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Prince or Chauffeur? A Story of Newport

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<h3> CHAPTER XXV </h3> <h3> THE EXPATRIATE </h3> In the doorway Armitage paused and as Sara and Anne brushed silently past him, he turned back into the room. Without looking at Koltsoff, who was fumbling at push buttons and roaring for his valet, he walked over to Takakika, took a knife from his pocket, reached down and cut his silken fetters. "There," he said with a grim smile, "I did n't leave you bound to the mercies of His Highness over there. Put that to my credit when you pray to the ancient Samurai." The Jap scrambled to his feet, rolled his eyes angrily at Armitage, and then shot out of the room like a bolt from a gun. Jack followed him, making his way to the rear stairway and thus out into the night. Doggedly he strode to the clump of bushes where he had hidden the bag and his fingers were on the handle, when, with a quick exclamation, he released his hold and sat down on the turf, his head in his hands. So this was to be the end! How quickly his house of cards had fallen! How completely had the fabric of a wonderful dream vanished to nothing! It was all coming over him strongly now for the first time as he reacted from the absorbing incidents of the past hour! Fool! Sara Van Valkenberg had characterized him unerringly. He was all of that and worse. And yet—she had done her part to make him one. He could understand exactly how Anne Wellington must have felt in view of Sara's representations to her, concerning his presence in the house, and certainly his own asinine attitude could have led the girl to believe nothing save that he had made his acceptance of employment at The Crags the excuse for a romantic desire to be near her. Yet he had not designedly deceived her. He had, of course, desired to be near her; as to that he would have been willing to attempt expedients tenfold more daring than serving as her chauffeur. That the main object of his sojourn there did not concern her was not his fault. And he had not concealed that object from her with any idea of enlisting her interest under false pretences. Ah, how he should like to tell her that now—and make her believe it! But that opportunity had vanished, if indeed it had ever existed, during those trying moments in Koltsoff's room. In any event there was no opportunity now. Well? Once more his hand sought his bag. He might as well clear out forthwith and have an end of it all. But no; he could not, somehow. Sara's warning flashed through his mind. "Don't you dare go away!" What had she meant? Was there really some hope, which she had divined where he saw nothing but blankness? It was but a faint spark of hope but it kindled an irresistible desire to see Anne Wellington again—not to speak to her, but to fix his eyes upon her face and burn every detail of her features into his mind. He fought against it. He picked up his bag and walked toward the gate. But it was like trying to dam a flood. As in a daze he tossed the bag back among the hydrangeas and a few minutes later found himself in the house once more, moving slowly through the crowded halls. A few of the guests were departing. At one end his questing eyes found Anne. She was shaking hands with an elderly couple and talking over her shoulder to a group of men. She was smiling but her face was feverish. For several minutes Armitage stood watching her and then resolutely facing about, he went out of doors intent upon quitting the place for good and all. As he passed around the side of the house he looked up instinctively and found himself under Koltsoff's window. Once he saw the Russian's shadow pass the illuminated square. A thought occurred to him and then somehow flashed out of his mind. It left him looking blankly up at that window, vaguely trying to traverse the mental processes which had led to the missing thought. Then it came to him. Quickly he stepped from the path to the edge of the cliffs, perhaps twenty feet from the side of the house and guarded by a low iron railing. The moon, now, was well down in the western sky and a level path flowed across the waters to the base of the crags. He looked over the railing and a glittering object caught his eye. The revolver, in all probability. Undoubtedly the ebbing tide had left it dry. And if the weapon, thrown from Koltsoff's window, was within reach, why not the control? Armitage's face burned. It must be somewhere down there. If he could find it, much loss of time would be prevented. But more—if it could be found, he and not Koltsoff must be the one to recover it. At his feet the cliffs were precipitous. He searched for the steps which he remembered were cut in the rock somewhere in the vicinity. But it was too dark; he could not find them. He must wait until the first light of dawn showed him his ground. It would save him, perhaps, a broken neck and of course simplify his search. He sat down on the grass to wait, lighting a cigar which he had taken from the smoking-room. Dancing had resumed. The measured cadence of the music flowed from the windows, and lulled by it, fatigued with all the excitement of the evening, his cigar waned and died, his head fell on the turf. He slept. He dreamed that he was dancing with Anne and that Koltsoff, with Sara Van Valkenberg as a partner, persisted in stepping upon his toes. Even in that ballroom with Mrs. Wellington's Gorgon eyes upon him the situation was getting unbearable. He hated making a scene, nevertheless—He woke with a start. The sound of wheels grinding through the gravel of the driveway brought him to his feet. It was a strange sound, eerie, uncanny. The darkness had gone, and the moon. The world was all gray; objects showed dim and ghostly; the ocean was shrouded in mist, and the wind from the face of it was clammy, heavy with salt. Moisture was dripping from the leaves, the trees, and shrubbery. The sound of laughter came from somewhere. For a moment Armitage stood irresolute, knowing that his heart was heavy and that the new day would bring no light for him. Spiritlessly he walked to the brink of the cliffs and saw the steps upon the far side of the curve. Thither he slowly made his way. Spirals of mist were arising from below as from a caldron—old Newporters, in truth, had always known of it as the Devil's Caldron—hiding the wet, slippery fangs over or among which the swish of waters was unceasing. As he reached the bottom he paused for an instant and then as his eyes became accustomed to the pallid gloom, he looked across an intervening stretch of about three feet of water and saw a glow of something lighter than the murk. The package! Quick as thought he stepped over to the rock and then almost stumbled over a figure in a white ball gown lying, as seemed at first impression, prone. A sickening horror passed through Jack as he bent down. It was Anne Wellington. She lay half on her side, resting on her elbow, her skirts twining bedraggled about her ankles. With one hand she was mechanically lifting water to an ugly bruise upon her forehead. As Jack appeared at her side she smiled at him dazedly. "There," she said, lifting her hand feebly and pointing toward a water-soaked package at her side. "I—I wanted to show you I was not a—traitor." She closed her eyes wearily. "I'm not, really, you know." As she opened her eyes, smiling wanly, Jack with a hurt cry threw himself at her side, took her in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. "Anne!" "I could n't let you think—that," she said. "It would have been all right. I bungled horribly with my feet and slipped and fell." Tears were starting from Jack's eyes and she saw them. "No! No! I'm all right," she said, "just a bit dizzy. I am sorry. I was going—to—bring—it back to you—so nicely and prove I was not an expatriate." She shivered slightly and Jack drew her close. "Don't!" he said. For a while she lay silent while the dawn whitened and gleams of steel flashed over the waters. She was smiling now, contentedly. "I looked all about for you after that—that dreadful scene. I couldn't find you anywhere. I was afraid—" she paused. As Jack did not reply she looked suddenly up into his face. "Then you can't forgive me?" "Forgive you!" "Sara told me all," she said. "She showed me how utterly outrageous I had been." "Sara!" Jack inwardly breathed a prayer of gratitude to that young woman. "Yes, she told me. But it was all so exciting, so sudden. How could I have known?" She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes all smiles and all love. "Of course it was so clear after Sara explained." And even, in his ecstasy Jack found himself formulating a stern determination to demand at the first moment from Sara just what her explanation had been. Yet at the same time he would willingly have fallen at her feet and worshipped her. Anne was still looking at him. Then slowly she released herself from his arms and arose to her feet. She was blushing. "Haven't you anything to say to me—Jack?" And now Jack blushed. "Anything to say?" But he smiled guiltily. "Really!" she exclaimed, frowning. Jack came very close to her, his hands at his side, but looking straight into her eyes. "Yes, I have something to say. I have n't any right to, but I 'm going to, just the same. Anne Wellington, I love you! I honor you! Since that night at the Grand Central Station—hang it, Anne, I can't make a speech, much as I should like to. I love you, that's all, and—and—and—" He stopped short. She laughed that quick, fluttering laugh of happiness, much more eloquent than words. "Jack," she said, "that night I stood with you on the bridge of the D'Estang—then I knew I loved you." The next instant she was crushed in his arms. "Oh—Jack!" There were no more words. But why words? As the tide ebbed and murmured and the birds sang in the trees above, they stood silent, immured from all the world, these two, but neither doubting nor fearing. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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