The Tidal Wave by Ethel May Dell (mobi reader TXT) 📖

to kill her?
Compelled by the pressure of his hand, she moved to the dark seat he had indicated, and sank down.
He stood beside her, looming large in the gloom. A terrible silence fell between them. Worn out by sleeplessness and bitter weeping, she cowered before him dumbly. She had no pride left, no weapon of any sort wherewith to resist him. She longed, yet dreaded unspeakably, to hear his voice. He was watching her, she knew, though she did not dare to raise her head.
He spoke at last, quietly, without emotion, yet with that in his deliberate utterance that made her shrink and quiver in every nerve.
"Faith," he said, "it's been an amusing game entirely, but you haven't beaten me yet. I must trouble you to take up your cards again and play to a finish before we decide who scoops the pool."
"What do you mean?" she whispered.
He did not answer her, and she thought there was something contemptuous in his silence.
She waited a little, summoning her strength, then, rising, with a desperate courage she faced him.
"I don't understand you. Tell me what you mean!"
He made a curious gesture as if he would push her from him.
"I am not good at explaining myself," he said. "But you will understand me better presently."
And again inexplicably she shrank. There was that about him which terrified her more than any uttered menace.
"What are you going to do?" she said nervously. "Why--why have you followed me?"
He answered her in a tone which she deemed scoffing. It was too dark for her to see his face.
"You can hardly expect me to show my hand at this stage," he said. "You never showed me yours."
It was true, and she found no word to say against it. But none the less, she was horribly afraid. She felt herself to be utterly at his mercy, and was instinctively aware that he was in no mood to spare her.
"I can't go on playing, Pat," she said, after a moment, her voice very low. "I have no cards left to play."
"In that case you are beaten," he said, with that doggedness which she was beginning to know as a part of his fighting equipment. "Do you own it?"
She hesitated.
"Do you own it?" he insisted sternly.
And, yielding to a sudden impulse that overwhelmed all reason, she threw herself unreservedly upon his mercy.
"Yes, I own it."
He stood silent for several seconds after the admission, while she waited with a thumping heart. At last, half-grudgingly it seemed to her, he spoke.
"You are a wise woman," he said, "even wiser than I took you for, which is saying much. The game is ended, then. But you will pardon me if I refuse to surrender my winnings. Such as they are, I value them."
She bent her head. Her subjection was complete. She was too exhausted, physically and mentally, to attempt to withstand him, and undoubtedly the ultimate victory was his. Had he not witnessed those agonizing tears?
"You are welcome to anything you can find," she said, smiling wanly. "I suppose all experience is of value. At least, I used to think so."
Again for a moment he was silent. Then: "It is the most valuable thing in the world," he said, "if you know how to turn it to account. But, sure, that is a lesson that some of us are slow to learn."
He paused; then, as she remained silent, "You are going below to rest?" he said. "Don't let me keep you! You have travelled hard, and need it."
There was a hint of the old kindliness in his tone. She stood listening to it, longing, yet not daring to avail herself of it and make her peace with him.
But, whatever his intentions, it was apparently no part of Hone's plan to allow himself to be conciliated at that stage, for, after the briefest pause, he bowed abruptly and stepped aside.
And Nina Perceval went humbly away, as befitted one who had played a desperate game, and had been outwitted by the adversary she had dared to despise.


XII

During the whole three weeks of the voyage Hone took no further action.
Nina saw him every day of those interminable weeks, but he made no sign. He did not seek her out, neither did he avoid her, but continually he mystified her by the cheery indifference of his bearing.
He became--as was almost inevitable--an immense favourite on board. He was in the thick of every amusement, and no entertainment was complete without him. No rumour of the extraordinary circumstances that had led to his undertaking the voyage had reached their fellow passengers. No one suspected that anything unusual existed between the winning, frank-faced Irishman and the silent young widow who so seldom looked his way. No one had heard of the wedding party that had lacked a bride.
But everyone welcomed Hone, V.C., as a tremendous acquisition, and Hone, V.C., laughed his humorous, good-tempered laugh, and placed himself unreservedly and impartially at everyone's disposal.
Nina never saw him in private. In public he treated her with the kindly courtesy he extended to every woman on board. There was not in his manner the faintest hint of anything deeper. He would laugh into her eyes with absolute friendliness. And yet from the depths of her soul she feared him. She knew that he was continuing the game that she had wantonly begun. She knew that there was more to come, that he had not done with her, that he was merely waiting, as an experienced player knows how to wait, till the time arrived to play his final card.
What that final card could be she had not the remotest idea, but she awaited it with an almost morbid sense of dread. His very forbearance seemed ominous.
On the night before their arrival there was a dance on board. Nina, who had not joined in any of these gaieties for the simple reason that she had no heart for them, rose from dinner with the intention of going to her cabin. But as she passed out of the saloon, Hone stepped forward and intercepted her.
"Will you give me a dance, Mrs. Perceval?"
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes with an effort.
"I am not dancing," she said.
"Just one," he pleaded, with that air of gallantry that cloaked she knew not what.
She hesitated, and then, almost in spite of herself, with something of the old regal graciousness, she yielded.
"Just one, then, Major Hone, since to-morrow it will be good-bye."
He thanked her with a deep bow, and promptly led her away.
They danced the first waltz together in unbroken silence. Nina kept her face studiously turned over her shoulder. Not once did she glance at her partner, whose quiet dancing and steady arm told her nothing.
When it was over, he led her to a seat in full view of the other dancers, and sat down beside her. For a few seconds he maintained his silence, then quietly he turned and spoke.
"Are you going to stay in London?"
The direct question surprised her. Somehow, though he had given her small reason to do so, she had come to expect naught but subtle strategy from him.
"I shall spend one night there," she said, after a moment's thought.
"No longer?"
She faced him calmly, though her heart had begun to leap and race within her.
"Why do you ask?"
"Why don't you answer?" said Hone.
He was smiling faintly, but there was determination in the set of his jaw.
"Because," she said slowly, "I am not sure that I want you to know."
"Why not?" said Hone. She shook her head in silence. "It's sorry I am to hear it," he said, after a brief pause. "For if it's to be a game of hide-and-seek I shall soon run you to earth."
She raised her eyebrows. Had they been alone together she knew that she could not have disguised her fear. It had grown upon her marvellously of late. But the publicity of their intercourse endued her with a certain courage.
"What is it that you want of me?" she said.
He met her eyes with absolute steadiness.
"I will tell you," he said, "the next time we meet."
She tried to laugh to hide the wild tumult his words stirred up.
"Is that a promise?"
"My solemn bond," said Hone.
She rose.
"I shall stay at the Seton Ward Hotel for a week," she said. "Good-night!"
He rose also; they stood for a moment face to face.
"Alone?" he asked.
And again, with a reckless sense of throwing herself upon his mercy, she made brief reply.
"I haven't a friend in the world."
He gave her his arm.
"Any enemies?" he asked.
They were at the door before she answered.
"Yes--one."
For an instant his arm grew tense, detaining her.
"And that?" he questioned.
She withdrew her hand sharply.
"Myself," she said, and swiftly, without another glance, she left him.


XIII

The roar of the London traffic rose muffled through the London fog. It was a winter afternoon of great murkiness.
In the private sitting-room of a private hotel Nina Perceval sat alone, as she had sat for two dragging, intolerable days, and waited. She had begun to ask herself--she had asked herself many times that day--if she waited in vain. She would remain for the week, whatever happened, but the torture of suspense had become such as she scarcely knew how to endure. Something of the fever of restlessness that had tormented her at Bombay was upon her now, but with it, subtly mingled, was a misery of uncertainty that had not gripped her then. She was unspeakably lonely, and at certain panic-stricken times unspeakably afraid; but whether it was the possibility of his presence or the certainty of his continued absence that appalled her, she could not have said.
A fire burned with a cheery crackling in the room, throwing weird shadows through the dimness. Yet she shivered from time to time as though the chill of the London fog penetrated to her bones. Ah! what was that? She startled violently at the sound of a low knock at the door, then hastily commanded herself. It was only a waiter with the tea she had ordered, of course. With her back to the door she bade him enter.
But, though the door opened and someone entered, there came no jingle of tea things. She did not turn her head. It was as though she could not. She was as one turned to stone. She thought that the wild throbbing of her heart would choke her.
He came straight to her and stood beside her, not offering to touch so much as her hand. The red firelight beat upwards on his face. She ventured a single glance at him, and was oddly shocked by the look he wore. Something of the red glow on the hearth shone back at her from his eyes. She did not dare to look again. Yet when he spoke, though he uttered no greeting, his voice was quite normal, wholly free from agitation.
"I should have been here sooner, but I was scouring London for an old friend. I have found him at last, but, faith, I've had a chase. Do you remember Jasper Caldicott, the parson who went out with us on the _Scindia_ eight years ago?"
"Yes, I remember him." She spoke with a strong effort. Her lips felt stiff and cold.
"He has a parish Whitechapel way," said Hone. "I only found him out this morning. I wanted to bring him to see you."
"Yes?" At his abrupt pause she moved slightly. "But he wouldn't come?"
"He will come some day," said Hone. "But he had some