CHAPTER XXXIV
THE ALCHEMIST
NOT a little bit?" Jasmine challenged, snuggling closer to Carey.
"Not the least little bit in the world," he assured her.
"But she is very fascinating. Lots of men must have envied you."
"There are even more who would envy me now," he replied.
Jasmine tilted her head so that it rested on his shoulder. She sighed contentedly.
"When you do pay compliments," she said, "you manage it very prettily."
There was silence between them for a while. Sitting unnecessarily close together in the big car, in that sort of waking dream which is a communion of which only lovers may partake, Carey was discovering that love is an alchemist who can transmute old sorrows into new joys.
As they passed along Piccadilly he recalled happily those lonely nights of doubt when he had tramped this very route, seeking to drown a present wretchedness in memories of a brighter past. Foremost in his musings loomed the most dreadful night of all, the night when Ford had said, "Miss Jasmine is out of town, sir, and Sir Provost is not at home." As the car came out of Half-Moon Street into Piccadilly he turned and looked back at the lighted windows of a club.
Years seemed to have elapsed since he had seen Murchison seated in that very club and had longed to talk to him. Yonder was the corner upon which he had stood hesitating, wondering whether Murchison would understand. How strange, he thought, that this old bitterness now magically became woven into a pattern of joy.
To-night, as on that distant night, every lighted car seemed to contain a pair of happy lovers, pleasure bound. It was a joyous parade of piquant, flower-like women nestling amid furry theatre cloaks; of well-groomed, self-satisfied men; of careless gaiety, untroubled by doubt, untouched by the sordid things of the world. Once, it had seemed a taunting panorama of youth and laughter, of an Arcady where sadness could gain no admittance; to-night it was an Arcady, but he was of the Arcadians.
Opposite the Ritz they were held up by a block in the traffic, and a flower-seller, a tired-eyed, gipsy-looking creature, leaned in at the open window.
"Beautiful roses, sir," she said, "a bunch of roses for the lady?"
For Jasmine to squeeze his hand was wholly unnecessary. The magical transmutation was complete. He remembered the woman. She belonged to that night of unhappiness upon which now he dwelled so lovingly.
"I will take them all," he said, opening the door. "Put them in here on the seat."
"God bless you, sir!" the flower-seller exclaimed, scarce crediting her good luck. "I am sure you will always be very happy."
He gave her twice the price for which he could have bought the roses at Gerard's, and, as the car moved on, laughed loudly and joyously. He threw his arms around Jasmine and kissed her as she had dreamed of being kissed.
Breathless, she drew back, pressing her hand against his lips, and, looking at him with glowing, half-frightened eyes:
"Douglas!" she said, but the rebuke was an invitation.
"I don't care!" he cried. "To-night I care for nothing except that I have got you and am never going to let you go again."
"Surely," she whispered, "I am entitled to be consulted?"
But she was glad, wholly, wildly glad, that he claimed her—that his love was not a plaint, a half-frightened query, but a demand, a claim. It was this which she had missed in him: it was this which he had failed to discover in himself.
Now, in this mutual recognition of absolute surrender and unquestionable possession, there was that perfect happiness which belongs to such rare moments; which comes perhaps but once in each short life. Jasmine yielded her lips to him with a sweet submission which opened a new page of life for her lover. The slender, frail wonder of womanhood which he held in his arms belonged to him now; to lift to great heights or to cast down into utter degradation; to be a crown if he should rise above his fellow men, to be an ever-present rebuke, a phantom, if he should fail. All the pageant of man's history swept through his mind, inciting him. In that brief moment of exaltation the future was bathed in golden light—the past was glorious with delicious memories.
Outside the Adelphi Theatre and in sight of their destination the car was detained for a long time; and:
"Of course I know, now," said Jasmine, "that when you told me you had never seen Madame Sabinov before that night—you remember the night?—you were telling me the truth. I know you telephoned and wrote to me. But I shall never be happy until you have made me understand all this mystery, Douglas. I mean, why Daddy has taken away my dear little cigarette box which you gave me, and why I was always dreaming about the grey face at Low Ketley. But what I really wanted to ask you was this: Have you seen Madame Sabinov again?"
Complete sympathy between them had at last become established. If Douglas Carey could have possessed the wisdom of Sir Provost Hope, he must have welcomed this clairvoyance in Jasmine; but because, although he was a clever man, there were many things which he did not know, he merely wondered at the tone in which she asked the question. She knew; and, even had he been capable of it, denial would be useless. Therefore:
"Once," he replied; "I met her at Trepniak's."
"You have been to Trepniak's?" Jasmine exclaimed.
"Yes, and I met Madame Sabinov there."
"Oh!"
Jasmine stared for a while into the foyer of the Adelphi Theatre, an object of interest to many passers-by, but herself oblivious of their existence; and Carey regarded a red-faced and irascible military gentleman, detained in a taxicab on the off-side of the car, in whom this traffic delay threatened to induce apoplexy.
"Was she sweet to you?" Jasmine asked softly.
"Don't speak of her like that," said Carey. "She means absolutely nothing to me. But, on the other hand, she is a dangerous woman. Presently I will try to explain to you what I mean."
Jasmine turned to him, her lips pressed together, her eyes half closed. It had been a dream journey throughout which he had worn the robes of an emperor, but now the robes slipped from him; his old diffidence returned, or threatened to return.
As Jasmine faced him, apologetic words suggested themselves. His instinct was to placate, to explain. Modern woman demands explanations and Jasmine was essentially modern.
In time some primitive instinct came to Carey's aid: perhaps a memory of the half-frightened, breathless Jasmine who had shrunk back from the first real kiss of passion which he had ever given her. He grasped her shoulders firmly and looked into the beautiful challenging eyes.
"I refuse to quarrel with you about Madame Sabinov," he said. "She means nothing to me. You mean all there is in life. You must not read falseness into my words. I love you more than anything in the world. Let us be happy to-night."
She opposed him with mind and body for a moment; then, realizing that he was conquering with both:
"Douglas!" she protested—"people can see us!"
"I don't care," he said, drawing her close and kissing her. "Now be a good girl!"
The traffic barrier was raised, and a few minutes later, in the Savoy, Douglas and Jasmine were following the manager of the café de Paris to a table near the window for which Carey had arranged over the telephone.
"I thought it would be a good idea," he explained, "for us to dine in the Grill. That was why I selected this table. We can watch people arriving at the theatre and go across to our seats at the very last moment."
It was the first night of a new play at the Savoy Theatre and Jasmine agreed that the arrangement was excellent. She was happy; and throughout the early part of dinner the shadow which had lain so blackly upon both their lives was not discussed; then:
"Douglas," said Jasmine, "there is something I want to ask you."
"What is it?"
"Do you know why I was sent down to Low Ketley?"
"Well!" Carey smiled a little awkwardly. "I think I understand why your father sent you, yes."
"Will you please tell me?"
"I don't know why I should not," he replied, "except that it is all a little complicated. You see, dear, you and I are involved in a common danger. Someone, a very dangerous and powerful 'someone,' was interested in learning a lot of government secrets which I happened to know, and was also interested in you."
"In me?" Jasmine exclaimed. "In what way?"
"My dear Jasmine!" Carey smiled at her across the table. "There could only be one way."
"Douglas!" Jasmine lifted her finger reprovingly. "If you are trying to pay me another compliment, this time you have done it very clumsily."
Carey laughed.
"But I was not," he protested. "I was merely speaking the truth."
"Then your compliments are not the truth?" Jasmine asked naïvely.
"No," Carey replied; "they fall short of it."
Jasmine raised her wine glass, gaiety restored and laughter in her eyes.
"Mr. Carey," she said, "I do protest you are a wag."
These two were very happy, and as the time drew near for the commencement of the performance at the theatre well-known "first-nighters" began to appear. Indeed, some of them were dining in the grill room, and now others walked or were driven up to the doors of the theatre. A great majority Jasmine had met socially, or at one of the many clubs to which she belonged; but Carey pointed out others belonging to circles which did not impinge Jasmine's. Several of the more distinguished critics were unknown to her, since they avoided frivolous functions and rarely or never visited the Embassy, the Grafton, or the Mayfair.
Jasmine found this rather puzzling. She knew so many of the men from Fleet Street that she had begun to believe she knew them all. She found these distinguished strangers very interesting, and:
"They must be awfully clever," was her comment.
Carey laughed aloud.
"I agree," he said. "A man who can dispense with social popularity to-day must be a true genius."
"Yes," Jasmine mused. "Some people seem to be able to get along by means of social popularity alone: M. de Trepniak, for instance."
Carey started. His expression changed, and:
"What made you speak of him?" he asked.
"I don't know. You dislike him, don't you?"
"Yes," Carey admitted. "Have you seen him recently?"
"No," she replied. "I can't imagine why you should dislike him, Douglas. He has always been very nice to me."
"Does he know that you have returned?"
"Not that I am aware of," Jasmine said, acutely conscious of the change of tone in Carey's voice. "Oh! I see it all!" She reached across the table, laying her hand upon Carey's sleeve, and: "Am I right?" she asked—"was it because of Trepniak I was sent down into Surrey?"
Carey met her glance frankly.
"Of that I cannot be sure," he replied, "but of this I can: Trepniak is an undesirable man to know. Avoid him if you can possibly do so. He is plausible, he is fascinating, but I am not at all sure"
He hesitated.
"Yes?" Jasmine prompted; "please tell me."
"Well" Carey appeared to be temporarily at a loss for words. "I must not say too much, but there are strange stories going about."
He was interrupted by the roaring approach of an electric-blue Farman, which swept aggressively into the court, turned, and was drawn up before the theatre. A dusky-faced footman, wearing a conspicuous uniform, leapt down and opened the door. Another car which had been discharging passengers now moved off, affording an unobstructed view of the theatre entrance.
Trepniak alighted, wearing the soft black hat and French cape which formed an indispensable part of his evening attire. He extended a white-gloved hand, and Madame Sabinov, wrapped in a flame-coloured cloak, stepped down from the car. Her white neck and shoulders, and white hair dressed Pompadour fashion, lent her a strangely statuesque appearance, heightened by the warm tones of her theatre wrap.
Side by side they passed into the foyer, objects of extraordinary interest to the crowd of onlookers which a first night at a London theatre always attracts.