“Dear,” she said softly, “perhaps I do care for youa little. Perhaps—well, some time in the future—what you are thinking of might be possible; I cannot say. Something, apart from you, has happened, which has changed my life. You must let me go for a little while. But I will promise you this. The entanglement of which you spoke shall be broken off. I will have no more to do with that man!”
He sat upright.
“Helène,” he said, “you are making me very happy, but there is one thing which I must ask you, and which you must forgive me for asking. This entanglement of which you speak has nothing to do with Mr. Sabin?”
“Nothing whatever,” she answered promptly. “How I should like to tell you everything! But I have made a solemn promise, and I must keep it. My lips are sealed. But one thing I should like you to understand, in case you have ever had any doubt about it. Mr. Sabin is really my uncle, my mother’s brother. He is engaged in a great enterprise in which I am a necessary figure. He has suddenly become very much afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me!” Wolfenden repeated.
She nodded.
“I ought to tell you, perhaps, that my marriage with some one else is necessary to insure the full success of his plans. So you see he has set himself to keep us apart.”
“The more you tell me, the more bewildered I get,” Wolfenden declared. “What made him attack me just now without any warning? Surely he did not wish to kill me?”
Her hand within his seemed to grow colder.
“You were imprudent,” she said.
“Imprudent! In what way?”
“You told him that you had sent for Mr. C. to come and go through your father’s papers.”
“What of it?”
“I cannot tell you any more!”
Wolfenden rose to his feet; he was still giddy, but he was able to stand.
“All that he told me here was a tissue of lies then! Helène, I will not leave you with such a man. You cannot continue to live with him.”
“I do not intend to,” she answered; “I want to get away. What has happened to-day is more than I can pardon, even from him. Yet you must not judge him too harshly. In his way he is a great man, and he is planning great things which are not wholly for his advantage. But he is unscrupulous! So long as the end is great, he believes himself justified in stooping to any means.”
Wolfenden shuddered.
“You must not live another day with him,” he exclaimed; “you will come to Deringham Hall. My mother will be only too glad to come and fetch you. It is not very cheerful there just now, but anything is better than leaving you with this man.”
She looked at him curiously. Her eyes were soft with something which suggested pity, but resembled tears.
“No,” she said, “that would not do at all. You must not think because I have been living with Mr. Sabin that I have no other relations or friends. I have a very great many of both, only it was arranged that I should leave them for a while. I can go back at any time; I am altogether my own mistress.”
“Then go back at once,” he begged her feverishly. “I could not bear to think of you living here with this man another hour. Have your things put together now and tell your maid. Let me take you to the station. I want to see you leave this infernal house, and this atmosphere of cheating and lies, when I do!”
Her lips parted into the ghost of a smile.
“I have not found so much to regret in my stay here,” she said softly.
He held out his arms, but she eluded him gently.
“I hope,” he said, “nay, I know that you will never regret it. Never! Tell me what you are going to do now?”
“I shall leave here this afternoon,” she said, “and go straight to some friends in London. Then I shall make new plans, or rather set myself to the remaking of old ones. When I am ready, I will write to you. But remember again—I make no promise!”
He held out his hands.
“But you will write to me?”
She hesitated.
“No, I shall not write to you. I am not going to give you my address even; you must be patient for a little while.”
“You will not go away? You will not at least leave England without seeing me?”
“Not unless I am compelled,” she promised, “and then, if I go, I will come back again, or let you know where I am. You need not fear; I am not going to slip away and be lost! You shall see me again.”
Wolfenden was dissatisfied.
“I hate letting you go,” he said. “I hate all this mystery. When one comes to think of it, I do not even know your name! It is ridiculous! Why cannot I take you to London, and we can be married to-morrow. Then I should have the right to protect you against this blackguard.”
She laughed softly. Her lips were parted in dainty curves, and her eyes were lit with merriment.
“How delightful you are,” she exclaimed. “And to think that the women of my country call you Englishmen slow wooers!”
“Won’t you prove the contrary?” he begged.
She shook her head.
“It is already proved. But if you are sure you feel well enough to walk, please go now. I want to catch the afternoon train to London.”
He held out his hands and tried once more to draw her to him. But she stepped backwards laughing.
“You must please be patient,” she said, “and remember that to-day I am betrothed to—somebody else! Goodbye!”
Wolfenden, for perhaps the first time in his life, chose the inland road home. He was still feeling faint and giddy, and the fresh air only partially revived him. He walked slowly, and rested more than once. It took him almost half an hour to reach the cross roads. Here he sat on a stile for a few minutes, until he began to feel himself again. Just as he was preparing to resume his walk, he was aware of a carriage being driven rapidly towards him, along the private road from Deringham Hall.
He stood quite still and watched it. The roads were heavy after much rain, and the mud was leaping up into the sunshine from the flying wheels, bespattering the carriage, and reaching even the man who sat upon the box. The horses had broken into a gallop, the driver was leaning forward whip in hand. He knew at once whose carriage it was: it was the little brougham which Mr. Sabin had brought down from London. He had been up to the hall, then! Wolfenden’s face grew stern. He stood well out in the middle of the road. The horses would have to be checked a little at the sharp turn before him. They would probably shy a little, seeing him stand there in the centre of the road; he would be able to bring them to a standstill. So he remained there motionless. Nearer and nearer theycame. Wolfenden set his teeth hard and forgot his dizziness.
They were almost upon him now. To his surprise the driver was making no effort to check his galloping horses. It seemed impossible that they could round that narrow corner at the pace they were going. A froth of white foam was on their bits, and their eyes were bloodshot. They were almost upon Wolfenden before he realised what was happening. They made no attempt to turn the corner which he was guarding, but flashed straight past him along the Cromer road. Wolfenden shouted and waved his arms, but the coachman did not even glance in his direction. He caught a glimpse of Mr. Sabin’s face as he leaned back amongst the cushions, dark, satyr-like, forbidding. The thin lips seemed to part into a triumphant smile as he saw Wolfenden standing there. It was all over in a moment. The carriage, with its whirling wheels, was already a speck in the distance.
Wolfenden looked at his watch. It was five-and-twenty minutes to one. Mr. Sabin’s purpose was obvious. He was trying to catch the one o’clock express to London. To pursue that carriage was absolutely hopeless. Wolfenden set his face towards Deringham Hall and ran steadily along the road. He was filled with vague fears. The memory of Mr. Sabin’s smile haunted him. He had succeeded. By what means? Perhaps by violence! Wolfenden forgot his own aching head. He was filled only with an intense anxiety to reach his destination. If Mr. Sabin had so much as raised his hand, he should pay for it. He understood now why that blow had been given. It was to keep him out of the way. As he ran on, his teeth clenched, and his breath coming fast, he grew hot with passionate anger. He had been Mr. Sabin’s dupe! Curse the man.
He turned the final corner in the drive, climbed thesteps and entered the hall. The servants were standing about as usual. There was no sign of anything having happened. They looked at him curiously, but that might well be, owing to his dishevelled condition.
“Where is the Admiral, Groves?” he asked breathlessly.
“His lordship is in the billiard-room,” the man answered.
Wolfenden stopped short in his passage across the hall, and looked at the man in amazement.
“Where?”
“In the billiard-room, my lord,” the man repeated. “He was inquiring for you only a moment ago.”
Wolfenden turned sharp to the left and entered the billiard-room. His father was standing there with his coat off and a cue in his hand. Directly he turned round Wolfenden was aware of a peculiar change in his face and expression. The hard lines had vanished, every trace of anxiety seemed to have left him. His eyes were soft and as clear as a child’s. He turned to Wolfenden with a bland smile, and immediately began to chalk his cue.
“Come and play me a game, Wolf,” he cried out cheerfully. “You’ll have to give me a few, I’m so out of practice. We’ll make it a hundred, and you shall give me twenty. Which will you have, spot, or plain?”
Wolfenden gulped down his amazement with an effort.
“I’ll take plain,” he said. “It’s a long time, isn’t it, since we played?”
His father faced him for a minute and seemed perplexed.
“Not so very long, surely. Wasn’t it yesterday, or the day before?”
Wolfenden wondered for a moment whether that blow had affected his brain. It was years since he had seen the billiard-room at Deringham Hall opened.
“I don’t exactly remember,” he faltered. “Perhaps I was mistaken. Time goes so quickly.”
“I wonder,” the Admiral said, making a cannon andstepping briskly round the table, “how it goes at all with you young men who do nothing. Great mistake to have no profession, Wolf! I wish I could make you see it.”
“I quite agree with you,” Wolfenden said. “You must not look upon me as quite an idler, though. I am a full-fledged barrister, you know, although I do not practise, and I have serious thoughts of Parliament.”
The Admiral shook his head.
“Poor career, my boy, poor career for a gentleman’s son. Take my advice and keep out of Parliament. I am going to pot the red. I don’t like the red ball, Wolf! It keeps looking at me like—like that man! Ah!”
He flung his cue with a rattle upon the floor of inlaid wood, and started back.
“Look, Wolf!” he cried. “He’s grinning at me! Come here, boy! Tell me the truth! Have I been tricked? He told me that he was Mr. C. and I gave him everything! Look at his face how it changes! He isn’t like C. now! He is like—who is it he is like? C.’s face is not so pale as that, and he does not limp. I seem to remember him too! Can’t you help me? Can’t you see him, boy?”
He had been moving backwards slowly. He was leaning now against the wall, his face blanched and perfectly bloodless, his eyes wild and his pupils dilated. Wolfenden laid his cue down and came over to his side.
“No, I can’t see him, father,” he said gently. “I think it must be fancy; you have been working too hard.”
“You are blind, boy, blind,” the Admiral muttered. “Where was it I saw him last? There were sands—and a burning sun—his shot went wide, but I aimed low and I hit him. He carried himself bravely. He was an aristocrat, and he never forgot it. But why does he call himself Mr. C.? What has he to do with my work?”
Wolfenden choked down a lump in his throat. He began to surmise what had happened.
“Let us go into the other room, father,” he said gently. “It is too cold for billiards.”
The Admiral held out his arm. He seemed suddenly weak and old. His eyes were dull and he was muttering to himself. Wolfenden led him gently from the room and upstairs to his own apartment. There he made an excuse for leaving him for a moment, and hurried down into the library. Mr. Blatherwick was writing there alone.
“Blatherwick,” Wolfenden exclaimed, “what has happened this morning? Who has been here?”
Mr. Blatherwick blushed scarlet.
“Miss Merton called, and a gentleman with her, from the Home Office, I b-b-believe.”
“Who let him into the library?” Wolfenden asked sternly.
Mr. Blatherwick fingered his collar, as though he found it too tight for him, and appeared generally uncomfortable.
“At Miss Merton’s request, Lord Wolfenden,” he said nervously, “I allowed him to come in. I understood that he had been sent for by her ladyship. I trust that I did not do wrong.”
“You are an ass, Blatherwick,” Wolfenden exclaimed angrily. “You seem to enjoy lending yourself to be the tool of swindlers and thieves. My father has lost his reason entirely now, and it is your fault. You had better leave here at once! You are altogether too credulous for this world.”
Wolfenden strode away towards his mother’s room, but a cry from upstairs directed his steps. Lady Deringham and he met outside his father’s door, and entered the room together. They came face to face with the Admiral.
“Out of my way!” he cried furiously. “Come with me, Wolf! We must follow him. I must have my papers back, or kill him! I have been dreaming. He told me that he was C. I gave him all he asked for! Wemust have them back. Merciful heavens! if he publishes them, we are ruined ... where did he come from?... They told me that he was dead.... Has he crawled back out of hell? I shot him once! He has never forgotten it! This is his vengeance! Oh, God!”
He sank down into a chair. The perspiration stood out in great beads upon his white forehead. He was shaking from head to foot. Suddenly his head drooped in the act of further speech, the words died away upon his lips. He was unconscious. The Countess knelt by his side and Wolfenden stood over her.
“Do you know anything of what has happened?” Wolfenden asked.
“Very little,” she whispered; “somehow, he—Mr. Sabin—got into the library, and the shock sent him—like this. Here is the doctor.”
Dr. Whitlett was ushered in. They all three looked down upon the Admiral, and the doctor asked a few rapid questions. There was certainly a great change in his face. A strong line or two had disappeared, the countenance was milder and younger. It was like the face of a child. Wolfenden was afraid to see the eyes open, he seemed already in imagination to picture to himself their vacant, unseeing light. Dr. Whitlett shook his head sadly.
“I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that when Lord Deringham recovers he will remember nothing! He has had a severe shock, and there is every indication that his mind has given way.”
Wolfenden drew his teeth together savagely. This, then, was the result of Mr. Sabin’s visit.
At about four o’clock in the afternoon, as Helène was preparing to leave the Lodge, a telegram was brought in to her from Mr. Sabin.
“I have succeeded and am nowen routefor London. You had better follow when convenient, but do not be later than to-morrow.”
She tore it into small pieces and hummed a tune.
“It is enough,” she murmured. “I am not ambitious any longer. I am going to London, it is true, my dear uncle, but not to Kensington! You can play Richelieu to Henri and my cousin, if it pleases you. Iwonder——”
Her face grew softer and more thoughtful. Suddenly she laughed outright to herself. She went and sat down on the couch, where Wolfenden had been lying.
“It would have been simpler,” she said to herself. “How like a man to think of such a daring thing. I wish—I almost wish—I had consented. What a delightful sensation it would have made. Cécile will laugh when I tell her of this. To her I have always seemed ambitious, and ambitious only ... and now I have found out that I have a heart only to give it away.Hélas!”
There was a knock at the door. A servant entered.
“Miss Merton would be glad to know if you could spare her a moment before you left, Miss,” the man announced.
Helène glanced at the clock.
“I am going very shortly,” she said; “she had better come in now.”
The man withdrew, but returned almost immediately, ushering in Miss Merton. For the first time Helène noticed how pretty the girl was. Her trim, dainty little figure was shown off to its utmost advantage by the neat tailor gown she was wearing, and there was a bright glow of colour in her cheeks. Helène, who had no liking for her uncle’s typewriter, and who had scarcely yet spoken to her, remained standing, waiting to hear what she had to say.
“I wanted to see Mr. Sabin,” she began. “Can you tell me when he will be back?”
“He has gone to London,” Helène replied. “He will not be returning here at all.”
The girl’s surprise was evidently genuine.
“But he said nothing about it a few hours ago,” she exclaimed. “You are in his confidence, I know. This morning he gave me something to do. I was to get Mr. Blatherwick away from the Hall, and keep him with me as long as I could. You do not know Mr. Blatherwick? then you cannot sympathise with me. Since ten o’clock I have been with him. At last I could keep him no longer. He has gone back to the Hall.”
“Mr. Sabin will probably write to you,” Helène said. “This house is taken for another fortnight, and you can of course remain here, if you choose. You will certainly hear from him within the next day or two.”
Miss Merton shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, I shall take a holiday,” she declared. “I’ve finished typing all the copy I had. Haven’t you dropped something there?”
She stooped suddenly forward, and picked up a locket from the floor.
“Is this yours?” she asked. “Why——”
She held the locket tightly in her hand. Her eyes seemed rivetted upon it. It was very small and fashioned of plain gold, with a coronet and letter on the face. Miss Merton looked at it in amazement.
“Why, this belongs to Wolf—to Lord Wolfenden,” she exclaimed.
Helène looked at her in cold surprise.
“It is very possible,” she said. “He was here a short time ago.”
Miss Merton clenched the locket in her hand, as though she feared for its safety.
“Here! In this room?”
“Certainly! He called to see Mr. Sabin and remained for some time.”
Miss Merton was a little paler. She did not look quite so pretty now.
“Did you see him?” she asked.
Helène raised her eyebrows.
“I scarcely understand,” she said, “what business it is of yours. Since you ask me, however, I have no objection to telling you that I did see Lord Wolfenden. He remained some time here with me after Mr. Sabin left.”
“Perhaps,” Miss Merton suggested, with acidity, “that was why I was sent out of the way.”
Helène looked at her through half-closed eyes.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that you are a very impertinent young woman. Be so good as to put that locket upon the table and leave the room.”
The girl did neither. On the contrary, she slipped the locket into the bosom of her gown.
“I will take care of this,” she remarked.
Helène laid her hand upon the bell.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that you must be unwell. I am going to ring the bell. Perhaps you will be goodenough to place the locket on that table and leave the room.”
Miss Merton drew herself up angrily.
“I have a better claim upon the locket than any one,” she said. “I am seeing Lord Wolfenden constantly. I will give it to him.”
“Thank you, you need not trouble,” Helène answered. “I shall send a servant with it to Deringham Hall. Will you be good enough to give it to me?”
Miss Merton drew a step backwards and shook her head.
“I think,” she said, “that I am more concerned in it than you are, for I gave it to him.”
“You gave it to him?”
Miss Merton nodded.
“Yes! If you don’t believe me, look here.”
She drew the locket from her bosom and, holding it out, touched a spring. There was a small miniature inside; Helène, leaning over, recognised it at once. It was a likeness of the girl herself. She felt the colour leave her cheeks, but she did not flinch.
“I was not aware,” she said, “that you were on such friendly terms with Lord Wolfenden.”
The girl smiled oddly.
“Lord Wolfenden,” she said, “has been very kind to me.”
“Perhaps,” Helène continued, “I ought not to ask, but I must confess that you have surprised me. Is Lord Wolfenden—your lover?”
Miss Merton shut up the locket with a click and returned it to her bosom. There was no longer any question as to her retaining it. She looked at Helène thoughtfully.
“Has he been making love to you?” she asked abruptly.
Helène raised her eyes and looked at her. The other girl felt suddenly very insignificant.
“You must not ask me impertinent questions,” she saidcalmly. “Of course you need not tell me anything unless you choose. It is for you to please yourself.”
The girl was white with anger. She had not a tithe of Helène’s self-control, and she felt that she was not making the best of her opportunities.
“Lord Wolfenden,” she said slowly, “did promise to marry me once. I was his father’s secretary, and I was turned away on his account.”
“Indeed!”
There was a silence between the two women. Miss Merton was watching Helène closely, but she was disappointed. Her face was set in cold, proud lines, but she showed no signs of trouble.
“Under these circumstances,” Helène said, “the locket certainly belongs to you. If you will allow me, I will ring now for my maid. I am leaving here this evening.”
“I should like,” Miss Merton said, “to tell you about Lord Wolfenden and myself.”
Helène smiled languidly.
“You will excuse me, I am sure,” she said. “It is scarcely a matter which interests me.”
Miss Merton flushed angrily. She was at a disadvantage and she knew it.
“I thought that you were very much interested in Lord Wolfenden,” she said spitefully.
“I have found him much pleasanter than the majority of Englishmen.”
“But you don’t care to hear about him—from me!” Miss Merton exclaimed.
Helène smiled.
“I have no desire to be rude,” she said, “but since you put it in that way I will admit that you are right.”
The girl bit her lip. She felt that she had only partially succeeded. This girl was more than her match. She suddenly changed her tactics.
“Oh! you are cruel,” she exclaimed. “You want to take him from me; I know you do! He promised—to marry me—before you came. He must marry me! I dare not go home!”
“I can assure you,” Helène said quietly, “that I have not the faintest desire to take Lord Wolfenden from you—or from any one else! I do not like this conversation at all, and I do not intend to continue it. Perhaps if you have nothing more to say you will go to your room, or if you wish to go away I will order a carriage for you. Please make up your mind quickly.”
Miss Merton sprang up and walked towards the door. Her pretty face was distorted with anger.
“I do not want your carriage,” she said. “I am leaving the house, but I will walk.”
“Just as you choose, if you only go,” Helène murmured.
She was already at the door, but she turned back.
“I can’t help it!” she exclaimed. “I’ve got to ask you a question. Has Lord Wolfenden asked you to marry him?”
Helène was disgusted, but she was not hard-hearted. The girl was evidently distressed—it never occurred to her that she might not be in earnest. She herself could not understand such a lack of self-respect. A single gleam of pity mingled with her contempt.
“I am not at liberty to answer your question,” she said coldly, “as it concerns Lord Wolfenden as well as myself. But I have no objection to telling you this. I am the Princess Helène of Bourbon, and I am betrothed to my cousin, Prince Henri of Ortrens! So you see that I am not likely to marry Lord Wolfenden! Now, please, go away at once!”
Miss Merton obeyed. She left the room literally speechless. Helène rang the bell.
“If that young person—Miss Merton I think her nameis—attempts to see me again before I leave, be sure that she is not admitted,” she told the servant.
The man bowed and left the room. Helène was left alone. She sank into an easy chair by the fire and leaned her head upon her hand. Her self-control was easy and magnificent, but now that she was alone her face had softened. The proud, little mouth was quivering. A feeling of uneasiness, of utter depression stole over her. Tears stood for a moment in her eyes but she brushed them fiercely away.
“How could he have dared?” she murmured. “I wish that I were a man! After all, then, it must be—ambition!”
Mr. Sabin, whose carriage had set him down at the Cromer railway station with barely two minutes to spare, took his seat in an empty first-class smoking carriage of the London train and deliberately lit a fine cigar. He was filled with that sense of triumphant self-satisfaction which falls to the lot of a man who, after much arduous labour successfully accomplished, sees very near at hand the great desire of his life. Two days’ more quiet work, and his task was done. All that he had pledged himself to give, he would have ready for the offering. The finishing touches were but a matter of detail. It had been a great undertaking—more difficult at times than he had ever reckoned for. He told himself with some complacency that no other man breathing could have brought it to so satisfactory a conclusion. His had been a life of great endeavours; this one, however, was the crowning triumph of his career.
He watched the people take their seats in the train with idle eyes; he was not interested in any of them. He scarcely saw their faces; they were not of his world nor he of theirs. But suddenly he received a rude shock. He sat upright and wiped away the moisture from the window in order that he might see more clearly. A young man in a long ulster was buying newspapers from a boy only a yard or two away. Something about the figure and mannerof standing seemed to Mr. Sabin vaguely familiar. He waited until his head was turned, and the eyes of the two men met—then the last vestige of doubt disappeared. It was Felix! Mr. Sabin leaned back in his corner with darkening face. He had noticed to his dismay that the encounter, surprising though it had been to him, had been accepted by Felix as a matter of course—he was obviously prepared for it. He had met Mr. Sabin’s anxious and incredulous gaze with a faint, peculiar smile. His probable presence in the train had evidently been confidently reckoned upon. Felix had been watching him secretly, and knowing what he did know of that young man, Mr. Sabin was seriously disturbed. He did not hesitate for a moment, however, to face the position. He determined at once upon a bold course of action. Letting down the window he put out his head.
“Are you going to town?” he asked Felix, as though seeing him then was the most natural thing in the world.
The young man nodded.
“Yes, it’s getting pretty dreary down here, isn’t it? You’re off back, I see.”
Mr. Sabin assented.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve had about enough of it. Besides, I’m overdue at Pau, and I’m anxious to get there. Are you coming in here?”
Felix hesitated. At first the suggestion had astonished him; almost immediately it became a temptation. It would be distinctly piquant to travel with this man. On the other hand it was distinctly unwise; it was running an altogether unnecessary risk. Mr. Sabin read his thoughts with the utmost ease.
“I should rather like to have a little chat with you,” he said quietly; “you are not afraid, are you? I am quite unarmed, and as you see Nature has not made me for a fighting man.”
Felix hesitated no longer. He motioned to the porter who was carrying his dressing-case and golf clubs, and had them conveyed into Mr. Sabin’s carriage. He himself took the opposite seat.
“I had no idea,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “that you were in the neighbourhood.”
Felix smiled.
“You have been so engrossed in your—golf,” he remarked. “It is a fascinating game, is it not?”
“Very,” Mr. Sabin assented. “You yourself are a devotee, I see.”
“I am a beginner,” Felix answered, “and a very clumsy beginner too. I take my clubs with me, however, whenever I go to the coast at this time of year; they save one from being considered a madman.”
“It is singular,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “that you should have chosen to visit Cromer just now. It is really a most interesting meeting. I do not think that I have had the pleasure of seeing you since that evening at the ‘Milan,’ when your behaviour towards me—forgive my alluding to it—was scarcely considerate.”
Mr. Sabin was quite friendly and unembarrassed. He seemed to treat the affair as a joke. Felix looked glumly out of the window.
“Your luck stood you in good stead—as usual,” he said. “I meant to kill you that night. You see I don’t mind confessing it! I had sworn to make the attempt the first time we met face to face.”
“Considering that we are quite alone,” Mr. Sabin remarked, looking around the carriage, “and that from physical considerations my life under such conditions is entirely at your mercy, I should like some assurance that you have no intention of repeating the attempt. It would add very materially to my comfort.”
The young man smiled without immediately answering.Then he was suddenly grave; he appeared to be reflecting. Almost imperceptibly Mr. Sabin’s hand stole towards the window. He was making a mental calculation as to what height above the carriage window the communication cord might be. Felix, watching his fingers, smiled again.
“You need have no fear,” he said; “the cause of personal enmity between you and me is dead. You have nothing more to fear from me at any time.”
Mr. Sabin’s hand slid down again to his side.
“I am charmed to hear it,” he declared. “You are, I presume, in earnest?”
“Most certainly. It is as I say; the cause for personal enmity between us is removed. Save for a strong personal dislike, which under the circumstances I trust that you will pardon me”—Mr. Sabin bowed—“I have no feeling towards you whatever!”
Mr. Sabin drew a somewhat exaggerated sigh of relief. “I live,” he said, “with one more fear removed. But I must confess,” he added, “to a certain amount of curiosity. We have a somewhat tedious journey before us, and several hours at our disposal; would it be asking you toomuch——”
Felix waved his hand.
“Not at all,” he said. “A few words will explain everything. I have other matters to speak of with you, but they can wait. As you remark, we have plenty of time before us. Three weeks ago I received a telegram from Brussels. It was from—forgive me, if I do not utter her name in your presence; it seems somehow like sacrilege.”
Mr. Sabin bowed; a little red spot was burning through the pallor of his sunken cheeks.
“I was there,” Felix continued, “in a matter of twenty-four hours. She was ill—believed herself to be dying. We spoke together of a little event many years old; yet whichI venture to think, neither you, nor she, nor I have ever forgotten.”
Mr. Sabin pulled down the blind by his side; it was only a stray gleam of wintry sunshine, which had stolen through the grey clouds, but it seemed to dazzle him.
“It had come to her knowledge that you and I were together in London—that you were once more essaying to play a part in civilised and great affairs. And lest our meeting should bring harm about, she told me—something of which I have always been in ignorance.”
“Ah!”
Mr. Sabin moved uneasily in his seat. He drew his club-foot a little further back; Felix seemed to be looking at it absently.
“She showed me,” he continued, “a little pistol; she explained to me that a woman’s aim is a most uncertain thing. Besides, you were some distance away, and your spring aside helped you. Then, too, so far as I could see from the mechanism of the thing—it was an old and clumsy affair—it carried low. At any rate the shot, which was doubtless meant for your heart, found a haven in your foot. From her lips I learned for the first time that she, the sweetest and most timid of her sex, had dared to become her own avenger. Life is a sad enough thing, and pleasure is rare, yet I tasted pleasure of the keenest and subtlest kind when she told me that story. I feel even now some slight return of it when I look at your—shall we call deformity, and consider how different aperson——”
Mr. Sabin half rose to his feet; his face was white and set, save where a single spot of colour was flaring high up near his cheek-bone. His eyes were bloodshot; for a moment he seemed about to strike the other man. Felix broke off in his sentence, and watched him warily.
“Come,” he said, “it is not like you to lose control of yourself in that manner. It is a simple matter. Youwronged a woman, and she avenged herself magnificently. As for me, I can see that my interference was quite uncalled for; I even venture to offer you my apologies for the fright I must have given you at the ‘Milan.’ The account had already been straightened by abler hands. I can assure you that I am no longer your enemy. In fact, when I look at you”—his eyes seemed to fall almost to the ground—“when I look at you, I permit myself some slight sensation of pity for your unfortunate affliction. But it was magnificent! Shall we change the subject now?”
Mr. Sabin sat quite still in his corner; his eyes seemed fixed upon a distant hill, bordering the flat country through which they were passing. Felix’s stinging words and mocking smile had no meaning for him. In fact he did not see his companion any longer, nor was he conscious of his presence. The narrow confines of the railway carriage had fallen away. He was in a lofty room, in a chamber of a palace, a privileged guest, the lover of the woman whose dark, passionate eyes and soft, white arms were gleaming there before his eyes. It was but one of many such scenes. He shuddered very slightly, as he went back further still. He had been faithful to one god, and one god only—the god of self! Was it a sign of coming trouble, that for the first time for many years he had abandoned himself to the impotent morbidness of abstract thought? He shook himself free from it with an effort; what lunacy! To-day he was on the eve of a mighty success—his feet were planted firmly upon the threshold! The end of all his ambitions stood fairly in view, and the path to it was wide and easy. Only a little time, and his must be one of the first names in Europe! The thought thrilled him, the little flood of impersonal recollections ebbed away; he was himself again, keen, alert, vigorous! Suddenly he met the eyes of his companion fixed steadfastly upon him, and his face darkened. There was somethingominous about this man’s appearance; his very presence seemed like a foreboding of disaster.
“I am much obliged to you for your little romance,” he said. “There is one point, however, which needs some explanation. If your interest is really, as you suggest, at an end, what are you doing down here? I presume that your appearance is not altogether a coincidence.”
“Certainly not,” Felix answered. “Let me correct you, however, on one trifling point. I said, you must remember—my personal interest.”
“I do not,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “exactly see the distinction; in fact, I do not follow you at all!”
“I am so stupid,” Felix declared apologetically. “I ought to have explained myself more clearly. It is even possible that you, who know everything, may yet be ignorant of my present position.”
“I certainly have no knowledge of it,” Mr. Sabin admitted.
Felix was gently astonished.
“Really! I took it for granted, of course, that you knew. Well, I am employed—not in any important post, of course—at the Russian Embassy. His Excellency has been very kind to me.”
Mr. Sabin for once felt his nerve grow weak; those evil forebodings of his had very swiftly become verified. This man was his enemy. Yet he recovered himself almost as quickly. What had he to fear? His was still the winning hand.
“I am pleased to hear,” he said, “that you have found such creditable employment. I hope you will make every effort to retain it; you have thrown away many chances.”
Felix at first smiled; then he leaned back amongst the cushions and laughed outright. When he had ceased, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He sat up again and looked with admiration at the still, pale figure opposite to him.
“You are inimitable,” he said—“wonderful! If you live long enough, you will certainly become very famous. What will it be, I wonder—Emperor, Dictator, President of a Republic, the Minister of an Emperor? The latter I should imagine; you were always such an aristocrat. I would not have missed this journey for the world. I am longing to know what you will say to Prince Lobenski at King’s Cross.”
Mr. Sabin looked at him keenly.
“So you are only a lacquey after all, then?” he remarked—“a common spy!”
“Very much at your service,” Felix answered, with a low bow. “A spy, if you like, engaged for the last two weeks in very closely watching your movements, and solving the mystery of your sudden devotion to a heathenish game!”
“There, at any rate,” Mr. Sabin said calmly, “you are quite wrong. If you had watched my play I flatter myself that you would have realised that my golf at any rate was no pretence.”
“I never imagined,” Felix rejoined, “that you would be anything but proficient at any game in which you cared to interest yourself; but I never imagined either that you came to Cromer to play golf—especially just now.”
“Modern diplomacy,” Mr. Sabin said, after a brief pause, “has undergone, as you may be aware, a remarkable transformation. Secrecy is now quite out of date; it is the custom amongst the masters to play with the cards upon the table.”
“There is a good deal in what you say,” Felix answered thoughtfully. “Come, we will play the game, then! It is my lead. Very well! I have been down here watching you continually, with the object of discovering the source of this wonderful power by means of which you are prepared to offer up this country, bound hand and foot, towhichever Power you decide to make terms with. Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? But you obviously believe in it yourself, and Lobenski believes in you.”
“Good!” Mr. Sabin declared. “That power of which I have spoken I now possess! It was nearly complete a month ago; an hour’s work now will make it a living and invulnerable fact.”
“You obtained,” Felix said, “your final success this afternoon, when you robbed the mad Admiral.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head gently.
“I have not robbed any one,” he said; “I never use force.”
Felix looked at him reproachfully.
“I have heard much that is evil about you,” he said, “but I have never heard before that you were known to—to—dear me, it is a very unpleasant thing to say!”
“Well, sir?”
“To cheat at cards!”
Mr. Sabin drew a short, little breath.
“What I have said is true to the letter,” he repeated “The Admiral gave me the trifling information I asked for, with his own hands.”
Felix remained incredulous.
“Then you must add the power of hypnotism,” he declared, “to your other accomplishments.”
Mr. Sabin laughed scornfully, nevertheless he did not seem to be altogether at his ease. The little scene in the library at Deringham Hall was not a pleasant recollection for him.
“The matter after all,” he said coldly, “is unimportant; it is merely a detail. I will admit that you have done your spy’s work well. Now, what will buy your memory, and your departure from this train, at the next station?”
Felix smiled.
“You are becoming more sensible,” he said; “veryfair question to ask. My price is the faithful fulfilment of your contract with my chief.”
“I have made no contract with him.”
“You have opened negotiations; he is ready to come to terms with you. You have only to name your price.”
“I have no price,” Mr. Sabin said quietly, “that he could pay.”
“What Knigenstein can give,” Felix said, “he can give double. The Secret Service funds of Russia are the largest in the world; you can have practically a blank cheque upon them.”
“I repeat,” Mr. Sabin said, “I have no price that Prince Lobenski could pay. You talk as though I were a blackmailer, or a common thief. You have always misunderstood me. Come! I will remember that the cards are upon the table; I will be wholly frank with you. It is Knigenstein with whom I mean to treat, and not your chief. He has agreed to my terms—Russia never could.”
Felix was silent for a moment.
“You are holding,” he said, “your trump card in your hand. Whatever in this world Germany could give you, Russia could improve upon.”
“She could do so,” Mr. Sabin said, “only at the expense of her honour. Come! here is that trump card. I will throw it upon the table; now you see that my hands are empty. My price is the invasion of France, and the restoration of the Monarchy.”
Felix looked at him as a man looks upon a lunatic.
“You are playing with me,” he cried.
“I was never more in earnest in my life,” Mr. Sabin said.
“Do you mean to tell me that you—in cold blood—are working for so visionary, so impossible an end?”
“It is neither visionary,” Mr. Sabin said, “nor impossible. I do not believe that any man, save myself, properlyappreciates the strength of the Royalist party in France. Every day, every minute brings it fresh adherents. It is as certain that some day a king will reign once more at Versailles, as that the sun will set before many hours are past. The French people are too bourgeois at heart to love a republic. The desire for its abolition is growing up in their hearts day by day. You understand me now when I say that I cannot treat with your country? The honour of Russia is bound up with her friendship to France. Germany, on the other hand, has ready her battle cry. She and France have been quivering on the verge of war for many a year. My whole hand is upon the table now, Felix. Look at the cards, and tell me whether we can treat!”
Felix was silent. He looked at his opponent with unwilling admiration; the man after all, then, was great. For the moment he could think of nothing whatever to say.
“Now, listen to me,” Mr. Sabin continued earnestly. “I made a great mistake when I ever mentioned the matter to Prince Lobenski. I cannot treat with him, but on the other hand, I do not want to be hampered by his importunities for the next few days. You have done your duty, and you have done it well. It is not your fault that you cannot succeed. Leave the train at the next station—disappear for a week, and I will give you a fortune. You are young—the world is before you. You can seek distinction in whatever way you will. I have a cheque-book in my pocket, and a fountain pen. I will give you an order on the Crédit Lyonnaise for £20,000.”
Felix laughed softly; his face was full of admiration. He looked at his watch, and began to gather together his belongings.
“Write out the cheque,” he said; “I agree. We shall be at the junction in about ten minutes.”
“So I have found you at last!”
Mr. Sabin looked up with a distinct start from the table where he sat writing. When he saw who his visitor was, he set down his pen and rose to receive her at once. He permitted himself to indulge in a little gesture of relief; her noiseless entrance had filled him with a sudden fear.
“My dear Helène,” he said, placing a chair for her, “if I had had the least idea that you wished to see me, I would have let you know my whereabouts. I am sorry that you should have had any difficulty; you should have written.”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“What does it all mean?” she asked. “Why are you masquerading in cheap lodgings, and why do they say at Kensington that you have gone abroad? Have things gone wrong?”
He turned and faced her directly. She saw then that pale and haggard though he was, his was not the countenance of a man tasting the bitterness of failure.
“Very much the contrary,” he said; “we are on the brink of success. All that remains to be done is the fitting together of my American work with the last of these papers. It will take me about another twenty-four hours.”
She handed across to him a morning newspaper, whichshe had been carrying in her muff. A certain paragraph was marked.
“We regret to state that Admiral, the Earl of Deringham, was seized yesterday morning with a fit, whilst alone in his study. Dr. Bond, of Harley Street, was summoned at once to a consultation, but we understand that the case is a critical one, and the gravest fears are entertained. Lord Deringham was the greatest living authority upon the subject of our fleet and coast defences, and we are informed that at the time of his seizure he was completing a very important work in connection with this subject.”
Mr. Sabin read the paragraph slowly, and then handed the paper back to Helène.
“Deringham was a very distinguished man,” he remarked, “but he was stark mad, and has been for years. They have been able to keep it quiet, only because he was harmless.”
“You remember what I told you about these people,” Helène said sternly; “I told you distinctly that I would not have them harmed in any way. You were at Deringham Hall on the morning of his seizure. You went straight there from the Lodge.”
“That is quite true,” he admitted; “but I had nothing to do with his illness.”
“I wish I could feel quite certain of that,” Helène answered. “You are a very determined man, and you went there to get papers from him by any means. You proved that you were altogether reckless as to how you got them, by your treatment of Lord Wolfenden. You succeeded! No one living knows by what means!”
He interrupted her with an impatient gesture.
“There is nothing in this worth discussion,” he declared. “Lord Deringham is nothing to you—you never even saw him in your life, and if you really have any misgivings about it, I can assure you that I got what I wanted fromhim without violence. It is not a matter for you to concern yourself in, nor is it a matter worth considering at all, especially at such a time as the present.”
She sat quite still, her head resting upon her gloved hand. He did not altogether like her appearance.
“I want you to understand,” he continued slowly, “that success, absolute success is ours. I have the personal pledge of the German Emperor, signed by his own hand. To-morrow at noon the compact is concluded. In a few weeks, at the most, the thunderbolt will have fallen. These arrogant Islanders will be facing a great invasion, whose success is already made absolutely sure. Andthen——”
He paused: his face kindled with a passionate enthusiasm, his eyes were lit with fire. There was something great in the man’s rapt expression.
“Then, the only true, the only sweet battle-cry in the French tongue, will ring through the woods of Brittany, ay, even to the walls of Paris.Vive la France! Vive la Monarchie!”
“France has suffered so much,” she murmured; “do not you who love her so tremble when you think of her rivers running once more red with blood?”
“If there be war at all,” he answered, “it will be brief. Year by year the loyalists have gained power and influence. I have notes here from secret agents in every town, almost in every village; the great heart of Paris is with us. Henri will only have to show himself, and the voice of the people will shout him king! Andyou——”
“For me,” she interrupted, “nothing! I withdraw! I will not marry Henri, he must stand his chance alone! His is the elder branch—he is the direct heir to the throne!”
Mr. Sabin drew in a long breath between his teeth. He was nerving himself for a great effort. This fear had been the one small, black cloud in the sky of his happiness.
“Helène,” he said, “if I believed that you meant—that you could possibly mean—what you have this moment said, I would tear my compact in two, throw this box amongst the flames, and make my bow to my life’s work. But you do not mean it. You will change your mind.”
“But indeed I shall not!”
“Of necessity you must; the alliance between you and Henri is absolutely compulsory. You unite the two great branches of our royal family. The sound of your name, coupled with his, will recall to the ears of France all that was most glorious in her splendid history. And apart from that, Henri needs such a woman as you for his queen. He has many excellent qualities, but he is weak, a trifle too easy, a trifle thoughtless.”
“He is a dissipatedroué,” she said in a low tone, with curling lip.
Mr. Sabin, who had been walking restlessly up and down the room, came and stood over her, leaning upon his wonderful stick.
“Helène,” he said gravely, “for your own sake, and for your country’s sake, I charge you to consider well what you are doing. What does it matter to you if Henri is even as bad as you say, which, mark you, I deny. He is the King of France! Personally, you can be strangers if you please, but marry him you must. You need not be his wife, but you must be his queen! Almost you make me ask myself whether I am talking to Helène of Bourbon, a Princess Royal of France, or to a love-sick English country girl, pining for a sweetheart, whose highest ambition it is to bear children, and whose destiny is to become a drudge. May God forbid it! May God forbid, that after all these years of darkness you should play me false now when the dawn is already lightening the sky. Sink your sex! Forget it! Remember that you are more than a woman—you are royal, and your country has the first claim upon your heart. Thedignity which exalts demands also sacrifices! Think of your great ancestors, who died with this prayer upon their lips—that one day their children’s children should win again the throne which they had lost. Their eyes may be upon you at this moment. Give me a single reason for this change in you—one single valid reason, and I will say no more.”
She was silent; the colour was coming and going in her cheeks. She was deeply moved; the honest passion in his tone had thrilled her.
“I would not dare to suggest, even in a whisper, to myself,” he went on, his dark eyes fixed upon her, and his voice lowered, “that Helène of Bourbon, Princess of Brittany, could set a greater price upon the love of a man—and that man an Englishman—than upon her country’s salvation. I would not even suffer so dishonouring a thought to creep into my brain. Yet I will remember that you are a girl—a woman—that is to say, a creature of strange moods; and I remind you that the marriage of a queen entails only the giving of a hand, her heart remains always at her disposal, and never yet has a queen of France been without her lover!”
She looked up at him with burning cheeks.
“You have spoken bitterly to me,” she said, “but from your point of view I have deserved it. Perhaps I have been weak; after all, men are not so very different. They are all ignoble. You are right when you call us women creatures of moods. To-day I should prefer the convent to marriage with any man. But listen! If you can persuade me that my marriage with Henri is necessary for his acceptance by the people of France, if I am assured of that, I will yield.”
Mr. Sabin drew a long breath of relief, Blanche had succeeded, then. Even in that moment he found time to realise that, without her aid, he would have run a terriblerisk of failure. He sat down and spoke calmly, but impressively.
“From my point of view,” he said, “and I have considered the subject exhaustively, I believe that it is absolutely necessary. You and Henri represent the two great Houses, who might, with almost equal right, claim the throne. The result of your union must be perfect unanimity. Now, suppose that Henri stands alone; don’t you see that your cousin, Louis of Bourbon, is almost as near in the direct line? He is young and impetuous, without ballast, but I believe ambitious. He would be almost sure to assert himself. At any rate, his very existence would certainly lead to factions, and the splitting up of nobles into parties. This is the greatest evil we could possibly have to face. There must be no dissensions whatever during the first generation of the re-established monarchy. The country would not be strong enough to bear it. With you married to Henri, the two great Houses of Bourbon and Ortrens are allied. Against their representative there would be no one strong enough to lift a hand. Have I made it clear?”
“Yes,” the girl answered, “you have made it very clear. Will you let me consider for a few moments?”
She sat there with her back half-turned to him, gazing into the fire. He moved back in the chair and went on with his writing. She heard the lightning rush of his pen, as he covered sheet after sheet of paper without even glancing towards her; he had no more to say, he knew very well that his work was done. The influence of his words were strong upon her; in her heart they had awakened some echo of those old ambitions which had once been very real and live things. She set herself the task of fanning them once more with the fire of enthusiasm. For she had no longer any doubts as to her duty. Wolfenden’s words—the first spoken words of love whichhad ever been addressed to her—had carried with them at the time a peculiar and a very sweet conviction. She had lost faith, too, in Mr. Sabin and his methods. She had begun to wonder whether he was not after all a visionary, whether there was really the faintest chance of the people of her country ever being stirred into a return to their old faith and allegiance. Wolfenden’s appearance had been for him singularly opportune, and she had almost decided a few mornings ago, that, after all, there was not any real bar between them. She was a princess, but of a fallen House; he was a nobleman of the most powerful country in the world. She had permitted herself to care for him a little; she was astonished to find how swiftly that sensation had grown into something which had promised to become very real and precious to her—and then, this insolent girl had come to her—her photograph was in his locket. He was like Henri, and all the others! She despised herself for the heartache of which she was sadly conscious. Her cheeks burned with shame, and her heart was hot with rage, when she thought of the kiss she had given him—perhaps he had even placed her upon a level with the typewriting girl, had dared to consider her, too, as a possible plaything for his idle moments. She set her teeth, and her eyes flashed.
Mr. Sabin, as his pen flew over the paper, felt a touch upon his arm.
“I am quite convinced,” she said. “When the time comes I shall be ready.”
He looked up with a faint, but gratified smile.
“I had no fear of you,” he said. “Frankly, in Henri alone I should have been destitute of confidence. I should not have laboured as I have done, but for you! In your hands, largely, the destinies of your country will remain.”
“I shall do my duty,” she answered quietly.
“I always knew it! And now,” he said, looking backtowards his papers, “how about the present? I do not want you here. Your presence would certainly excite comment, and I am virtually in hiding for the next twenty-four hours.”
“The Duchess of Montegarde arrived in London yesterday,” she replied. “I am going to her.”
“You could not do a wiser thing,” he declared. “Send your address to Avon House; to-morrow night or Saturday night I shall come for you. All will be settled then; we shall have plenty to do, but after the labour of the last seven years it will not seem like work. It will be the beginning of the harvest.”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“And your reward,” she said, “what is that to be?”
He smiled.
“I will not pretend,” he answered, “that I have worked for the love of my country and my order alone. I also am ambitious, although my ambition is more patriotic than personal. I mean to be first Minister of France!”
“You will deserve it,” she said. “You are a very wonderful man.”
She walked out into the street, and entered the cab which she had ordered to wait for her.
“Fourteen, Grosvenor Square,” she told the man, “but call at the first telegraph office.”
He set her down in a few minutes. She entered a small post-office and stood for a moment before one of the compartments. Then she drew a form towards her, and wrote out a telegram—