Part 24 (1/2)
The opening of the box had revealed a sinister-looking bouquet of artificial black roses tied with blood-red ribbons.
In Barcelona there are many strange and ingenious ways of conveying death by explosives. A clock, a painted casket which might contain bon-bons; a coffee-pot, a _ca.s.serole_--any apparently harmless and common utensil.
A bunch of flowers was one of the most common mediums for a bomb.
The Anarchist colours showed clearly that it must either have been sent by an enemy who had been formerly one of the band, and who was now revenging himself by an attempt to see his former a.s.sociates ”hoist with their own petard,” or else it was an affair of the police. In any case, supposing the thing to be harmless, it was a warning of danger.
Emile's wits worked swiftly, and he was used to emergencies. He looked round, and found a jug of water, and the floral tribute floated harmlessly therein. As it did not sink at once he concluded that there was no concealed bomb. Then he turned his attention to Arith.e.l.li, and gave her a vigorous shaking, which was probably, under the circ.u.mstances, the best possible restorative.
”You'll die more than once in imagination before your time comes, Fatalite. Probably the next parcel you receive will not need as much investigation.”
She tried to smile. ”I'm sorry! They looked so uncanny, and when I saw red I thought--Emile, what does it all mean?”
”It means danger, my dear. It means that you are suspected. You yourself best know whether the suspicion is deserved or not. Of course it may be only one of the police tricks, but I don't think so. Anyway whether it was charged or not it's safe enough now. Look in the box and on the floor to see if there's any note or message. There isn't?
_Eh bien_! I suppose they thought this would speak with sufficient eloquence.”
He fished the bedraggled bouquet out of the water and hung it like a trophy across Arith.e.l.li's mirror, which was a fetish of its owner and the one valuable thing she now possessed. It had been the gift of Michael Furness, who had bought it from the Jewish herbalist. It was of antique silver gilt in oval shape, and rimmed with rough topaz set in silver, and was alleged by its former owner to have been the property of Agnes Sorel. Arith.e.l.li had often declared that in it she could see visions as in a crystal.
Over it Emile carefully arranged the flowers so that the stained red ribbons hung limply across the polished surface. Then he sat down again and lighted another cigarette.
”You ought not to be afraid of this sort of thing, you know,” he said.
”Sudden death is part of our business. In the oath we take we swear to 'Slay or be slain,' if by so doing we can advance the Cause one small step forward.”
She caught at her breast with a sudden gesture of pa.s.sion.
Death--could they talk and think of nothing else? And she was a woman now, not a weapon, and she wanted life.
”You don't seem very enthusiastic,” the cold voice continued. ”A few months ago the dangerous side of the game was rather an attraction to you than otherwise. Now you shrink and s.h.i.+ver at everything. You do your work, yes, because, you can't help doing that, but is there any heart in what you do?”
”None! Every day I live, I loathe it more!”
”Take care!”
”I'm past caring. When I came out here first I was a child playing at a new game.”
Emile's back was turned to her, and if his answering speech was brutal, it was because his conscience was awake and crying fiercely. He would not be likely to make the mistake of interfering with people's lives a second time. He had seen in her an instrument to be handled at will, and had charged himself with the burden of her destiny, and now he supposed she was about to reproach him.
”You are hysterical. That's the worst of women. They always are--more or less. You had better go to bed, and not talk nonsense. If you were a child only a few months ago you are not too old to be treated as one now.”
It hurt him more than it hurt her, but she would never know that. His pulses hammered furiously as she dropped at his side with a soft rustle of garments. Her clasped hands rested on his knee; the strong, slender hands that had grown rough with work.
”Emile,” she whispered, ”can't you see that I've altered? I'm a woman now. You said I should be one soon. I've wanted to tell you all along, but I always hoped you had guessed.”
”Perhaps I did, but I preferred that you should tell me yourself. And since when have you become what you call 'a woman'? No, you needn't answer. When I knew that you and Vardri had been together in my rooms, I was certain I had not warned you without reason.”
”You knew before I did myself.”
”_Mon enfant_, I'm neither blind nor a fool. As they say in this country, 'love and a cough cannot be hidden.' I was sure about Vardri, but about you;--no, one couldn't say. When you came out here you were a s.e.xless creature with a brain. It did not seem likely that you would develop into the ordinary girl with a lover.”
It was the only way he could keep a hold upon himself, by keeping up a pose of cynicism. The fragrance of her hair, the curved mouth so close to his own, maddened him. He who could have been her lover had been only her guardian, her taskmaster. And now she was ready to give herself to a boy, who thought life was a romance, and who would probably sit at her feet reading poetry while they both starved.