Part 8 (1/2)
”I should like to,” she answered. ”I seem to have so much to say to you.”
He piled her chair with cus.h.i.+ons and drew it back into the shade. Then he lit a cigarette, and sat down by her side.
”I suppose you must think that I am very ungrateful,” she said. ”I have scarcely said 'thank you' yet, have I?”
”You will please me best by never saying it,” he answered. ”I only hope that it will be a step you will never regret.”
”How could I?”
He looked at her steadily, a certain grave concentration of thought manifest in his dark eyes. Berenice was looking her best that afternoon. She was certainly a very beautiful and a very distinguished-looking woman. Her eyes met his frankly; her lips were curved in a faintly tender smile.
”Well, I hardly know,” he said. ”You are going to be a popular actress. Henceforth the stage will have claims upon you! It will become your career.”
”You have plenty of confidence.”
”I have absolute confidence in you,” he declared, ”and Fergusson is equally confident about the play; chance has given you this opportunity--the result is beyond question! Yet I confess that I have a presentiment. If the ma.n.u.script of 'The Heart of the People' were in my hands at this moment, I think that I would tear it into little pieces, and watch them flutter down on to the pavement there.”
”I do not understand you,” she said softly. ”You say that you have no doubt----”
”It is because I have no doubt--it is because I know that it will make you a popular and a famous actress. You will gain this. I wonder what you will lose.”
She moved restlessly on her chair.
”Why should I lose anything?”
”It is only a presentiment,” he reminded her. ”I pray that you may not lose anything. Yet you are coming under a very fascinating influence.
It is your personality I am afraid of. You are going to belong definitely to a profession which is at once the most catholic and the most narrowing in the world. I believe that you are strong enough to stand alone, to remain yourself. I pray that it may be so, and yet, there is just the shadow of the presentiment. Perhaps it is foolish.”
Their chairs were close together; he suddenly felt the perfume of her hair and the touch of her fingers upon his hand. Her face was quite close to his.
”At least,” she murmured, ”I pray that I may never lose your friends.h.i.+p.”
”If only I could ensure you as confidently the fulfilment of all your desires,” he answered, ”you would be a very happy woman. I am too lonely a man, Berenice, to part with any of my few joys. Whether you change or no, you must never change towards me.”
She was silent. There were no signs left of the brilliant levity which had made their little luncheon pa.s.s off so successfully. She sat with her head resting upon her elbow, gazing steadily up at the little white clouds which floated over the housetops. A tea equipage was brought out and deftly arranged between them.
”To-day,” Matravers said, ”I am going to have the luxury of having my tea made for me. Please come back from dreamland and realize the Englishman's idyll of domesticity.”
She turned in her chair, and smiled upon him.
”I can do it,” she a.s.sured him. ”I believe you doubt my ability, but you need not.”
They talked lightly for some time--an art which Matravers found himself to be acquiring with wonderful facility. Then there was a pause. When she spoke again, it was in an altogether different tone.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”I can do it,” she a.s.sured him. ”I believe you doubt my ability, but you need not”]
”I want you to answer me,” she said, ”it is not too late. Shall I give up Bathilde--and the stage? Listen! You do not know anything of my circ.u.mstances. I am not dependent upon either the stage or my writing for a living. I ask you for your honest advice. Shall I give it up?”
”You are placing a very heavy responsibility upon my shoulders,” he answered her thoughtfully. ”Yet I will try to answer you honestly. I should be happier if I could advise you to give it up! But I cannot!