Richard Harborne! Sight of that name caused her to hold her breath.
She took out the file of papers with trembling hand and bent to examine them in the light.
She saw there were newspaper cuttings, and long reports both in writing and typed—reports signed by persons of whom she had no knowledge.
In one paper at which she glanced Dick was referred to as “The Honourable Richard Davies Harborne, late of His Britannic Majesty’s Secret Service.”
She read eagerly, hoping to discover something to throw light upon the poor fellow’s sad end, but the writing was small, cramped, and difficult for her to decipher.
Yet, so deeply interested did she become that she did not hear the door open.
Suddenly she heard a footstep behind her, and, starting quickly, turned to find his lordship’s mysterious visitor standing facing her with a look of severe inquiry upon his grey, furrowed countenance.
“Oh! I—I—I’m so very sorry!” was all she could say, as she quickly replaced the file of papers in the despatch-box. “I—I——”
But further words failed her, and she stood abashed, confused, and ashamed.
“Well, nurse, I hardly expected that,” he said, reprovingly, his serious eyes fixed upon hers.
Jean turned scarlet, and then admitted, as she stood with her back to the writing table:
“I saw the photograph in your despatch-box, and it attracted me. Then I saw those papers.”
“And they seem to have greatly interested you, nurse—eh?” Darnborough remarked.
“A woman is always interested in what does not concern her,” she replied with a forced smile.
“Well, forgive me for saying so, but I consider it gross impertinence on your part to have pried into my papers, young lady,” exclaimed the chief of the Secret Service, with some asperity.
“I trust you will forgive me, Mr. Darnborough, but, truth to tell, I could not resist the temptation.”
“Just as many other people could not resist—if they knew what secrets this despatch-box of mine sometimes contains,” he laughed. “Well, nurse,I forgive you,” he added cheerfully, his manner changing. “Go back to Lord Bracondale, and make haste and get him well again. England is sorely in need of him to-day—I can assure you.”
“Does he wish for me?”
“Yes, he gave me a message asking you to return to him at once.”
“I’ll go, then,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’ve forgiven me. My action was, I know, horribly mean and quite unpardonable. Good evening.”
“Good evening, nurse,” Darnborough responded, as he busied himself repacking his papers. She left the room.
The great man of secrets was, as yet, in ignorance that the pretty, graceful, half-French nurse and Fräulein Montague, Dick Harborne’s friend, were one and the same person.
At that moment he had been talking with the very woman whom his agents had been hunting the whole of Europe to find. Yet he bowed her out of the room in entire ignorance of that fact.
And as she ascended the great, broad, thickly-carpeted staircase to the sick man’s room she was filled with regret that Darnborough had not entered five minutes later, when, by that time, she would have learnt the secret of what was contained in those papers concerning Dick Harborne’s death.
Her head swam as she recalled that tragic afternoon and also the afternoon succeeding it, when she had witnessed the terrible accident to Noel Barclay, the naval aviator. She recollected how Ralph had been at her side in the cab when they had bothwitnessed the collapse of the aeroplane, and how utterly callous and unmoved he had been.
For the thousandth time she asked herself whether Ralph Ansell, her dead husband, had ever discovered her friendship with Richard Harborne. It was a purely platonic friendship. Their stations in life had been totally different, yet he had always treated her gallantly, and she had, in return, consented to assist him in several matters—“matters of business” he had termed them. And in connection with one of them she had gone to Germany as Fräulein Montague and met him on that memorable day when she acted as a go-between.
Had Ralph found this out? If so, had Dick died by her husband’s hand?
She was at the door of his lordship’s room, a pretty figure in her blue cotton gown and white nursing-apron and cap. For a moment she paused to crush down all recollections of the past. Then she turned the handle and entered on tip-toe, fearing lest her patient might be asleep.
But he was very wideawake—planning a line of policy to defeat the suggested Austro-German alliance against Great Britain. Prompt measures were necessary. At eight o’clock in the morning two King’s Messengers would be at Bracondale ready to take the cipher despatches—autograph instructions to the British Ambassadors to the Courts of both Empires.
Though the Earl of Bracondale was confined to his bed, the foreign policy of the nation had still to be conducted, and he had resumedcontrol of affairs as soon as ever his hand could use a pen.
A whole stream of officials from Downing Street, and others, called at Bracondale daily and passed through his room. And to each and sundry he gave precise and implicit instructions, the marvellously ingenious policy evolved by his remarkable brain.
“It is time for your medicine,” Jean said, in a soft voice, as she entered. “It was due half an hour ago, but I hesitated to disturb you with your visitor.”
“Quite right, nurse. Never disturb me when Mr. Darnborough calls. My business with him is always of the very highest importance, and always strictly confidential.”
Jean crossed to the small round table whereon stood the bottle and medicine-glass, and after measuring the mixture carefully, handed it to him, asking:
“Is your shoulder quite easy now?”
“Quite, nurse,” was his reply, as, raising himself on his other elbow, he tossed off the medicine, pulling a wry face afterwards. Then, with a calm, set expression upon his countenance, he looked at her, and remarked:
“I should think nursing must be a terribly dull, monotonous life, isn’t it? Surely the continual atmosphere of the sick-room is very depressing?”
“I do not find it so,” she replied brightly, with her pretty French accent. “I am devoted to my calling.”
“I quite recognise that,” said his lordship,looking into her sweet, serious eyes. “Yet it requires a good deal of self-denial, I should imagine.”
“Perhaps,” and she smiled. “But self-denial is one of the first lessons learnt in our Sisterhood.”
“You joined the Sisterhood in France, did you not?” he asked.
“Yes; at the chief convent at Enghien, near Paris. But, of course, I have not yet taken my vows as a nun.”
“You intend to do so, I suppose?”
She was silent a few seconds; then, with her eyes averted, she answered frankly:
“It is more than possible.”
“Would it not be a great sacrifice? Remember, you are young. Why should you cut yourself off so entirely from the world?”
Again she was silent. Then, seeing that he awaited her reply, she answered:
“If I take the vows I shall do so because I have certain reasons for so doing.”
“Strong reasons?” he asked, still looking into her face.
She raised her fine eyes to his again, and nodded in the affirmative.
Then she turned and walked towards the table to put down the empty glass.
Lord Bracondale for the first time realised that the nurse by whom during the past few days he, confirmed bachelor that he was, had become so strangely attracted, possessed a chapter of her life which she hoped was closed for ever.
The curious situation attracted him. What, hewondered, could be the nature of the secret of such a good, pure-minded, honest woman?
His eyes followed her as she moved about the room in silence. He was wondering.
The autumn days passed slowly. His was a long illness.
Out in the great park the golden leaves, in falling, were swept along the wide avenue by the strong winds from the sea, and the face of the country had now become brown and desolate.
Jean, when she took her walk alone each afternoon, when off duty, wandered over the bare fields or beside the grey, chill sea until, so dispiriting did she find the scene, that she preferred to spend her hours of rest in the big, well-warmed house or at the convent itself.
His lordship’s recovery was very slow.
Sir Evered Morrison had been down three times from London and seen the patient, and on the last occasion had been accompanied by another renowned surgeon.
Though it was kept a profound secret, the truth was that the Earl was not progressing as well as had been expected. Perhaps the strain of State affairs was too heavy upon him, for though far from recovered, he worked several hours with Mr. Charlton, his secretary, who sat at a table at his bedside, writing despatches as his lordship dictated them.
Thus three months went by. November came and went, and still the Earl had not left his room, although he was allowed to sit by the fire in his dressing-gown for two hours each day.
The room had been transformed into a small library, and here his lordship received callers who came from London upon official business. Indeed, he on more than one occasion received an ambassador of one of the Great Powers.
To Jean it was all a very novel and strange experience. At her patient’s bedside she met some of the greatest of the land, men whose names were as household words. Even a royal prince called one day in his motor-car and sat beside the fire with the invalid. And if the truth be told, scarcely a person who visited the Earl did not remark upon his nurse’s grace, sweetness, and good looks.
Inwardly, the Earl of Bracondale was much mystified. Unconsciously, though occupied with State affairs, he found himself thinking of her, and when she was absent for rest he looked forward eagerly to her return. To Sister Gertrude he spoke but little, while to Jean he was always frank, open, and exceedingly chatty.
Yet constantly did the suspicion arise in his mind that she was in possession of some dread secret, that there was a chapter in her past which she was undesirous of revealing.
In the middle of December he grew convalescent, and Sir Evered one day announced that he would, with care, completely recover.
The daily bulletins in the newspapers ceased to appear, and the world then knew that the renowned Foreign Secretary was on his way back to health.
This he attributed to Jean’s careful nursing. To every one he was loud in her praises. Indeed,he often spoke of her in eulogistic terms while she was present, and on such occasions she would blush deeply and declare that she had only performed her duty.
In those weeks they had been constantly in each other’s society. The long days in which she sat at his bedside reading or doing needlework, and the nights when each quarter of an hour she stole in stealthily to see that all was well, she had grown very partial to his society. He was so bright and intellectual, and possessed such a keen sense of humour when his mind was not overshadowed by the weight of political events. Often he would chat with her for hours, and sometimes, indeed, he would put a subtle question upon the matter in which he now took so keen an interest—her past.
But to all his cleverly-conceived inquiries she remained dumb. Her wit was as quick as his, and he saw that whatever was the truth, her intelligence was of a very high order. She would speak freely upon every other subject, but as to what she had done or where she had been before entering the Sisterhood she refused to satisfy him.
The past! To her it was all a horrible nightmare. Often, when alone, the face of Ralph Ansell, the man who had been shot like a dog by the police, arose before her. She tried to blot it out, but all was, alas! of no avail.
Sometimes she compared her patient with her dead husband. And then she would sigh to herself—sigh because she held the Earl in such admiration and esteem.
Just after Christmas another diplomatic bombshell burst in Europe. Darnborough came to and fro to Bracondale half a dozen times in the course of four or five days. Once he arrived by special train from Paddington in the middle of the night. Many serious conferences did he have with his chief, secret consultations at which Jean, filled with curiosity, of course was not present, though she did not fail to note that Darnborough usually regarded her with some suspicion, notwithstanding his exquisite politeness.
More than once in those last days of the year Jean suggested that her presence at Bracondale was no longer required. But her patient seemed very loath to part with her.
“Another week, nurse,” he would say. “Perhaps I will be able to do without you then. We shall see.”
And so indispensable did his lordship find her that not until the last day of January did she pack her small belongings ready to be carried back to the convent.
It was a warm, bright evening, one of those soft, sunny winter days which one so often experiences in sheltered Torquay, when Jean, having sent her things down by Davis, the under chauffeur, put on her neat little velvet hat and her black, tailor-made coat, and carrying her business-like nursing-bag, went into the huge drawing-room, where she had learnt from Jenner the Earl was reading.
The big, luxurious, heavily-gilded apartment was empty, but the long, French windows were open upon the stone terrace, and upon one of the whiteiron garden chairs the Earl, a smart, neatly-dressed figure in black morning coat, widely braided in the French manner—a fashion he usually affected—sat reading.
Jean walked to the window, bag in hand, and paused for a few seconds, looking at him in silence.
Then, as their eyes met and he rose quickly to his feet, she advanced with outstretched hand to wish him farewell.
“What!” he cried, with a look of dismay upon his pale face. “Are you really leaving, nurse?”
“Yes, Lord Bracondale. I have already sent my things back to the convent. I have come to wish you good-bye.”
“To wish me good-bye!” he echoed blankly, looking her straight in the face. “How can I ever thank you—how can I ever repay you for all your kindness, care, and patience with me? Sir Evered says that I owe my life to your good nursing.”
She smiled.
“I think Sir Evered is merely paying me an undeserved compliment,” was her modest reply.
He had taken her small, white hand in his, and for a moment he stood mute before her, overcome with gratitude.
“Sir Evered has spoken the truth, Nurse Jean,” he said. “I know it, and you yourself know it. In all these weeks we have been together we havebegun to know each other, we have been companions, and—and you have many a time cheered me when I felt in blank despair.”
“I am very pleased if I have been able to bring you happiness,” she replied. “It is sometimes difficult to infuse gaiety into a sick-room.”
“But you have brought me new life, new hope, new light into my dull, careworn life,” he declared quickly. “Since I found you at my bedside I have become a different man.”
“How?” she asked, very seriously.
“You have inspired in me new hopes, new aspirations—and a fresh ambition.”
“Of what?”
He raised her ungloved hand and kissed it fervently.
She tried to snatch it away, but he held it fast, and, looking into her dark, startled eyes, replied:
“Of making you my wife, Jean.”
“Your wife!” she gasped, her face pale in an instant, as she drew back, astounded at the suggestion.
“Yes. Listen to me!” he cried, quickly, still holding her hand, and drawing her to him as he stepped into the huge room upholstered with pale blue silk. “This is no sudden fancy on my part, Jean. I have watched you—watched you for days and weeks—for gradually I came to know how deeply attached I had become to you—that I love you!”
“No, no!” she exclaimed. “Let me go, please, Lord Bracondale! This is madness. I refuse tohear you. Reflect—and you will see that I can never become your wife!”
And upon her sweet face there spread a hard, pained expression.
“But I repeat, Jean—I swear it—I love you!” he said. “I again repeat my question—Will you honour me by becoming my wife? Can you ever love me sufficiently to sacrifice yourself? And will you try and love me—will you——”
“I cannot bear it!” she cried, struggling to free herself from his strong embrace, while he held her hand and again passionately raised it to his lips. “Please recall those words. They are injudicious, to say the least.”
“I have spoken the plain truth. I love you!”
Her eyes were downcast. She stood against a large, silk-covered settee, her hand touching the silken covering, her chest heaving and falling in deep emotion, so unprepared had she been for the Earl’s declaration of affection.
Through her mind, however, one thought ran—the difference in their social status; he—a Cabinet Minister; and she—the widow of a thief!
Recollection of that hideous chapter of her life flashed upon her, and she shuddered.
Bracondale noticed that she shivered, but, ignorant of the reason, only drew her closer to him.
“Tell me, Jean,” he whispered. “May I hope? Now that you are leaving, I cannot bear that you should go out of my life for ever. I am no young lover, full of flowery speeches, but I love you as fervently, as ardently, as any man has ever loved awoman; and if you will be mine I will endeavour to make you contented and happy to all the extent I am able.”
“But, Lord Bracondale,” she protested, raising her fine eyes to his, “I am unworthy—I——”
“You are worthy, Jean,” he declared, earnestly. “You are the only woman in all my life that I have loved. For all these years I have been a bachelor, self-absorbed in the affairs of the nation, in politics and diplomacy, until, by my accident, I have suddenly realised that there is still something more in the world to live for higher than the position I hold as a member of the Cabinet—the love of a good woman, and you are that woman. Tell me,” he urged, speaking in a low whisper as he bent to her, “tell me—may I hope?”
Slowly she disengaged the hand he held, and drew it across her white brow beneath her velvet hat.
“I—I—ah! no, Lord Bracondale,” she cried. “This is all very unwise. You would soon regret.”
“Regret!” he echoed. “No, I shall never regret, because, Jean, I love you!”
“Have you ever thought that, while you are a peer and a Cabinet Minister, I am only a nurse?”
“Social status should not be considered when a man loves a woman as truly and devotedly as I love you. Remember, to you I owe my recovery,” he said frankly. “In the weeks you have spent at my side I have realised that life will now be a blank when you have left my roof. But must it be so? Will you not take pity upon me and try toreciprocate, in even a small degree, the great love I bear you? Do, Jean, I beg of you.”
She was silent for a long time, her eyes fixed across the terrace upon the pretty Italian garden, to the belt of high, dark firs beyond.
“You ask me this, Lord Bracondale, and yet you do not even know my surname!” she remarked at last.
“Whatever your surname may be, it makes no difference to me,” was his reply. “Whatever skeleton may be hidden in your cupboard is no affair of mine. I ask nothing regarding your past life. To me, you are honest and pure. I know that, or you would not lead the life you now lead. I only know, Jean, that I love you,” and, again taking her soft hand tenderly, he once more raised it to his lips and imprinted upon it tender kisses.
His words showed her that his affection was genuine. His promise not to seek to unveil her past gave her courage, for she had all along been suspicious that he was endeavouring to learn her secret. What would he say, how would he treat her, if he ever knew the ghastly truth?
“Now, I wish to assure you,” he went on, “that I have no desire whatever that you should tell me the slightest thing which you may wish to regard as your own secret. All of us, more or less, possess some family confidence which we have no desire to be paraded before our friends. A wife should, of course, have no secrets from her husband after marriage. But her secrets before she becomes a wife are her own, and her husband has no right toinquire into them. I speak to you, Jean, as a man of the world, as a man who has sympathy for women, and who is cognisant of a woman’s feelings.”
“Do you really mean what you say, Lord Bracondale?” she asked, raising her serious eyes inquiringly to his.
“I certainly do. I have never been more earnest, or sincere, in all my life than I am at this moment.”
“You certainly show a generous nature,” she replied. His assurance had swept away her fears. She dreaded lest he should know the truth of the tragedy of her marriage. She held Darnborough in fear, because he seemed always to suspect her. Besides, what could that file of papers have contained—what facts concerning her friend’s tragic end?
“I hate to think of your wearing your life out in a sick-room, Jean,” he said. “It is distressing to me that you, whom I love so dearly, should be doomed to a convent life, however sincere, devout, and holy.”
“It is my sphere,” she replied.
“Your proper sphere is at my side—as my wife,” he declared. “Ah, Jean, will you only give me hope, will you only endeavour to show me a single spark of affection, will you try and reciprocate, to the smallest extent, my love for you? Mine is no boyish infatuation, but the love of a man whose mind is matured, even soured by the world’s follies and vanities. I tell you that I love you. Will you be mine?”
She still hesitated. His question nonplussed her.
How could she, the widow of a notorious thief dare to become Countess of Bracondale!
He noticed her hesitation, and put it down to her natural reticence and shyness. He loved her with all his heart and soul. Never, in all his career, had he ever met, in society or out of it, a woman to whom he had been so deeply devoted. He had watched her closely with the keen criticism of a practised mind, and he had found her to be his ideal.
She was still standing against the pale blue settee, leaning against it for support. Her face was pale as death, with two pink spots in the centre of the cheeks betraying her excitement and emotion. She dare not open her mouth lest she should betray the reason of her hesitation. It was upon the tip of her tongue to confess all.
Yet had he not already told her that he had no desire to probe the secret of her past—that he only desired her for herself, that her past was her own affair, and that his only concern was her future, because he loved her so? She recognised how good, how kind, how generous, and how every trait of his character was that of the high-born English gentleman. In secret she had long admired him, yet she had been careful not to betray an undue interest beyond that of his accident. In such circumstances a woman’s diplomacy is always marvellous. In the concealment of her true feelings, woman can always give many points to a man.
Bracondale was awaiting her answer. His eyes were fixed upon hers, though her gaze was averted. He held her in his arms, and again repeated hisquestion in a low, intense voice, the voice of a man filled with the passion of true affection.
“Will you be mine, dearest?” he asked, a second time. “Will you trust in me and throw in your lot in life with mine?”
She shook her head.
“No, Lord Bracondale; such a marriage would, for you, be most injudicious. You must marry one of your own people.”
“Never!” he cried in desperation. “If I marry, it will be only your own dear self.”
“But think—think what the world will say.”
“Let the world say what it likes,” he laughed. “Remember my policy and my doings are criticised by the Opposition newspapers every day. But I have learned to disregard hard words. I am my own master in my private life as well as in my public life, and if you will only consent to be my wife I shall tackle the difficult European problems with renewed vigour, well knowing that I have at least one sympathiser and helpmate—my wife.”
He paused, and looked into her dark eyes for quite a long time.
Then, bending till his lips almost touched hers, and placing his arm tenderly about her waist, he asked breathlessly:
“Jean, tell me, darling, that you do not hate me—that you will try to love me—that you will consent to become my wife. Do, I beg of you.”
For a few seconds she remained silent in his embrace, then slowly her lips moved.
But so stirred by emotion was she that no sound escaped them.
“You will be mine, darling, will you not?” he urged. “Jean, I love you—I’ll love you for ever—always! Do, I beseech of you, give me hope. Say that you love me just a little—only just a little.”
Tears welled in her great, dark eyes, and again her chest heaved and fell.
Then, of a sudden, her head fell upon his shoulder and she buried her face, sobbing in mute consent, while he, on his part, pressed her closely to him and smothered her cheek with burning kisses.
Six years later.
The years had gone by—happy, blissful years, during which the Countess of Bracondale had become a popular society and political hostess.
At Bracondale, and in Scotland, the Earl and his wife had on three occasions entertained the Sovereign at shooting-parties, and no social function was complete without the handsome, half-French Lady Bracondale.
After her marriage, though she had no ambition to enter that wild world of unrest which we call modern society, she realised that, in order to assist her husband in his political and diplomatic work, she was compelled to take her place in London life. So she had entered upon it cheerfully; the town house had been redecorated, and many brilliant functions—dinners, balls, diplomatic receptions, and the like—had been given, while at the Foreign Office receptions her ladyship always acted as hostess to thecorps diplomatique.
The society newspapers gave her portrait constantly, and declared her to be among the most beautiful women in England.
Wealth, position, popularity, all were hers, and, in addition, she had the great love of her devoted husband, and the comfort of her sweet little daughter, Lady Enid Heathcote—a child with pretty, golden hair—whom she adored. The happiest of wives and mothers, she also bore her part as one of the great ladies of the land, and her husband was ever proud of her, ever filled with admiration.
It was eight o’clock on a warm, August morning at Bracondale, where Jean and her little daughter, with Miss Oliver, the governess, were spending the summer.
Jean came down to breakfast in a pretty gown of Japanese silk embroidered with large, crimson roses, and passed through the dining-room out upon the terrace overlooking the park, where, on warm mornings, it was their habit to take their coffee in Continental style.
As she went along to where the table was set, little Enid, with her hair tied at the side with blue ribbon, and wearing a pretty, cotton frock, came dancing along the terrace, where she was walking with her governess, crying in her childish voice:
“Good morning, mother, dear. I wish you many happy returns of your birthday.”
“Thank you, darling,” replied Jean, catching the child up in her arms and kissing her, while Miss Oliver, a tall, discreet, and rather prim person, atthat moment came up with a great bunch of fresh roses which she had just cut for the table.
Bracondale had been absent on official duties at Downing Street for a week, but had returned by special train from Paddington, arriving at Torquay at half-past three in the morning. He had indeed placed aside some most pressing affairs of State in order to spend his wife’s birthday in her company.
And hardly had she kissed her child before he stepped forth from the dining-room, exclaiming:
“Ah! good-morning, Jean. A very happy birthday, dearest,” and bending, he kissed her fondly, while she returned his caress.
“Gunter told me that you did not get home until nearly four o’clock. You must be tired,” she said.
“No, not very,” he laughed. “I had a few hours’ sleep in the train. I’ve just come down to spend the day with you, dearest. I must get back at midnight.”
“It is really very good of you, dear,” she replied. “You know how pleased we both are to have you at our side, aren’t we, Enid?”
“Yes, mother, of course we are,” declared the child, as her father bent to kiss her.
“And now, Jean, I’ve brought you down a little present, which I hope you will like. Men are all fools when they buy a present for a woman. But I’ve got this little trifle for you as a souvenir.”
And placing his hand in the pocket of his dark, flannel jacket, he drew out a magnificent string of pearls—a gift worth, at the least, fifteen thousandpounds. Indeed, that was the price he had paid for them to a dealer in Hatton Garden.
And he had carried them loose in his pocket, leaving the dark green leather case lying upon the library table.
“Oh, how lovely!” Jean cried, in delight, as she saw them. Her eyes sparkled, for she had often wished for such a beautiful row. Pretty things delighted her, just as they delight a child. “It is good of you, dearest,” she said, looking fondly into his face. “I never dreamed that I should have such a handsome present as that!”
“Let me put them on,” he suggested.
Therefore she stood beside the little tea-table, and with Enid clinging to her gown, Lord Bracondale clasped the pearls around his wife’s neck, and then bent to kiss her, a caress which she at once reciprocated, repeating her warm thanks for the magnificent gift.
They suited her well, and Miss Oliver at once went and obtained a small mirror so that her ladyship should see the effect for herself. Jean was not vain. She only liked to wear jewels because it pleased her husband. In the great safe in her dressing-room was stored an array of beautiful jewels—the Bracondale heirlooms. Some of the diamonds had been reset, and she wore them at various official functions. But she prized only those which her husband had given to her. In the Bracondale family jewels she took but little interest.
After all she was essentially modern and up-to-date. Her birth, her youthful experience, thebitterness of her first marriage, and her curious adventures had all combined to render her shrewd and far-seeing. She had kept abreast of the times, and that being so, she could, by her knowledge, often further her husband’s interests.
It being her birthday, she invited Miss Oliver to take her coffee with them, and they were a merry quartette when they sat down to chat in the bright morning sunshine.
The scene was typically English—the long sweep of the park, the great elms dotted here and there, and behind the dark belt of firs the blue Channel sparkling in the morning sun.
“I think in the second week of September I may be able to get away from Downing Street,” Bracondale said, as he sipped his cup of black coffee, for he seldom took anything else until his lunch, served at noon. Morning was the best time for brain work, he always declared, and mental work upon an empty stomach was always best.
“Shall we go to Saint Addresse?” suggested Jean. “The sea-bathing is always beneficial to Enid, and, as you know, the villa, though small, is awfully comfortable.”
“We will go just where you like, dearest. I leave it for you to arrange,” was his reply.
“I love the villa,” she replied, “and Enid does, too.”
“Very well, let us go,” he said. “I’ll make arrangements for us to leave in the second week in September.”
Enid was delighted, and clapped her tiny handswith glee when Miss Oliver told her of her mother’s decision, and then the governess took the child for a stroll around the rosery while husband and wife sat together chatting.
Bracondale sat with his wife’s hand in his, looking into her eyes, and repeating his good wishes for many a happy return of that anniversary.
“I hope you are happy, Jean,” he said at last. “I am trying to make you so.”
“I am very happy—happier now than I have ever been before in all my life,” she answered, looking affectionately into his face. “But do you know that sometimes,” she added, slowly, in an altered voice, “sometimes I fear that this peace is too great, too sweet to last always. I am dreading lest something might occur to wreck this great happiness of mine.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Why do you dread that?” he asked.
“Because happiness is, alas! never lasting.”
“Only ours.”
“Ah!” she sighed, “let us hope so, dearest. Yet this strange presage of coming evil, this shadow which I so often seem to see, appears so real, so grim, and so threatening.”
“I don’t understand why you should entertain any fear,” he exclaimed. “I love you, Jean; I shall always love you.”
She was silent, and he saw that something troubled her. Truth to tell, the shadow of her past had once again arisen.
“Ah! But will you always love me as fondly as you now do?” she asked, rather dubiously.
“I shall, Jean. I swear it. I love no other woman but yourself, my dear, devoted wife.”
“Many men have uttered those same words before. But they have lived to recall and regret them.”
“That is true,” he said. “Yet it is also true that I love you with all my heart and all my soul, and, further, that my love is so deep-rooted that it cannot be shaken.”
“We can only hope,” she said in a low voice, sighing again. “Though my happiness is so complete, I somehow cannot put this constant dread from me. It is a strange, mysterious feeling that something will one day happen to sweep away all my hopes and aspirations—that you and I might be parted.”
“Impossible, darling!” he cried, starting to his feet; and standing behind her, he placed his arm tenderly around her neck. “What could ever happen that would part us?”
Then the thought flashed across his mind. Her past was enveloped in complete mystery, which, true to his word, he had never sought to probe.
“We never know what trials may be in store for us,” she remarked. “We never know what misfortunes may befall us, or what misunderstandings may arise to destroy our mutual affection and part us.”
“But surely you don’t anticipate such a calamity?” he asked, looking into her handsome countenance, his eyes fixed upon hers.
“Well, I—I hardly anticipate it, yet I cannot get rid of this ever-increasing dread of the future which seems so constantly to obsess me.”
“Ah, I think it may be your nerves, darling,” he remarked. “You had a great strain placed upon you by the London season. All those entertainments of yours must have run you down. You must go to Monplaisir. The bracing air there will benefit you, no doubt. Here, in Devon, it is highly relaxing.”
“No, it is not my nerves,” she protested. “It is my natural intuition. Most women can scent impending danger.”
He was inclined to laugh at her fears, and bent again to kiss her upon the cheek.
“Take no heed of such unpleasant forebodings,” he exclaimed cheerily. “I, too, sometimes look upon the darker side of things, yet of late I’ve come to the conclusion that it is utterly useless to meet trouble half-way. Sufficient the day when misfortune falls.”
“But surely we ought always to try and evade it?”
“If you are foredoomed to misfortune, it cannot be evaded,” he declared.
“That is exactly my argument,” she replied. “I feel that one day ere long a dark shadow, perhaps of suspicion, I know not what, will fall between us.”
“And that we shall be parted!” he cried, starting. “You are certainly cheerful to-day.” And he smiled.
“I ought to be, after your lovely present,” shesaid, touching the pearls upon her neck with her white hand. “But I confess to you, dearest, I am not. I am too supremely happy, and for that reason alone I dread lest it may pass as all things in our life pass, and leave only bitter regrets and sad disappointments behind.”
“You speak in enigmas, Jean,” he said, bending earnestly to her again. “Tell me what really distresses you. Do you fear something real and tangible, or is it only some vague foreboding?”
“The latter,” she responded. “I seem always to see a grim, dark shadow stretched before my path.”
Bracondale remained silent in wonder for some time.
Then with words of comfort and reassurance, he again pressed his lips to hers, and urged her to enjoy her happiness to its full extent, and to let the future take care of itself.
“Have no care to-day, darling,” he added. “It is your birthday, and I am with you.”
“Ah, yes, you are here—you, my own dear husband!”
And raising her lips, she smiled happily, and kissed him of her own accord.
About noon on the same day which Jean and her husband spent so happily together by the Devon sea, two men of about thirty-five met in the cosy little American bar of a well-known London hotel.
Both were wealthy Americans, smartly dressed in summer tweeds, and wore soft felt hats of American shape.
One, a tall, thin, hard-faced man, who had been drinking a cocktail and chatting with the barmaid while awaiting his friend, turned as the other entered, and in his pronounced American accent exclaimed:
“Halloa, boy! Thought you weren’t coming. Say, you’re late.”
The other—dark, clean-shaven, with a broad brow, and rather good-looking—grasped his friend’s hand and ordered a drink. Then, tossing it off at one gulp, he walked with his friend into the adjoining smoking-room, where they could be alone.
“What’s up?” asked the newcomer, in a low, eager voice.
“Look here, Hoggan, my boy,” exclaimed the taller of the two to the newcomer, “I’m glad you’ve come along. I ’phoned you to your hotel at half-past ten, but you were out. It seems there’s trouble over that game of poker you played with those two boys in Knightsbridge last night. They’ve been to the police, so you’d better clear out at once.”
“The police!” echoed the other, his dark brows knit. “Awkward, isn’t it?”
“Very. You go, old chap. Get across the Channel as quick as ever you can, or I guess you’ll have some unwelcome visitors. Don’t go back to the hotel. Abandon your traps, and clear out right away.”
Silas P. Hoggan, the man with the broad brow, had no desire to make further acquaintance with the police. As a cosmopolitan adventurer he had lived for the past six years a life of remarkable experiences in Vienna, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and Rome. He posed as a financier, and had matured many schemes for public companies in all the capitals—companies formed to exploit all sorts of enterprises, all of which, however, had placed money in his pocket.
Two years before he had been worth thirty thousand pounds, the proceeds of various crooked businesses. At that moment he had been in San Francisco, when, by an unlucky mischance, a scheme of his had failed, ingenious as it was, and now he found himself living in an expensive hotel in London, with scarcely sufficient to settle his hotel bill.
Since the day when he had stolen those notes from the coat pocket of his accomplice, and locked him in the trap so that the police should arrest him,and thus give him time to escape—for Silas P. Hoggan and Ralph Ansell were one and the same person—things had prospered with him, and he had cultivated an air of prosperous refinement, in order to move in the circle of high finance.
After his escape across the Seine, he had sought refuge in the house of a friend in the Montmartre, where he had dried the soddened bank-notes and turned them into cash. Then, after a week, he had taken the nightrapideto Switzerland, and thence to Germany, where in Berlin he had entered upon financial undertakings in partnership with a “crook” from Chicago. Their first venture was the exploiting of a new motor tyre, out of which they made a huge profit, although the patent was afterwards found to be worthless. Then they moved to Russia, and successively to Austria, to Denmark, and then across to the States.
Losses, followed by gains, had compelled him of late to adopt a more certain mode of living, until now he found himself in London, staying at one of its best hotels—for like all his class he always patronised the best hotel and ate the best that money could buy—and earning a precarious living by finding “pigeons to pluck,” namely, scraping up acquaintanceship with young men about town and playing with them games of chance.
As a card-sharper, Silas P. Hoggan was an expert. Among the fraternity “The American” was known as a clever crook, a man who was a past-master in the art of bluff.
Yet his friend’s warning had thoroughly alarmed him.
The circumstance which had been recalled was certainly an ugly one.
He had found his victims there, in a swell bar, as he had often found them. About many of the London hotels and luxuriously appointed restaurants and fashionable meeting places are always to be seen young men of wealth and leisure who are easy prey to the swindler, the blackmailer, or the sharper—the vultures of society.
A chance acquaintanceship, the suggestion of an evening at cards, a visit to a theatre, with a bit of supper afterwards at an hotel, was, as might be expected, followed by a friendly game at the rooms of the elder of the two lads at Knightsbridge.
Hoggan left at three o’clock that morning with one hundred and two pounds in his pocket in cash and notes, and four acceptances of one hundred pounds each, drawn by the elder of the two victims.
Five hundred pounds for one evening’s play was not a bad profit, yet Hoggan never dreamed that the London police were already upon his track.
What his friend had suggested was the best way out of the difficulty. As he had so often done before he must once again burn his boats and clear.
The outlook was far too risky. Yet he was filled with chagrin. In the circumstances, the acceptances were useless.
“I shall want money,” he remarked.
“Well, boy, I guess I haven’t any cash-money to spare just at the moment, as you know,” repliedhis accomplice. “We’ve been hard hit lately. I’m sorry we came across on this side.”
“Our luck’s out,” Hoggan declared despondently, as he selected a cigarette from his case and lit it. “What about little Lady Michelcoombe? She ought to be good for a bit more.”
“I’ll try, if you like, boy. But for Heaven’s sake clear out of this infernal city, or you’ll go to jail sure,” urged Edward Patten, his friend.
“Where shall I go, Ted? What’s your advice?”
“Get over to Calais or Ostend, or by the Hook into Holland. Then slip along to some quiet spot, and let me know where you are. Lie low until I send you some oof. You can go on for a week or so, can’t you?”
“For a fortnight.”
“Good. Meanwhile, I’ll touch her ladyship for a bit more.”
“Yes. She’s a perfect little gold-mine, isn’t she?”
“Quite. We’ve had about four thousand from her already, and we hope to get a bit more.”
“You worked the game splendidly, Ted,” Hoggan declared. “What fools some women are.”
“And you acted the part of lover perfectly, too. That night when I caught you two together on the terrace at Monte Carlo—you remember? She was leaning over the balustrade, looking out upon the moonlit sea, and you were kissing her. Then I caught you at supper later, and found that you were staying at the hotel where she was staying. All very compromising for her, eh? When I called onher a week afterwards, and suggested that she could shut my mouth for a consideration, I saw in a moment that she was in deadly fear lest her husband should know. But I was unaware that her husband had no idea that she had been to Monte, but believed her to be staying with her sister near Edinburgh.”
“She’s paid pretty dearly for flirting with me,” remarked Silas P. Hoggan with a grin.
“Just as one or two others have, boy. Say, do you recollect that ugly old widow in Venice? Je-hu! what a face! And didn’t we make her cough up, too—six thousand!”
“I’m rather sorry for the Michelcoombe woman,” remarked Hoggan. “She’s a decent little sort.”
“Still believes in you, boy, and looks upon me as a skunk. She has no idea that you and I are in partnership,” he laughed. “We’ll get a thousand or two more out of her yet. Fortunately, she doesn’t know the exact extent of my knowledge of her skittish indiscretions. Say, we struck lucky when we fell in with her, eh?”
Hoggan reflected. It was certainly a cruel trick to have played upon a woman. They had met casually in the Rooms at Monte Carlo, then he had contrived to chat with her, invited her to tea at a famouscafé, strolled with her, dined with her, and within a week had so fascinated her with his charming manner that she had fallen in love with him, the result being that Patten, who had watched the pair, suddenly came upon them, and afterwards demanded hush-money, which he divided with his friend.
Such instances of blackmail are much more frequent than are supposed. There is a class of low-down adventurer who haunts the gayer resorts of Europe, ever on the look-out for young married women who have been ordered abroad for the benefit of their health, and whose husbands, on account of their social, Parliamentary, or business duties, cannot accompany them.
Hunting in couples, they mark down a victim, and while one, giving himself the airs of wealth, and assuming a title, proceeds to flirt with the lady, the other carefully watches. Too often a woman at the gay watering-places of Europe finds the gaiety infectious and behaves indiscreetly; too often she flirts with the good-looking young stranger until, suddenly surprised in compromising circumstances, she realises that her husband must never know, and is filled with fear lest he may discover how she has allowed herself to be misled.
Then comes the blackmailer’s chance. A hint that it would be better to pay than court exposure generally has the desired effect, with the result that the woman usually pawns what jewellery she possesses, and pays up.
Many an unfortunate woman, though perfectly innocent of having committed any wrong, has paid up, and even been driven to suicide rather than allow the seeds of suspicion to be sown in her husband’s heart.
It was so in Lady Michelcoombe’s case. She was a sweet little woman, daughter of a well-known earl, and married to Viscount Michelcoombe, a man ofgreat wealth, with a house in Grosvenor Square and four country seats. Already the pair of adventurers had compelled her to pawn some of her jewels and hand them the proceeds. She was quite innocent of having committed any wrong, yet she dreaded lest her husband’s suspicions might be excited, and had no desire that he should learn that she had deceived him by going to Monte Carlo instead of to her sister’s. The real reason was that she liked the gaiety and sunshine of the place, while her husband strongly disapproved of it.
Certainly her clandestine visit had cost her dear.
“Well,” exclaimed Hoggan, the perfect lover, “you’d better see her ladyship as soon as possible. Guess she’s still in London, eh?”
“I’ll ring up later on and ask the fat old butler. But you clear out right away, boy. There’s no time to lose. Write to me at thePoste Restantein the Strand. Don’t write here, the police may get hold of my mail.”
“If her ladyship turns on you, I guess you’ll have to look slick.”
“Bah! No fear of that, sonny. We’ve got her right there.”
“You can’t ever be sure where a woman is concerned. She might suddenly throw discretion to the winds, and tell her husband all about it. Then you, too, would have to clear right away.”
“Guess I should,” replied Patten. “But I don’t fear her. I mean to get another thousand out of her. Women who make fools of themselves have to pay for it.”
“Well, I must say you engineered it wonderfully,” declared Hoggan.
“And I’ll do so again with a little luck,” his friend declared. “Come and have another cocktail, and then shake the dust of this infernal city off your feet. Every time you have a drink things look different.”
The two men passed into the inner room, where the bar was situated, and after a final Martini each, went out together into the handsome hall of the hotel.
“Wal, so long, old pal! Clear out right away,” whispered Patten, as he shook his friend’s hand.
And next moment Silas P. Hoggan passed across the courtyard and into the busy Strand, once more a fugitive from justice.
One afternoon a fortnight later Ralph Ansell, well dressed, and posing as usual as a wealthy American, who had lived for many years in France, stood at the window of his room in the expensive Palace Hotel at Trouville, gazing upon the sunnyplage, with its boarded promenade placed on the wide stretch of yellow sand.
In the sunshine there were many bathers in remarkable costumes, enjoying a dip in the blue sea, while the crowd of promenaders in summer clothes passed up and down. The season was at its height, for it was the race week at Deauville, and all the pleasure world of Paris had flocked there.
Surely in the whole of gay Europe there is no brighter watering place than Trouville-sur-Mer during the race week, and certainly the played-out old Riviera, with the eternal Monte, is never sochic, nor are the extravagantmodesever so much in evidence, as at the Normandie at Deauville, orupon the boarded promenade which runs before those big, white hotels on the sands at Trouville.
Prices were, of course, prohibitive. The casino was at its gayest and brightest, and the well-known American bar, close to the last-named institution, Ansell patronised daily in order to scrape acquaintance with its chance customers.
Having been up playing cards the greater part of the night before, he had eaten his luncheon in bed, and had just risen and dressed.
He gazed out of his window down upon the sunny scene of seaside revelry, as a bitter smile played upon his lips.
“What infernal luck I had last night,” he muttered, between his teeth. Then glancing at the dressing-table, his eyes fell upon the hotel bill, which had come up on the tray with hisdéjeuner. “Fourteen hundred and eighteen francs,” he muttered, “and only those three louis to pay it with.”
Those last three louis had been flung carelessly upon the table when he had undressed at six o’clock that morning.
He took them in his palm and looked at them.
“Not a word from Ted,” he went on, with a sigh. “I wonder what can have happened. Has he got a bit more out of the Michelcoombe woman and cleared out? No,” he added, “he’s a white man. He’d never prove a blackguard like that.”
Ralph Ansell had not recalled his own dastardly action when he robbed, deserted, and trapped his accomplice, Adolphe Carlier.
For a long time he remained silent as slowly hepaced the small, well-furnished room, his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, his eyes fixed upon the carpet. His fertile, inventive brain was trying to devise some subtle means to obtain money. He was a genius regarding schemes, and he put them before his victims in such an inviting and attractive way that they found refusal impossible. For some of the wildest of schemes he had been successful in subscribing money—money which had enabled him to live well, to travel up and down Europe, and pose as a man of considerable means.
Railway concessions in the Balkans, the exploitation of oil in Roumania, of tin in Montenegro, and copper in Servia, had all been fruitful sources of income, and now when they had failed he had fallen back upon his skill at cards.
On the previous night, at a disreputable but luxuriant gaming-house situated only a few dozen paces from the hotel, he had met his match. His opponent was too wary, and he had lost very considerably. Indeed, all that remained to him were those three golden louis.
And with that slender capital he intended that night to retrieve his lost fortune. It is usually easy for the cheat to retrieve his fortune. So with a laugh he lit a fresh cigarette, put his three louis in his pocket, and muttered, “I wish to Heaven Ted would come over here. We might work something big. I’ll wire him.”
Then, examining himself in the glass, and settling his tie, he walked out at three o’clock in the afternoon, his first appearance that day.
Emerging from the lift into the hall, he passed through the low-built lounge, where a number of summer muslin-dressed idlers were chatting and laughing, and strode out upon the boards placed upon the golden sea-sands outside the hotel.
Trouville is unique. Other watering-places have a drive along the sea-front, but the gay little bathing “trou” has no sea-front. The hotels abut upon the actual sands, just as Arcachon abuts upon its shallow oyster-beds.
Ansell had not gone half-a-dozen yards along theplagebefore he met a young Englishman whose acquaintance he had made in a nightcaféon the previous evening—a young cavalry officer, who greeted him merrily, believing him to be the well-known American financier. Even the men who are “British officers and gentlemen” in these days are prone to bow the knee to American dollars, the golden key which unlocks the door of the most exclusive English society. Only the old-fashioned squire of the country village, the old-fashioned English hunting gentleman, will despise the men who aspire to society because they can buy society’s smiles.
He walked with the young fellow as far as the casino. Ansell did not even know his name, and as he had already summed him up as living on his pay, with a load of debts behind, he did not trouble even to inquire. Only wealthy “mugs” interested him.
Entering the casino, they had a drink together, then smoked and chatted.
Ansell was half inclined to tell a tale and borrow a “fiver,” but so clever was he that he feared lest the young fellow might speak of it in Trouville. Therefore he stood at the bar laughing merrily, as was his wont, and keeping a watchful eye upon any man who entered. He could fascinate other men by cheery good humour, his disregard for worry, his amusing optimism, and his brightness of conversation.
His training as a crook had surely been in a good school, yet there were times when, before his vision, arose the face of the true, honest girl whom he had married, and whom he had so cruelly treated. Sometimes, just as at that hour when he stood at the bar of the great gilded casino, laughing gaily, he would reflect upon his married life, and wonder where Jean was and how she fared.
The young Englishman, Baldwin by name, was spending the season at Trouville with his mother, who rented a pretty villa in the vicinity, and he, being on leave, was idling amid the mad gaiety of Paris-by-the-Sea.
He was much taken by the manners and airy talk of the rich American, whom he found much less vulgar than many he had met in London society. He made no ostentatious show, though it was whispered throughout Trouville that he was one of the wealthiest men in Wall Street. What would young Baldwin have thought if he had seen those three precious louis?
Until five o’clock Ansell chatted and smoked with him, all the time his brain busy to invent somefresh scheme to obtain funds. Then, punctually at five, he took leave of his friend, and entering afiacre, drove along to Deauville, that fashionable village of smart villas, with its big, white casino and its quaintly built but extremely select Hotel Normandie.
At the latter he descended and, entering, passed through the big lounge where the elegant world and the more elegant half world were chattering and taking their tea after the races. He knew the big hotel well, and many men and women glanced up and remarked as he passed, for Silas P. Hoggan had already established a reputation.
Finding nobody to speak to, he took a seat in a corner, drank tea because it was the correct thing to do, smoked a cigarette, and became horribly bored.
Those who saw him reflected upon the great burden which huge wealth as his must be, little dreaming that, after all, he was but a blackmailer and an ingenious swindler.
Presently he looked in at the casino, where he found a French Baron whom he knew, and then, after a further hour in thecafé, he returned to his hotel in Trouville, where he dressed carefully and later on appeared at dinner.
Whenever funds were especially low, Ralph Ansell always made it a rule to order an expensive dinner. It preserved the illusion that he was wealthy. He was especially fond of Russian Bortch soup, and this having been ordered, it was served with great ceremony, a large piece of cream being placed in the centre of the rich, brown liquid.
The dinner he ate that night was assuredly hardlyin keeping with the ugly fact that, within the next four days, if funds were not forthcoming, he would find himself outside the hotel without his newly-acquired luggage.
Truly his luck was clean out.
After dinner he sat outside the hotel for an hour, watching people pass up and down theplage. The evening was close, and the sand reflected back the hot rays of the sun absorbed during the day.
He was thinking. Only those three louis remained between him and starvation. He must get money somehow—by what means it mattered not, so long as he got it.
Suddenly, with a resolve, he rose and, passing along theplage, arrived at a large, white house overlooking the sea, where, on the second floor, he entered a luxuriously-furnished suite of rooms where roulette was in full swing.
Many smartly-dressed men and women were playing around the green table—some winning, some losing heavily.
The room, filled to overflowing, was almost suffocating, while, combined with the chatter of women and the lower voices of men, was the distinctive sound of the clink of gold as the croupier raked it in or paid it out.
To several acquaintances Ralph nodded merrily as he strolled through the room, until suddenly he came upon two men, wealthy he knew them to be, with whom he had played cards on the previous night.
“Ah, messieurs!” he cried, greeting themmerrily. “Are you prepared to give me my revenge—eh?”
“Quite, m’sieur,” was the reply of the elder of the men. “Shall it be in the next room? There is a table free.”
“At your pleasure,” was “The American’s” reply. The man who had proved so shrewd on the previous night was absent, but the two other men were, he knew, somewhat inexperienced at cards.
They passed into the adjoining room and there sat down, a stranger joining them. Others were playing in the same room, including at least a couple of “crooks” well known to Ansell—one man an elegantly-dressed Italian and the other a Spaniard. The summer resorts of Europe prove the happy hunting-ground for the knights of industry.
The cards were dealt, and the game played.
At the firstcoupRalph Ansell won three hundred francs, though he played fairly. Again and again he won. His luck had returned.
In half an hour he had before him a pile of notes and gold representing about three hundred pounds.
His face, however, was sphinx-like. Inveterate gambler that he was, he never allowed his countenance to betray his emotion. Inwardly, however, he was elated at his success, and when the stranger, a middle-aged Russian Baron, proposed to stake an amount equal to his winnings, he quickly welcomed the proposal.
In an instant he was on the alert. Now was the moment to perform one of his clever card-sharpingtricks, the trick by which he had so often won big sums from the unsuspecting.
He placed two one-hundred franc notes aside in case he should lose; then the cards were dealt, and the game played.