Isobel interrupted the discussion with an imperative little tap upon the table.
"Please listen, all of you!" she exclaimed. "I have something to say, and an invitation for you all."
We had been dining at a little Italian restaurant on our way home, and over our coffee had been considering how to spend the rest of the evening. Arthur had declared for a music hall; Mabane and I were indifferent. Isobel up to now had said nothing.
"All my life," she said slowly, "I have been wanting to see Feurgéres. He is in London for one week with Rejani, and if we can get seats I am going to take you all. I have twenty pounds in my pocket from that nice man Mr. Grooten, who bought my other miniature, and I want to spend some of it."
Arthur, who understood no French, shook his head.
"Not the slightest chance of seats," he declared. "They've all been booked for weeks."
"They often have some returned at the theatre," Isobel answered. "At least, if you others do not mind, we will go and see."
"Your proposal, Isobel," Allan said gravely, "indicates a certain amount of recklessness which reflects little credit upon us, your guardians. I propose——"
"Please do not be tiresome!" she interrupted. "Arnold, you will come with me, will you not?"
"I shall be delighted," I answered. "I am sure that we all shall. Only I am afraid that we shall not get in."
We paid the bill and walked to the theatre. The man at the ticket-office shook his head at our request for seats. People had been waiting in the streets since morning for the unreserved places, and the others had been booked weeks ago. But as we were turning away the telephone in his office rang, and he called us back.
"I have just had four stalls returned," he said. "You can have them, if you like."
"We are in morning dress," I remarked doubtfully.
"They are in the back row, so you can have them if you care to," he answered.
"What luck!" Isobel exclaimed, delighted. "Arnold, how glorious! Here is my purse. Will you pay for me, please?"
So we went in just as the curtain rose upon the first act of Rostand's great play. The house was packed with an immense audience. One box alone, the stage box on the left, was empty. I leaned over to Isobel, and would have told her the story which all the world knew.
"You see that box?" I whispered. "Wherever he plays it is always empty."
"I know," she answered. "His wife used to sit there—always in the same place; and after her death, whatever theatre he played at, he always insisted upon having it kept empty. They say that on great nights, when the people go almost wild with enthusiasm, he looks into the shadows there almost as though he really saw her still sitting in her old place. It is a beautiful story."
"Done for effect!" Arthur muttered, and was promptly snubbed, as he deserved. They were friends again immediately afterwards, however, and I saw him attempt to hold her hand for a moment. Decidedly it was time that we carried out our new resolution.
I think that from the moment I took my seat I was conscious in some mysterious way of the coming of great things. There was a thrill of excitement in the air, a sort of stifled electricity which one realizes often amongst a highly cultured audience awaiting the production of a great work. But apart from this sensation of which I was fully conscious, I felt a curious sense of nervousness stealing in upon me for which I could in no way account. I knew what it meant only when, amidst a storm of cheers, Feurgéres entered. Then indeed I knew.
I kept silent, for which I was thankful, but the programme in my hand was crumpled into a little ball, and the figures upon the stage moved as though in a mist before my eyes. Isobel noticed nothing, for her whole breathless attention was riveted upon the play. I came to myself with the rich sweet voice of the man, so tender, so infinitely pathetic, ringing with a curious familiarity in my ears. From that moment I followed the movement of the play.
The curtain went down upon the first act amidst a silence so intense that it seemed as though people might be listening still for the echoes of that sad, sweet voice which had been playing so effectively upon their heartstrings. Then came the storm of applause, which lasted for several minutes. I turned towards Isobel. She was sitting very still, and she did not join in the enthusiasm which seemed to find its way straight from the hearts of the men and women who sat about us. But her eyes were wet with tears, her lips a little parted. She gazed at the man whom incessant calls had brought at last a little wearily before the curtain, as one might look at a god. And their eyes met. He did not start or betray himself in any way—perhaps his training befriended him there, but as he left the stage he staggered, and I saw his hand go to clutch the curtain for support. I knew then that, before the night was over, Isobel's history would no longer be a secret to us.
She turned to me with a little smile of apology. There was a new look in her face too. She spoke gravely.
"Was I very stupid? I am sorry, but I could not help it. I have never seen anything like this before. It is wonderful!"
We talked quietly of the play, and I was astonished at the keenness of her perceptions, the unerring ease with which she had realized and appreciated the self-abnegation which was the great underlyingmotifof the whole drama. And in the midst of our conversation, what I had expected happened. A note was brought to me by an attendant.
"Come to me after the next act, and bring her. An attendant will be waiting for you at your left-hand door of egress."
Mabane and Arthur had gone out to have a smoke. I had still a moment before the curtain went up. I leaned over towards Isobel.
"Isobel," I said, "I am going to tell you something which will surprise you very much. It is necessary that I tell you at once. If you answer me at all do not speak above a whisper."
She only slightly moved her head. I had not any fear of her betraying herself.
"You have seen Feurgéres before. It was in thecafé. He was my companion when I saw you first."
"Mr. Grooten!" she murmured, so softly that her lips seemed scarcely to move.
I nodded assent.
"You knew?"
"Not until to-night."
She was very pale, but her self-control was complete.
"He wishes us—you and I—to go round to his room after this act. You will be prepared?"
"Of course," she answered simply.
Mabane and Arthur came back, and the latter whispered several times in her ear. I doubt, however, whether she heard anything. She sat through the whole of the next act like one in a dream, only her eyes never left the stage—never left, indeed, the figure of the man from whom all the greatness of the play seemed to flow. As the curtain fell I leaned over to Arthur.
"Isobel and I are going to pay a visit," I said. "We shall be back in time for the next act."
"A visit!" he repeated doubtfully. "Is there anyone we know here, then?"
"Allan will explain," I answered. "You had better tell him," I whispered to Mabane.
Allan was looking very serious. I think that he questioned the wisdom of what I was doing.
"You are going to see him?" he asked, in a low tone.
"He has sent for us," I answered.
We found the attendant waiting, and by a devious route along many passages and through many doors we reached our destination at last. Our guide knocked at a door on which was hanging a little board with the name of "Monsieur Feurgéres" painted across it. Almost immediately we were bidden to enter. Monsieur Feurgéres was sitting with his back to us before a long dressing-table. He turned at once to the servant who stood by his side.
"Come back five minutes before my call," he ordered. "That will be in about twenty minutes from now."
The man bowed and silently withdrew. Not until he had left the room did Feurgéres move from his place. Then he arose to his feet and held out his hands to Isobel.
"I knew your mother, Isobel!" he said simply.
Isobel never hesitated. I think that instinctively she accepted him without demur. Her eyes flashed back to him all those nameless things which his own greeting had left unspoken. She took his hands, and looked him frankly in the face.
"All my life," she said softly, "I have wanted to meet someone who could say that to me."
He was dressed in a suit of mediæval court clothes, black from head to foot, and fashioned according to the period of the play in which he was acting. But if he had worn the garments of a pierrot or a clown, one would never have noticed it. The man's individuality, magnetic and irresistible, triumphed easily. Mr. Grooten had passed away. It was the great Feurgéres, whose sad shining eyes lingered so wistfully upon Isobel's face.
"I can say more than that," he went on. "And now that I see you, Isobel, I wonder that I have not said it long ago. You are like her, child—very like her!"
"I am glad," Isobel murmured. "Please tell me—everything!"
"Everything—for me—is soon told," he answered, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, his eyes still fixed upon Isobel's, yet looking her through as though she were a shadow. "I loved your mother. I was the man—whom your mother loved! The years of my life began and ended there."
Their hands had fallen apart a little while before, but Isobel, with an impulsive gesture, stooped down and raised the fingers of his left hand to her lips. I turned away. It seemed like sacrilege to watch a man's soul shining in his eyes. I walked to the other end of the long narrow room, and examined the swords which lay ready for use against the wall. It was not many minutes, however, before Feurgéres recalled me.
"To-night," he said, "I was coming to see Mr. Greatson."
"It is better," she murmured, "to have met you like this."
He smiled very slightly, yet it seemed to me that the curve of his lips was almost a caress. There was certainly nothing left now of Mr. Grooten.
"I think that I, too, am glad," he said. "Your mother suffered all her life because she permitted herself to care for me. We mummers, you see, Isobel, though the world loves to be amused, are always a little outside the pale. I think," he added, with a curious little note of bitterness in his tone, "that we are not reckoned worthy or capable of the domestic affections."
"You do not believe—you cannot believe," she murmured, "that there are many people who are so foolish! It is the dwellers in the world who are mummers—those who live their foolish, orderly lives with their eyes closed, and oppressed all the while with a nervous fear of what their neighbours are thinking of them. Those are the mummers—but you—you, Monsieur, are Feurgéres—the artist! You make music on the heartstrings of the world!"
For myself I was astonished. I had not often seen Isobel so deeply moved. I had never known her so ready, so earnest of speech. But Feurgéres was almost agitated. For the first time I saw him without the mask of his perfect self-control. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were soft as a woman's. He raised Isobel's hand to his lips, and his voice, when he spoke, shook with real emotion.
"You are the daughter of your mother, dear Isobel," he said. "Beyond that, what is there that I can say—I, who loved her!"
"You can tell me about her," Isobel said gently. "That is what I have been hoping for!"
"A little, a very little," he answered, "and more to-night, if you will. I have already written to Mr. Greatson, and I meant in a few hours to tell him everything. But I would have you know this, Isobel, and remember it always. Your mother was a holy woman. For my sake, for the sake of the love she bore me, she abandoned a great position. She broke down all the barriers of race, and all the conventions of a lifetime. She lost every friend she had in the world; she even, perhaps, in some measure, neglected her duty to you. Yet you were seldom out of her thoughts, and her last words committed you to my distant care. I have, perhaps, ill-fulfilled her charge, Isobel. Yet I have been watching over you sometimes when you have not known it."
"You were my saviour once," she said, "you and Arnold here, when I sorely needed help."
"I came from America at a moment's notice," he said, "when it seemed to me that you might need my help. I broke the greatest contract I had ever signed, and I placed my liberty, if not my life, at the mercy of your wonderful police system. But those things count for little. I have been forced, Isobel, to leave you very much to yourself. You come of a race who would regard any association with me as defilement. And there is always the chance that you may be able to take your proper position in the world. That is why it has been my duty to keep away from you, why I have been forced to leave to others what I would gladly have done myself. To-night you will understand everything."
"Nothing that you can tell me of my family or myself," she answered, "will ever make me forget that, whereas of them I know nothing, you have been my guardian angel. It was you who rescued me from the one person in this world of whom I have been miserably, hatefully afraid. It was not my family who saved me. It was you!"
A shrill bell was ringing outside. We heard the commotion of hurrying footsteps, the call-boy's summons, the creaking of moving scenery. Feurgéres glanced at the watch which stood upon his table. His manner seemed to undergo a sudden change. The man no longer revealed himself.
"The curtain is going up," he said. "I can stay with you but two minutes longer. I am coming to see Mr. Greatson to-night, Isobel, after the performance, and I wish to see him alone. This is at once our meeting and our farewell."
"Our farewell!" she repeated doubtfully. "Surely you are not going to leave us—so soon! You cannot mean that?"
"To-morrow," he said, "I leave for St. Petersburg. My engagement there has been made many months ago. But even if it were not so, dear child, our ways through life must always lie far apart. If the necessity for it had not existed, I should not have left you to the care of—of even Mr. Greatson. To be your guardian, Isobel, would not be seemly. That you will better understand—to-morrow."
"Indeed!" she protested, "I would sooner hear it now from your own lips—if, indeed, it must be so!"
He shook his head very slowly, but with a decision more finite than the most emphatic negation which words could have framed.
"I must go away, Isobel," he said, "and you and I must remain apart. I will only ask you to remember me by this. I am the man your mother loved. Nothing else in my life is worth considering—but that. I am one of those with whom fate has dealt a little hardly. I am as weary of my work as I am of life itself. I go on because it was her wish. But I cannot forget. The past remains—a blazing page of light. The present is a very empty and a very cold place. My days here are a sort of aftermath. My life ended with hers. To-night, for one moment—I want you to take her place."
Isobel looked at him eagerly.
"Tell me how," she begged. "Tell me what to do!"
"It may sound very foolish," he said, with a faint smile, "but I have a fancy, and I am sure that you will do as I ask. I want you to sit where she sat night after night. You will find some flowers in her chair. Keep them. They were the ones she preferred."
There was an imperative knocking at the door. Feurgéres caught up his plumed hat and sword.
"I am ready," he said quietly. "Mr. Greatson, my servant will take you to the box, which I beg that you and Isobel will occupy for the rest of the evening. It is a harmless whim of mine, and I trust that it will not inconvenience you."
With scarcely another word he left us, and a moment later we heard the roar of applause which greeted his appearance on the stage. Isobel's eyes kindled, and she moved restlessly towards the door.
"I do hope," she said, "that someone will come for us soon. I want to hear every word. I hate to miss any of it."
The dark-visaged servant stood upon the threshold.
"I have orders from Monsieur Feurgéres," he announced respectfully, "to conduct you to his box. If Mademoiselle will permit!"
We followed him on tiptoe to the front of the house. He unlocked the door of the left-hand stage box with a key which he took from his pocket.
"Monsieur will permit me to remark," he whispered, "that this is the first time since I have been in the service of Monsieur Feurgéres that anyone has occupied his private box. I trust that Mademoiselle will be comfortable."
Then the door closed behind him, and we were left to ourselves.
Isobel, her chair drawn a little behind the curtain, was almost invisible from the house. With both hands she held the cluster of pink roses which she had found upon the seat. Gravely, but with wonderful self-composure, she followed the action of the play with an intentness which never faltered. Occasionally she leaned a little forward, and at such moments her profile passed the droop of the curtain, and was visible to the greater part of the audience. It was immediately after one of such movements that I noticed some commotion amongst the occupants of the box opposite to us. Their attention seemed suddenly drawn towards Isobel—two sets of opera-glasses were steadily levelled at her. A woman, whose neck and arms were ablaze with diamonds, raised her lorgnettes, and, regardless of the progress of the play, kept them fixed in our direction. I changed my position to obtain a better view of these people, and immediately I understood.
I saw the house now for the first time, and I saw something which pleased me very little. We were immediately opposite the Royal box, which, with the one adjoining, was occupied by a very brilliant little party. The Archduchess was there. It was she whose lorgnettes were still unfalteringly directed towards Isobel. Lady Delahaye sat in the background, and a greater personage than either occupied the chair next to the Archduchess. Soon I saw that they were all whispering together, all still looking from Isobel towards the stage, and from the stage to Isobel; and in the background was a man whose coat was covered with orders, and who held himself like a soldier. He looked at Isobel as one might look at a ghost. I stood back almost hidden in the shadows, and I wondered more than ever what the end of all these things might be.
Towards the close of the act that wonderful voice, with its low burden of sorrow so marvellously controlled, drew me against my will to the front of the box. He stood there with outstretched arms, the prototype of all pathos, and the low words, drawn as it were against his will from his tremulous lips, kept the whole house breathless. His arms dropped to his side, the curtain commenced to fall. In that moment his eyes, suddenly uplifted, met mine. It seemed to me that they were charged with meaning, and I read their message rightly. After all, though, I am not sure that I needed any warning.
The curtain fell. There was twenty minutes' interval. Isobel sat back in her chair, and her hand lingered lovingly about the roses which lay upon her lap. I did not speak to her. I knew that she was living in a little world of her own, into which any ordinary intrusion was almost sacrilege. Arthur and Allan had left their places. I judged rightly that they had gone home. So I sat by myself, and waited for what I knew was sure to happen.
And presently it came—the knock at the box door for which I had been listening. I rose and opened it. A tall young Englishman, with smooth parted hair, whose evening attire was so immaculate as to become almost an offence, stood and stared at me through his eyeglass.
"Mr. Greatson!" he suggested. "Mr. Arnold Greatson?"
I acknowledged the fact with becoming meekness.
"My name is Milton," he said—"Captain Angus Milton. I am in the suite of the Archduchess for this evening. Her Highness occupies the box opposite to yours."
I bowed.
"I have noticed the fact," I answered. "The Archduchess has been good enough to favour us with some attention."
The young man stared at me for some moments. I found myself able to endure his scrutiny.
"Her Highness desires that you and the young lady"—for the first time he bowed towards Isobel—"will be so good as to come to the anteroom of the Royal box. She is anxious for a few minutes' conversation with you."
"The Archduchess," I answered, "does us too much honour! I shall be glad, however, if you will inform her that we will take another opportunity of waiting upon her. Miss de Sorrens is much interested in the play."
The young man dropped his eyeglass. I was proud of the fact that I had succeeded in surprising him.
"You mean," he exclaimed softly, "that you won't—that you don't want to come?"
"Precisely," I answered. "I have already had the honour of one interview with the Archduchess, and I imagine that no useful purpose would be served by re-opening the subject of our discussion!"
"The young lady, then?" he remarked, turning again to Isobel.
"The young lady remains under my charge," I answered. "You will be so good as to express my regrets to the Archduchess."
He hesitated for a moment, and then, with a slight bow to Isobel, left us. She spoke to me, and we had been so long silent that our voices sounded strange.
"Thank you, Arnold," she said quietly. "This is all so wonderful that I could not bear to have it disturbed."
"I pray that it may not be," I answered. "The Archduchess's interest is flattering, but mysterious. I for one do not trust her. I wish——"
I broke off in my speech, for I saw that the principal seat in the opposite box was vacant. As for Isobel, I doubt whether she noticed my sudden pause. Her hands were still caressing the soft pink blossoms in her lap, her eyes were fixed upon vacancy. She was in a sort of dream, from which I did not care to rouse her. I knew very well that the awakening would come fast enough.
Another imperative tap upon the door. I opened it, and the Archduchess swept past me. In the darkness of our box her diamonds glittered like fire, the perfume from her draperies was stronger by far than the delicate fragrance of the roses which Isobel still held. Me she ignored altogether. She went straight up to Isobel, and, stooping down, rested her gloved hand upon the girl's shoulder.
"I sent for you just now," she said. "Did you not understand?"
Isobel raised her eyebrows. The Archduchess was angry, and her voice betrayed her.
"I do not know any reason," Isobel answered, "why I should do your bidding."
The Archduchess was silent for a moment. I think that she was waiting until she could control her voice.
"Isobel," she said, "I will tell you a very good reason. I cannot keep silence any longer. They will not give you up to me any other way, so I have come to claim you openly. You shall know the truth. I am your mother's sister!"
Isobel rose slowly to her feet. She was as tall as the Archduchess, and the likeness which had always haunted me was unmistakable. Only Isobel was of the finer mould, and her eyes were different.
"Why did you not tell me this before—at the Mordaunt Rooms, for instance?" she asked.
"You came upon me like a thunderclap," the Archduchess answered quickly. "For years we had lost all trace of you. Besides, there were reasons—you know that there were reasons why I might surely have been forgiven for hesitating. But let that go. We had better have your story blazoned out once more to the world than that you should live your life in this hole-and-corner fashion. I shall take you back to Waldenburg. I presume, sir!" she added, turning suddenly towards me, "that even you will not question my right to assume the guardianship of my own niece?"
The memory of Feurgéres' look came to my aid, or I scarcely know how I should have answered her.
"Your Highness," I said, "it is for Isobel to decide. She is no longer a child. Only I would remind you that you have on more than one occasion endeavoured to assume that guardianship without mentioning any such relationship."
"You know Isobel's history," the Archduchess answered. "Can you wonder that I was anxious to avoid all publicity?"
"Your Highness," I said, "we do not know Isobel's history—yet. We shall hear it to-night."
"He has not told you—yet?" she asked incredulously.
"He is coming to my rooms to-night," I answered.
"You shall hear it before then," she exclaimed, with a little laugh. "Put on your hat, child. We will drive to my house, you and I and Mr. Greatson, and I will tell you everything. You will know then how greatly that man insulted you by daring to allow you to occupy this box, to approach you at all."
"Madame," Isobel said, "I thank you, but I wish to hear the end of the play. And as for my history, Monsieur Feurgéres has promised to tell it to Mr. Greatson to-night."
I saw the Archduchess's teeth meet, and a spot of colour that burned in her cheeks.
"You talk like a fool, child," she said fiercely. "You are being deceived on every side. It is not fit that that man should come into your presence. It is a disgrace that you should mention his name."
"Mr.—Monsieur Feurgéres has proved himself my friend," Isobel answered quietly.
The Archduchess's eyes were burning. She was a woman of violent temper, and it was fast becoming beyond her control.
"Child," she said, "I am your aunt, the daughter of the King of Waldenburg. You, too, are of the same race. You know well that I speak the truth. How dare you talk to me of a creature like Feurgéres? You have our blood in your veins. I command you to come with me, and break off at once and for ever these remarkable associations. You shall make what return you will later on to those whom you may think"—she darted a contemptuous glance at me—"have been your friends. But from this moment I claim you. Come!"
Isobel looked her aunt in the face. She spoke courteously, but without faltering.
"Madame," she said, "it is not possible for me to do as you ask. Whatever plans are made for my future, it is to my dear friend here," she said, looking across at me with shining eyes, "that I owe everything. And as for Monsieur Feurgéres, I have promised him to occupy this box for this evening, and I shall do so."
The Archduchess was very white.
"You force me to tell you, child," she said. "This creature Feurgéres was your mother's——"
"Your Highness!" I cried.
She stopped short and bit her lip. Isobel was very pale, but she pointed to the door. The orchestra had commenced to play.
"Madame," she said, "Monsieur Feurgéres loved my mother. I shall keep my word to him."
There was a soft knock at the door. Captain Milton stood on the threshold.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing low, "the curtain will rise in thirty seconds."
The Archduchess left us without a word.
It was not often we permitted ourselves such luxuries, but as we left the theatre I caught a glimpse of Isobel's white face, more clearly visible now than in the dimly lit box, and I knew that, bravely though she had carried herself through the whole of that trying evening, she was not far from breaking down. So I called a hansom, and she sank back in a corner with a little sigh of relief. I lit a cigarette, and suddenly I felt a cold little hand steal into mine. I set my teeth and held it firmly.
"Arnold," she whispered, and her voice was none too steady, "I hate that woman. I do not care if she is my aunt; and—Arnold——"
"Yes."
"I believe that she hates me too. She looks at me as though I were something unpleasant, as though she wished me dead. I will not go to her, Arnold. Say that I shall not."
For a moment I was silent. Her little womanish airs of the last few months, the quaint effort of dignity with which it seemed to have pleased her to add all that was possible to her years, had wholly departed. She was a child again, with frightened eyes and quivering lips, the child who had walked so easily into our hearts in those first days of her terror. To think of her as such again was almost a relief.
"Dear Isobel," I said, "the Archduchess has told me now two different stories concerning you. She appears to be very anxious to have you in her care, but her methods up to the present have been very strange. We shall not give you up to her unless we are obliged. But——"
"Please what, Arnold?" she interrupted anxiously.
"If the Archduchess is indeed your aunt, as she says she is, you must have hundreds of other relations, many of whom you would without doubt find very different people. Besides, in that case, you see, Isobel, you ought to be living altogether differently. It is absurd for you to be grubbing along with us in an attic when you ought to be living in a palace, with plenty of money and servants and beautiful frocks, and all that sort of thing. You understand me, don't you?" I concluded a little lamely, for the steady gaze of those deep blue frightened eyes was a little disconcerting.
"No, I do not," she answered. "If I am a Waldenburg and the niece of the Archduchess, why was I left alone at that convent for all those years, and who was responsible for sending that man to fetch me away—that terrible man? How are they going to explain that, these wonderful relations of mine? Oh, Arnold, Arnold!" she cried, suddenly swaying over towards me in the cab, "I don't want to leave you—all. Do not send me away. Promise that you will not!"
A child, I told myself fiercely, a mere child this! Nevertheless I was thankful for the darkness of the silent street into which we had turned, the darkness which hid my face from her. Her soft breath was upon my cheek, her beautiful head very near my shoulder. Oh, I had need of all my strength, of all my common-sense.
"Dear Isobel," I said, looking straight ahead of me out of the cab, "I cannot make you any promise. All must depend upon what Monsieur Feurgéres tells us to-night. Nothing would make me—all of us—happier than to keep you with us always. But it may not be our duty to keep you, or yours to stay. Until we have heard Feurgéres' story we are in the dark."
She shrank, as it seemed, into herself. Her eyes followed mine hauntingly.
"Arnold," she said, with a little tremor in her tone, "you are not very kind to me to-night, and I feel—that I want—people to be kind to me just now."
I bent down, and I raised her hands to my lips and kissed them.
"My dear child," I said, "don't forget that I am your guardian, and I have to think for you—a long way ahead. As for the rest, I have not a single thought or hope in life which is not concerned for your happiness."
"I like that better," she murmured; "but—you are very fond of my hands."
Fortunately the cab pulled up with a jerk. I paid the man, and we commenced to climb up the stone steps towards our rooms. Isobel, who was generally a couple of flights ahead, slipped her hand through my arm and leaned heavily upon me.
"Arnold," she whispered, "why would you not read your story to me. Tell me, please!"
"My dear child!" I exclaimed, "what made you think of that just now?"
She leaned forward. I think that she was trying to look into my face.
"Never mind! Please tell me," she begged.
"I will read it some day," I answered. "It is so incomplete. I think I shall have to rewrite it."
She shook her head.
"You have always read to me before just as you have written it. I think that you are not quite so nice to me, Arnold, as you were. I haven't done anything that you do not like, have I? Because I am sure that you are different!"
"You absurd child," I answered, smiling at her as cheerfully as I could. "You are in an imaginative frame of mind to-night."
"It is not that! You look at me differently, you do not seem to want to have me with you so much, and——"
I stopped her. We had reached the fourth floor, where our apartments were. With the key in the lock I turned and faced her for a moment. She was as tall as I, and a certain grace of carriage which she had always possessed, and which had grown with her years, redeemed her completely from thegaucherieof her uncomfortable age. Her features had gained in strength, and lost nothing in delicacy. She wore even her simple clothes with the nameless grace which must surely have come to her from inheritance. I spoke to her then seriously. Yet if I had tried I could not have kept the kindness from my tone.
"Dear Isobel," I said, "if there is any difference—think! A year ago you were a child. To-day you are a woman. You must understand that, side by side with the pleasure of having you with us—the greatest pleasure that has ever come into our lives, Isobel—has come a certain amount of responsibility."
"I am becoming a trouble to you, then!" she exclaimed breathlessly.
"A trouble, Isobel!"
I suppose I weakened for a moment. Some trick of tone or expression must have let in the daylight, for she suddenly held out her hands with a soft little cry. And then as she stood there, her eyes shining, the old delightful smile curving her lips, the door before which she stood was thrown open, and Arthur stood there. He had on his hat and coat, and I saw at once that he was not himself. His cheeks were flushed with anger, and he looked at us with a black frown.
"So you've come back, then!" he exclaimed. "Allan and I got tired of waiting. Just in time to say good-bye, Isobel. I'm off!"
"Off? But where?" she asked, looking at him in surprise.
I left them, and passed on into our studio sitting-room, where Mabane was filling his pipe.
"What's the matter with Arthur?" I asked.
"Off his chump," Allan answered gravely. "Don't take any notice of him."
Isobel and he were still talking together. Arthur's voice was a little raised—then it suddenly dropped.
"I think," Allan said, "that you had better interfere. Arthur has lost his temper. I am afraid——"
"He will break the compact?" I exclaimed.
"I am afraid so!"
I stepped back into the little hall. They were talking together earnestly. Arthur looked up and glared at me.
"Arthur," I said, "Allan and I want a few words with you before you go—if you are going out to-night."
"In a moment," he answered. "I have something to say to Isobel."
But Isobel had gone. He looked for a moment at the door of her room through which she had vanished, and then he turned on his heel and followed me. He threw his hat upon the table and faced us both defiantly.
"It is I," he said, "who have something to say to you, and I'd like to get it over quick. D—n your hypocritical compact, Arnold Greatson! There! You're in love with Isobel! Any fool can see it, and you want to keep the child all to yourself."
Allan took a quick step forward, but I held out my hand.
"Don't interfere, Allan," I said. "Let him say all that he has to say."
"I mean to!" Arthur continued, "and I hope you'll like it. The compact was a fraud from beginning to end, and I'll have no more to do with it. Isobel's too old to live here with you fellows, and I'm going to ask her to marry me. I'm going to advise her to go and stay with Lady Delahaye, who wants her, and I'm going to marry her from there if she'll have me."
"Lady Delahaye," I repeated thoughtfully. "You have been in communication with her, have you?"
"Yes, I have! And I think she's right. Isobel ought to have some women friends. She may have enemies, but I'm not so sure about that. Lady Delahaye isn't one of them, at any rate. The people who want to get her away from here may be her best friends, after all."
"Is that all, Arthur?"
"It's enough, isn't it?" he answered doggedly.
"Quite! Now listen," I said. "To-night we are going to hear Isobel's history. We are going to know who she is, and all about her. Stay with us, and you shall share the knowledge. As for the rest, you have been talking like a fool. We do not wish to take you seriously. We took up the charge of Isobel jointly. If the time has come now for us to give her up, I should like us all to be in agreement. It is very likely that the time has come. I, too, think that in many ways it would be for her benefit. We are prepared to give her up when we know the proper people to undertake the care of her—but never, Arthur, to Lady Delahaye."
Arthur smiled slowly, but it was not a pleasant smile.
"Ah!" he said, "I forgot. Lady Delahaye is an old friend of yours, isn't she?"
"Your insinuations are childish, Arthur," I answered. "Lady Delahaye is an old friend of the Archduchess's, and their interest in Isobel is identical. For many reasons I am going to know Isobel's history before I give her up to either of them."
"And who is going to tell it to you?" he asked.
"Feurgéres," I answered. "He sent for us at the theatre to-night. He is coming on here."
There was a sharp tapping at the door. I moved across the room to open it. Arthur threw his hat upon the table.
"I will wait!" he declared.
We all knew Isobel's history. It had taken barely twenty minutes to tell it, but they had been twenty minutes of tragedy. We were all, I think, in different ways affected. Monsieur Feurgéres alone sat back in his seat like a carved image, his face white and haggard, his deep-set eyes fixed upon vacancy. We felt that he had passed wholly away from the world of present things. He himself was lingering amongst the shadows of that wonderful past, upon which he had only a moment before dropped the curtain. He had told us to ask him questions, but I for my part felt that questions just then were a sacrilege. Arthur, however, seemed to feel nothing of this. It was he who took the lead.
"Isobel, then," he said, "is the granddaughter of the King of Waldenburg, the only child of his eldest daughter! Her mother was divorced from her husband, Prince of Herrshoff, and afterwards married to you. What about her father?"
"He died two years after the divorce was granted," Feurgéres said without turning his head. "Isobel was hurried away from the Court through the influence of her aunt, the Archduchess of Bristlaw, and sent to a convent in France. It was not intended that she should ever reappear at the Court of Waldenburg."
"Why not?"
"The King is very old, and he is the richest man in Europe. Isobel is the daughter of his eldest and favourite child. The Archduchess also has a daughter, and, failing Isobel, she will inherit."
"Has the King," I asked, "taken any steps to discover Isobel?"
"He has been told that she is dead," Feurgéres answered.
We were all silent then for several minutes. The things which we had heard were strange enough, but they let in a flood of light upon all the events of the last few months. It was Feurgéres himself who broke in upon our thoughts.
"Gentlemen," he said, "there is another thing which I must tell you."
His voice was very low but firm. He had turned in his chair, and was facing us all. His eyes were no longer vacant. He spoke as one speaks of sacred things.
"All Europe," he said, "was pleased to discuss what was called the elopement of the Princess Isobel with Feurgéres the player. The gutter-press of the world filled their columns with sensational and scandalous lies. We at no time made any reply. There was no need. If now I break the silence of years it is that Isobel shall know the truth. It is you, Mr. Greatson, who will tell her this, and many other things. Listen carefully to what I say. The husband of the Princess Isobel was a blackguard, a man unfit for the society of any self-respecting woman. She was living in misery when I was bidden to the Court of Waldenburg. I was made the more welcome there, perhaps, because I myself am a descendant of an ancient and honourable French family. I met the Princess Isobel often, and we grew to love each other. Of the struggle which ensued between her sense of duty and my persuasions I say nothing. She was a highly sensitive and very intellectual woman, and she had a profound conviction of the unalienable right of a woman to live out her life to its fullest capacity, to gather into it to the full all that is best and greatest. Her position at Waldenburg was impossible. I proved it to her. I prevailed. But——"
He paused, and held up his hand.
"The whole story of our elopement was a lie. There was no elopement. The Princess Isobel left her husband accompanied only by a maid and a lady-in-waiting. They lived quietly in Paris until her husband procured his divorce. Then we were married, but until then we had not met since our parting at Waldenburg. Isobel's mother was ever a pure and holy woman. Let Isobel know that. Let her know that the greatest and most wonderful sacrifice a woman ever made was surely hers—when she denied herself her own daughter lest the merest shadow of shame should rest upon her in later years. It is for that same reason that I myself have kept away from Isobel. I have watched over her always, but at a distance. That is why I am content to stand aside even now and yield up my place to strangers."
It was Arthur again who questioned him.
"Mr. Feurgéres," he said, "you have told us wonderful things about Isobel. You have told us wonderful things about the past, but you have not spoken at all about the future. Is it your wish that she returns to Waldenburg, or is she to remain Isobel de Sorrens?"
Feurgéres turned his head and looked searchingly at Arthur. The boy's face was flushed with excitement. He made no effort to conceal his great interest. Feurgéres looked at him steadfastly, and it was long before he spoke.
"You are asking me," he said slowly, "the very question which I have been asking myself for a long time. Isobel's proper place is at Waldenburg, and yet there are many and grave reasons why I dread her going there. The King is an old man, the Court is ruled by the Archduchess, a hard, unscrupulous woman. Already she has schemed to get the child into her power. I dread the thought of her there, alone and friendless. Her mother spoke of this to me upon her deathbed. She shrank always from the idea that even the shadow of those hideous calumnies which oppressed her own life should darken a single moment of Isobel's. I believe that if she were here at this moment she would place the two issues before her and bid her take her choice. I think that it is what we must do."
Arthur stood up. He looked very eager and handsome, though a little boyish.
"Monsieur Feurgéres," he said, "I love Isobel. Give her to me, and I will look after her future. I am not rich, but I will make a home for her. She is too old to stay here with us any longer. I will make her happy! Indeed I will!"
Monsieur Feurgéres looked back at that vacant spot upon the wall, and was silent for some time. It was impossible to gather anything from his face, though Arthur watched him fixedly all the time.
"And Isobel?" he asked at length.
"I have not spoken to her," Arthur said. "There was a compact between us that we should not whilst she was under our care."
Monsieur Feurgéres turned to me.
"That sounds like a compact of your making, Arnold Greatson," he said. "What am I to say to your friend?"
"It is surely," I said, "for Isobel to decide. It is only another issue to be placed before her with those others of which you have spoken. You say that you must leave for St. Petersburg to-morrow. Will you see her now?"
He shook his head. I might almost have imagined him indifferent but for the sudden twitching of his lips, the almost pitiful craving which flashed out for a moment from his deep-set eyes. These were signs which came and went so quickly that I doubt if either of the others observed them. But I at least understood.
"I will not see her at all," he said. "It is better that I should not. If she should decide upon Waldenburg, the less she has seen of me the better. I leave it to you, Arnold Greatson, to put these matters faithfully before Isobel. I claim no guardianship over her. Her mother's sole desire was that when she had reached her present age the whole truth should be placed before her, and she should decide exactly as she thought best. That is my charge upon you," he continued, looking me steadfastly in the face, "and I know that you will fulfil it. I shall send you my address in case it is necessary to communicate with me."
He rose to his feet, prepared for departure. Arthur intercepted him.
"If Isobel will have me, then," he said, "you will not object?"
"Isobel shall make her own choice of these various issues," he answered. "I claim no guardianship over her at all. If any further decision has to be given, you must look to Mr. Greatson."
Arthur did look at me, but his eyes fell quickly. He turned once more to Monsieur Feurgéres.
"Whether you claim it or not," he said, "you are really her guardian, not Arnold. I shall tell her that you left her free to choose."
"I have said all that I have to say," Monsieur Feurgéres replied. "Except this to you, Mr. Greatson," he added, turning to me. "You can have no longer any hesitation in using the money which stands in Isobel's name at the National Bank. You will find that it has accumulated, and I have also added to it. Isobel will always be reasonably well off, for I have left all that I myself possess to her, with the exception of one legacy."
Without any further form of farewell he passed away from us. It was so obviously his wish to be allowed to depart that we none of us cared to stop him. Then we all three looked at one another.
"To-morrow," Mabane said, "you must tell Isobel."
"Why not to-night?" Arthur interposed.
"Why not to-night, indeed?" Isobel's soft voice asked. "If, indeed, there is anything more to tell."
We were all thunderstruck as she glided out from behind the screen which shielded the inner door, the door which led to her room. It needed only a single glance into her face to assure us that she knew everything. Her eyes were still soft with tears, shining like stars as she stood and looked at me across the floor; her cheeks were pale, and her lips were still quivering.
"I heard my name," she said. "The door was unfastened, so I stole out. And I think that I am glad I did. I had a right to know all that I have heard. It is very wonderful. I keep thinking and thinking, and even now I cannot realize."
"You heard everything, Isobel?" Arthur exclaimed meaningly.
"Everything!" she answered, her eyes suddenly seeking the carpet. "I thank you all for what you have said and done for me. To-morrow, I think, I shall know better how I feel about these things."
"Quite right, Isobel," Allan said quietly. "There are great issues before you, and you should live with them for a little while. Do not decide anything hastily!"
Arthur pressed forward to her side.
"You will give me your hand, Isobel?" he pleaded. "You will say good-night?"
She gave it to him passively. He raised it to his lips. It was his active pronouncement of himself as her suitor. I watched her closely, and so did Allan. But she gave no sign. She held out her hand to us, too—a cold, sad little hand it felt—and turned away. There was something curiously subdued about her movements as well as her silence as she passed out of sight.
Arthur took up his hat. He was nervous and uneasy. His tone was almost threatening.
"I shall be here early in the morning," he said. "I suppose you will allow me to see Isobel?"
"By all means," I answered. "As things are now you need not go away unless you like. Your room is still empty. Our compact is at an end. Stay if you will."
He hesitated for a moment, and then threw down his hat. He sank into an easy chair, and covered his face with his hands.
"I've been a beast, I know!" he half sobbed. "I can't help it. Isobel is everything in the world to me. You fellows can't imagine how I care for her."
I laid my hand upon his shoulder—a little wearily, perhaps, though I tried to infuse some sympathy into my tone.
"Cheer up, Arthur!" I said. "You have your chance. Don't make a trouble of it yet."
Arthur shook his head despondently.
"I think," he said, "that she will go to Waldenburg!"
Arthur flung himself into the room pale, hollow-eyed, the picture of despair.
"Any news?" he cried, hopelessly enough, for he had seen my face.
"None," I answered.
"Anything from Feurgéres?"
"Not yet."
"Tell me again—where did you telegraph him?"
"Dover, Calais, Paris, Ostend, Brussels, Cologne!"
"And no reply?"
"As yet none."
"Let us look again at the note you found."
I smoothed it out upon the table. We had read it many times.