Charles Rex

  Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the PG Online DistributedProofreading Team.

  CHARLES REX

  BY ETHEL M. DELL

  AUTHOR OF THE TOP OF THE WORLD, THE LAMP IN THE DESERT, THE HUNDREDTHCHANCE, Etc.

  1922

  I Dedicate This Book To G. T. S. In Remembrance of A Winter Day

  "When half-gods go, the gods arrive." R. W. Emerson

  Not with the clash of trumpets And clangour of gates thrown wide,As when the eager crowds press round To see the half-gods ride;But like a bird at even Silently winging home,A message came from the darkness To say that the gods had come.

  And the half-gods scoffed in the temple Which custom had bid them hold--Sin and Success and Pleasure And the hideous Image of Gold.Who and what are these strangers? Bid them worship before the shrineWhere we, the gods of the new world, Sit o'er the cards and wine!

  So they derided the strangers-- Those gods whom the old folk callCourage and Honour and Faithfulness And Love which is greater than all.But when the night was over And the new day pierced within,The half-gods were gone from the temple, And the gods had entered in.

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  I. Ennui II. Adieu III. The Gift IV. Toby V. Discipline VI. The Abyss VII. Larpent's Daughter

  PART II

  I. Jake Bolton II. Maud Bolton III. Bunny IV. Saltash V. The Visitor VI. How to Manage Men VII. The Promise VIII. The Ally IX. The Idol X. Resolutions XI. The Butterfly XII. The Ogre's Castle XIII. The End of the Game

  PART III

  I. The Virtuous Hero II. The Compact III. L'oiseau bleu IV. The Trap V. The Confidence VI. The Sacred Fire VII. Surrender VIII. The Magician's Wand IX. The Warning X. The Mystery XI. Suspicion XII. The Ally XIII. The Truth XIV. The Last Card

  PART IV

  I. The Winning Post II. The Villain Scores III. A Wife Is Different IV. The Idol of Paris V. The Dance of Death VI. The New Lover VII. The Refugee VIII. The Turning-point IX. Larpent X. In the Name of Love XI. The Gift of the Gods

  CHARLES REX

  PART I

  CHAPTER I

  ENNUI

  "I shall go to sea to-morrow," said Saltash, with sudden decision. "I'mtired of this place, Larpent,--fed up on repletion."

  "Then by all means let us go, my lord!" said Larpent, with the faintglimmer of a smile behind his beard, which was the only expression ofhumour he ever permitted himself.

  "Believe you're fed up too," said Saltash, flashing a critical look uponhim.

  Captain Larpent said nothing, deeming speech unnecessary. All time spentashore was wasted in his opinion.

  Saltash turned and surveyed the sky-line over the yacht's rail withobvious discontent on his ugly face. His eyes were odd, one black, onegrey, giving a curiously unstable appearance to a countenance whichotherwise might have claimed to possess some strength. His brows wereblack and deeply marked. He had a trick of moving them in conjunctionwith his thoughts so that his face was seldom in absolute repose. It wassaid that there was a strain of royal blood in Saltash, and in the daysbefore he had succeeded to the title when he had been merely CharlesBurchester, he had borne the nickname of "the merry monarch." Certainwild deeds in a youth that had not been beyond reproach had seemed towarrant this, but of later years a friend had bestowed a more gracioustitle upon him, and to all who could claim intimacy with him he hadbecome "Charles Rex." The name fitted him like a garment. A certainarrogance, a certain royalty of bearing, both utterly unconscious andwholly unfeigned, characterized him. Whatever he did, and his actionswere often far from praiseworthy, this careless distinction of mienalways marked him. He received an almost involuntary respect where hewent.

  Captain Larpent who commanded his yacht _The Night Moth_--most morose andunresponsive of men--paid him the homage of absolute acquiescence.Whatever his private opinions might be, he never expressed them unlessinvited to do so by his employer. He never criticized by word or look.Saltash was wont to say that if he decided to turn pirate he believedthat Larpent would continue at his post without the smallest change offront. To raise a protest of any sort would have been absolutely foreignto his nature. He was made to go straight ahead, to do his duty withoutquestion and with perfect self-reliance.

  On the present occasion, having cruised from port to port in theMediterranean for nearly six weeks, it was certainly no ill news to himto hear that Saltash had at last had enough. The weather was perfect, tooperfect for a man of his bull-dog instincts. He was thoroughly tired ofthe endless spring sunshine and of the chattering, fashionable crowdsthat Saltash was wont to assemble on the yacht. He was waiting with aniron patience for the word that should send them forth over the greatAtlantic rollers, with the ocean spray bursting over their bows and thesting of the ocean wind in their faces. That was the sort of life thatappealed to him. He had no use for civilization; the froth of society hadno attraction for him. He preferred a deeper draught.

  Saltash was thoroughly cosmopolitan in his tastes; he liked amusement,but he abhorred boredom. He declared that for him it was the root of allevil. He was never really wicked unless he was bored. And then--_quevoulez-vous_? He did not guide the star of destiny.

  "Yes," he said, after a thoughtful silence, "we will certainly put to seato-morrow--unless--" he turned his head and threw a merry grin at hiscompanion--"unless Fortune has any tricks up her sleeve for me, for I amgoing ashore for one more fling to-night."

  Larpent smoked on immovably, his blue-grey eyes staring out to the vividsky-line, his sunburnt face quite imperturbable.

  "We shall be ready to start as soon as you come aboard, my lord," hesaid.

  "Good!" said Saltash lightly. "I may be late, or--more probably--veryearly. Leave the gangway for me! I'll let you know when I'm aboard."

  He got up as if he moved on springs and leaned against the rail, lookingdown quizzically at the man who sat stolidly smoking in the deck-chair.No two people could have formed a stronger contrast--the yacht's captain,fair-bearded, with the features of a Viking--the yacht's owner, dark,alert, with a certain French finesse about him that gave a strange charmto a personality that otherwise might have been merely fantastic.

  Suddenly he laughed. "Do you know, Larpent, I often think to myself whatodd tricks Fate plays? You for instance--you, the captain of a privateyacht when you ought to be roving the high seas in a Flying Dutchman! Youprobably were a few generations ago."

  "Ah!" Larpent said, through a cloud of smoke. "Life isn't what it was."

  "It's an infernal fraud, most of it," said Saltash. "Always promising andseldom fulfilling!"

  "No good expecting too much," said Larpent.

  "True!" said Saltash. "On the other hand it isn't always wise to be tooeasily satisfied." His look became suddenly speculative. "Have you everbeen in love, Larpent?"

  The big man in the deck-chair made a sharp movement and spilt somecigar-ash on his coat. He sat up deliberately and brushed it off. Saltashwatched him with mischievous eyes.

  "Well?" he said.

  Larpent leaned back again, puffing forth a thick cloud of smoke. "Once,"he said briefly.

  "Only once?" gibed Saltash. "Man alive! Why, I've had the disease scoresof times, and you are half a generation older than I am!"

  "I know," Larpent's eyes dwelt unblinking upon the sparkling blue of thewater beyond the rail. "You've had it so often that you take it lightly."

  Saltash laughed. "You apparently took it like the plague."

  "I didn't die of it," said Larpent grimly.

  "Perhaps the lady did!" suggested Saltash.

&nb
sp; "No. She didn't die either." Larpent's eyes came slowly upwards to themocking eyes above them. "For all I know she may be living now," he said.

  Saltash's grin became a grimace. "Oh, heavens, Larpent! And you've hadindigestion ever since? How long ago is it? Twenty years?"

  "About that," said Larpent.

  "Heavens!" said Saltash again. "I should like to see the woman who couldhold me after twenty years!"

  "So should I," said Larpent dryly.

  Saltash snapped his fingers. "She doesn't exist, my good fellow! But ifshe did--by Jove, what a world it would be!"

  Larpent grunted sardonically. "It wouldn't be large enough to hold you,my lord."

  Saltash stretched his arms wide. "Well, I'm going ashore to-night. Whoknows what the gods may send? Wish me luck!"

  Larpent surveyed the restless figure with a sort of stony humour. "I wishyou a safe return," he said.

  Saltash laughed and went away along the deck with a monkey-like springthat was curiously characteristic of him. There was nothing of thesailor's steady poise about him.

  The little Italian town that clung to the slopes that rose so steeplyfrom the sea shone among its terraced gardens like a many-coloured jewelin the burning sunset. The dome of its Casino gleamed opalescent in itscentre--a place for wonder--a place for dreams. Yet Saltash's expressionas he landed on the quay was one of whimsical discontent. He had comenearly a fortnight ago to be amused, but somehow the old pleasures hadlost their relish and he was only bored.

  "I'm getting old," he said to himself with a grimace of disgust.

  But he was not old. He was barely six-and-thirty. He had had the world athis feet too long, that was all.

  There was to be a water-side _fete_ that night at Valrosa, and thepromenade and bandstand were wreathed with flowers and fairy-lights. Itwas getting late in the season, and it would probably be the last.Saltash surveyed the preparations with very perfunctory interest as hesauntered up to the hotel next to the Casino where he proposed to dine.

  A few people he knew were staying there, and he looked forward to a moreor less social evening. At least he could count on a welcome and a rubberof bridge if he felt so inclined. Or there was the Casino itself if thegambling mood should take him. But he did not feel much like gambling. Hewanted something new. None of the old stale amusements appealed to himtonight. He was feeling very ancient and rather dilapidated.

  He went up the steps under the cypress-trees that led from terrace toterrace, pausing at each landing-place to look out over the wonderfulsea that was changing every moment with the changing glow of the sunset.Yes, it was certainly a place for dreams. Even old Larpent felt thecharm--Larpent who had fallen in love twenty years ago for the first andlast time!

  An irrepressible chuckle escaped him. Funny old Larpent! The wine of thegods had evidently been too strong a brew for him. It was obvious that hehad no desire to repeat the dose.

  At his last halting-place he stood longer to drink in the beauty of theevening before entering the hotel. The sea had the pearly tint shot withrose of the inside of an oyster-shell. The sky-line was receding, fadinginto an immense calm. The shadows were beginning to gather. The sun haddipped out of sight.

  The tinkle of a lute rose from one of the hidden gardens below him. Hestood and listened with sentimental eyes and quizzically twitching mouth.Everything in this wonder-world was ultra-sweet to-night. And yet--andyet--

  Suddenly another sound broke through the stillness, and in a moment hehad sprung to alertness. It was a cry--a sharp, wrung cry from the gardenclose to him, the garden of the hotel, and instantly following it a floodof angry speech in a man's voice and the sound of blows.

  "Damnation!" said Saltash, and sprang for a narrow wooden door in thestone wall a few yards higher up.

  It opened to his imperious hand, and he found himself in a dark littleshrubbery behind an arbour that looked out to the sea. It was in thisarbour that the scuffle was taking place, and in a second he had forcedhis way through the intervening shrubs and was at the entrance.

  "Damnation!" he burst forth again furiously. "What are you doing? Leavethat boy alone!"

  A man in evening-dress was gripping a fair-haired lad, who wore thehotel-livery, by the back of his neck and raining merciless blows uponhis uncovered head. He turned, sharply straightening himself, atSaltash's tempestuous entrance, and revealed to the newcomer thedeeply-suffused countenance of the hotel-manager.

  Their recognition was mutual. He flung the boy into a corner and facedhis patron, breathing hard, his black eyes still fiercely gleaming.

  "Ah! It is milord!" he said, in jerky English, and bowed punctiliouslythough he was still shaking with rage. "What can I do for you, milord?"

  "What the devil is the matter?" said Saltash, sweeping aside allceremony. "What are you hammering that unfortunate boy for? Can't youfind a man your own size to hammer?"

  The Italian flung a fierce glance over his shoulder at his crouchingvictim. "He is worthless!" he declared. "I give him a trial--_bueno_, buthe is worthless. Milord will pardon me, he is--English. And the Englishare--no good for work--no good at all."

  "Oh, rotten to the core!" agreed Saltash, with a humorous lift of thebrows. "But you needn't murder him for that, Antonio. It's hismisfortune--not his fault."

  "Milord, I have not murdered him," the manager protested with nervousvehemence. "I have only punished him. I have not hurt him. I have donehim good."

  "Oh!" said Saltash, and looked down at the small, trembling figure in thecorner. "It's medicine, is it? But a bit strong for a child of that size.I should try a milder dose next time."

  Antonio laughed harshly. "The next time, milord, I shall takehim--so--and wring his neck!" His laugh became a snarl as he turned. "Getup now, you--you son of a pig, and go back to your work!"

  "Easy! Easy!" said Saltash, with a smile. "We don't talk to the Englishlike that, Antonio,--not even the smallest and weakest of them. Let'shave a look at this specimen--with your permission!" He bent over thehuddled figure. "Hold up your head, boy! Let me see you!"

  There was no movement to obey, and he laid a hand upon the quiveringshoulder and felt it shrink away convulsively.

  "I believe you've damaged him," he said, bending lower. "Here, Tommy!Hold up your head! Don't be afraid! It's a friend."

  But the narrow figure only sank down a little lower under his hand.

  "His name is Toby," said Antonio with acidity. "A dog's name, milord, andit fits him well. He is what you would call a lazy hound."

  Saltash paid not the slightest attention to him. He was bending low, hisdark face in shadow.

  "Don't be afraid!" he said again. "No one is going to hurt you. Comealong! Let's look at you!"

  His hold tightened upon the shrinking form. He began to lift it up.

  And then suddenly there came a sharp struggle between his hands aslacking in science as the fight of a wild animal for freedom, and aseffectual. With a gasping effort the boy wrenched himself free and wasgone. He went like a streak of lightning, and the two men were leftfacing one another.

  "What a slippery little devil!" commented Saltash.

  "Yes," said Antonio vindictively, "a devil indeed, milord! And I willhave no more of him. I will have no more. I hope he will starve!"

  "How awfully nice of you, Antonio!" said Saltash lightly. "Being the endof the season, he probably will."

  Antonio smacked his red lips with relish. "Ah, probably! Probably!" hesaid.