Her Forbidden Knight (9 page)

“Is that all?” he demanded.

Lila, after some faltering and hesitation, admitted that it was.

“Then you must go,” Knowlton declared. “I won’t take a refusal. Your dress is perfectly all right. You look a thousand times more—I mean—I would rather be—”

He covered his confusion by rising from his chair to help Lila with her coat. She, still protesting, drew on her gloves and accompanied him to the door. There Knowlton halted to ask if she would choose the theater. She replied that she had no preference.

“But you will go?”

Lila nodded. Knowlton thanked her with a look as they left the restaurant and started toward Broadway.

At the corner he hailed a taxicab and ordered the driver to drive them to the Stuyvesant Theater, having wrapped Lila snugly in the laprobe, for the night was freezing.

“Are you tired or cold?” he asked, bending toward her solicitously.

“Neither,” Lila answered, “but very comfortable. I wish you would take your share of the robe.”

Knowlton protested that he was really too warm already, while he bit his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering.

Broadway was sprinkled with cabs and limousines, but the sidewalks were almost deserted. Your New Yorker is no cold-weather man. On moderate days he wears an overcoat, and on cold ones he stays indoors.

Knowlton and Lila arrived at the theater barely in time to be seated before the raising of the curtain, and Lila had not even time to note the name of the play. She looked at her program; the lights were down and it was too dark to read. She leaned over to Knowlton.

“The name of the play?” she whispered.

He whispered back: “It hasn’t any.”

She looked at the stage, and, in her wonder at what she saw, forgot to wonder at the oddity of his reply.

I shall not attempt to describe the scene. It was the ambitious attempt of a daring manager to stage Gautier’s famous fantasy in the eleventh chapter of
Mlle. de Maupin.

He had succeeded, if not perfectly, at least admirably. There were the glowworms and the pea blossoms and the eyes of dwarfs and gnomes and the distance of apple-green. The characters, with their pointed steeple-shaped hats and swollen hose, wandered aimlessly about with an infinite grace and talked of this and that and nothing in soft, musical tones of carelessness.

To Lila, who had certainly not read
Mlle. de Maupin,
the scene was inexplicable, but wonderful. Throughout the entire act she held her breath in amazed delight, expecting every minute that something would happen. Nothing happened, of course; but she was not disappointed. When the curtain fell she sighed deeply and turned to her companion.

He was smiling at her curiously.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

Lila answered him with a series of “Oh!” and “Ahs!” and exclamations of delight.

“But,” she managed to say finally, “I don’t understand it a bit.”

Knowlton told her of the origin of the fantasy, and explained that she couldn’t very well be expected to understand it, since it had neither beginning nor end, nor cause nor reason.

“It wasn’t made to be understood,” he finished. “It was made to enjoy.”

The two following acts were similar to the first, with a change of setting and costumes. Throughout Lila sat in breathless delight, with now and then a glance at Knowlton to see if he were sharing her enjoyment.

Always as she looked at him his eyes turned to meet hers, and they exchanged a smile of sympathy and understanding. When the curtain fell for the last time Lila turned to him with a sigh of regret.

“Oh,” she said, “if the world were only like that!”

“It would be amusing,” Knowlton agreed “But we would die of
ennui.
It would be too easy. No struggle, no passion, no hate, no love.”

Lila was silent as they made their way out of the theater. The audience had been small, and they had no difficulty to find a cab at the door. As Knowlton seated himself at her side he leaned forward and told the driver to drive to the Manton.

Lila laid a hand on his arm.

“Please,” she protested earnestly. “I must go home, really. I couldn’t eat a bite, anyway; and it would spoil the play. I want to stay in fairyland.”

Knowlton felt the earnestness of her tone and forbore to insist. He gave Lila’s address to the driver, and they started uptown.

“And now to come to the point,” said Knowlton suddenly, after several minutes of silence, during which the cab had sped swiftly northward.

His tone, Lila thought, was constrained and forced. It gave her a vague uneasiness and she asked what he meant.

“About the counterfeit bills,” Knowlton explained.

He appeared to be speaking with difficulty, like a man who forces himself to mention an unpleasant subject.

Lila realized with a feeling of surprise that she had forgotten entirely the events that had caused her such great anxiety and pain but a day before.

His words came to her with a distinct shock. She looked at him and wondered at herself for having supposed, under any circumstances, that such a man as John Knowlton could do anything wrong.

“Of course, I must explain—” the young man was continuing, when Lila interrupted him.

“Please, Mr. Knowlton, don’t! There is nothing to explain—or rather there is nothing which needs to be explained. I was silly ever to imagine that you could be—I mean, please don’t talk about it.”

Knowlton tried to insist, but without eagerness.

“But that is what we are here for. It was my excuse for asking you to come. I admit the subject is painful and embarrassing to me, but I promised to explain and I ought to.”

“But why?”

“Because I want you to believe in me and be my friend. I—I want you to think well of me.”

“Well, I do,” said Lila. The protecting darkness hid the glowing color that mounted to her face. “I am your friend. There!” She held out a tiny gloved hand.

Knowlton took it and held it for a moment in his own. But he did not smile, and his manner was uneasy and constrained.

“Please let’s forget it,” Lila begged. “Do you want to spoil my whole evening?”

Knowlton said “No” without enthusiasm.

“Well, you are doing it,” Lila declared with pretended severity. “And if you don’t improve within one minute I shall complain of you to Mr. Dumain and Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Driscoll.”

This brought a smile.

“I imagine that will be unnecessary,” Knowlton observed.

“But I can goad them on.”

“That would be unfair. They are already six to one. I had counted on having you on my side.”

“And so I would be if you weren’t so gloomy.”

“Then from now on I shall be Momus himself,” laughed Knowlton. “We are already at Ninety-sixth Street, and surely I can wear the mask for three minutes.”

He began with an imitation of Pierre Dumain expounding the scientific value of the game of billiards, and soon had Lila laughing unrestrainedly. By the time the cab stopped at her door he was as gay as she.

As the driver opened the door of the taxi Knowlton sprang out and assisted Lila up the steps of the apartment-house stoop. At the door Lila stopped and held out her hand.

“Have you your key?” asked Knowlton.

Lila produced it from a pocket in her coat. He unlocked the door and she passed within. She thanked him and gave him her hand, and fluttered up the stairs. At the top of the first flight she halted. She had not heard the door close.

“Good night!” she called softly, and up to her came Knowlton’s voice in return:

“Good night!” Then the sound of the closing door.

Lila entered her room and lit the gas. It seemed strangely unfamiliar. Here she had wept and read and slept and prayed. But here she had never been happy. For two years—since her mother’s death—it had been her home. Home! Rather it had been her cage.

But now, as she sat on the edge of the bed without having removed her hat or coat or gloves, the room seemed transformed. The dingy little dressing table, the chairs, the pictures, seemed to have assumed a new form of beauty.

The ticking of the little marble clock on the mantel, that had been mournful and melancholy and disconsolate, sounded a cheerful note of sympathy. For Lila was happy!

Half an hour later she was standing in front of her mirror, gazing at the reflection of a rosy, flushed face and deep, liquid, lustrous eyes. “Why,” she said aloud, “that can’t be me! I never saw anything so beautiful in my life!”

Then, laughing happily at her own foolishness, she got into bed and snuggled cozily beneath the covers.

K
NOWLTON, HAVING BID
L
ILA GOOD NIGHT,
stood irresolutely for a moment with his foot on the step of the taxicab. He thought of walking downtown and mentally calculated the distance—seventy blocks—three miles and a half. He looked at his watch; it was a quarter to twelve, and the cold had increased with the deepening of the night.

Drawing his coat closer round him and stepping into the cab, he gave the driver the number of his rooms on Thirtieth Street.

As the vehicle started forward the face of the man inside was set sternly, almost painfully. His eyes stared straight ahead, his lips formed a thin, straight line, and now and men the muscles of the cheek quivered from the tensity of the jaws.

Thus he remained, motionless, for many minutes; evidence of a conflict of no common strength and importance. He was insensible to the movement of the cab, to the streets through which they passed, even to the nipping cold. He gave a start of surprise when the cab stopped and looked up to find himself arrived at his destination.

He sprang out, handed the driver a bill, and started toward the entrance of the apartment house.

“Wait a minute, mister!” came the driver’s voice. “This is a ten-spot.”

“All right; keep it,” replied Knowlton.

He halted and turned to observe the curious phenomenon—a New York taxicab driver who announced that he had been paid too much! He heard his cry of “Thank ye sir!” and saw him mount his seat and send his taxi off at a speed that carried him out of sight in three seconds.

As Knowlton turned again to mount the stoop he noticed a big red limousine approaching from the east slowly. He glanced at it in idle curiosity as it stopped directly in front of his own door, then began to move up the steps, feeling in his pocket for his key.

Suddenly he was halted by a shout from the street:

“Is that you, Knowlton?”

The voice was Tom Dougherty’s.

Knowlton, mastering his surprise, with his hand on his key in the door, turned and sang out:

“Yes. What do you want?”

Three men had got out of the limousine and were standing on the edge of the sidewalk. In front was Dougherty; Knowlton recognized him by his slouch hat. Dougherty made a step forward as he called in a lower tone:

“Come here.”

Knowlton understood, of course, what was up. That is, he knew why they wanted him—but what did they want? And, being curious and by no means a coward he decided to find out. He stepped back to the sidewalk and across to the three men.

“Well?” he inquired coolly.

Dougherty pointed to the limousine.

“Get in!” he commanded.

The other two men, whom Knowlton saw to be Sherman and Jennings, made a cautious step forward, evidently with the intention of getting between him and the door.

“Take it easy,” advised Knowlton, smiling at them composedly. “If I want to go in,” he nodded toward the door of the apartment house, “I’ll go. And now, Dougherty, what is it you want? I’d advise you not to try any tricks.”

“To Hades with your advice!” put in Sherman. “This is our game.”

“Shut up!” growled Dougherty. Then he turned to Knowlton. “You know why we’re after you. Dumain and Driscoll and Booth are waiting at Dumain’s rooms. We’ll give you a fair chance in ten-round go with Driscoll. But, believe me, he’ll beat you up right. And if he don’t, I will.”

Knowlton gazed at the ex-prizefighter for a second in silence, then started toward the limousine.

“You say this is a square deal, Dougherty?” he asked, turning suddenly.

Dougherty, amazed at his coolness, replied that it was.

Knowlton continued:

“I’m willing to take you on one at a time, but I don’t care to walk into a trap.”

He looked at Dougherty for another minute, appeared to hesitate, then jumped up on the seat in front beside the chauffeur.

“You’ll freeze, man!” exclaimed Dougherty, while Sherman and Jennings got in the limousine. “Get inside with us.”

“No thanks,” said Knowlton dryly. “I prefer the cold.”

Dumain’s rooms were only a few blocks away, and within five minutes the limousine had stopped in front of them. The cold wind rushing against Knowlton with stinging force had set every nerve in his body tingling and filled him with a glow of exhilaration.

Dumain’s rooms—on Twenty-first Street a little west of Sixth Avenue—were on the first floor of a four-story apartment house, with an old-fashioned high stoop leading to the door. Up the steps of this went Dougherty, with Knowlton at his side, followed by Sherman and Jennings. In answer to their ring Dumain himself opened the door.

“Did you get heem?” he asked.

“I came,” Knowlton answered before Dougherty could speak.

Dumain led them down a long hall and into a room on the right.

Evidently this room—a large one—had been arranged for the expected encounter. It was bare of furniture save for a row of chairs along the further wall. The floor was partly covered with a coarse Wilton rug.

At one end, in the center, was a high mantel loaded down with vases, bronzes, trays, and pasteboard boxes—these latter evidently containing some of the paraphernalia of the palmist.” The two windows at the opposite end were closed and the shades drawn.

Driscoll and Booth were seated on two of the chairs along the wall when the newcomers entered.

“All ready, eh?” Knowlton observed, standing in the middle of the room and looking around with an amused smile.

Dougherty regarded him with undisguised admiration.

“By gad, you’re a cool one!” he remarked.