"No," said Margaret, "come in. I don"t care what the people think!"
He followed her into her sitting-room, and she shut the door, and turned up the electric light. When he saw her standing in the full glare of the lamps, she had thrown back her hood; she wore a wig with short tangled hair as part of her man"s disguise, and her face was heavily powdered over the paint in order to produce the ghastly pallor which indicates a broken heart on the stage. The heavily-blackened lashes made her eyes seem very dark, while her lips were still a deep crimson. She held her head high, and a little thrown back, and there was something wild and almost fantastic about her looks as she stood there, that made Lushington think of one of Hoffmann"s tales. She held out her whitened hand to him; and when he took it he felt the chalk on it, and it was no longer to him the hand of Margaret Donne, but the hand of the Cordova, the great soprano.
"It"s of no use," she said. "Something always brings us together. I believe it"s our fate. Thank you for what you"ve just done. Thank you--Tom, with all my heart!"
And suddenly the voice was Margaret"s, and rang true and kind. For had he not saved her, and her career, too, perhaps? She could not but be grateful, and forget her other triumphant self for a moment. There was no knowing where that mad Greek might have taken her if she had gone near the door in the corridor again; it would have been somewhere out of Europe, to some lawless Eastern country whence she could never have got back to civilisation again.
"You must thank my mother," Lushington answered quietly. "It was she who found out the danger and told me what to do. But I"m glad you"re safe from that brute!"
He pressed the handsome, chalked hand in his own and then to his lips when he had spoken, in a very un-English way; for, after all, he was the son of Madame Bonanni, the French singer, and only half an Anglo-Saxon.
The last thing Madame Bonanni remembered, before a strangely sweet and delicious perfume had overpowered her senses, was that she had congratulated herself on not having believed that Logotheti was really in prison, arrested by a mistake. How hugely ingenious he had been, she thought, in trying to get poor Margaret"s best friends out of the way!
But at that point, while she felt herself being carried along in the sack as swiftly and lightly as if she had been a mere child, she suddenly fell asleep.
She never had any idea how long she was unconscious, but she afterwards calculated that it must have been between twenty minutes and half an hour, and she came to herself just as she felt that she was being laid in a comfortable position on a luxuriously cushioned sofa.
She heard heavy retreating footsteps, and then she felt that a hand was undoing the mouth of the sack above her head.
"Dearest lady," said a deep voice, with a sort of oily, antic.i.p.ative gentleness in it, "can you forgive me my little stratagem?"
The voice spoke very softly, as if the speaker were not at all sure that she was awake; but when she heard it, Madame Bonanni started, for it was certainly not the voice of Constantine Logotheti, though it was strangely familiar to her.
The sack was drawn down from her face quickly and skilfully. At the same time some slight sound from the door of the room made the man look half round.
In the softly lighted room, against the pale silk hangings, Madame Bonanni saw a tremendous profile over a huge fair beard that was half grey, and one large and rather watery blue eye behind a single eyegla.s.s with a broad black riband. Before the possessor of these features turned to look at her, she uttered a loud exclamation of amazement.
Logotheti was really in prison, after all.
Instantly the watery blue eyes met her own. Then the eyegla.s.s dropped from its place, the jaw fell, with a wag of the fair beard, and a look of stony astonishment and blank disappointment came into all the great features, while Madame Bonanni broke into a peal of perfectly uncontrollable laughter.
And with the big-hearted woman"s laugh ends the first part of this history.
THE END
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THE SHUTTLE, By Frances Hodgson Burnett
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This great international romance relates the story of an American girl who, in rescuing her sister from the ruins of her marriage to an Englishman of t.i.tle, displays splendid qualities of courage, tact and restraint. As a study of American womanhood of modern times, the character of Bettina Vanderpoel stands alone in literature. As a love story, the account of her experience is magnificent. The masterly handling, the glowing style of the book, give it a literary rank to which very few modern novels have attained.
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A delightful novel in the author"s most charming vein. The scene is laid in an English country house, where an amiable English n.o.bleman is the centre of matrimonial interest on the part of both the English and Americans present.
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VAYENNE, By Percy Brebner
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This romance like the author"s _The Princess Maritza_ is charged to the brim with adventure. Sword play, bloodshed, justice grown the mult.i.tude, sacrifice, and romance, mingle in dramatic episodes that are born, flourish, and pa.s.s away on every page.
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