twilight Jasmine always associated with melancholy. Not so this evening. She loved the growing dusk because her own heart was alight.
Low Ketley was a romantic old house full of mysteries, but all of them of a delightful kind. She was sure that she could live here for ever. She crossed to her open window and looked out toward the tree-topped mound.
Beyond, where the circling hills raised their mysterious zigzag paths and secret woods up to the shadowy sky, lay the London road. She saw it as a ribbon, and to a woman a ribbon is an intimate thing. It was a link between two lives: how wonderful; indeed, all the world was wonderful to-night.
Jasmine sat down to consider which dress she should wear. Almost automatically she opened the dainty Japanese box in which she kept cigarettes, for, when reflecting. Jasmine always smoked. In the act of doing so, and as her glance lighted on the trinkets which lay there, an uncanny memory came to her.
Why it should have come at this particular moment she could not imagine, for she handled the box a dozen times or more every day. It was an illusive memory, associated with something evil—the memory of a grey face, a dead face, except that the eyes glowed like buried jewels.
It chilled her physically, and she suppressed a shudder. She concluded that it was something which she had dreamed and, for a time, forgotten. Taking up a cigarette, she groped for a match; then, suddenly, feverishly, her brain reeled, she grew icily cold—and as a flying panorama she saw the events of the evening from the time that Douglas had telephoned. She heard his voice; remembered running back joyously to her room to select a frock. She remembered opening her cigarette box—then these memories faded, as dream figures fade in the moment of awakening.
This vision of a quiet country life was lost, submerged by a deafening blare of trumpets—triumphant, terrific. It ceased, and Jasmine looked about her.
She was in a wonderful room of cream and gold—a boudoir such as Marie Antoinette might have possessed. She was seated in a low, cushioned chair before an oval mirror. A maid was deftly arranging her hair, dressed in an elaborate and extraordinary style, in order to support the crown which she wore and which was ablaze with precious stones.
Her shoulders were bare. A rope of pearls clung softly about her neck; her dazzling robes resembled the plumage of an Oriental peacock; and she stared in wonderment which gradually gave place to a sense of familiarity at her jewel-laden fingers; for Jasmine rarely wore rings, and never more than one at a time.
But, of course!—she closed her eyes momentarily. She was thinking again of her dream, in which she had been a simple girl. When had she dreamed that dream? She, whose life was an endless pageant! Her duty lay before her; this was no time for dreams.
Her women curtsied ceremoniously and Jasmine stood up as a man entered.
He wore a scarlet uniform and an ermine cloak which trailed upon the floor behind him. His head, crowned with tight red curls, was the head of a conqueror. Power and majesty were displayed in every movement, and:
"You are ready?" he asked, and bending, kissed her hand.
"I am ready," she replied.
He nodded to the women, and they left the apartment.
"This is the hour of your triumph and of mine," he continued. "When you step out on to the platform you step into view of a hundred million subjects in the four quarters of the earth. In China, in Russia, your people wait, their faces turned to the West; India, Persia, Arabia are yours, and Africa kneels, watching the North. Mighty human forces are beating upon us. In America at last"—a note of triumph entered his voice—"they bow the knee; and from Boston to the Pacific slopes, from Texas to the Manitoba border, you are acknowledged and awaited. All will see you, and, when you speak, all will hear you. No woman since humanity was born has known such a moment. Millions upon whom your eyes can never rest, whom you can never know, to-day will see you, will hear your voice; and you and I shall listen to all the peoples of the earth hailing the first Emperor and Empress of the World. Are you ready?"
"I am ready," Jasmine repeated.
He took her hand and led her toward double doors at the end of the room. Slowly the leaves of cream and gold began to open—when there came a deafening crash of thunder. It struck like a physical blow upon Jasmine's brain. She staggered, threw out her arms, and fell …
A frenzied shriek arose, piercing, horrifying, and audible in the most remote rooms of Low Ketley. It was even heard by a belated workman in the orchard.
Aunt Phil, who was dressing in a room only across the landing from that occupied by Jasmine, was the first to reach the girl, although two servants burst in almost immediately behind her.
Jasmine was lying prone upon the floor, her outstretched hands opening and closing convulsively.
"Douglas—Douglas!" she moaned—"save me! The grey face—the grey face!"
"My dear!"
Aunt Phil knelt down beside her and tried to raise the trembling girl.
Jasmine turned her head. She was white to the lips but recognition was dawning in her eyes, then:
"I want Douglas," she moaned.
She struggled to her knees, reached out gropingly, and at last threw her arms around the elder woman's neck. She began to sob convulsively.
"Hold me tight," she said; "don't let me go. It has been here again—it is always here."
"What is always here, my dear?" Aunt Phil asked soothingly, whilst the frightened servants looked on in stupefaction.
"Someone," Jasmine whispered-"something. Something that comes for me—that takes me away—I don't know where to. Don't let me go again. Where is Douglas? I want Douglas."