"I am staying at Claridge's, or rather I was," Mr. Grooten remarked, as we turned into Brook Street. "I saw you with Leibingen, and I have been waiting for you. We will talk, I think, at your rooms."
Whereupon he lit a fresh cigarette, and did not speak a word until we had reached our destination. Isobel had gone to bed, and our sitting-room was empty. I turned up the lamp, and pushed a chair towards him. In various small ways he seemed to have succeeded in effecting a wonderful change in his appearance. His hair was differently arranged, and much greyer. His face was pale and drawn as though with illness. But for his voice and his broad, humorous mouth I doubt whether I should immediately have recognized him.
"I perceive," he said, "that I am not forgotten. It is very flattering! My friends abroad tell me that I have altered a good deal during the last twelve months."
"You have altered, without a doubt," I admitted. "But the circumstances connected with our first meeting were scarcely such as tend towards forgetfulness. You remember my friend, Mr. Allan Mabane?"
"Perfectly," he assented, with a courteous little wave of the hand. "I am very glad to have come across you both again so opportunely. I only arrived in England a few days ago, but I did not hope to have this pleasure until the morning at the earliest. You expected to have heard from me, perhaps, before."
"I don't know about that," I answered, "but I can assure you that we are both very glad to see you, for more reasons than one. There are a good many things which we are anxious to discuss with you."
"The pleasure, then, is mutual," Mr. Grooten remarked affably. "Isobel is, I trust, well?"
"She is quite well," I answered.
"You are helping her to spend her time profitably, I am glad to find," he continued. "I saw two miniatures of hers yesterday at the Mordaunt Rooms."
"Isobel has gifts," I said. "We are doing our best to assist her in their development."
Mr. Grooten raised his eyes to mine. He looked at me steadily.
"Why have you refused to use the money which I placed to your credit at the National Bank for her?" he asked.
"Because," I answered, "we are not aware what right you have to provide for her."
Mr. Grooten smiled upon us—much as a sphynx might have smiled. It had the effect of making us both feel very young.
"My claim," he murmured, "must surely be as good as yours."
"Perhaps," I admitted. "At any rate, the money remains there in her name. She may find herself in greater need of it later on in life."
Mr. Grooten seemed to find some amusement in the idea.
"No," he said, "I do not think that that is likely. You could safely have used the money, but as you have not—well, it is of small consequence. I presume that attempts have been made to withdraw the child from your care?"
"Several," I told him. "Madame Richard and Lady Delahaye were equally importunate."
Grooten nodded.
"You have shown," he said, "an admirable discretion in refusing to give her up to either of them."
"And to-day," I continued, "a third claimant to the care of her has intervened. The Archduchess of Bristlaw herself has offered to relieve us of our guardianship."
Mr. Grooten dropped the cigarette which he had only just lit, and seemed for the moment unconscious of the fact. He made no effort to pick it up. He quivered as though someone had struck him a blow. For a man whose impassivity was almost a part of himself he was evidently deeply agitated.
"The Archduchess—has seen Isobel!" he muttered.
"They met by chance at the Mordaunt Rooms a few afternoons ago," I told him. "The Archduchess was accompanied by a girl of about Isobel's age. We came upon them suddenly, and the likeness was so marvellous that we were all startled. There was something in the nature of a scene. We left the Gallery at once, but the Archduchess sent one of her suite for me. I had some conversation with her concerning Isobel."
"Can you repeat it?" Grooten asked.
"In substance—yes," I told him. "The Archduchess plainly hinted that she believed Isobel to be connected morganatically with her family. She wished to take her under her own charge and provide for her."
"And you?"
"I thought it best to take some time for reflection. I had some idea of looking up the history of the Archduchess's family."
"You made no promise?"
"Certainly not. To tell you the truth, I was influenced by the presence of Lady Delahaye amongst the royal party. I have no faith in Lady Delahaye's good intentions with regard to Isobel."
Mr. Grooten flashed a quick glance upon me.
"Yet," he said softly, "report says that you and Lady Delahaye have been very good friends."
"That," I answered, "is beside the mark. I knew her before her marriage, but I have seen very little of her since. As a matter of fact, our relations at the present time are scarcely amicable. We have had a difference of opinion concerning our guardianship of Isobel. Lady Delahaye does not approve of her presence here with us."
Mr. Grooten smiled.
"That," he said, "is probable. May I proceed to ask a somewhat impertinent question? You were the guests to-night, I believe, of the Baron von Leibingen, who is, I understand, apersona gratawith the Archduchess. I presume that your meeting in some way concerned Isobel?"
"Isobel was the sole cause of it," I answered. "The Archduchess is a woman who perseveres. She declined to consider that my reply to her first tentative offer was in any way final. She passed the matter on to the Baron, and certainly until he lost his temper towards the end of our interview, he was a very efficient ambassador. He proved to us quite clearly that it was our duty to give Isobel up to those who had a better right to assume the charge of her, and he wound up by handing us cheques for—I think it was five thousand pounds each, wasn't it, Allan?"
Mr. Grooten leaned back in his chair and laughed silently, yet with obvious enjoyment.
"That poor von Leibingen," he murmured, "how he blunders his way through life! Yet, my friend, I am afraid that this charge which I so thoughtlessly laid upon you is proving very troublesome. And you perceive that I do not even offer you a cheque."
Allan suddenly rose up and knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fire.
"You do not offer us a cheque, Mr. Grooten," he said quietly, "because you have perceptions. But there is another way in which you can recompense us for the trifling inconveniences to which we have been put. You can make our task easier—and more dignified; you can answer a question which I think I may say that we have an absolute right to ask you."
Mr. Grooten inclined his head slightly. He made no remark. Allan turned to me.
"Arnold," he said, "this is more your affair than mine, for it is you who have borne the brunt of it from the first. I do not wish to interfere in it unduly. But from every point of view, I think that the time has come when all this mystery concerning Isobel's antecedents should be, so far as we are concerned at any rate, cleared up. Our hands would be immensely strengthened by the knowledge of the truth. Your friend here, Mr. Grooten, can tell us if he will. Ask him to do so. I will go further. I will even say that we have a right to insist upon it."
Mr. Grooten sat immovable. One could scarcely gather from his face that he had heard a word of Allan's speech.
"You are quite right, Allan," I answered. "Mr. Grooten," I continued, turning towards him, "you are the best judge as to whether your presence in this country is altogether wise, but I can assure you that for the last six months we have looked for you every day, and for this same reason. We want that question answered. The time has come when, in common justice to us and the child, the whole thing should be cleared up. Whatever knowledge rests with you is safe also with us. I think that we have proved that. I think that we have earned our right to your complete confidence. Mabane and I you can consider as one in this matter. You can speak before him as though we were alone. Now tell us the whole truth."
"I cannot," Mr. Grooten answered simply.
There was a certain crisp definiteness about those two words which carried conviction with them. Mabane and I were a little staggered. Our position was such a strong one, our request so reasonable, that I think that we had never realized the possibility of a refusal.
"May I ask you this?" Mabane said. "Do you expect that we shall continue our—I suppose we may call it guardianship—of Isobel in the face of your present attitude?"
"I hope so, for the present," our visitor admitted softly.
"Notwithstanding," Mabane continued, "our absolute ignorance of everything connected with her, our lack of any sort of claim or title to the charge of her, and the increasing number of people who still persist in trying to take her from us?"
Mr. Grooten shrugged his shoulders.
"You omit to mention the factors in the situation which may be said to be on your side," he murmured.
"I should be interested to know what those are," I remarked.
"Certainly. The first and most powerful of all is, of course, possession."
Mabane nodded.
"And after that?"
"The fact that not one of the three people who have appealed to you for the charge of the child is in a position to use the only real force which exists in this land. I mean the law," Grooten continued.
This kept us silent again for a moment. Mabane, I could see, was getting a little ruffled.
"You pelt us with enigmas, sir," he said. "You answer our questions only by propounding fresh conundrums. One thing, at least, you may feel disposed to tell us. What is your own relationship to Isobel?"
"None," Mr. Grooten answered.
"Your interest, then?"
Mr. Grooten remained silent. He sat in his chair, very still and very quiet. Yet in his eyes there shone for a moment something which seemed to bring into the little room the shadow of great things. Mabane and I both felt it. We had the sense of having been left behind. The little man in his chair seemed to have been lifted out of our reach into the mightier world of passion and suffering and self-conquest.
"I loved her mother," he said softly. "I was the man whom her mother loved."
There was a silence between us then. We had no more to say. We were at that moment his bounden slaves. But by some evil chance, after a lengthened pause, he continued—
"I, alas, could do little for the child. Yet when I heard that harm was threatened to her through that scamp Delahaye, I crossed the ocean at an hour's notice. I saved her from him. He deserved his fate, but I am no murderer by profession, and the shock unnerved me for a time. Then——"
"Hush!" Mabane cried.
I sprang to the door. It had been thrust about a foot open. From outside came the sound of angry voices, followed by a moment's silence. Then a quick, shrill cry of triumph.
"Let me in. Oh, you shall not stop me now. I am going to see the man who boasts of being my husband's murderer!"
It was the voice of Lady Delahaye. She was already upon the threshold. I sprang to the table and saw her coming. Already she was behind the screen, stealing into the room, her head thrust forward, her lips parted, a peculiar glitter in her eyes. For a moment I stood rigid. The sight of her fascinated me—there was something so wholly animal-like in the stealthy triumph of her tiptoe approach. I recovered myself just in time. One more step, a turn of her head, and she would have seen Grooten. My finger pressed down the catch of the lamp, and a sudden darkness filled the room.
She stopped short. Her fierce little cry of anger told me exactly where she was. I stepped forward and caught her wrists firmly. Then I faced where I knew Grooten was still sitting. I could see the red end of his cigarette still in his mouth.
"Leave the room at once," I said. "You can push the screen on one side, and you are within a yard of the door then. Please do exactly as I say, and don't reply."
"Let go my hands, sir! Arnold, how dare you! Let me go, or I'll scream the place down. Mr. Mabane, you will not permit this?" she cried, in a fury.
Mabane closed the door through which Grooten had already issued, and I heard the key turn in the lock. I released Lady Delahaye's hands, and she sprang away from me. As the flame from the lamp which Allan had just rekindled gained in power we saw her, still shaking the handle, but with her back now against the wall turned to face us. She was calmer than I had expected, but it was a terrible look which she flashed upon us.
"In how many minutes," she asked, "may I be released?"
Allan whispered in my ear.
"In five minutes, Lady Delahaye," I said. "I regret very much the necessity for keeping you at all. May I offer you a chair?"
"You may offer me nothing, sir, except your silence," she answered swiftly.
She meant it too. I know the signs of anger in a woman's face as well as most men, and they were written there plainly enough. So for a most uncomfortable period of time we waited there until Allan, after a glance at his watch, went and opened the door. She passed out without remark, but from the threshold outside she turned and looked at me.
"I warned you once before, Arnold Greatson," she said, "that you were meddling with greater concerns than you knew of, and that harm would come to you for it. Now you have chosen to shield a murderer, and to use your strength upon a woman. These things will not go unforgotten!"
Mabane closed the door, and threw himself into an easy chair.
"For two easy-going sort of fellows, Arnold," he said to me, "we seem to be making a lot of enemies. Don't you think it would be a good idea if we drew stumps for a bit?"
"Meaning?" I asked.
"Roseleys!"
"We'll go to-morrow," I declared.
"I have never seen anything like this," Isobel said softly. I looked up from the writing-pad on my knee, and she met my glance with a smile of contrition.
"Ah," she said. "I forgot that I must not talk. Indeed, I did not mean to, but—look!"
I followed her eyes.
"Well," I said, "tell me what you see."
"There are so many beautiful things," she murmured. "Do you see how thick and green the grass is in the meadows there? How the quaker grasses glimmer?—you call them so, do you not?—and how those yellow cowslips shine like gold? What a world of colour it all seems. London is so grey and cold, and here—look at the sea, and the sky, with all those dear little fleecy white clouds, and the pink and white of all those wild roses wound in and out of the hedges. Oh, Arnold, it is all beautiful!"
"Even without a motor-car!" I remarked.
She looked at me a little resentfully.
"Motoring is very delightful," she said, "although you do not like it. Of course, it would be nice if Arthur were here!"
She looked away from me seawards, and I found myself studying her expression with an interest which had something more in it than mere curiosity. At odd times lately I had fancied that I could see it coming. To-day, for the first time, I was sure. The smooth transparency of childhood, the unrestrained but almost animal play of features and eyes, reproducing with photographic accuracy every small emotion and joy—these things were passing away. Even before her time the child was seeking knowledge. As she sat there, with her steadfast eyes fixed upon the smooth blue line where sea and sky met, who could tell what thoughts were passing in her mind? Not I, not Mabane, nor any of us into whose care she had come. Only I knew that she saw new things, that the rush of a more complex and stronger life was already troubling her, the sweet pangs of its birth were already tugging at her heartstrings. My pencil rested idly in my fingers, my eyes, like hers, sought that distant line, beyond which lies ever the world of one's own creation. What did she see there, I wondered? Never again should I be able to ask with the full certainty of knowing all that was in her mind. The time had come for delicate reserves, the time when the child of yesterday, with the first faint notes of a new and wonderful song stealing into her heart, must fence her new modesty around with many sweet elusions and barriers, fairy creations to be swept aside later on in one glad moment—by the one chosen person. There was a coldness in my heart when I realized that the time had come even for the child who had tripped so lightly into our lives so short a time ago, to pass away from us into that other and more complex world. It was the decree of sex, nature's immutable law, sundering playfellows, severing friendships, driving its unwilling victims into opposite corners of the world, with all the pitilessness of natural law. Nevertheless, the thought of these things as I looked at Isobel made me sad. She was young indeed for these days to come, for the shadows to steal into her eyes, and the song of trouble to grow in her heart.
"Tell me," I asked softly, "what you see beyond that blue line."
"I can tell you more easily," she said, glancing down with a faint smile at my empty pages, "what I see by my side—a very lazy man. And," she continued, crumpling a little ball of heather in her fingers and throwing it with unerring aim at Allan, "another one over there!"
"My picture," Allan protested, "is finished."
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, preparing to rise, but he waved her back.
"In my mind," he added. "Don't misunderstand me. The casual and ignorant observer glancing just now at my canvas might come to the same conclusion as you—a conclusion, by-the-bye, entirely erroneous. I will admit that my canvas is unspoilt. Nevertheless, my picture is painted."
She looked across at him reproachfully.
"Allan, how dare you!" she exclaimed. "Only Arnold has the right to be subtle. I have always regarded you as a straightforward and honest person. Don't disappoint me."
"St. Andrew forbid it!" Allan declared. "My meaning is painfully simple. I build up my picture first in my mind. Its transmission to canvas is purely mechanical. Here goes!"
He took up his palette, and in a few moments was hard at work. Isobel pointed downwards to my writing-pad.
"Can you too match Allan's excuse?" she asked. "Is your story already written?"
I shook my head.
"I have been watching you," I answered. "Besides, for a perfectly lazy person, are you not rather a hard task-mistress? Consider that this is our first day of summer—the first time we have seen the sun make diamonds on the sea, the first west wind which has come to us with the scent of cowslips and wild roses. I claim the right to be lazy if I want to be."
She smiled.
"The poet," she murmured, "finds these things inspiring."
"The poet," I answered, "is an ordinary creature. Nowadays he eats mutton-chops, plays golf, and has a banking account. The real man of feeling, Isobel, is the man who knows how to be idle. Believe me, there is a certain vulgarity in seeking to make a stock-in-trade of these delicious moments."
"That is not fair," she protested. "How should we all live if none of you did any work?"
"For your age, Isobel," I declared seriously, "you are very nearly a practical person. You make me more than ever anxious for an answer to my last question. What were you thinking of just now?"
Her eyes seemed to drift away from mine. A touch of her new seriousness returned. She pointed to that thin blue line.
"Beyond there," she said, "is to-morrow, and all the to-morrows to come. One sees a very little way."
"Our limitations," I answered, "are life's lesson to us. If to-morrow is hidden, so much the more reason that we should live to-day."
"Without thought for the morrow?"
"Without care for it," I answered. "Are we not Bohemians, and is it not our text?"
She shook her head.
"It is not yours," she answered slowly. "I am sure of that."
I looked at her quickly.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say," she answered gravely. "Men and women to whom the present is sufficient surely cannot achieve very much in life. All the time they must concentrate powers which need expansion. I think that it must be those who try to climb the walls, those even who tear their fingers and their hearts in the great struggle for freedom, who can make themselves capable of great things, even if escape is impossible. But I do not think that escape is so impossible after all, is it? There have been men, and women too, who have lived in all times, to whom there have been no to-morrows or any yesterdays. Only it seems rather hard that life for those who seek it must always be a battle!"
I did not answer her for several minutes. It was true, then, that the old days had passed away. Isobel, the child whom we had known and loved so well, had disappeared. It was Isobel the incomprehensible who was taking her place. What might the change not mean for us?...
Later we walked back over an open heath yellow with gorse, and faintly pink with the promise of the heather to come. Isobel carried her hat in her hand. She walked with her head thrown back, and a smile playing every now and then upon her lips. She was so completely absorbed that I found myself every now and then watching her, half expecting, I believe, to find some physical change to accord with that other more mysterious evolution. She walked with all the grace of long limbs and unfettered clothing. Her figure, though perfectly graceful, and with that same peculiar distinction which had first attracted me, was as yet wholly immature. But in the face itself there were signs of a coming change. Wherein it might lie I could not tell, but it was there, an intangible and wholly elusive thing. I think that a certain fear of it and what it might mean oppressed me with the sense of coming trouble. I was more fully conscious then than ever before of the moral responsibility of our peculiar charge.
We crossed a straight dusty road, cleaving the rolling moor like a belt of ribbon. Isobel looked thoughtfully along it.
"I wonder," she said, "when Arthur will come down!"
The folly of a man is a thing sometimes outside his own power of control. A second before I had been wondering of whom and what she had been thinking.
"Not just yet, I'm afraid," Allan answered, stopping to light his pipe. "It is not easy for him to get backwards and forwards, and I believe that he is by way of being rather busy just now."
"What a nuisance!" Isobel declared, looking behind her regretfully. "The roads about here seem so good."
"The roads are good, but the heath is better," Allan answered. "I will race you for half a pound of chocolates to that clump of pines!"
"You are such a slow starter," she laughed, bounding away before he had time to drop his easel. "Make it a pound!"
I picked up Allan's easel and strolled away after them. Was it the motoring, I wondered, which had prompted her half-wistful question, or had I been wise too late? Arthur had been very confident. So much that he had said had carried with it a certain ring of truth. Youth and the temperament of youth were surely irresistible. Like calls to like across the garden of spring flowers with a cry which no interloper can still, no wanderer of later years can stifle. Somehow it seemed to me just then that the sun had ceased to shine, and a touch of winter after all was lingering in the western breeze....
They disappeared round the pine plantation, Isobel leading by a few yards, her skirts blowing in the wind, running still with superb and untired grace. I climbed a bank to gain a better view of the finish, and became suddenly aware that I was not the only interested spectator of their struggle. About a hundred yards to my left a man was standing on the top of the same bank, a pair of field-glasses glued to his eyes, watching intently the spot where they might be expected to reappear. The sight of him took me by surprise. A few moments ago I could have sworn that there was not a human being within a mile of us. There was only one explanation of his appearance. He must have been concealed in the dry mossy ditch at the foot of the bank. It was possible, of course, that he might have been like us, a casual way-farer, and yet the suddenness of his appearance, the intentness of his watch, both had their effect upon me. I moved a few yards towards him, with what object I perhaps scarcely knew. A dry twig snapped beneath my feet. He became suddenly aware of my approach. Then, indeed, my suspicions took definite shape, for without a moment's hesitation the man turned and strode away in the opposite direction.
I shouted to him. He took no notice. I shouted again, and he only increased his pace. I watched him disappear, and I no longer had any doubts at all. He was not in the least like a tramp, and his flight could bear but one interpretation. Isobel was not safe even here. We had been followed from London—we were being watched every hour. For the first time I began seriously to doubt what the end of these things might be.
"Silence and perfume and moon-flooded meadows," Allan murmured. "Arnold, we shall all become corrupted. You will take to writing pastorals, and I—I—"
Isobel, from her seat between us, smiled up at him. Touched by the yellow moonlight, her face seemed almost ethereal.
"You," she said, "should paint a vision of the 'enchanted land.' You see those blurred woods, and the fields sloping up to the mists? Isn't that a perfect impression of the world unseen, half understood? Oh, how can you talk of such a place corrupting anybody, Allan!"
"I withdraw the term," he answered. "Yet Arnold knows what I meant very well. This place soothes while the city frets. Which state of mind do you think, Miss Isobel, draws from a man his best work?"
"Don't ask me enigmas, Allan," she murmured. "I am too happy to think, too happy to want to do anything more than exist. I wish we lived here always! Why didn't we come here long ago?"
"You forget the wonders of our climate," I remarked. "A month ago you might have stood where you are now, and seen nothing. You would have shivered with the cold. The field scents, the birds, the very insects were unborn. It is all a matter of seasons. What to-day is beautiful was yesterday a desert."
She shook her head slowly. Bareheaded, she was leaning now over the little gate, and her eyes sought the stars.
"I will not believe it," she declared. "I will not believe that it is not always beautiful here. Arnold, Allan, can you smell the honeysuckle?"
"And the hay," Allan answered, smoking vigorously. "To-morrow we shall be sneezing every few minutes. Have you ever had hay fever, Isobel?"
She laughed at him scornfully.
"You poor old thing!" she exclaimed. "You should wear a hat."
"A hat," Allan protested, "is of no avail against hay fever. It's the most insidious thing in the world, and is no respecter of youth. You, my dear Isobel, might be its first victim."
"Pooh! I catch nothing!" she declared, "and you mustn't either. I'm sure you ought to be able to paint some beautiful pictures down here, Allan. And, Arnold, you shall have your writing-table out under the chestnut tree there. You will be so comfortable, and I'm sure you'll be able to finish your story splendidly."
"You are very anxious to dispose of us all here, Isobel," I remarked. "What do you propose to do yourself?"
"Oh, paint a little, I suppose," she answered, "and—think! There is so much to think about here."
I shook my head.
"I am beginning to wonder," I said, "whether we did wisely to bring you."
"And why?"
"This thinking you are speaking of. It is bad!"
"You are foolish! Why should I not want to think?"
"If you begin to think you will begin to doubt," I answered, "and if you begin to doubt you will begin to understand. The person who once understands, you know, is never again really happy."
Isobel came and stood in front of me.
"Arnold!" she said.
"Well?"
"I wish you wouldn't talk to me always as though I were a baby," she said thoughtfully.
I took her hand and made her sit down by my side.
"Come," I protested, "that is not at all fair. I can assure you that I was taking you most seriously. The people who get most out of life are the people who avoid the analytical attitude, who enjoy but who do not seek to understand, who worship form and external beauty without the desire to penetrate below to understand the inner meaning of what they find so beautiful."
"That," she said, "sounds a little difficult. But I do not see how people can enjoy meaningless things."
"The source of all beauty is disillusioning."
"Seriously," Mabane interrupted, "if this conversation develops I am going indoors. Does Arnold want to penetrate into the hidden meaning of that cricket's chirp—or is he going to give us the chemical formula for the smell of the honeysuckle?"
Isobel laughed.
"He is rather trying to-night, isn't he?" she declared. "Listen! Is that someone going by?"
The footsteps of a man were clearly audible passing along the dusty little strip of road which fronted our cottage. Leaning forward I saw a tall, dark figure pass slowly by. From his height and upright carriage I thought that it must be the village policeman, and I called out good-night. My greeting met with no response. I shrugged my shoulders.
"Some of these village people are not particularly civil!" I remarked.
Mabane rose to his feet and strolled to the hedge.
"Those were not the footsteps of a villager," he remarked. "Listen!"
We stood quite still. The footsteps had ceased, although there was no other habitation for more than half a mile along the road. We could see nothing, but I noticed that Mabane was leaning a little forward and gazing with a curious intentness at the open common on the other side of the road. He stood up presently and knocked the ashes from his pipe.
"What do you say to a drink, Arnold?" he suggested.
"Come along!" I answered. "There's some whisky and soda on the sideboard."
Isobel laughed at us. She would have lingered where she was, but Allan passed his arm through hers.
"Sentiment must not make you lazy, Isobel," he declared. "I decline to mix my own whisky and soda. Arnold," he whispered, drawing me back as she stepped past us through the wide-open window, "I wonder if it has occurred to you that if any of our friends who are so anxious to obtain possession of Isobel were to attempt a coup down here, we should be rather in a mess. We're a mile from the village, and Lord knows how many from a police-station, and there isn't a door in the cottage a man couldn't break open with his fist."
"What made you think of it—just now?" I asked.
"Three men passed by, following that last fellow—on the edge of the common. I've got eyes like a cat in the dark, you know, and I could see that they were trying to get by unnoticed. Of course, there may be nothing in it, but—thanks, Isobel! By Jove, that's good!"
I slipped upstairs to my room, and on my return handed Allan something which he thrust quietly into his pocket. Then we went out again into the garden. I drew Mabane on one side for a moment.
"I don't think there's anything in it, Allan," I whispered. "It would be too clumsy for any of our friends—and too risky."
"It needn't be either," Allan answered, "but I daresay you're right."
Then we hastened once more to the front gate, summoned there by Isobel's cry.
"Listen!" she exclaimed, holding up her hand.
We stood by her side. From somewhere out of the night there came to our ears the faint distant throbbing of an engine. Neither Allan nor I realized what it was, but Isobel, who had stepped out on to the road, knew at once.
"Look!" she cried suddenly.
We followed her outstretched finger. Far away on the top of a distant hill, but moving towards us all the time with marvellous swiftness, we saw a small but brilliant light.
"A motor bicycle!" she cried. "I believe it is Arthur. It sounds just like his machine."
Arthur it was, white with dust and breathless. His first greeting was for Isobel, who welcomed him with both hands outstretched and a delight which she made no effort to conceal, overwhelming him with questions, frankly joyful at his coming. Mabane and I stood silent in the background, and we avoided each other's eyes. It was at that moment, perhaps, that I for the first time realized the tragedy into which we were slowly drifting. Isobel had forgotten us. She was wholly absorbed in her joy at Arthur's unexpected appearance. The thing which in my quieter moments had begun already vaguely to trouble me—a thing of slow and painful growth—assumed for the first time a certain definiteness. I looked a little way into the future, and it seemed to me that there were evil times coming.
Arthur approached us presently with outstretched hand. His manner was half apologetic, half triumphant. He seemed to be saying to himself that Isobel's reception of him must surely have opened our eyes.
"Your coming, I suppose, Arthur," Mabane said quietly, "signifies——"
"That I accept your terms for the present," Arthur answered, in a low tone. "I had to see you. There are strangers continually watching our diggings, and making inquiries about Isobel. There are things happening which I cannot understand at all."
I glanced towards Isobel.
"We will talk about it after she has gone to bed," I said. "Come in and have some supper now."
He drew me a little on one side.
"You remember the chap who was with the Archduchess at the Mordaunt Rooms?"
"Yes!"
"He was at the hotel in Guildford when I stopped for tea, with two other men. They're in a great Daimter car, and they're coming this way. I heard them ask about the roads."
"How far were they behind you?" I asked.
"They must be close up," he answered. "Listen!"
"Another motor!" Isobel cried suddenly. "Can you not hear it?"
There was no mistaking the sound, the deep, low throbbing of a powerful engine as yet some distance away. I was conscious of a curious sense of uneasiness.
"Isobel," I said, "would you mind going indoors!"
"Indoors indeed!" she laughed. "But no. I must see this motor-car."
I stepped quickly up to her, and laid my hand upon her arm.
"Isobel," I said earnestly, "you do not understand. I do not wish to frighten you, but I am afraid that the men in this car are coming here, and it is better that you should be out of the way. They want to take you from us. Go inside and lock yourself in your room."
She looked at me half puzzled, half resentful. The car was close at hand now. We ourselves were almost in the path of its flaring searchlights.
"Arnold, you are joking, of course!" she exclaimed. "They cannot take me away. I would not go."
The car had stopped. It contained four men, one of whom at once alighted and advanced towards us. I knew him by his voice and figure. It was the Baron von Leibingen!
I made no movement towards opening the gate. The newcomer advanced to within a few feet of me, and then paused. He leaned a little forward. He was doubtful, as I could see, of my identity.
"Can you tell me," he asked, raising his hat, "if this is Roseleys Cottage, the residence of Mr. Arnold Greatson?"
"Do you forget all your acquaintances so quickly, Baron?" I answered. "This is Roseleys, and I am Arnold Greatson!"
"Your voice," he declared, "is sufficient. I can assure you that it is a matter of eyesight, not of memory. In the dark I am always as blind as a bat."
"It is," I remarked, "a very common happening. You are motoring, I see. You have chosen a very delightful night, but are you not—pardon me—a little off the track? You are on your way to the South Coast, I presume?"
"On the contrary," the Baron answered, "our destination is here. Will you permit me to apologise for the lateness of my visit? We were unfortunately delayed for several hours by a mishap to our automobile, or I should have had the honour of presenting myself during the afternoon."
I did not offer to move.
"Perhaps," I said, "as it is certainly very late, and we were on the point of retiring, you will permit me to inquire at once into the nature of the business which procures for me the honour of this visit."
My visitor paused. His hand was upon the gate. So was mine, keeping it all the time fast closed.
"You will permit me?" he said, making an attempt to enter.
"I regret," I answered, "that at this late hour I am not prepared to offer you any hospitality. If you will come and see me to-morrow morning I shall be happy to hear what you have to say."
My visitor did not remove his hand from the gate. It seemed to me that his tone became more belligerent.
"You are discomposed to see us, Mr. Greatson," he said, "me and my friends. As you see," he added, with a little wave of his hand, "I am not alone. I have only to regret that you have made this visit necessary. We have come to induce you, if possible, to change your mind, and to give up the young lady in whom the Archduchess has been graciously pleased to interest herself to those who have a better claim upon her."
"It is not a matter," I answered, "which I am prepared to discuss at this hour—or with you!"
"As to that," the young man answered, "I am the envoy of her Royal Highness, as I can speedily convince you if you will."
"It is unnecessary," I answered. "The Archduchess has already had my answer. Will you allow me to wish you good-night?"
"I wish, Mr. Greatson," the young man said, "that you would discuss this matter with me in a reasonable spirit."
"At a reasonable hour," I answered, "I might be prepared to do so. But certainly not now."
It seemed to me that his hand upon the gate tightened. He certainly showed no signs of accepting the dismissal which I was trying to force upon him.
"I have endeavoured to explain my late arrival," he said. "You must not believe me guilty of wilful discourtesy. As for the rest, Mr. Greatson, what does it matter whether the hour is late or early? The matter is an important one. Between ourselves, her Highness has made up her mind to undertake the charge of the young lady, and I may tell you that when her Highness has made up her mind to anything she is not one to be disappointed."
"In her own country," I said, "the will of the Archduchess is doubtless paramount. Out here, however, she must take her chance amongst the others."
"But you have no claim—no shadow of a claim upon the child," the Baron declared.
"If the Archduchess thinks she has a better," I answered, "the law courts are open to her."
My visitor was apparently becoming annoyed. There were traces of irritation in his tone.
"Do you imagine, my dear Mr. Greatson," he said, "that her Highness can possibly desire to bring before the notice of the world the peccadiloes of her illustrious relative? No, the law courts are not to be thought of. We rely upon your good sense!"
"And failing that?"
The Baron hesitated. It seemed to me that he was peering into the shadows beyond the hedge.
"The position," he murmured, "is a singular one. Where neither side for different reasons is disposed to submit its case to the courts, then it must be admitted that possession becomes a very important feature in the case."
"That," I remarked, "is entirely my view. May I take the liberty, Baron von Leibingen, of wishing you good-night? I see no advantage in continuing this discussion."
"Possession for the moment," he said slowly, "is with you. Have you reflected, Mr. Greatson, that it may not always be so?"
"Will you favour me," I said, "by becoming a little more explicit?"
"With pleasure," the Baron answered quickly. "I have three friends here with me, and we are all armed. Your cottage is surrounded by half a dozen more—friends—who are also armed. We are here to take Isobel de Sorrens back with us, and we mean to do it. On my honour, Mr. Greatson, no harm is intended to her. She will be as safe with the Archduchess as with her own mother."
"If you don't take your hand off my gate in two seconds," I said, "you will regret it all your life."
He sprang forward, but I fired over his shoulder, and with an oath he backed into the road. Isobel meanwhile, now thoroughly alarmed, turned and ran towards the house, only to find the path already blocked by two men, who had stepped silently out from the low hedge which separated the garden from the fields beyond. Allan promptly knocked one of them down, only to find himself struggling with the other. Isobel, whose skirts were caught by the fallen man, tried in vain to release herself. I dared scarcely turn my head, for my levelled revolver was keeping in check the Baron and his three friends.
"Baron," I said, "your methods savour a little too much of comic opera. You have mistaken your country and—us. There are three of us, and if you force us to fight—well, we shall fight. The advantage of numbers is with you, I admit. For the rest, if you succeed to-night you will be in the police court to-morrow."
The Baron made no answer. I felt that he was watching the struggle which was going on behind my back. I heard Isobel shriek, and the sound maddened me. I left it to the Baron to do his worst. I sprang backwards, and brought the butt end of my revolver down upon the skull of the man who was dragging her across the lawn. Then I passed my arm round her waist, and called out once more to the Baron who had passed through the gate, and was coming rapidly towards us.
"You fool!" I cried. "Unless you call off your hired gang and leave this place at once, every newspaper in London shall advertise Isobel's name and presence here to-morrow."
It was a chance shot, but it went home. I saw him stop short, and I heard his little broken exclamation.
"But you do not know who she is?" he cried.
"I know very well indeed," I answered.
Just then Mabane broke loose from the man with whom he had been struggling, and rushed to Arthur's assistance. The Baron raised his hand and shouted something in German. Instantly our assailants seemed to melt away. The Baron stepped on to the strip of lawn and raised his hand.
"I call a truce, Mr. Greatson," he said. "I desire to speak with you."
I released my hold upon Isobel and turned to Mabane. Arthur too, breathless but unhurt, had struggled to his feet.
"Take her into the house," I said quickly. But her grasp only tightened upon my arm.
"I will not leave you, Arnold," she said. "I shall stay here. They will not dare to touch me."
I tried to disengage her arm, but she was persistent. She took no notice of Allan, who tried to lead her away. I stole a glance at her through the darkness. Her face was white, but there were no signs of fear there, nor were there any signs of childishness in her manner or bearing. She carried herself like an angry young princess, and her eyes seemed lit with smouldering fire, as clinging to my arm she leaned a little forwards toward the Baron.
"Why am I spoken of," she cried passionately, "as though I were a baby, a thing of no account, to be carried away to your mistress or disposed of according to your liking? Do you think that I would come, Baron von Leibingen——"
She broke off suddenly. She leaned a little further forward. Her lips were parted. The fire in her eyes had given way to a great wonder, and the breathlessness of her silence was like a thing to be felt. It held us all dumb. We waited—we scarcely knew for what. Only we knew that she had something more to say, and we were impelled to wait for her words.
"I have seen you before," she cried, with a strange note of wonder in her tone. "Your face comes back to me—only it was a long time ago—a long, long time! Where was it, Baron von Leibingen?"
I heard his smothered exclamation. He drew quickly a step backwards as though he sought to evade her searching gaze.
"You are mistaken, young lady," he said. "I know nothing of you beyond the fact that the lady whom I have the honour to serve desires to be your friend."
"It is not true," she answered. "I remember you—a long way back—and the memory comes to me like an evil thought. I will not come to you. You may kill me, but I will not come alive."
"Indeed you are mistaken," he persisted, though he sought still the shadow of a rhododendron bush, and his voice quivered with nervous anxiety. "You have never seen me before. Surely the Archduchess, the daughter of a King, is not one whose proffered kindness it is well to slight? Think again, young lady. Her Highness will make your future her special charge!"
"If your visit to-night, sir," she answered, "is a mark of the Archduchess's good-will to me, I can well dispense with it. I have given you my answer."
"You will remember, Baron," I said, speaking at random, but gravely, and as though some special meaning lurked in my words, "that this young lady comes of a race who do not readily change. She has made her choice, and her answer to you is my answer. She will remain with us!"
The Baron stepped out again into the rich-scented twilight.
"You hold strong cards, Mr. Arnold Greatson," he said, "but I see their backs only. How do I know that you speak the truth? From whom have you learnt the story of this young lady's antecedents?"
"From Mr. Grooten," I answered boldly.
"I do not know the name," the Baron protested.
"He is the man," I said, "who set Isobel free!"
The Baron said something to himself in German, which I did not understand.
"You mean the man who shot Major Delahaye?" he asked.
"I do!"
"Then I would to Heaven I knew whose identity that name conceals," he cried fiercely.
"You would not dare to publish it," I answered, "for to do so would be to give Isobel's story to the world."
"And why should I shrink from that?" he asked.
I laughed.
"Ask your august mistress," I declared. "It seems to me that we know more than you think."
The Baron looked over his shoulder and spoke to his companions. From that moment I knew that we had conquered. One of them left and went outside to where the motor-car, with its great flaring lights, still stood. Then the Baron faced me once more.
"Mr. Greatson," he said, "you are playing a game of your own, and for the moment I must admit that you hold the tricks against me. But it is well that I should give you once more this warning. If you should decide upon taking one false step—you perhaps know very well what I mean—things will go ill with you—very ill indeed."
Then he turned away, and our little garden was freed from the presence of all of them. We heard the starting of the car. Presently it glided away. We listened to its throbbing growing fainter and fainter in the distance. Then there was silence. A faint breeze had sprung up, and was rustling in the shrubs. From somewhere across the moor we heard the melancholy cry of the corncrakes. A great sob of relief broke from Isobel's throat—then suddenly her arm grew heavy upon mine. We hurried her into the house.
The perfume from a drooping lilac-bush a few feet away from the open casement was mingled with the fainter odour of jessamine and homely stocks. In the soft morning sunshine the terrors of last night seemed a thing far removed from us. We sat at breakfast in our little sitting-room, and as though by common though unspoken consent we treated the whole affair as a gigantic joke. We ignored its darker aspect. We spoke of it as an "opera-bouffe" attempt never likely to be repeated—the hare-brained scheme of a mad foreigner, over anxious to earn the favour of his mistress. But beneath all our light talk was an undernote of seriousness. I think that Mabane and I, at any rate, realized perhaps for the first time that the situation, so far as Isobel was concerned, was fast becoming an impossible one.
After breakfast we all strolled out into the garden. Isobel, with her hands full of flowers, flitted in and out amongst the rose-bushes, laughing and talking with all the invincible gaiety of light-hearted youth, and Arthur hung all the while about her, his eyes following her every movement, telling her all the while by every action and look—if indeed the time had come for her to discern such things—all that our compact forbade him to utter. Presently I slipped away, and shutting myself up in the tiny room where I worked, drew out my papers. In a few minutes I had made a start. I passed with a little unconscious sigh of relief into the detachment which was fast becoming the one luxury of my life.
An hour may have passed, perhaps more, when I was interrupted. I heard the door softly opened, and light footsteps crossed the room to my side. Isobel's hand rested on my shoulder, and she looked down at my work.
"Arnold," she exclaimed, "how dare you! You promised to read your story when you had finished six chapters, and you are working on chapter twenty now!"
Her long white forefinger pointed accusingly to the heading of my last page. Then I realized with a sudden flash of apprehension why I had not kept my promise—why I could never keep it. The story which flowed so smoothly from my pen was a record of my own emotions, my own sufferings. Even her name had usurped the name of my heroine, and stared up at me from the half-finished page. It was my own story which was written there, my own unhappiness which throbbed through every word and sentence. With a little nervous gesture I covered over the open sheets. I rose hastily to my feet, and I drew her away from the table.
"Another time, Isobel," I said. "It is too glorious a day to spend indoors, and Arthur has taken holiday too. Tell me, what shall we do?"
She looked at me a little doubtfully. I had grown into the habit of consulting her about my work, of reading most of it to her. Sometimes, too, she acted as my secretary. Perhaps she saw something of the trouble in my face, for she answered me very softly.
"I should like," she said, "to sit there before the open window on a cushion, and to have you sit down in that easy-chair and read to me. That is how I choose to spend the morning!"
I shook my head.
"How about the others?" I asked.
"Oh, Arthur and Allan can go for a walk!" she declared.
"What selfishness," I answered, as lightly as I could. "Arthur must go back to town to-night, he says. I think that we ought all to spend the day together, don't you? I rather thought that you young people would have been off somewhere directly after breakfast."
She looked at me earnestly.
"Of course," she said, "if you want to be left alone——"
"But I don't," I interrupted, reaching for my hat. "I want to come too."
"You nice old thing!" she exclaimed, passing her arm through mine. "We'll walk to Heather Hill. Arthur says that we can see the sea from there. Come along!"
So we started away, the four of us together. Presently, however, Arthur and Isobel drew away in front. Allan, with a little grunt, stopped to light his pipe.
"Arthur may keep his compact in the letter," he said, "but in the spirit he breaks it every time their eyes meet. You can't blame him. It's human nature, after all—the gravitation of youth. Arnold, I'm afraid you awoke to your responsibilities too late."
"You think—that she understands?" I asked quietly.
"Why not? She is almost a woman, and she is older than her years. Look at them now. He wants to talk seriously, and she is teasing him all the time. She has the instinct of her sex. She will conceal what she feels until the—psychological moment. But she does feel—she begins to understand. I am sure of it. Watch them!"
We kept silence for a while, I myself struggling with a sickening sense of despair against this newborn and most colossal folly. I think that I was always possessed of an average amount of self-control, but my great fear now was lest my secret should in any way escape me. Mabane's words had carried conviction with them. Life itself for these few deadly minutes seemed changed. The birds had ceased to sing, and the warmth of the sunshine had faded out of the fluttering east wind. I saw no longer the heath starred with yellow and purple blooms, the distant line of blue hills. The turf was no longer springy beneath my feet, a grey mist hung over the joyous summer morning. I was back again on my way from Bow Street, threading a difficult passage through the market baskets of Covent Garden, the child stepping blithely by my side, graceful even then, notwithstanding her immatureness, and quaintly attractive, though her deep blue eyes were full of tears, and the white terror had not passed wholly from her face. It was those few moments of her complete and trustful helplessness which had transformed my life for me, those few moments in which the huge folly of these later days had been born. For her very coming seemed to have been at a chosen time—at one of those periods of weariness which a man must feel whose sympathy with and desire for life leads him into many and devious forms of distraction, only to find in time the same dregs at the bottom of the cup. The joy of her fresh childish beauty, her pure sweet trustfulness, at all times a delicate flattery to any man, just the more so to me, a little inclined towards self-distrust, was like a fragrant, a heart-stirring memory even now. I looked back upon these years which lay between her youth and my fast approaching middle-age—grey, weary years, whose follies seemed now to rise up and stalk by my side, the ghosts of misspent days, ghosts of the sickly reasonings of a sham philosophy which lead into the broad way because its thoroughfares are easy and pleasant, and pressed by the feet of the great majority. I kept my eyes fixed upon the ground and I felt that strange thrill of despair pulling at my heartstrings, dragging me downwards—the despair which is almost akin to physical suffering.... And then a voice came floating back to me down the west wind. Its call at such a moment seemed almost symbolical.
"Come along, you very lazy people! Arnold, may I walk with you for a little way? Arthur is not at all brilliant this morning, and he does not amuse me."
"I am afraid," I began, "that as an entertainer——"
"Oh, you want to smoke your pipe in peace, of course," she interrupted, laughing, and passing her arm through mine. "Well, I am not going to allow it. I want you—to tell me things."
So our little procession was re-formed. Mabane, and Arthur with his hands deep in his pockets and an angry frown upon his forehead, walked on ahead. Behind came Isobel and I—Isobel with her hands clasped behind her, her head a little thrown back, a faint, wistful smile lightening the unusual gravity of her face. I looked at her in wonder.
"Come," I said, "what are the things you want me to talk to you about, and why are you tired of talking nonsense with Arthur?"
She did not look at me, but the smile faded from her lips. Her eyes were still fixed steadily ahead.
"I believe you think, Arnold," she said quietly, "that I am still a baby!"
I saw her lips quiver for a moment, and my selfishness melted away. I thought only of her.
"No, I do not think that, Isobel," I said gently. "Only if I were you I would not be in too great a hurry to grow up. It is when one is young, after all, that one walks in the gardens of life. Afterwards—when one has passed through the portals—outside the roads are dusty, and the way a little wearisome. Stay in the gardens, Isobel, as long as you can. Believe me, that life outside has many disappointments and many sorrows. Your time will come soon enough."
She smiled at me a little enigmatically.
"And you?" she asked, "have you closed the gates of the garden behind you?"
"I am nearer forty than thirty," I answered. "I have grey hairs, and I am getting a little bald. I may still be of some use in the world, and there are very beautiful places where I may rest, and even find happiness. But they are not like the gardens of youth. There is no other place like them. All of us who have hurried so eagerly away, Isobel, look back sometimes—and long!"
She shook her head. Perhaps a little of the sadness of my mood had after all found its way into my tone, for she looked at me with the shadow of a reproach in her deep blue eyes, a faint tenderness which seemed to me more beautiful than anything I had ever seen.
"I do not think that I like your allegory, Arnold," she said. "After all, the gardens are the nursery of life, are they not? The great things of the world are all outside."
I held my breath for a moment in amazement. Since when had thoughts like this come to her? I knew then that the days of her childhood were numbered indeed, that, underneath the fresh joyous grace of her delightful youth, the woman's instincts were stirring. And I was afraid!
"The great things, Isobel," I said slowly, "look very fine from a distance, but the power of accomplishment is not given to all of us. Every triumph and every success has its reverse side, its sorrowful side. For instance, the whole judgment of the world is by comparison. A great picture which brings fame to a man eclipses the work and lessens the reputation of another. A successful book takes not a place of its own, but the place of another man's work who must needs suffer for your success. Life is a battle truly enough, but it is always civil war, the striving of humanity against itself. That is why what looks so great to you from behind the hedge may seem a very hollow thing when you have won the power to call it your own."
She looked at me as though wondering how far I were in earnest.
"I think," she said, smiling, "that you are trying to confuse me. Of course, I have not thought much about such things, but when I am a little older, if there was anything I could do I should simply try to do it in the best possible way, and I should feel that I was doing what was right. There is room for a great many people in the world, Arnold—a great many novelists and a great many artists and a great many thinkers! Some of us must be content with lesser places. I for one!..."
I walked home with Allan, and I spoke to him seriously.
"There is a duty before us," I said, "which up to now we have shirked. The time has come when we must undertake it in earnest."
"You mean?"
"We must abandon our negative attitude. Isobel comes, I am very sure, from no ordinary people. We must find out her place in life and restore her to it. She is a child no longer. It is not fitting that she should stay with us."
Mabane, too, was for a moment sad and silent. His face fell into stern lines, but when he answered me his tone was steady and resolute enough.
"You are right, Arnold," he answered. "We had better go back to London and begin at once."
It was perhaps a little ominous that I should find waiting for me on our return a telegram from Grooten:
"I must see you to-night. Shall call at your rooms twelve o'clock."