Chapter Twenty One.Love and “The Ladybird.”Re-entering the room she found herself alone, Leucha having gone downstairs into the garden to walk with Ignatia. Therefore she drew the letter from her pocket and re-read it.“Dearest Heart,” he wrote,—“To-night the journals in Rome are publishing the news of the King’s death, and I write to you as your Majesty—my Queen. You are my dear heart no longer, but my Sovereign. Our enemies have again libelled us. I have heard it all. They say that we left Treysa in company, and that I am your lover; foul lies, because they fear your power. TheTribunaand theMessagerohave declared that the King contemplates a divorce; yet surely you will defend yourself. You will not allow these cringing place-seekers to triumph, when you are entirely pure and innocent? Ah, if his Majesty could only be convinced of the truth—if he could only see that our friendship is platonic; that since the clay of your marriage no word of love has ever been spoken between us! You are my friend—still my little friend of those old days at dear old Wartenstein. I am exiled here to a Court that is brilliant though torn by internal intrigue, like your own. Yet my innermost thoughts are ever of you, and I wonder where you are and how you fare. The spies of Hinckeldeym have, I hope, not discovered you. Remember, it is to that man’s interest that you should remain an outcast.“Cannot you let me know, by secret means, your whereabouts? One word to the Embassy, and I shall understand. I am anxious for your sake. I want to see you back again at Treysa with the scandalous Court swept clean, and with honesty and uprightness ruling in place of bribery and base intrigue. Do not, I beg of you, forget your duty to your people and to the State. By the King’s death the situation has entirely changed. You are Queen, and with a word may sweep your enemies from your path like flies. Return, assert your power, show them that you are not afraid, and show the King that your place is at his side. This is my urgent advice to you as your friend—your oldest friend.“I am sad and even thoughtful as to your future. Somehow I cannot help thinking that wherever you are you must be in grave peril of new scandals and fresh plots, because your enemies are so utterly unscrupulous. Rome is as Rome is always—full of foreigners, and the Corso bright with movement. But the end of the season has come. The Court moves to Racconigi, and we go, I believe, to Camaldoli, or some other unearthly hole in the mountains, to escape the fever. I shall, however, expect a single line at the Embassy to say that my Sovereign has received my letter. I pray ever for your happiness. Be brave still, and may God protect you, dear heart.—Carl.”Tears sprang to her beautiful eyes as she read the letter of the man who was assuredly her greatest friend—the man whom the cruel world so erroneously declared to be her lover.The red afterglow from over the sea streamed into the room as she sat with her eyes fixed away on the distant horizon, beyond which lay the wealthy, picturesque kingdom over which she was queen.Leucha entered, and saw that she wastristeand thoughtful, but, like a well-trained maid, said nothing. Little Ignatia was already asleep after the journey, and dinner would be served in half an hour.“I hope Madame will like Worthing,” the maid remarked presently, for want of something else to say. She had dropped the title of Majesty, and now addressed her mistress as plain “Madame.”“Delightful—as far as I have seen,” was the reply. “More rural than Hastings, it appears. To-morrow I shall walk on the pier, for I’ve heard that it is the correct thing to do at an English watering-place. You go in the morning and after dinner, don’t you?”“Yes, Madame.”“Mr Bourne did well to suggest this place. I don’t think we shall ever be discovered here.”“I hope not,” was Leucha’s fervent reply. “Yet what would the world really say, I wonder, if it knew that you were in hiding here?”“It would say something against me, no doubt—as it always does,” she answered, in a hard voice; and then she recollected Steinbach’s serious warning.Dinner came at last, the usual big English joint and vegetables, laid in that same room. The housemaid, in well-starched cap, cuffs, and apron, was a typical seaside domestic, who had no great love for foreigners, because they were seldom lavish in the manner of tips. An English servant, no matter of what grade, reflects the same askance at the foreigner as her master exhibits. She regards all “forriners” as undesirables.“Madame” endeavoured to engage the girl in conversation, but found her very loath to utter a word. Her name was Richards, she informed the guest, and she was a native of Thrapston, in Northamptonshire.The bright, sunny days that followed Claire found most delightful. Leucha took little Ignatia down to the sea each morning, and in the afternoon, while the child slept, accompanied her mistress upon long walks, either along the sea-road or through the quiet Sussex lanes inland, now bright in the spring green. The so-called season at Worthing had not, of course, commenced; yet there were quite a number of people, including the “week-enders” from London, the people who came down from town “at reduced fares,” as the railway company ingeniously puts it—an expression more genteel than “excursion.” She hired a trap, and drove with Leucha to Steyning, Littlehampton, Shoreham, those pretty lanes about Amberley, and the quaint old town of Arundel, all of which highly interested her. She loved a country life, and was never so happy as when riding or driving, enjoying the complete freedom that now, for the first time in her life, was hers.Weeks crept by. Spring lengthened into summer, and Madame Bernard still remained in Worthing, which every day became fuller of visitors, mostly people from London, who came down for a fortnight or three weeks to spend their summer holiday. And with Leucha she became more friendly, and grew very fond of her.She had written to Leitolf the single line of acknowledgment, and sent it to the Austrian Embassy in Rome, enclosing it in the official envelope which he had sent her, in order to avoid suspicion. To Steinbach too she had written, urging him to keep her well-informed regarding the undercurrent of events at Court.In reply he had sent her other reports which showed most plainly that, even though the King might be contemplating an adjustment of their differences in order that she might take her place as Queen, her enemies were still actively at work in secret to complete her ruin. Up to the present, however, the spies of Hinckeldeym had entirely failed to trace her, and their cruel story that she was in Rome had on investigation turned out to be incorrect. Her enemies were thus discomfited.In the London papers she read telegrams from Treysa—no doubt inspired by her enemies—which stated that the King had already applied to the Ministry of Justice for a divorce, and that the trial was to be heardin camerain the course of a few weeks.Should she now reveal her whereabouts? Should she communicate with her husband and deny the scandalous charges before it became too late? By her husband’s accession her position had been very materially altered. Her duty to the country of her adoption was to be at her husband’s side, and assist him as ruler. Not that she regretted for one single instant leaving Treysa. She had not the slightest desire to re-enter that seething world of intrigue; it was only the call of duty which caused her to contemplate it. At heart, indeed, if the truth were told, she still retained a good deal of affection for the man who had treated her so brutally. When her mind wandered back to the early days of her married life and the sweetness of her former love, she recollected that he possessed many good traits of character, and felt convinced that only the bitterness of her enemies had aroused the demon jealousy within him and made him what he had now become.If she were really able to clear herself of the stigma now upon her, there might, after all, be a reconciliation—if not for her own sake, then for the sake of the little Princess Ignatia.These were the vague thoughts constantly in her mind during those warm days which passed so quietly and pleasantly before the summer sea.Ignatia was often very inquisitive. She asked her mother why they were there, and begged that Allen might come back. From Leucha she was learning to speak English, but with that Cockney twang which was amusing, for the child, of course, imitated the maid’s intonation and expression.One calm evening, when Ignatia had gone to bed and they were sitting together in the twilight upon a seat before the softly-lapping waves up at the west end of the town, Leucha said,—“To-day I heard from father. He is in Stockholm, and apparently in funds. He arrived in Sweden from Hamburg on the day of writing, and says he hopes in a few days to visit us here.”Claire guessed by what means Roddy Redmayne had replenished his funds, but made no remark save to express pleasure at his forthcoming visit. From Stockholm to Worthing was a rather far cry, but with Roddy distance was no object. He had crossed the Atlantic a dozen times, and was, indeed, ever on the move up and down Europe.“Guy has also left London,” “the Ladybird” said. “He is in Brighton, and would like to run over and call—if Madame will permit it.”“To call on you—eh, Leucha?” her royal mistress suggested, with a kindly smile. “Now tell me quite truthfully. You love him, do you not?”The girl flushed deeply.“I—I love him!” she faltered. “Whatever made you suspect that?”“Well, you know, Leucha, when one loves one cannot conceal it, however careful one may be. There is an indescribable look which always betrays both man and woman. Therefore you may as well confess the truth to me.”She was silent for a few moments.“I do confess it,” she faltered at last, with downcast eyes. “We love each other very fondly; but, alas, ours is a dream that can never be realised! Marriage and happiness are not for such as we,” she added, with a bitter sigh.“Because you have not the means by which to live honestly?” Claire replied, in a voice of deep, heartfelt sympathy, for she had become much attached to the girl.“That is exactly the difficulty, madame,” was the lady’s maid’s reply. “Both Guy and myself hate this life of constant scheming and of perpetual fear of discovery and arrest. He is a thief by compulsion, and I an assistant because I—well, I suppose I was trained to it so early that espionage and investigation come to me almost as second nature.”“And yet you can work—and work extremely well,” remarked her royal mistress, with a woman’s tenderness of heart. “I have had many maids from time to time, in Vienna and at Treysa, but I tell you quite openly that you are the handiest and neatest of them all. It is a pity—a thousand pities—that you lead the life of an adventuress, for some day, sooner or later, you must fall into the hands of the police, and after that—ruin.”“I know,” sighed the girl; “I know—only too well. Yet what can I do? Both Guy and I are forced to lead this life because we are without means. And again, I am very unworthy of him,” she added, in a low, despondent tone. “Guy is, after all, a gentleman by birth; while I, ‘the Ladybird’ as they call me, am merely the daughter of a thief.”“And yet, Leucha, you are strangely unlike other women who are adventuresses. You love this man both honestly and well, and he is assuredly one worthy a woman’s love, and would, under other circumstances, make you a most excellent husband.”“If we were not outlaws of society,” she said. “But as matters are it is quite hopeless. When one becomes a criminal, one must, unfortunately, remain a criminal to the end. Guy would willingly cut himself away from my father and the others if it were at all possible. Yet it is not. How can a man live and keep up appearances when utterly without means?”“Remain patient, Leucha,” Claire said reassuringly. “One day you may be able to extricate yourselves—both of you. Who knows?”But the girl with the dark eyes shook her head sadly, and spoke but little on their walk back to the house.“Ah, Leucha,” sighed the pale, thoughtful woman whom the world so misjudged, “we all of us have our sorrows, some more bitter than others. You are unhappy because you are an outlaw, while I am unhappy because I am a queen! Our stations are widely different; and yet, after all, our burden of sorrow is the same.”“I know all that you suffer, madame, though you are silent,” exclaimed the girl, with quick sympathy. “I have never referred to it, because you might think my interference impertinent. Yet I assure you that I reflect upon your position daily, hourly, and wonder what we can do to help you.”“You have done all that can be done,” was the calm, kind response. “Without you I should have been quite lost here in England. Rest assured that I shall never forget the kindnesses shown by all of you, even though you are what you are.”She longed to see the pair man and wife, and honest; yet how could she assist them?Next evening, Guy Bourne, well-dressed in a grey flannel suit and straw hat, and presenting the appearance of a well-to-do City man on holiday, called upon her, and was shown up by the servant.The welcome he received from both mistress and maid was a warm one, and as soon as the door was closed he explained,—“I managed to get away from London, even though I saw a detective I knew on the platform at London Bridge. Very fortunately he didn’t recognise me. I’ve found a safe hiding-place in Brighton, in a small public-house at the top of North Street, where lodgers of our peculiar class are taken in. Roddy is due to arrive at Hull to-day. With Harry and two others, he appears to have made a fine haul in Hamburg, and we are all in funds again, for which we should be truly thankful.”“To whom did the stuff belong?” Leucha inquired.“To that German Baroness in whose service you were about eight months ago—Ackermann, wasn’t the name? You recollect, you went over to Hamburg with her and took observation.”“Yes, I remember,” answered “the Ladybird” mechanically; and her head dropped in shame.Little Ignatia came forward, and in her sweet, childish way made friends with the visitor, and later, leaving Leucha to put the child to bed, “Madame Bernard” invited Guy to stroll with her along the promenade. She wished to speak with him alone.The night was bright, balmy, and starlit, the coloured lights on the pier giving a pretty effect to the picture, and there were a good many promenaders.At first she spoke to him about Roddy and about his own dull, cheerless life now that he was in such close hiding. Then, presently, when they gained the seat where she had sat with “the Ladybird” on the previous evening, she suddenly turned to him, saying,—“Mr Bourne, Leucha has told me the truth—that you love each other. Now I fully recognise the tragedy of it all, and the more so because I know it is the earnest desire of both of you to lead an honest, upright life. The world misjudges most of us. You are an outlaw and yet still a gentleman, while she, though born of criminal parents, yet has a heart of gold.”“Yes, that she has,” he asserted quickly. “I love her very deeply. To you I do not deny it—indeed, why should I? I know that we both possess your Majesty’s sympathy.” And he looked into her splendid eyes in deep earnestness.“You do. And more. I urge you not to be despondent, either of you. Endeavour always to cheer her up. One day a means will surely be opened for you both to break these hateful trammels that bind you to this unsafe life of fraud and deception, and unite in happiness as man and wife. Remember, I owe you both a deep debt of gratitude; and one day, I hope, I may be in a position to repay it, so that at least two loving hearts may be united.” Though crushed herself, her great, generous heart caused her to seek to assist others.“Ah, your Majesty!” he cried, his voice trembling with emotion as, springing up, he took her hand, raising it reverently to his lips. “How can I thank you sufficiently for those kind, generous words—for that promise?”“Ah!” she sighed, “I myself, though my position may be different to your own, nevertheless know what it is to love, and, alas! know the acute bitterness of the want of love.”Then a silence fell between them. He had reseated himself, his manly heart too full for words. He knew well that this woman, whose unhappiness was even tenfold greater than his own, was his firm and noble friend. The world spoke ill of her, and yet she was so upright, so sweet, so true.And while they sat there—he, a thief, still holding the soft white hand that he had kissed with such reverence—a pair of shrewdly evil eyes were watching them out of the darkness and observing everything.At midnight, when he returned to Brighton, the secret watcher, a hard-faced, thin-nosed woman, slight, narrow-waisted, rather elegantly dressed in deep mourning, travelled by the same train, and watched him to his hiding-place; and having done so, she strolled leisurely down to the King’s Road, where, upon the deserted promenade, she met a bent, wizened-faced, little old man, who was awaiting her.With him she walked up and down until nearly one o’clock in the morning, engaged in earnest conversation, sometimes accompanied by quick gesticulation.And they both laughed quietly together, the old man now and then shrugging his shoulders.
Re-entering the room she found herself alone, Leucha having gone downstairs into the garden to walk with Ignatia. Therefore she drew the letter from her pocket and re-read it.
“Dearest Heart,” he wrote,—“To-night the journals in Rome are publishing the news of the King’s death, and I write to you as your Majesty—my Queen. You are my dear heart no longer, but my Sovereign. Our enemies have again libelled us. I have heard it all. They say that we left Treysa in company, and that I am your lover; foul lies, because they fear your power. TheTribunaand theMessagerohave declared that the King contemplates a divorce; yet surely you will defend yourself. You will not allow these cringing place-seekers to triumph, when you are entirely pure and innocent? Ah, if his Majesty could only be convinced of the truth—if he could only see that our friendship is platonic; that since the clay of your marriage no word of love has ever been spoken between us! You are my friend—still my little friend of those old days at dear old Wartenstein. I am exiled here to a Court that is brilliant though torn by internal intrigue, like your own. Yet my innermost thoughts are ever of you, and I wonder where you are and how you fare. The spies of Hinckeldeym have, I hope, not discovered you. Remember, it is to that man’s interest that you should remain an outcast.
“Cannot you let me know, by secret means, your whereabouts? One word to the Embassy, and I shall understand. I am anxious for your sake. I want to see you back again at Treysa with the scandalous Court swept clean, and with honesty and uprightness ruling in place of bribery and base intrigue. Do not, I beg of you, forget your duty to your people and to the State. By the King’s death the situation has entirely changed. You are Queen, and with a word may sweep your enemies from your path like flies. Return, assert your power, show them that you are not afraid, and show the King that your place is at his side. This is my urgent advice to you as your friend—your oldest friend.
“I am sad and even thoughtful as to your future. Somehow I cannot help thinking that wherever you are you must be in grave peril of new scandals and fresh plots, because your enemies are so utterly unscrupulous. Rome is as Rome is always—full of foreigners, and the Corso bright with movement. But the end of the season has come. The Court moves to Racconigi, and we go, I believe, to Camaldoli, or some other unearthly hole in the mountains, to escape the fever. I shall, however, expect a single line at the Embassy to say that my Sovereign has received my letter. I pray ever for your happiness. Be brave still, and may God protect you, dear heart.—Carl.”
Tears sprang to her beautiful eyes as she read the letter of the man who was assuredly her greatest friend—the man whom the cruel world so erroneously declared to be her lover.
The red afterglow from over the sea streamed into the room as she sat with her eyes fixed away on the distant horizon, beyond which lay the wealthy, picturesque kingdom over which she was queen.
Leucha entered, and saw that she wastristeand thoughtful, but, like a well-trained maid, said nothing. Little Ignatia was already asleep after the journey, and dinner would be served in half an hour.
“I hope Madame will like Worthing,” the maid remarked presently, for want of something else to say. She had dropped the title of Majesty, and now addressed her mistress as plain “Madame.”
“Delightful—as far as I have seen,” was the reply. “More rural than Hastings, it appears. To-morrow I shall walk on the pier, for I’ve heard that it is the correct thing to do at an English watering-place. You go in the morning and after dinner, don’t you?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Mr Bourne did well to suggest this place. I don’t think we shall ever be discovered here.”
“I hope not,” was Leucha’s fervent reply. “Yet what would the world really say, I wonder, if it knew that you were in hiding here?”
“It would say something against me, no doubt—as it always does,” she answered, in a hard voice; and then she recollected Steinbach’s serious warning.
Dinner came at last, the usual big English joint and vegetables, laid in that same room. The housemaid, in well-starched cap, cuffs, and apron, was a typical seaside domestic, who had no great love for foreigners, because they were seldom lavish in the manner of tips. An English servant, no matter of what grade, reflects the same askance at the foreigner as her master exhibits. She regards all “forriners” as undesirables.
“Madame” endeavoured to engage the girl in conversation, but found her very loath to utter a word. Her name was Richards, she informed the guest, and she was a native of Thrapston, in Northamptonshire.
The bright, sunny days that followed Claire found most delightful. Leucha took little Ignatia down to the sea each morning, and in the afternoon, while the child slept, accompanied her mistress upon long walks, either along the sea-road or through the quiet Sussex lanes inland, now bright in the spring green. The so-called season at Worthing had not, of course, commenced; yet there were quite a number of people, including the “week-enders” from London, the people who came down from town “at reduced fares,” as the railway company ingeniously puts it—an expression more genteel than “excursion.” She hired a trap, and drove with Leucha to Steyning, Littlehampton, Shoreham, those pretty lanes about Amberley, and the quaint old town of Arundel, all of which highly interested her. She loved a country life, and was never so happy as when riding or driving, enjoying the complete freedom that now, for the first time in her life, was hers.
Weeks crept by. Spring lengthened into summer, and Madame Bernard still remained in Worthing, which every day became fuller of visitors, mostly people from London, who came down for a fortnight or three weeks to spend their summer holiday. And with Leucha she became more friendly, and grew very fond of her.
She had written to Leitolf the single line of acknowledgment, and sent it to the Austrian Embassy in Rome, enclosing it in the official envelope which he had sent her, in order to avoid suspicion. To Steinbach too she had written, urging him to keep her well-informed regarding the undercurrent of events at Court.
In reply he had sent her other reports which showed most plainly that, even though the King might be contemplating an adjustment of their differences in order that she might take her place as Queen, her enemies were still actively at work in secret to complete her ruin. Up to the present, however, the spies of Hinckeldeym had entirely failed to trace her, and their cruel story that she was in Rome had on investigation turned out to be incorrect. Her enemies were thus discomfited.
In the London papers she read telegrams from Treysa—no doubt inspired by her enemies—which stated that the King had already applied to the Ministry of Justice for a divorce, and that the trial was to be heardin camerain the course of a few weeks.
Should she now reveal her whereabouts? Should she communicate with her husband and deny the scandalous charges before it became too late? By her husband’s accession her position had been very materially altered. Her duty to the country of her adoption was to be at her husband’s side, and assist him as ruler. Not that she regretted for one single instant leaving Treysa. She had not the slightest desire to re-enter that seething world of intrigue; it was only the call of duty which caused her to contemplate it. At heart, indeed, if the truth were told, she still retained a good deal of affection for the man who had treated her so brutally. When her mind wandered back to the early days of her married life and the sweetness of her former love, she recollected that he possessed many good traits of character, and felt convinced that only the bitterness of her enemies had aroused the demon jealousy within him and made him what he had now become.
If she were really able to clear herself of the stigma now upon her, there might, after all, be a reconciliation—if not for her own sake, then for the sake of the little Princess Ignatia.
These were the vague thoughts constantly in her mind during those warm days which passed so quietly and pleasantly before the summer sea.
Ignatia was often very inquisitive. She asked her mother why they were there, and begged that Allen might come back. From Leucha she was learning to speak English, but with that Cockney twang which was amusing, for the child, of course, imitated the maid’s intonation and expression.
One calm evening, when Ignatia had gone to bed and they were sitting together in the twilight upon a seat before the softly-lapping waves up at the west end of the town, Leucha said,—
“To-day I heard from father. He is in Stockholm, and apparently in funds. He arrived in Sweden from Hamburg on the day of writing, and says he hopes in a few days to visit us here.”
Claire guessed by what means Roddy Redmayne had replenished his funds, but made no remark save to express pleasure at his forthcoming visit. From Stockholm to Worthing was a rather far cry, but with Roddy distance was no object. He had crossed the Atlantic a dozen times, and was, indeed, ever on the move up and down Europe.
“Guy has also left London,” “the Ladybird” said. “He is in Brighton, and would like to run over and call—if Madame will permit it.”
“To call on you—eh, Leucha?” her royal mistress suggested, with a kindly smile. “Now tell me quite truthfully. You love him, do you not?”
The girl flushed deeply.
“I—I love him!” she faltered. “Whatever made you suspect that?”
“Well, you know, Leucha, when one loves one cannot conceal it, however careful one may be. There is an indescribable look which always betrays both man and woman. Therefore you may as well confess the truth to me.”
She was silent for a few moments.
“I do confess it,” she faltered at last, with downcast eyes. “We love each other very fondly; but, alas, ours is a dream that can never be realised! Marriage and happiness are not for such as we,” she added, with a bitter sigh.
“Because you have not the means by which to live honestly?” Claire replied, in a voice of deep, heartfelt sympathy, for she had become much attached to the girl.
“That is exactly the difficulty, madame,” was the lady’s maid’s reply. “Both Guy and myself hate this life of constant scheming and of perpetual fear of discovery and arrest. He is a thief by compulsion, and I an assistant because I—well, I suppose I was trained to it so early that espionage and investigation come to me almost as second nature.”
“And yet you can work—and work extremely well,” remarked her royal mistress, with a woman’s tenderness of heart. “I have had many maids from time to time, in Vienna and at Treysa, but I tell you quite openly that you are the handiest and neatest of them all. It is a pity—a thousand pities—that you lead the life of an adventuress, for some day, sooner or later, you must fall into the hands of the police, and after that—ruin.”
“I know,” sighed the girl; “I know—only too well. Yet what can I do? Both Guy and I are forced to lead this life because we are without means. And again, I am very unworthy of him,” she added, in a low, despondent tone. “Guy is, after all, a gentleman by birth; while I, ‘the Ladybird’ as they call me, am merely the daughter of a thief.”
“And yet, Leucha, you are strangely unlike other women who are adventuresses. You love this man both honestly and well, and he is assuredly one worthy a woman’s love, and would, under other circumstances, make you a most excellent husband.”
“If we were not outlaws of society,” she said. “But as matters are it is quite hopeless. When one becomes a criminal, one must, unfortunately, remain a criminal to the end. Guy would willingly cut himself away from my father and the others if it were at all possible. Yet it is not. How can a man live and keep up appearances when utterly without means?”
“Remain patient, Leucha,” Claire said reassuringly. “One day you may be able to extricate yourselves—both of you. Who knows?”
But the girl with the dark eyes shook her head sadly, and spoke but little on their walk back to the house.
“Ah, Leucha,” sighed the pale, thoughtful woman whom the world so misjudged, “we all of us have our sorrows, some more bitter than others. You are unhappy because you are an outlaw, while I am unhappy because I am a queen! Our stations are widely different; and yet, after all, our burden of sorrow is the same.”
“I know all that you suffer, madame, though you are silent,” exclaimed the girl, with quick sympathy. “I have never referred to it, because you might think my interference impertinent. Yet I assure you that I reflect upon your position daily, hourly, and wonder what we can do to help you.”
“You have done all that can be done,” was the calm, kind response. “Without you I should have been quite lost here in England. Rest assured that I shall never forget the kindnesses shown by all of you, even though you are what you are.”
She longed to see the pair man and wife, and honest; yet how could she assist them?
Next evening, Guy Bourne, well-dressed in a grey flannel suit and straw hat, and presenting the appearance of a well-to-do City man on holiday, called upon her, and was shown up by the servant.
The welcome he received from both mistress and maid was a warm one, and as soon as the door was closed he explained,—
“I managed to get away from London, even though I saw a detective I knew on the platform at London Bridge. Very fortunately he didn’t recognise me. I’ve found a safe hiding-place in Brighton, in a small public-house at the top of North Street, where lodgers of our peculiar class are taken in. Roddy is due to arrive at Hull to-day. With Harry and two others, he appears to have made a fine haul in Hamburg, and we are all in funds again, for which we should be truly thankful.”
“To whom did the stuff belong?” Leucha inquired.
“To that German Baroness in whose service you were about eight months ago—Ackermann, wasn’t the name? You recollect, you went over to Hamburg with her and took observation.”
“Yes, I remember,” answered “the Ladybird” mechanically; and her head dropped in shame.
Little Ignatia came forward, and in her sweet, childish way made friends with the visitor, and later, leaving Leucha to put the child to bed, “Madame Bernard” invited Guy to stroll with her along the promenade. She wished to speak with him alone.
The night was bright, balmy, and starlit, the coloured lights on the pier giving a pretty effect to the picture, and there were a good many promenaders.
At first she spoke to him about Roddy and about his own dull, cheerless life now that he was in such close hiding. Then, presently, when they gained the seat where she had sat with “the Ladybird” on the previous evening, she suddenly turned to him, saying,—
“Mr Bourne, Leucha has told me the truth—that you love each other. Now I fully recognise the tragedy of it all, and the more so because I know it is the earnest desire of both of you to lead an honest, upright life. The world misjudges most of us. You are an outlaw and yet still a gentleman, while she, though born of criminal parents, yet has a heart of gold.”
“Yes, that she has,” he asserted quickly. “I love her very deeply. To you I do not deny it—indeed, why should I? I know that we both possess your Majesty’s sympathy.” And he looked into her splendid eyes in deep earnestness.
“You do. And more. I urge you not to be despondent, either of you. Endeavour always to cheer her up. One day a means will surely be opened for you both to break these hateful trammels that bind you to this unsafe life of fraud and deception, and unite in happiness as man and wife. Remember, I owe you both a deep debt of gratitude; and one day, I hope, I may be in a position to repay it, so that at least two loving hearts may be united.” Though crushed herself, her great, generous heart caused her to seek to assist others.
“Ah, your Majesty!” he cried, his voice trembling with emotion as, springing up, he took her hand, raising it reverently to his lips. “How can I thank you sufficiently for those kind, generous words—for that promise?”
“Ah!” she sighed, “I myself, though my position may be different to your own, nevertheless know what it is to love, and, alas! know the acute bitterness of the want of love.”
Then a silence fell between them. He had reseated himself, his manly heart too full for words. He knew well that this woman, whose unhappiness was even tenfold greater than his own, was his firm and noble friend. The world spoke ill of her, and yet she was so upright, so sweet, so true.
And while they sat there—he, a thief, still holding the soft white hand that he had kissed with such reverence—a pair of shrewdly evil eyes were watching them out of the darkness and observing everything.
At midnight, when he returned to Brighton, the secret watcher, a hard-faced, thin-nosed woman, slight, narrow-waisted, rather elegantly dressed in deep mourning, travelled by the same train, and watched him to his hiding-place; and having done so, she strolled leisurely down to the King’s Road, where, upon the deserted promenade, she met a bent, wizened-faced, little old man, who was awaiting her.
With him she walked up and down until nearly one o’clock in the morning, engaged in earnest conversation, sometimes accompanied by quick gesticulation.
And they both laughed quietly together, the old man now and then shrugging his shoulders.
Chapter Twenty Two.Shows Hinckeldeym’s Tactics.Five weeks later.A hot summer’s night in Treysa. It was past midnight, yet before the gay, garish cafés people still lingered at the little tables, enjoying to the full the cool breeze after the heat and burden of the day, or strolled beneath the lime avenues in the Klosterstrasse, gossiping or smoking, all loth to retire.In the great palace beyond the trees at the end of the vista the State dinner had ended, and the lonely King, glad to escape to the privacy of his own workroom in the farther wing of the palace, had cast himself into a long lounge-chair and selected a cigar. He was still in his military uniform, rendered the more striking by the many glittering orders across his breast—the Golden Fleece, the Black Eagle, the Saint Hubert, the Saint Andrew, and the rest. As he lit his cigar very slowly his face assumed a heavy, thoughtful look, entirely different from the mask of careless good-humour which he had worn at the brilliant function he had just left. The reception had not ended; it would continue for a couple of hours longer. But he was tired and bored to death of it all, and the responsibility as ruler already weighed very heavily upon him.Though he made no mention of it to a single soul, he thought of his absent wife often—very often. Now and then a pang of remorse would cause him to knit his brows. Perhaps, after all, he had not treated her quite justly. And yet, he would reassure himself, she was surely not as innocent as she pretended. No, no; she was worthless. They were therefore better apart—far better.Since his accession he had, on several occasions, been conscience-stricken. Once, in the empty nursery, he had noticed little Ignatia’s toys, her dolls and perambulator, lying where the child had left them, and tears had sprung to his eyes. Allen, the kindly Englishwoman, too, had been to him and resigned her appointment, as she had no further duties to perform.The Crown Princess’s disappearance had at first been a nine-days’ wonder in Treysa, but now her continued absence was regarded with but little surprise. The greatest scandal in the world dies down like grass in autumn. Those who had conspired against her congratulated themselves that they had triumphed, and were now busy starting fresh intrigues against the young Queen’s partisans.Since the hour that his sweet-faced wife had left the palace in secret, the King had received no word from her. He had learned from Vienna that she had been to Wartenstein, and that her father had cast her out; but after that she had disappeared—to Rome he had been told. As Crown Prince he had had his liberty, but now as King he lived apart, and was unapproachable. His was a lonely life. The duties of kingship had sobered him, and now he saw full well the lack of a clever consort as his wife was—a queen who could rule the Court.Those about him believed him to be blind to their defects and their intrigues, because he was silent concerning them. Yet, if the truth were told, he was extremely wideawake, and saw with regret how, without the Queen’s aid, he must fall beneath the influence of those who were seeking place and power, to the distinct detriment of the nation.Serious thoughts such as these were consuming him as he sat watching the smoke rings ascend to the dark-panelled ceiling.“Where is she, I wonder?” he asked himself aloud, his voice sighing through the room. “She has never reproached me—never. I wonder if all they have told me concerning her is really true.” As he uttered these words of suspicion his jaws became firmly set, and a hardness showed at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, yes!” he added. “It is, alas! only too true—too true. Hinckeldeym would never dare to lie to me!”And he sat with his serious eyes cast upon the floor, reflecting gloomily upon the past, as he now so very often reflected.The room was luxurious in its appointments, for since his father’s death he had had it redecorated and refurnished. The stern old monarch had liked a plain, severe, business-like room in which to attend to the details of State, but his son held modern ideas, and loved to surround himself with artistic things, hence the white-and-gold decorations, the electric-light fittings, the furniture and the pale green upholstery were all in the style of theart nouveau, and had the effect of exquisite taste.A tiny clock ticked softly upon the big, littered writing-table, and from without, in the marble corridor, the slow, even tread of the sentry reached his ear.Suddenly, while he was smoking and thinking, a low rap was heard; and giving permission to enter, he looked round, and saw Hinckeldeym, who, in Court dress, bowed and advanced, with his cocked hat tucked beneath his arm, saying,—“I regret, sire, to crave audience at this hour, but it is upon a matter both imperative and confidential.”“Then shut the inner door,” his Majesty said in a hard voice, and the flabby-faced old fellow closed the second door that was placed there as precaution against eavesdroppers.“Well?” asked the King, turning to him in some surprise that he should be disturbed at that hour.“After your Majesty left the Throne Room I was called out to receive an urgent dispatch that had just arrived by Imperial courier from Vienna. This dispatch,” and he drew it from his pocket, “shows most plainly that his Majesty the Emperor is seriously annoyed at your Majesty’s laxness and hesitation to apply for a divorce. Yesterday he called our Ambassador and remarked that although he had degraded the Princess, taken from her all her titles, her decorations, and her privileges, yet you, her husband, had done absolutely nothing. I crave your Majesty’s pardon for being compelled to speak so plainly,” added the wily old fellow, watching the disturbing effect his words had upon his Sovereign.“That is all very well,” he answered, in a mechanical voice. “The Emperor’s surprise and annoyance are quite natural. I have been awaiting your reports, Hinckeldeym. Before my wife’s disappearance you seemed to be particularly well-informed—through De Trauttenberg, I suppose—of all her movements and her intentions. Yet since she left you have been content to remain in utter ignorance.”“Not in entire ignorance, sire. Did I not report to you that she went to Vienna in the man’s company?”“And where is the man at the present moment?”“At Camaldoli, a health resort in central Italy. The Ambassador and several of the staff are spending the summer up there.”“Well, what else do you know?” the King asked, fixing his eyes upon the crafty old scoundrel who was the greatest power in the Kingdom. “Can you tell me where my wife is—that’s the question? I don’t think much of your secret service which costs the country so much, if you cannot tell me that,” he said frankly.“Yes, your Majesty, I can tell you that, and very much more,” the old fellow answered, quite unperturbed. “The truth is that I have known where she has been for a long time past, and a great deal has been discovered. Yet, for your Majesty’s peace of mind, I have not mentioned so painful a subject. Had I not exerted every effort to follow the Princess I should surely have been wanting in my duties as Minister.”“Then where is she?” he asked quickly, rising from his chair.“In England—at a small watering-place on the South Coast, called Worthing.”“Well—and what else?”Heinrich Hinckeldeym made no reply for a few moments, as though hesitating to tell his royal master all that he knew. Then at last he said, with that wily insinuation by which he had already ruined the poor Princess’s reputation and good name,—“The rest will, I think, best be furnished to the counsel who appears on your Majesty’s behalf to apply for a divorce.”“Ah!” he sighed sadly. “Is it so grave as that? Well, Hinckeldeym, you may tell me everything, only recollect I must have proof—proof. You understand?” he added hoarsely.“Hitherto I have always endeavoured to give your Majesty proof, and on certain occasions you have complimented me upon my success in discovering the secrets of the pair,” he answered.“I know I have, but I must have more proof now. There must be no surmises—but hard, solid facts, you understand! In those days I was only Crown Prince. To-day I am King, and my wife is Queen—whatever may be her faults.”The old Minister was considerably taken aback by this sudden refusal on his royal master’s part to accept every word of his as truth. Yet outwardly he exhibited no sign of annoyance or of disappointment. He was a perfect diplomatist.“If your Majesty will deign to give them audience, I will, within half an hour, bring here the two secret service agents who have been to England, and they shall tell you with their own lips what they have discovered.”“Yes, do so,” the King exclaimed anxiously. “Let them tell me the whole truth. They will be discreet, of course, and not divulge to the people that I have given them audience—eh?”“They are two of the best agents your Majesty possesses. If I may be permitted, I will go at once and send for them.”And walking backwards, he bowed, and left the room. Three-quarters of an hour later he returned, bringing with him a middle-aged, thin-faced woman, rather tall and thin, dressed plainly in black, and a tall, grey-haired, and rather gentlemanly looking man, whom he introduced to their Sovereign, who was standing with his back to the writing-table.The woman’s name was Rose Reinherz and the man’s Otto Stieger.The King surveyed both of them critically. He had never seen any member of his secret service in the flesh before, and was interested in them and in their doings.“The Minister Hinckeldeym tells me,” he said, addressing Stieger, “that you are both members of our secret service, and that you have returned from England. I wish to hear your report from your own lips. Tell me exactly what you have discovered without any fear of giving me personal offence. I want to hear the whole truth, remember, however disagreeable it may be.”“Yes,” added the evil-eyed old Minister. “Tell his Majesty all that you have discovered regarding the lady, who for the present purposes may remain nameless.” The spy hesitated for a moment, confused at finding himself called so suddenly into the presence of his Sovereign, and without an opportunity of putting on another suit of clothes. Besides, he was at a loss how to begin.“Did you go to Vienna?” asked the King.“I was sent to Vienna the instant it became known that the Crown Princess—I mean the lady—had left the palace. I discovered that she had driven to her father’s palace, but finding him absent had gone to Wartenstein. I followed her there, but she had left again before I arrived, and I entirely lost track of her. Probably she went to Paris, but of that I am not sure. I went to Rome, and for a fortnight kept observation upon the Count, but he wrote no letters to her, which made me suspect that she was hiding somewhere in Rome.”“You reported that she was actually in Rome. Hinckeldeym told me that.”The Minister’s grey brows were knit, but only for a second.“I did not report that she was actually there, sire. I only reported my suspicion.”“A suspicion which was turned into an actual fact before it reached my ears—eh?” he said in a hard voice. “Go on.”Hinckeldeym now regretted that he had so readily brought his spies face to face with the King.“After losing touch with the lady for several weeks, it was discovered that she was staying under an assumed name at the Savoy Hotel, in London. I travelled from Rome to London post-haste, and took a room at the hotel, finding that she had engaged a young Englishwoman named Redmayne as maid, and that she was in the habit of meeting in secret a certain Englishman named Bourne, who seemed to be leading a curiously secluded life. I reported this to the Minister Hinckeldeym, who at once sent me as assistant Rose Reinherz, now before your Majesty. Together we have left no stone unturned to fully investigate the situation, and—well, we have discovered many things.”“And what are they? Explain.”“We have ascertained that Count Leitolf still writes to the lady, sending her letters to the same address in Brussels as previously. A copy of one letter, which we intercepted, I placed in the Minister’s hands. It is couched in terms that leave no doubt that this man loves her, and that she reciprocates his affection.”“You are quite certain that it is not a mere platonic friendship?” asked the King, fixing his eyes upon the spy very earnestly.“As a man of the world, your Majesty, I do not think there is such a thing as platonic friendship between man and woman.”“That is left to poets and dreamers,” remarked the wily Hinckeldeym, with a sneer.“Besides,” the spy continued, “we have carefully watched this man Bourne, and find that when she went to live at Worthing he followed her there. They meet every evening, and go long walks together.”“I have watched them many times, your Majesty,” declared Rose Reinherz. “I have seen him kiss her hand.”“Then, to be frank, you insinuate that this man is her latest lover?” remarked the King with a dark look upon his face.“Unfortunately, that is so,” the woman replied. “He is with her almost always; and furthermore, after much inquiry and difficulty, we have at last succeeded in establishing who he really is.”“And who is he?”“A thief in hiding from the police—one of a clever gang who have committed many robberies of jewels in various cities. This is his photograph—one supplied from London to our own Prefecture of Police in Treysa.” And he handed the King an oblong card with two portraits of Guy Bourne, full face and profile, side by side.His Majesty held it in his hand, and beneath the light gazed upon it for a long time, as though to photograph the features in his memory.Hinckeldeym watched him covertly, and glanced at the spy approvingly.“And you say that this man is at Worthing, and in hiding from the police? You allege that he is an intimate friend of my wife’s?”“Stieger says that he is her latest lover,” remarked Hinckeldeym. “You have written a full and detailed report. Is not that so?” he asked.The spy nodded in the affirmative, saying,—“The fellow is in hiding, together with the leader of the association of thieves, a certain Redmayne, known as ‘the Mute,’ who is wanted by the Hamburg police for the theft of the Baroness Ackermann’s jewels. The papers of late have been full of the daring theft.”“Oh! then the police are searching for both men?” exclaimed the King. “Is there any charge in Germany against this person—Bourne, you called him?”“One for theft in Cologne, eighteen months ago, and another for jewel robbery at Eugendorf,” was the spy’s reply.“Then, Hinckeldeym, make immediate application to the British Government for their arrest and extradition. Stieger will return at once to Worthing and point them out to the English police. It will be the quickest way of crushing out the—well, the infatuation, we will call it,” he added grimly.“And your Majesty will not apply for a divorce?” asked the Minister in that low, insinuating voice.“I will reflect, Hinckeldeym,” was the King’s reply. “But in the meantime see that both these agents are rewarded for their astuteness and loyalty.”And, turning, he dismissed the trio impatiently, without further ceremony.
Five weeks later.
A hot summer’s night in Treysa. It was past midnight, yet before the gay, garish cafés people still lingered at the little tables, enjoying to the full the cool breeze after the heat and burden of the day, or strolled beneath the lime avenues in the Klosterstrasse, gossiping or smoking, all loth to retire.
In the great palace beyond the trees at the end of the vista the State dinner had ended, and the lonely King, glad to escape to the privacy of his own workroom in the farther wing of the palace, had cast himself into a long lounge-chair and selected a cigar. He was still in his military uniform, rendered the more striking by the many glittering orders across his breast—the Golden Fleece, the Black Eagle, the Saint Hubert, the Saint Andrew, and the rest. As he lit his cigar very slowly his face assumed a heavy, thoughtful look, entirely different from the mask of careless good-humour which he had worn at the brilliant function he had just left. The reception had not ended; it would continue for a couple of hours longer. But he was tired and bored to death of it all, and the responsibility as ruler already weighed very heavily upon him.
Though he made no mention of it to a single soul, he thought of his absent wife often—very often. Now and then a pang of remorse would cause him to knit his brows. Perhaps, after all, he had not treated her quite justly. And yet, he would reassure himself, she was surely not as innocent as she pretended. No, no; she was worthless. They were therefore better apart—far better.
Since his accession he had, on several occasions, been conscience-stricken. Once, in the empty nursery, he had noticed little Ignatia’s toys, her dolls and perambulator, lying where the child had left them, and tears had sprung to his eyes. Allen, the kindly Englishwoman, too, had been to him and resigned her appointment, as she had no further duties to perform.
The Crown Princess’s disappearance had at first been a nine-days’ wonder in Treysa, but now her continued absence was regarded with but little surprise. The greatest scandal in the world dies down like grass in autumn. Those who had conspired against her congratulated themselves that they had triumphed, and were now busy starting fresh intrigues against the young Queen’s partisans.
Since the hour that his sweet-faced wife had left the palace in secret, the King had received no word from her. He had learned from Vienna that she had been to Wartenstein, and that her father had cast her out; but after that she had disappeared—to Rome he had been told. As Crown Prince he had had his liberty, but now as King he lived apart, and was unapproachable. His was a lonely life. The duties of kingship had sobered him, and now he saw full well the lack of a clever consort as his wife was—a queen who could rule the Court.
Those about him believed him to be blind to their defects and their intrigues, because he was silent concerning them. Yet, if the truth were told, he was extremely wideawake, and saw with regret how, without the Queen’s aid, he must fall beneath the influence of those who were seeking place and power, to the distinct detriment of the nation.
Serious thoughts such as these were consuming him as he sat watching the smoke rings ascend to the dark-panelled ceiling.
“Where is she, I wonder?” he asked himself aloud, his voice sighing through the room. “She has never reproached me—never. I wonder if all they have told me concerning her is really true.” As he uttered these words of suspicion his jaws became firmly set, and a hardness showed at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, yes!” he added. “It is, alas! only too true—too true. Hinckeldeym would never dare to lie to me!”
And he sat with his serious eyes cast upon the floor, reflecting gloomily upon the past, as he now so very often reflected.
The room was luxurious in its appointments, for since his father’s death he had had it redecorated and refurnished. The stern old monarch had liked a plain, severe, business-like room in which to attend to the details of State, but his son held modern ideas, and loved to surround himself with artistic things, hence the white-and-gold decorations, the electric-light fittings, the furniture and the pale green upholstery were all in the style of theart nouveau, and had the effect of exquisite taste.
A tiny clock ticked softly upon the big, littered writing-table, and from without, in the marble corridor, the slow, even tread of the sentry reached his ear.
Suddenly, while he was smoking and thinking, a low rap was heard; and giving permission to enter, he looked round, and saw Hinckeldeym, who, in Court dress, bowed and advanced, with his cocked hat tucked beneath his arm, saying,—
“I regret, sire, to crave audience at this hour, but it is upon a matter both imperative and confidential.”
“Then shut the inner door,” his Majesty said in a hard voice, and the flabby-faced old fellow closed the second door that was placed there as precaution against eavesdroppers.
“Well?” asked the King, turning to him in some surprise that he should be disturbed at that hour.
“After your Majesty left the Throne Room I was called out to receive an urgent dispatch that had just arrived by Imperial courier from Vienna. This dispatch,” and he drew it from his pocket, “shows most plainly that his Majesty the Emperor is seriously annoyed at your Majesty’s laxness and hesitation to apply for a divorce. Yesterday he called our Ambassador and remarked that although he had degraded the Princess, taken from her all her titles, her decorations, and her privileges, yet you, her husband, had done absolutely nothing. I crave your Majesty’s pardon for being compelled to speak so plainly,” added the wily old fellow, watching the disturbing effect his words had upon his Sovereign.
“That is all very well,” he answered, in a mechanical voice. “The Emperor’s surprise and annoyance are quite natural. I have been awaiting your reports, Hinckeldeym. Before my wife’s disappearance you seemed to be particularly well-informed—through De Trauttenberg, I suppose—of all her movements and her intentions. Yet since she left you have been content to remain in utter ignorance.”
“Not in entire ignorance, sire. Did I not report to you that she went to Vienna in the man’s company?”
“And where is the man at the present moment?”
“At Camaldoli, a health resort in central Italy. The Ambassador and several of the staff are spending the summer up there.”
“Well, what else do you know?” the King asked, fixing his eyes upon the crafty old scoundrel who was the greatest power in the Kingdom. “Can you tell me where my wife is—that’s the question? I don’t think much of your secret service which costs the country so much, if you cannot tell me that,” he said frankly.
“Yes, your Majesty, I can tell you that, and very much more,” the old fellow answered, quite unperturbed. “The truth is that I have known where she has been for a long time past, and a great deal has been discovered. Yet, for your Majesty’s peace of mind, I have not mentioned so painful a subject. Had I not exerted every effort to follow the Princess I should surely have been wanting in my duties as Minister.”
“Then where is she?” he asked quickly, rising from his chair.
“In England—at a small watering-place on the South Coast, called Worthing.”
“Well—and what else?”
Heinrich Hinckeldeym made no reply for a few moments, as though hesitating to tell his royal master all that he knew. Then at last he said, with that wily insinuation by which he had already ruined the poor Princess’s reputation and good name,—
“The rest will, I think, best be furnished to the counsel who appears on your Majesty’s behalf to apply for a divorce.”
“Ah!” he sighed sadly. “Is it so grave as that? Well, Hinckeldeym, you may tell me everything, only recollect I must have proof—proof. You understand?” he added hoarsely.
“Hitherto I have always endeavoured to give your Majesty proof, and on certain occasions you have complimented me upon my success in discovering the secrets of the pair,” he answered.
“I know I have, but I must have more proof now. There must be no surmises—but hard, solid facts, you understand! In those days I was only Crown Prince. To-day I am King, and my wife is Queen—whatever may be her faults.”
The old Minister was considerably taken aback by this sudden refusal on his royal master’s part to accept every word of his as truth. Yet outwardly he exhibited no sign of annoyance or of disappointment. He was a perfect diplomatist.
“If your Majesty will deign to give them audience, I will, within half an hour, bring here the two secret service agents who have been to England, and they shall tell you with their own lips what they have discovered.”
“Yes, do so,” the King exclaimed anxiously. “Let them tell me the whole truth. They will be discreet, of course, and not divulge to the people that I have given them audience—eh?”
“They are two of the best agents your Majesty possesses. If I may be permitted, I will go at once and send for them.”
And walking backwards, he bowed, and left the room. Three-quarters of an hour later he returned, bringing with him a middle-aged, thin-faced woman, rather tall and thin, dressed plainly in black, and a tall, grey-haired, and rather gentlemanly looking man, whom he introduced to their Sovereign, who was standing with his back to the writing-table.
The woman’s name was Rose Reinherz and the man’s Otto Stieger.
The King surveyed both of them critically. He had never seen any member of his secret service in the flesh before, and was interested in them and in their doings.
“The Minister Hinckeldeym tells me,” he said, addressing Stieger, “that you are both members of our secret service, and that you have returned from England. I wish to hear your report from your own lips. Tell me exactly what you have discovered without any fear of giving me personal offence. I want to hear the whole truth, remember, however disagreeable it may be.”
“Yes,” added the evil-eyed old Minister. “Tell his Majesty all that you have discovered regarding the lady, who for the present purposes may remain nameless.” The spy hesitated for a moment, confused at finding himself called so suddenly into the presence of his Sovereign, and without an opportunity of putting on another suit of clothes. Besides, he was at a loss how to begin.
“Did you go to Vienna?” asked the King.
“I was sent to Vienna the instant it became known that the Crown Princess—I mean the lady—had left the palace. I discovered that she had driven to her father’s palace, but finding him absent had gone to Wartenstein. I followed her there, but she had left again before I arrived, and I entirely lost track of her. Probably she went to Paris, but of that I am not sure. I went to Rome, and for a fortnight kept observation upon the Count, but he wrote no letters to her, which made me suspect that she was hiding somewhere in Rome.”
“You reported that she was actually in Rome. Hinckeldeym told me that.”
The Minister’s grey brows were knit, but only for a second.
“I did not report that she was actually there, sire. I only reported my suspicion.”
“A suspicion which was turned into an actual fact before it reached my ears—eh?” he said in a hard voice. “Go on.”
Hinckeldeym now regretted that he had so readily brought his spies face to face with the King.
“After losing touch with the lady for several weeks, it was discovered that she was staying under an assumed name at the Savoy Hotel, in London. I travelled from Rome to London post-haste, and took a room at the hotel, finding that she had engaged a young Englishwoman named Redmayne as maid, and that she was in the habit of meeting in secret a certain Englishman named Bourne, who seemed to be leading a curiously secluded life. I reported this to the Minister Hinckeldeym, who at once sent me as assistant Rose Reinherz, now before your Majesty. Together we have left no stone unturned to fully investigate the situation, and—well, we have discovered many things.”
“And what are they? Explain.”
“We have ascertained that Count Leitolf still writes to the lady, sending her letters to the same address in Brussels as previously. A copy of one letter, which we intercepted, I placed in the Minister’s hands. It is couched in terms that leave no doubt that this man loves her, and that she reciprocates his affection.”
“You are quite certain that it is not a mere platonic friendship?” asked the King, fixing his eyes upon the spy very earnestly.
“As a man of the world, your Majesty, I do not think there is such a thing as platonic friendship between man and woman.”
“That is left to poets and dreamers,” remarked the wily Hinckeldeym, with a sneer.
“Besides,” the spy continued, “we have carefully watched this man Bourne, and find that when she went to live at Worthing he followed her there. They meet every evening, and go long walks together.”
“I have watched them many times, your Majesty,” declared Rose Reinherz. “I have seen him kiss her hand.”
“Then, to be frank, you insinuate that this man is her latest lover?” remarked the King with a dark look upon his face.
“Unfortunately, that is so,” the woman replied. “He is with her almost always; and furthermore, after much inquiry and difficulty, we have at last succeeded in establishing who he really is.”
“And who is he?”
“A thief in hiding from the police—one of a clever gang who have committed many robberies of jewels in various cities. This is his photograph—one supplied from London to our own Prefecture of Police in Treysa.” And he handed the King an oblong card with two portraits of Guy Bourne, full face and profile, side by side.
His Majesty held it in his hand, and beneath the light gazed upon it for a long time, as though to photograph the features in his memory.
Hinckeldeym watched him covertly, and glanced at the spy approvingly.
“And you say that this man is at Worthing, and in hiding from the police? You allege that he is an intimate friend of my wife’s?”
“Stieger says that he is her latest lover,” remarked Hinckeldeym. “You have written a full and detailed report. Is not that so?” he asked.
The spy nodded in the affirmative, saying,—
“The fellow is in hiding, together with the leader of the association of thieves, a certain Redmayne, known as ‘the Mute,’ who is wanted by the Hamburg police for the theft of the Baroness Ackermann’s jewels. The papers of late have been full of the daring theft.”
“Oh! then the police are searching for both men?” exclaimed the King. “Is there any charge in Germany against this person—Bourne, you called him?”
“One for theft in Cologne, eighteen months ago, and another for jewel robbery at Eugendorf,” was the spy’s reply.
“Then, Hinckeldeym, make immediate application to the British Government for their arrest and extradition. Stieger will return at once to Worthing and point them out to the English police. It will be the quickest way of crushing out the—well, the infatuation, we will call it,” he added grimly.
“And your Majesty will not apply for a divorce?” asked the Minister in that low, insinuating voice.
“I will reflect, Hinckeldeym,” was the King’s reply. “But in the meantime see that both these agents are rewarded for their astuteness and loyalty.”
And, turning, he dismissed the trio impatiently, without further ceremony.
Chapter Twenty Three.Secret Instructions.“You did exceedingly well, Stieger. I am much pleased!” declared his Excellency the Minister, when, outside the palace, he caused them both to enter his carriage and was driving them to his own fine house on the opposite side of the capital. “His Majesty is taking a severe revenge,” he laughed. “This Englishman Bourne will certainly regret having met the Queen. Besides, the fact of her having chosen a low-born criminal lover condemns her a thousandfold in the King’s eyes. I, who know him well, know that nothing could cause him such anger as for her to cast her royalty into the mud, as she has done by her friendship with this gaolbird.”“I am pleased to have earned your Excellency’s approbation,” replied the man. “And I trust that his Majesty’s pleasure will mean advancement for me—at your Excellency’s discretion, of course.”“To-morrow I shall sign this decree, raising you to the post of functionary of the first class, with increased emoluments. And to you,” he added, turning to the thin-nosed woman, “I shall grant a gratification of five thousand marks. Over an affair of this kind we cannot afford publicity. Therefore say nothing, either of you. Recollect that in this matter you are not only serving the King, but the whole Ministry and Court. The King must obtain a divorce, and we shall all be grateful to you for the collection of the necessary evidence. The latter, as I told you some time ago, need not be based on too firm a foundation, for even if she defends the action the mere fact of her alliance with this good-looking criminal will be sufficient to condemn her in the eyes of a jury of Treysa. Therefore return to England and collect the evidence carefully—facts that have foundation—you understand?”The spy nodded. He understood his Excellency’s scandalous suggestion. He was to manufacture evidence to be used against the Queen.“You must show that she has lightly transferred her love from Leitolf to this rascal Bourne. The report you have already made is good, but it is not quite complete enough. It must contain such direct charges that her counsel will be unable to bring evidence to deny,” declared the fat-faced man—the man who really ruled the Kingdom.The old monarch had been a hard, level-headed if rather eccentric man, who had never allowed Hinckeldeym to fully reach the height of his ambition; yet now, on the accession of his son, inexperienced in government and of a somewhat weak and vacillating disposition, the crafty President of the Council had quickly risen to be a power as great, if not greater than, the King himself.He was utterly unscrupulous, as shown by his conversation with Stieger. He was Claire’s bitterest enemy, yet so tactful was he that she had once believed him to be her friend, and had actually consulted him as to her impossible position at Court. Like many other men, he had commenced life as a small advocate in an obscure provincial town, but by dint of ingenious scheming and dishonest double-dealing he had wormed himself into the confidence of the old King, who regarded him as a necessity for the government of the country. His policy was self-advancement at any cost. He betrayed both enemies and friends with equal nonchalance, if they were unfortunate enough to stand in his way. Heinrich Hinckeldeym had never married, as he considered a wife an unnecessary burden, both socially and financially, and as far as was known, he was without a single relative.At his own splendid mansion, in a severely furnished room, he sat with his two spies, giving them further instructions as to how they were to act in England.“You will return to-morrow by way of Cologne and Ostend,” he said, “and I will at once have the formal requisition for their arrest and extradition made to the British Foreign Office. If this man Bourne is convicted, the prejudice against the Queen will be greater, and she will lose her partisans among the people, who certainly will not uphold her when this latest development becomes known.” And his Excellency’s fat, evil face relaxed into a grim smile.Presently he dismissed them, urging them to carry out the mission entrusted to them without scruple, and in the most secret manner possible. Then, when they were gone, he crossed the room to the telephone and asked the Ministers Stuhlmann, Meyer, and Hoepfner—who all lived close by—whether they could come at once, as he desired to consult them. All three responded to the President’s call, and in a quarter of an hour they assembled.Hinckeldeym, having locked the door and drawn the heavyportière, at once gave his friends a résumé of what had taken place that evening, and of the manner in which he had rearoused the King’s anger and jealousy.“Excellent!” declared Stuhlmann, who held the portfolio of Foreign Affairs. “Then I shall at once give Crispendorf orders to receive Stieger and to apply to the British Foreign Office for the arrest of the pair. What are their names? I did not quite catch them.”Hinckeldeym crossed to his writing-table and scribbled a memorandum of the names Bourne and Redmayne, and the offences for which they were wanted.“They will be tried in Berlin, I suppose?” Stuhlmann remarked.“My dear friend, it does not matter where they are tried, so long as they are convicted. All we desire to establish is the one fact which will strike the public as outrageous—the Queen has a lover who is a criminal. Having done that, we need no longer fear her return here to Treysa.”“But is not the Leitolf affair quite sufficient?” asked Meyer, a somewhat younger man than the others, who, by favour of Hinckeldeym, now held the office of Minister of Justice.“The King suspects it is a mere platonic friendship.”“And it really may be after all,” remarked Meyer. “In my opinion—expressed privately to you here—the Queen has not acted as a guilty woman would act. If the scandal were true she would have been more impatient. Besides, the English nurse, Allen, came to me before she left Treysa, and vowed to me that the reports were utterly without foundation. They were lovers, as children—that is all.”Hinckeldeym turned upon him furiously.“We have nothing to do with your private misgivings. Your duty as Minister is to act with us,” he said in a hard, angry voice. “What does it matter if the English nurse is paid by the Queen to whitewash her mistress? You, my dear Meyer, must be the very last person to express disbelief in facts already known. Think of what would happen if this woman returned to Treysa! You and I—and all of us—would be swept out of office and into obscurity. Can we afford to risk that? If you can, I tell you most plainly that I can’t. I intend that the King shall obtain a divorce, and that the woman shall never be permitted to cross our frontier again. The day she does, recollect, will mark our downfall.”Meyer, thus reproved by the man to whom he owed his present office, pursed his lips and gave his shoulders a slight shrug. He saw that Hinckeldeym had made up his mind, even though he himself had all along doubted whether the Queen was not an innocent victim of her enemies. Allen had sought audience of him, and had fearlessly denounced, in no measured terms, the foul lies circulated by the Countess de Trauttenberg. The Englishwoman had declared that her mistress was the victim of a plot, and that although she was well aware of her friendliness with Count Leitolf, yet it was nothing more than friendship. She had admitted watching them very closely in order to ascertain whether what was whispered was really true. But it was not. The Queen was an ill-treated and misjudged woman, she declared, concluding with a vow that the just judgment of God would, sooner or later, fall upon her enemies. What the Englishwoman had told him had impressed him. And now Hinckeldeym’s demeanour made it plain that what Allen had said had very good foundation.He, Ludwig Meyer, was Minister of Justice, yet he was compelled to conspire with the others to do to a woman the worst injustice that man’s ambition could possibly conceive. His companion Hoepfner, Minister of Finance, was also one of Hinckeldeym’s creatures, and dared not dissent from his decision.“You forget, my dear Meyer,” said the old President, turning back to him. “You forget all that the Countess Hupertz discovered, and all that she told us.”“I recollect everything most distinctly. But I also recollect that she gave us no proof.”“Ah! You, too, believe in platonic friendship!” sneered the old man. “Only fools believe in that.”“No,” interposed Stuhlmann quickly. “Do not let us quarrel over this. Our policy is a straightforward and decisive one. The King is to apply for a divorce, and our friend Meyer will see that it is granted. The thing is quite simple.”“But if she is innocent?” asked the Minister of Justice.“There is no question of her innocence,” snapped Hinckeldeym. “It is her guilt that concerns you—you understand!”Then, after some further consultation, during which time Meyer remained silent, the three men rose and, shaking hands with the President, departed.When they had gone Hinckeldeym paced angrily up and down the room. He was furious that Meyer should express the slightest doubt or compunction. His hands were clenched, his round, prominent eyes wore a fierce, determined expression, and his gross features were drawn and ashen grey.“We shall see, woman, who will win—you or I!” he muttered to himself. “You told me that when you were Queen you would sweep clean the Augean stable—you would change all the Ministers of State, Chamberlains—every one, from the Chancellor of the Orders down to the Grand Master of the Ceremonies. You said that they should all go—and first of all thedames du palais. Well, we shall see!” he laughed to himself. “If your husband is such a fool as to relent and regard your friendship with Leitolf with leniency, then we must bring forward this newest lover of yours—this man who is to be arrested in your company and condemned as a criminal. The people, after that, will no longer call you ‘their Claire’ and clamour for your return, and in addition, your fool of a husband will be bound to accept the divorce which Meyer will give him. And then, woman,” he growled to himself, “you will perhaps regret having threatened Heinrich Hinckeldeym!”
“You did exceedingly well, Stieger. I am much pleased!” declared his Excellency the Minister, when, outside the palace, he caused them both to enter his carriage and was driving them to his own fine house on the opposite side of the capital. “His Majesty is taking a severe revenge,” he laughed. “This Englishman Bourne will certainly regret having met the Queen. Besides, the fact of her having chosen a low-born criminal lover condemns her a thousandfold in the King’s eyes. I, who know him well, know that nothing could cause him such anger as for her to cast her royalty into the mud, as she has done by her friendship with this gaolbird.”
“I am pleased to have earned your Excellency’s approbation,” replied the man. “And I trust that his Majesty’s pleasure will mean advancement for me—at your Excellency’s discretion, of course.”
“To-morrow I shall sign this decree, raising you to the post of functionary of the first class, with increased emoluments. And to you,” he added, turning to the thin-nosed woman, “I shall grant a gratification of five thousand marks. Over an affair of this kind we cannot afford publicity. Therefore say nothing, either of you. Recollect that in this matter you are not only serving the King, but the whole Ministry and Court. The King must obtain a divorce, and we shall all be grateful to you for the collection of the necessary evidence. The latter, as I told you some time ago, need not be based on too firm a foundation, for even if she defends the action the mere fact of her alliance with this good-looking criminal will be sufficient to condemn her in the eyes of a jury of Treysa. Therefore return to England and collect the evidence carefully—facts that have foundation—you understand?”
The spy nodded. He understood his Excellency’s scandalous suggestion. He was to manufacture evidence to be used against the Queen.
“You must show that she has lightly transferred her love from Leitolf to this rascal Bourne. The report you have already made is good, but it is not quite complete enough. It must contain such direct charges that her counsel will be unable to bring evidence to deny,” declared the fat-faced man—the man who really ruled the Kingdom.
The old monarch had been a hard, level-headed if rather eccentric man, who had never allowed Hinckeldeym to fully reach the height of his ambition; yet now, on the accession of his son, inexperienced in government and of a somewhat weak and vacillating disposition, the crafty President of the Council had quickly risen to be a power as great, if not greater than, the King himself.
He was utterly unscrupulous, as shown by his conversation with Stieger. He was Claire’s bitterest enemy, yet so tactful was he that she had once believed him to be her friend, and had actually consulted him as to her impossible position at Court. Like many other men, he had commenced life as a small advocate in an obscure provincial town, but by dint of ingenious scheming and dishonest double-dealing he had wormed himself into the confidence of the old King, who regarded him as a necessity for the government of the country. His policy was self-advancement at any cost. He betrayed both enemies and friends with equal nonchalance, if they were unfortunate enough to stand in his way. Heinrich Hinckeldeym had never married, as he considered a wife an unnecessary burden, both socially and financially, and as far as was known, he was without a single relative.
At his own splendid mansion, in a severely furnished room, he sat with his two spies, giving them further instructions as to how they were to act in England.
“You will return to-morrow by way of Cologne and Ostend,” he said, “and I will at once have the formal requisition for their arrest and extradition made to the British Foreign Office. If this man Bourne is convicted, the prejudice against the Queen will be greater, and she will lose her partisans among the people, who certainly will not uphold her when this latest development becomes known.” And his Excellency’s fat, evil face relaxed into a grim smile.
Presently he dismissed them, urging them to carry out the mission entrusted to them without scruple, and in the most secret manner possible. Then, when they were gone, he crossed the room to the telephone and asked the Ministers Stuhlmann, Meyer, and Hoepfner—who all lived close by—whether they could come at once, as he desired to consult them. All three responded to the President’s call, and in a quarter of an hour they assembled.
Hinckeldeym, having locked the door and drawn the heavyportière, at once gave his friends a résumé of what had taken place that evening, and of the manner in which he had rearoused the King’s anger and jealousy.
“Excellent!” declared Stuhlmann, who held the portfolio of Foreign Affairs. “Then I shall at once give Crispendorf orders to receive Stieger and to apply to the British Foreign Office for the arrest of the pair. What are their names? I did not quite catch them.”
Hinckeldeym crossed to his writing-table and scribbled a memorandum of the names Bourne and Redmayne, and the offences for which they were wanted.
“They will be tried in Berlin, I suppose?” Stuhlmann remarked.
“My dear friend, it does not matter where they are tried, so long as they are convicted. All we desire to establish is the one fact which will strike the public as outrageous—the Queen has a lover who is a criminal. Having done that, we need no longer fear her return here to Treysa.”
“But is not the Leitolf affair quite sufficient?” asked Meyer, a somewhat younger man than the others, who, by favour of Hinckeldeym, now held the office of Minister of Justice.
“The King suspects it is a mere platonic friendship.”
“And it really may be after all,” remarked Meyer. “In my opinion—expressed privately to you here—the Queen has not acted as a guilty woman would act. If the scandal were true she would have been more impatient. Besides, the English nurse, Allen, came to me before she left Treysa, and vowed to me that the reports were utterly without foundation. They were lovers, as children—that is all.”
Hinckeldeym turned upon him furiously.
“We have nothing to do with your private misgivings. Your duty as Minister is to act with us,” he said in a hard, angry voice. “What does it matter if the English nurse is paid by the Queen to whitewash her mistress? You, my dear Meyer, must be the very last person to express disbelief in facts already known. Think of what would happen if this woman returned to Treysa! You and I—and all of us—would be swept out of office and into obscurity. Can we afford to risk that? If you can, I tell you most plainly that I can’t. I intend that the King shall obtain a divorce, and that the woman shall never be permitted to cross our frontier again. The day she does, recollect, will mark our downfall.”
Meyer, thus reproved by the man to whom he owed his present office, pursed his lips and gave his shoulders a slight shrug. He saw that Hinckeldeym had made up his mind, even though he himself had all along doubted whether the Queen was not an innocent victim of her enemies. Allen had sought audience of him, and had fearlessly denounced, in no measured terms, the foul lies circulated by the Countess de Trauttenberg. The Englishwoman had declared that her mistress was the victim of a plot, and that although she was well aware of her friendliness with Count Leitolf, yet it was nothing more than friendship. She had admitted watching them very closely in order to ascertain whether what was whispered was really true. But it was not. The Queen was an ill-treated and misjudged woman, she declared, concluding with a vow that the just judgment of God would, sooner or later, fall upon her enemies. What the Englishwoman had told him had impressed him. And now Hinckeldeym’s demeanour made it plain that what Allen had said had very good foundation.
He, Ludwig Meyer, was Minister of Justice, yet he was compelled to conspire with the others to do to a woman the worst injustice that man’s ambition could possibly conceive. His companion Hoepfner, Minister of Finance, was also one of Hinckeldeym’s creatures, and dared not dissent from his decision.
“You forget, my dear Meyer,” said the old President, turning back to him. “You forget all that the Countess Hupertz discovered, and all that she told us.”
“I recollect everything most distinctly. But I also recollect that she gave us no proof.”
“Ah! You, too, believe in platonic friendship!” sneered the old man. “Only fools believe in that.”
“No,” interposed Stuhlmann quickly. “Do not let us quarrel over this. Our policy is a straightforward and decisive one. The King is to apply for a divorce, and our friend Meyer will see that it is granted. The thing is quite simple.”
“But if she is innocent?” asked the Minister of Justice.
“There is no question of her innocence,” snapped Hinckeldeym. “It is her guilt that concerns you—you understand!”
Then, after some further consultation, during which time Meyer remained silent, the three men rose and, shaking hands with the President, departed.
When they had gone Hinckeldeym paced angrily up and down the room. He was furious that Meyer should express the slightest doubt or compunction. His hands were clenched, his round, prominent eyes wore a fierce, determined expression, and his gross features were drawn and ashen grey.
“We shall see, woman, who will win—you or I!” he muttered to himself. “You told me that when you were Queen you would sweep clean the Augean stable—you would change all the Ministers of State, Chamberlains—every one, from the Chancellor of the Orders down to the Grand Master of the Ceremonies. You said that they should all go—and first of all thedames du palais. Well, we shall see!” he laughed to himself. “If your husband is such a fool as to relent and regard your friendship with Leitolf with leniency, then we must bring forward this newest lover of yours—this man who is to be arrested in your company and condemned as a criminal. The people, after that, will no longer call you ‘their Claire’ and clamour for your return, and in addition, your fool of a husband will be bound to accept the divorce which Meyer will give him. And then, woman,” he growled to himself, “you will perhaps regret having threatened Heinrich Hinckeldeym!”
Chapter Twenty Four.Romance and Reality.Roddy Redmayne, having returned safely from abroad, was living in quiet seclusion with Guy in apartments in a small, pleasantly situated cottage beyond West Worthing, on the dusty road to Goring. Immediately on his arrival from Hull he had gone to Brighton, but after a few days had taken apartments in the ancient little place, with its old-world garden filled with roses.Both he and Guy, under assumed names, of course, represented themselves as clerks down from London, spending their summer holidays, and certainly their flannel suits, white shoes, and Panama hats gave them that appearance. Kinder was in hiding in a house up in Newcastle-on-Tyne, having crossed to that port from Antwerp. The Baroness’s jewels, which were a particularly fine lot, had been disposed of to certain agents in Leyden, and therefore Roddy and his friends were in funds, though they gave no sign of wealth to their landlady, the thrifty wife of a cab proprietor.It was a very pleasant little cottage, standing quite alone, and as the two men were the only lodgers they were quite free to do as they liked. The greater part of the day they smoked and read under the trees in the big, old-fashioned garden, and at evening would walk together into Worthing, and generally met Claire upon the pier.“Madame,” as they called her, went with Leucha several times and lunched with them at the little place, while once or twice they had had the honour of dining at her table, when they had found her a most charming hostess. Both men tried to do all they could to render her what little services lay in their power, and each day they sent her from the florist’s large bunches of tea-roses, her favourite flowers. Little Ignatia was not forgotten, for they sent her dolls and toys.Claire’s life was now at last calm and peaceful, with her three strange friends. Leucha was most attentive to Ignatia, and took her each morning for a run with bare feet upon the sands, while the two men who seldom, if ever, went out before dusk, generally met her and walked with her after dinner beside the sea.Often, when alone, she wondered how her husband fared at Treysa, and how Carl was enduring the broiling heat of the long, thirsty Italian summer. Where was that traitress, the Trauttenberg, and what, she wondered, had become of those two faithful servants, Allen and Henriette? Her past unhappiness at Treysa sometimes arose before her like some hideous but half-remembered dream. In those days she lived among enemies, but now she was with friends, even though they might be outlawed from society. With all her timid flexibility and soft acquiescence Claire was not weak; for the negative alone is weak, and the mere presence of goodness and affection implies in itself a species of power, power with repose—that soul of grace.Many a pleasant stroll after sundown she took with the courtly old adventurer, who looked quite a gay old dog in his flannels and rakish Panama pulled down over his eyes; or with Guy, who dressed a trifle more quietly. The last-named, however, preferred, of course, the society of Leucha, and frequently walked behind with her. Claire treated Roddy’s daughter more as an equal than as a dependant—indeed, treated her as her lady-in-waiting, to fetch and carry for her, to tie her veil, to button her gloves, and to perform the thousand and one little services which the trained lady-in-waiting does so deftly and without ceremony.Though at first very strange to the world, Claire was now beginning to realise its ways, and to enjoy and appreciate more and more the freedom which she had at last gained. She delighted in those evening walks beneath the stars, when they would rest upon a seat, listening to the soft music of the sea, and watching the flashing light of the Owers and the bright beacon on Selsea Bill.Yes, life in the obscurity of Worthing was indeed far preferable to the glare and glitter of the Court at Treysa. The people in the town—shopkeepers and others—soon began to know Madame Bernard by sight, and so many were her kindly actions that the common people on the promenade—cabmen, baggage-porters, bath-chair men, and the like—touched their hats to her in respect, little dreaming that the beautiful, sweet-faced foreigner with the pretty child was actually queen of a German kingdom.As the summer days went by, and the two men met her each evening at the entrance to the pier, she could not close her eyes to the fact that the affection between Guy and Leucha had increased until it now amounted to a veritable passion. They loved each other both truly and well, yet what could be done? There was, alas! the ghastly barrier of want between them—a barrier which, in this cruel, hard world of ours, divides so many true and loving hearts.And as those peaceful summer days went by, the two strangers, a man and a woman, who lived at separate hotels, and only met on rare occasions, were ever watchful, noting and reporting the Queen’s every action, and keeping close observation upon the two men who were living at that rose-embowered cottage in calm ignorance of the dastardly betrayal that was being so ingeniously planned.One evening, just before she sat down to dinner, the maidservant handed her a letter with a Belgian stamp, and opening it, she saw that enclosed was a communication from the faithful Steinbach.She tore open the envelope with breathless eagerness, and read as follows:—“Your Majesty.—In greatest haste I send you warning to acquaint you with another fresh conspiracy, the exact nature of which I am at present unaware. Confidential papers have, however, to-day passed through my hands in the Ministry—a report for transmission to Crispendorf, in London. This report alleges that you are unduly friendly with a certain Englishman named Guy Bourne, said to be living in the town of Worthing, in the county of Sussex. This is all I can at present discover, but it will, I trust, be sufficient to apprise you that your enemies have discovered your whereabouts, and are still seeking to crush you. The instant I can gather more I will report further. Your Majesty’s most humble and obedient servant.—S.”She bit her lip. Then they had discovered her, and, moreover, were trying now to couple her name with Bourne’s! It was cruel, unjust, inhuman. In such a mind as hers the sense of a cruel injury, inflicted by one she had loved and trusted, without awakening any violent anger or any desire of vengeance, sank deep—almost incurably and lastingly deep.Leucha, who entered the room at that moment, noticed her grave expression as she held the letter in her hand, but was silent.The tender and virtuous woman re-read those fateful lines, and reflected deeply. Steinbach was faithful to her, and had given her timely warning. Yes, she had on many occasions walked alone with Guy along the promenade, and he had, unseen by any one, kissed her hand in homage of her royal station. She fully recognised that, unscrupulous liars as her enemies were, they might start another scandal against her as cruel as that concerning Carl Leitolf.She had little appetite for dinner but afterwards, when she went out with Leucha into the warm summer’s night, and, as usual, they met the two men idling near the pier, she took Guy aside and walked with him at some distance behind Roddy and his daughter.At first their conversation was as usual, upon the doings of the day. She gave him permission to smoke, and he lit his cigar, the light of the match illuminating his face.It was a delightful August night, almost windless, and with a crescent moon and calm sea, while from the pier there came across the waters the strains of one of the latest waltzes. She was dressed all in white, and Guy, glancing at her now and then, thought he had never seen her looking more graceful and beautiful. Nevertheless her Imperial blood betrayed itself always in her bearing, even on those occasions when she had disguised herself in her maid’s gowns.Presently, when father and daughter were some distance ahead, she turned to him and, looking into his countenance, said very seriously,—“Much as I regret it, Mr Bourne, our very pleasant evenings here must end. This is our last walk together.”“What! Madame!” he exclaimed. “Are you leaving?” and he halted in surprise.“I hardly know yet,” she replied, just a trifle confused, for she hesitated to tell the cruel truth to this man who had once risked his life for hers. “It is not, however, because I am leaving, but our parting is imperative, because—well—for the sake of both of us.”“I don’t quite follow your Majesty,” he said, looking inquiringly at her. They were quite alone, at a spot where there were no promenaders.“No,” she sighed. “I expect not. I must be more plain, although it pains me to be so. The fact is that my enemies at Court have learnt that we are friends, and are now endeavouring to couple our names—you and I. Is it not scandalous—when you love Leucha?”“What!” he cried, starting back amazed. “They are actually endeavouring to again besmirch your good name! Ah! I see! They say that I am your latest lover—eh? Tell me the truth,” he urged fiercely. “These liars say that you are in love with me! They don’t know who I am,” he laughed bitterly. “I, a thief—and you, a sovereign!”“They are enemies, and will utter any lies to create scandal concerning me,” she said, with quiet resignation. “For that reason we must not be seen together. To you, Mr Bourne, I owe my life—a debt that I fear I shall never be able to sufficiently repay. Mr Redmayne and yourself have been very kind and generous to me, a friendless woman, and yet I am forced by circumstances to withdraw my friendship because of this latest plot conceived by the people who have so ingeniously plotted my ruin. As you know, they declared that Count Leitolf was my lover, but I swear before God that he was only my friend—my dear, devoted friend, just as I believe that you yourself are. And yet,” she sighed, “it is so very easy to cast scandal against a woman, be she a seamstress or of the blood royal.”“I am certainly your devoted friend,” the man declared in a clear, earnest tone. “You are misjudged and ill-treated, therefore it is my duty as a man, who, I hope, still retains some of the chivalry of a gentleman, to stand your champion.”“In this, you, alas! cannot—you would only compromise me,” she declared, shaking her head sadly.“We must part. You and Mr Redmayne are safe here. Therefore I shall to-morrow leave Worthing.”“But this is dastardly!” he cried in fierce resentment. “Are you to live always in this glass house, for your enemies to hound you from place to place, because a man dares to admire your beauty? What is your future to be?”She fixed her calm gaze upon him in the pale moonlight.“Who can tell?” she sighed sadly. “For the present we must think only of the present. My enemies have discovered me, therefore it is imperative that we should part. Yet before doing so I want to thank you very much for all the services you and Mr Redmayne have rendered me. Rest assured that they will never be forgotten—never.”Roddy and Leucha had seated themselves upon a seat facing the beach, and they were now slowly approaching them.“I hardly know how to take leave of you,” Guy said, speaking slowly and very earnestly. “You, on your part, have been so good and generous to Leucha and myself. If these scandalmongers only knew that she loved me and that I reciprocated her affection, they surely would not seek to propagate this shameful report concerning us.”“It would make no difference to them,” she declared in a low, hoarse voice of grief. “For their purposes—in order that I shall be condemned as worthless, and prevented from returning to Treysa—they must continue to invent their vile fictions against my honour as a woman.”“The fiends!” he cried fiercely. “But you shall be even with them yet! They fear you—and they shall, one day, have just cause for their fears. We will assist you—Roddy and I. We will together prove your honesty and innocence before the whole world.”They gained the seat whereon Leucha and her father were sitting, and Claire sat down to rest before the softly sighing sea, while her companion stood, she having forgotten to give him permission to be seated. She was so unconventional that she often overlooked such points, and, to her intimate friends, would suddenly laugh and apologise for her forgetfulness.While all four were chatting and laughing together—for Roddy had related a droll incident he had witnessed that day out at Goring—there came along the sea-path two figures of men, visitors like themselves, judging from their white linen trousers and straw hats. Their approach was quite unnoticed until of a sudden they both halted before the group, and one of them, a brown-bearded man, stepping up to the younger man, said, in a stern, determined voice,—“I identify you as Guy Bourne. I am Inspector Sinclair of the Criminal Investigation Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest for jewel robbery!” Claire gave vent to a low cry of despair, while Leucha sprang up and clung to the man she loved. But at that same instant three other men appeared out of the deep shadows, while one of them, addressing Roddy, who in an instant had jumped to his feet, said,—“I’m Detective-sergeant Plummer. I identify you as Roddy Redmayne,aliasScott-Martin,aliasWard. I arrest you on a charge of jewel robbery committed within the German Empire. Whatever statement you may make will be used in evidence against you on your trial.” Both men were so utterly staggered that neither spoke a word. Their arrest had been so quickly and quietly effected that they had no opportunity to offer resistance, and even if they had they would have been outnumbered.Roddy uttered a fierce imprecation beneath his breath, but Guy, turning sadly to Claire, merely shrugged his shoulders, and remarked bitterly,—“It is Fate, I suppose!”And the two men were compelled to walk back with a detective on either side of them, while Leucha, in a passion of tears, crushed and heart-broken, followed with her grave-faced mistress—a sad, mournful procession.Claire spoke to them both—kind, encouraging words, urging them to take courage—whereupon one of the detectives said,—“I really think it would be better if you left us, madam.” But she refused, and walked on behind them, watched from a distance by the German agent Stieger and Rose Reinherz, and, alas! in ignorance of the vile, despicable plot of Hinckeldeym—the plot that was to ruin her for ever in the eyes of her people.
Roddy Redmayne, having returned safely from abroad, was living in quiet seclusion with Guy in apartments in a small, pleasantly situated cottage beyond West Worthing, on the dusty road to Goring. Immediately on his arrival from Hull he had gone to Brighton, but after a few days had taken apartments in the ancient little place, with its old-world garden filled with roses.
Both he and Guy, under assumed names, of course, represented themselves as clerks down from London, spending their summer holidays, and certainly their flannel suits, white shoes, and Panama hats gave them that appearance. Kinder was in hiding in a house up in Newcastle-on-Tyne, having crossed to that port from Antwerp. The Baroness’s jewels, which were a particularly fine lot, had been disposed of to certain agents in Leyden, and therefore Roddy and his friends were in funds, though they gave no sign of wealth to their landlady, the thrifty wife of a cab proprietor.
It was a very pleasant little cottage, standing quite alone, and as the two men were the only lodgers they were quite free to do as they liked. The greater part of the day they smoked and read under the trees in the big, old-fashioned garden, and at evening would walk together into Worthing, and generally met Claire upon the pier.
“Madame,” as they called her, went with Leucha several times and lunched with them at the little place, while once or twice they had had the honour of dining at her table, when they had found her a most charming hostess. Both men tried to do all they could to render her what little services lay in their power, and each day they sent her from the florist’s large bunches of tea-roses, her favourite flowers. Little Ignatia was not forgotten, for they sent her dolls and toys.
Claire’s life was now at last calm and peaceful, with her three strange friends. Leucha was most attentive to Ignatia, and took her each morning for a run with bare feet upon the sands, while the two men who seldom, if ever, went out before dusk, generally met her and walked with her after dinner beside the sea.
Often, when alone, she wondered how her husband fared at Treysa, and how Carl was enduring the broiling heat of the long, thirsty Italian summer. Where was that traitress, the Trauttenberg, and what, she wondered, had become of those two faithful servants, Allen and Henriette? Her past unhappiness at Treysa sometimes arose before her like some hideous but half-remembered dream. In those days she lived among enemies, but now she was with friends, even though they might be outlawed from society. With all her timid flexibility and soft acquiescence Claire was not weak; for the negative alone is weak, and the mere presence of goodness and affection implies in itself a species of power, power with repose—that soul of grace.
Many a pleasant stroll after sundown she took with the courtly old adventurer, who looked quite a gay old dog in his flannels and rakish Panama pulled down over his eyes; or with Guy, who dressed a trifle more quietly. The last-named, however, preferred, of course, the society of Leucha, and frequently walked behind with her. Claire treated Roddy’s daughter more as an equal than as a dependant—indeed, treated her as her lady-in-waiting, to fetch and carry for her, to tie her veil, to button her gloves, and to perform the thousand and one little services which the trained lady-in-waiting does so deftly and without ceremony.
Though at first very strange to the world, Claire was now beginning to realise its ways, and to enjoy and appreciate more and more the freedom which she had at last gained. She delighted in those evening walks beneath the stars, when they would rest upon a seat, listening to the soft music of the sea, and watching the flashing light of the Owers and the bright beacon on Selsea Bill.
Yes, life in the obscurity of Worthing was indeed far preferable to the glare and glitter of the Court at Treysa. The people in the town—shopkeepers and others—soon began to know Madame Bernard by sight, and so many were her kindly actions that the common people on the promenade—cabmen, baggage-porters, bath-chair men, and the like—touched their hats to her in respect, little dreaming that the beautiful, sweet-faced foreigner with the pretty child was actually queen of a German kingdom.
As the summer days went by, and the two men met her each evening at the entrance to the pier, she could not close her eyes to the fact that the affection between Guy and Leucha had increased until it now amounted to a veritable passion. They loved each other both truly and well, yet what could be done? There was, alas! the ghastly barrier of want between them—a barrier which, in this cruel, hard world of ours, divides so many true and loving hearts.
And as those peaceful summer days went by, the two strangers, a man and a woman, who lived at separate hotels, and only met on rare occasions, were ever watchful, noting and reporting the Queen’s every action, and keeping close observation upon the two men who were living at that rose-embowered cottage in calm ignorance of the dastardly betrayal that was being so ingeniously planned.
One evening, just before she sat down to dinner, the maidservant handed her a letter with a Belgian stamp, and opening it, she saw that enclosed was a communication from the faithful Steinbach.
She tore open the envelope with breathless eagerness, and read as follows:—
“Your Majesty.—In greatest haste I send you warning to acquaint you with another fresh conspiracy, the exact nature of which I am at present unaware. Confidential papers have, however, to-day passed through my hands in the Ministry—a report for transmission to Crispendorf, in London. This report alleges that you are unduly friendly with a certain Englishman named Guy Bourne, said to be living in the town of Worthing, in the county of Sussex. This is all I can at present discover, but it will, I trust, be sufficient to apprise you that your enemies have discovered your whereabouts, and are still seeking to crush you. The instant I can gather more I will report further. Your Majesty’s most humble and obedient servant.—S.”
She bit her lip. Then they had discovered her, and, moreover, were trying now to couple her name with Bourne’s! It was cruel, unjust, inhuman. In such a mind as hers the sense of a cruel injury, inflicted by one she had loved and trusted, without awakening any violent anger or any desire of vengeance, sank deep—almost incurably and lastingly deep.
Leucha, who entered the room at that moment, noticed her grave expression as she held the letter in her hand, but was silent.
The tender and virtuous woman re-read those fateful lines, and reflected deeply. Steinbach was faithful to her, and had given her timely warning. Yes, she had on many occasions walked alone with Guy along the promenade, and he had, unseen by any one, kissed her hand in homage of her royal station. She fully recognised that, unscrupulous liars as her enemies were, they might start another scandal against her as cruel as that concerning Carl Leitolf.
She had little appetite for dinner but afterwards, when she went out with Leucha into the warm summer’s night, and, as usual, they met the two men idling near the pier, she took Guy aside and walked with him at some distance behind Roddy and his daughter.
At first their conversation was as usual, upon the doings of the day. She gave him permission to smoke, and he lit his cigar, the light of the match illuminating his face.
It was a delightful August night, almost windless, and with a crescent moon and calm sea, while from the pier there came across the waters the strains of one of the latest waltzes. She was dressed all in white, and Guy, glancing at her now and then, thought he had never seen her looking more graceful and beautiful. Nevertheless her Imperial blood betrayed itself always in her bearing, even on those occasions when she had disguised herself in her maid’s gowns.
Presently, when father and daughter were some distance ahead, she turned to him and, looking into his countenance, said very seriously,—
“Much as I regret it, Mr Bourne, our very pleasant evenings here must end. This is our last walk together.”
“What! Madame!” he exclaimed. “Are you leaving?” and he halted in surprise.
“I hardly know yet,” she replied, just a trifle confused, for she hesitated to tell the cruel truth to this man who had once risked his life for hers. “It is not, however, because I am leaving, but our parting is imperative, because—well—for the sake of both of us.”
“I don’t quite follow your Majesty,” he said, looking inquiringly at her. They were quite alone, at a spot where there were no promenaders.
“No,” she sighed. “I expect not. I must be more plain, although it pains me to be so. The fact is that my enemies at Court have learnt that we are friends, and are now endeavouring to couple our names—you and I. Is it not scandalous—when you love Leucha?”
“What!” he cried, starting back amazed. “They are actually endeavouring to again besmirch your good name! Ah! I see! They say that I am your latest lover—eh? Tell me the truth,” he urged fiercely. “These liars say that you are in love with me! They don’t know who I am,” he laughed bitterly. “I, a thief—and you, a sovereign!”
“They are enemies, and will utter any lies to create scandal concerning me,” she said, with quiet resignation. “For that reason we must not be seen together. To you, Mr Bourne, I owe my life—a debt that I fear I shall never be able to sufficiently repay. Mr Redmayne and yourself have been very kind and generous to me, a friendless woman, and yet I am forced by circumstances to withdraw my friendship because of this latest plot conceived by the people who have so ingeniously plotted my ruin. As you know, they declared that Count Leitolf was my lover, but I swear before God that he was only my friend—my dear, devoted friend, just as I believe that you yourself are. And yet,” she sighed, “it is so very easy to cast scandal against a woman, be she a seamstress or of the blood royal.”
“I am certainly your devoted friend,” the man declared in a clear, earnest tone. “You are misjudged and ill-treated, therefore it is my duty as a man, who, I hope, still retains some of the chivalry of a gentleman, to stand your champion.”
“In this, you, alas! cannot—you would only compromise me,” she declared, shaking her head sadly.
“We must part. You and Mr Redmayne are safe here. Therefore I shall to-morrow leave Worthing.”
“But this is dastardly!” he cried in fierce resentment. “Are you to live always in this glass house, for your enemies to hound you from place to place, because a man dares to admire your beauty? What is your future to be?”
She fixed her calm gaze upon him in the pale moonlight.
“Who can tell?” she sighed sadly. “For the present we must think only of the present. My enemies have discovered me, therefore it is imperative that we should part. Yet before doing so I want to thank you very much for all the services you and Mr Redmayne have rendered me. Rest assured that they will never be forgotten—never.”
Roddy and Leucha had seated themselves upon a seat facing the beach, and they were now slowly approaching them.
“I hardly know how to take leave of you,” Guy said, speaking slowly and very earnestly. “You, on your part, have been so good and generous to Leucha and myself. If these scandalmongers only knew that she loved me and that I reciprocated her affection, they surely would not seek to propagate this shameful report concerning us.”
“It would make no difference to them,” she declared in a low, hoarse voice of grief. “For their purposes—in order that I shall be condemned as worthless, and prevented from returning to Treysa—they must continue to invent their vile fictions against my honour as a woman.”
“The fiends!” he cried fiercely. “But you shall be even with them yet! They fear you—and they shall, one day, have just cause for their fears. We will assist you—Roddy and I. We will together prove your honesty and innocence before the whole world.”
They gained the seat whereon Leucha and her father were sitting, and Claire sat down to rest before the softly sighing sea, while her companion stood, she having forgotten to give him permission to be seated. She was so unconventional that she often overlooked such points, and, to her intimate friends, would suddenly laugh and apologise for her forgetfulness.
While all four were chatting and laughing together—for Roddy had related a droll incident he had witnessed that day out at Goring—there came along the sea-path two figures of men, visitors like themselves, judging from their white linen trousers and straw hats. Their approach was quite unnoticed until of a sudden they both halted before the group, and one of them, a brown-bearded man, stepping up to the younger man, said, in a stern, determined voice,—
“I identify you as Guy Bourne. I am Inspector Sinclair of the Criminal Investigation Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest for jewel robbery!” Claire gave vent to a low cry of despair, while Leucha sprang up and clung to the man she loved. But at that same instant three other men appeared out of the deep shadows, while one of them, addressing Roddy, who in an instant had jumped to his feet, said,—
“I’m Detective-sergeant Plummer. I identify you as Roddy Redmayne,aliasScott-Martin,aliasWard. I arrest you on a charge of jewel robbery committed within the German Empire. Whatever statement you may make will be used in evidence against you on your trial.” Both men were so utterly staggered that neither spoke a word. Their arrest had been so quickly and quietly effected that they had no opportunity to offer resistance, and even if they had they would have been outnumbered.
Roddy uttered a fierce imprecation beneath his breath, but Guy, turning sadly to Claire, merely shrugged his shoulders, and remarked bitterly,—
“It is Fate, I suppose!”
And the two men were compelled to walk back with a detective on either side of them, while Leucha, in a passion of tears, crushed and heart-broken, followed with her grave-faced mistress—a sad, mournful procession.
Claire spoke to them both—kind, encouraging words, urging them to take courage—whereupon one of the detectives said,—
“I really think it would be better if you left us, madam.” But she refused, and walked on behind them, watched from a distance by the German agent Stieger and Rose Reinherz, and, alas! in ignorance of the vile, despicable plot of Hinckeldeym—the plot that was to ruin her for ever in the eyes of her people.