The Beckoning Hand and Other Stories - The Original Classic Edition. Allen Grant

"my dear madam. Utterly impossible. They'll crush you underfoot. They'll tear you to pieces."[Pg 7]

       She smiled a strange haughty smile, as if amused at the idea, but merely answered, "I think not," and tried to pass lightly by me.

       I held her arm. I didn't know then she was as strong as I was. "Don't go," I said imploringly. "They will certainly kill you. It would be

       impossible to stem a mob like this one."

       She smiled again, and darted back in silence before I could stop her.

       Irene and Mrs. Latham were now fairly out of all danger. "Go on, Irene," I said loosing her arm. "Policeman, get these ladies safely out. I must go back and take care of that mad woman."

       "Go, go quick," Irene cried. "If you don't go, she'll be killed, Harry."

       I rushed back wildly after her, battling as well as I was able against the frantic rush of panic-stricken fugitives, and found my companion struggling still upon the main staircase. I helped her to make her way back into the burning theatre, and she ran lightly through the dense smoke to the stall she had occupied, and took the opera-glasses from the vacant place. Then she turned to me once more with a smile of triumph. "People lose their heads so," she said, "in all these crushes. I came back on purpose to show papa I wasn't going to be frightened into leaving my opera-glasses. I should have been eternally ashamed of myself if I had come away and left them in the theatre."

       "Quick," I answered, gasping for breath. "If you don't make haste, we shall be choked to death, or the roof itself will fall in upon us

       and crush us!"

       She looked up where I pointed with a hasty glance, and then made her way back again quickly to the staircase. As we hurried out, the

       timbers of the stage were beginning to fall in, and the engines were already playing fiercely upon the raging flames. I took her hand

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       and almost[Pg 8] dragged her out into the open. When we reached the Strand, we were both wet through, and terribly blackened with smoke and ashes. Pushing our way through the dense crowd, I called a hansom. She jumped in lightly. "Thank you so much," she said, quite carelessly. "Will you kindly tell him where to drive? Twenty-seven, Seymour Crescent."

       "I'll see you home, if you'll allow me," I answered. "Under these circumstances, I trust I may be permitted."

       "As you like," she said, smiling enchantingly. "You are very good. My name is Cesarine Vivian. Papa will be very much obliged to you

       for your kind assistance."

       I drove round to the Lathams' after dropping Miss Vivian at her father's door, to assure myself of Irene's safety, and to let them know of my own return unhurt from my perilous adventure. Irene met me on the doorstep, pale as death still. "Thank heaven," she cried, "Harry, you're safe back again! And that poor girl? What has become of her?"

       "I left her," I said, "at Seymour Crescent."

       Irene burst into a flood of tears. "Oh, Harry," she cried, "I thought she would have been killed there. It was brave of you, indeed, to

       help her through with it." II.

       Next day, Mr. Vivian called on me at the Oxford and Cambridge, the address on the card I had given his daughter. I was in the club when he called, and I found him a pleasant, good-natured Cornishman, with very little that was strange or romantic in any way about him. He thanked me heartily, but not too effusively, for the care I had taken of Miss Vivian overnight; and he was not so overcome with parental emotion as not to smoke a very good Havana, or to refuse my offer of a brandy and[Pg 9] seltzer. We got on very well together, and I soon gathered from what my new acquaintance said that, though he belonged to one of the best families in Cornwall, he had been an English merchant in Haiti, and had made his money chiefly in the coffee trade. He was a widower, I learned incidentally, and his daughters had been brought up for some years in England, though at their mother's request they had also passed part of their lives in convent schools in Paris and Rouen. "Mrs. Vivian was a Haitian, you know," he said casually: "Catholic of course. The girls are Catholics. They're good girls, though they're my own daughters; and Cesarine, your friend of last night, is supposed to be clever. I'm no judge myself: I don't know about it. Oh, by the way, Cesarine said she hadn't thanked you half enough herself yesterday, and I was to be sure and bring you round this afternoon to a cup of tea with us at Seymour Crescent."

       In spite of the impression Mdlle. Cesarine had made upon me the night before, I somehow didn't feel at all desirous of meeting her again. I was impressed, it is true, but not favourably. There seemed to me something uncanny and weird about her which made me shrink from seeing anything more of her if I could possibly avoid it. And as it happened, I was luckily engaged that very afternoon

       to tea at Irene's. I made the excuse, and added somewhat pointedly--on purpose that it might be repeated to Mdlle. Cesarine--"Miss

       Latham is a very old and particular friend of mine--a friend whom I couldn't for worlds think of disappointing."

       Mr. Vivian laughed the matter off. "I shall catch it from Cesarine," he said good-humouredly, "for not bringing her cavalier to receive her formal thanks in person. Our West-Indian born girls, you know, are very imperious. But if you can't, you can't, of course, so there's an end of it, and it's no use talking any more about it."[Pg 10]

       I can't say why, but at that moment, in spite of my intense desire not to meet Cesarine again, I felt I would have given whole worlds if he would have pressed me to come in spite of myself. But, as it happened, he didn't.

       At five o'clock, I drove round in a hansom as arranged, to Irene's, having almost made up my mind, if I found her alone, to come to a definite understanding with her and call it an engagement. She wasn't alone, however. As I entered the drawing-room, I saw a tall and graceful lady sitting opposite her, holding a cup of tea, and with her back towards me. The lady rose, moved round, and bowed. To my immense surprise, I found it was Cesarine.

       I noted to myself at the moment, too, that in my heart, though I had seen her but once before, I thought of her already simply as

       Cesarine. And I was pleased to see her: fascinated: spell-bound.

       Cesarine smiled at my evident surprise. "Papa and I met Miss Latham this afternoon in Bond Street," she said gaily, in answer to my mute inquiry, "and we stopped and spoke to one another, of course, about last night; and papa said you couldn't come round to tea with us in the Crescent, because you were engaged already to Miss Latham. And Miss Latham very kindly asked me to drive over and take tea with her, as I was so anxious to thank you once more for your great kindness to me yesterday."

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       "And Miss Vivian was good enough to waive all ceremony," Irene put in, "and come round to us as you see, without further introduction."

       I stopped and talked all the time I was there to Irene; but, somehow, whatever I said, Cesarine managed to intercept it, and I caught

       myself quite guiltily looking at her from time to time, with an inexpressible attraction that I could not account for.

       By-and-by, Mr. Vivian's carriage called for Cesarine, and I was left a few minutes alone with Irene.[Pg 11]

       "Well, what do you think of her?" Irene asked me simply.

       I turned my eyes away: I dare not meet hers. "I think she's very handsome," I replied evasively.

       "Handsome! I should think so. She's wonderful. She's splendid. And doesn't she talk magnificently, too, Harry?" "She's clever, certainly," I answered shuffling. "But I don't know why, I mistrust her, Irene."

       I rose and stood by the door with my hat in my hand, hesitating and trembling. I felt as if I had something to say to Irene, and yet I was half afraid to venture upon saying it. My fingers quivered, a thing very unusual with me. At last I came closer to her, after a long pause, and said, "Irene."

       Irene started, and the colour flushed suddenly into her cheeks. "Yes, Harry," she answered tremulously.

       I don't know why, but I couldn't utter it. It was but to say "I love you," yet I hadn't the courage. I stood there like a fool, looking at

       her irresolutely,