Even in the great dining-room of Dominey Hall, the mahogany table which
was its great glory was stretched that evening to its extreme capacity.
Besides the house party, which included the Right Honourable Gerald
Watson, a recently appointed Cabinet Minister, there were several guests
from the neighbourhood--the Lord Lieutenant of the County and other
notabilities. Caroline, with the Lord Lieutenant on one side of her and
Terniloff on the other played the part of hostess adequately but without
enthusiasm. Her eyes seldom left for long the other end of the table,
where Stephanie, at Dominey's left hand, with her crown of exquisitely
coiffured red-gold hair, her marvellous jewellery, her languorous grace
of manner, seemed more like one of the beauties of an ancient Venetian
Court than a modern Hungarian Princess gowned in the Rue de la Paix.
Conversation remained chiefly local and concerned the day's sport and
kindred topics. It was not until towards the close of the meal that the
Duke succeeded in launching his favourite bubble.
“I trust, Everard,” he said, raising his voice a little as he turned
towards his host, “that you make a point of inculcating the principles
of National Service into your tenantry here.”
Dominey's reply was a little dubious.
“I am afraid they do not take to the idea very kindly in this part of
the world,” he confessed. “Purely agricultural districts are always a
little difficult.”
“It is your duty as a landowner,” the Duke insisted, “to alter their
point of view. There is not the slightest doubt,” he added, looking
belligerently over the top of his _pince nez_ at Seaman, who was seated
at the opposite side of the table, “that before long we shall find
ourselves--and in a shocking state of unpreparedness, mind you--at war
with Germany.”
Lady Maddeley, the wife of the Lord Lieutenant, who sat at his side,
seemed a little startled. She was probably one of the only people
present who was not aware of the Duke's foible.
“Do you really think so?” she asked. “The Germans seem such civilised
people, so peaceful and domestic in their home life, and that sort of
thing.”
The Duke groaned. He glanced down the table to be sure that Prince
Terniloff was out of hearing.
“My dear Lady Maddeley,” he declared, “Germany is not governed like
England. When the war comes, the people will have had nothing to do with
it. A great many of them will be just as surprised as you will be, but
they will fight all the same.”
Seaman, who had kept silence during the last few moments with great
difficulty, now took up the Duke's challenge.
“Permit me to assure you, madam,” he said, bowing across the table,
“that the war with Germany of which the Duke is so afraid will never
come. I speak with some amount of knowledge because I am a German by
birth, although naturalised in this country. I have as many and as dear
friends in Berlin as in London, and with the exception of my recent
absence in Africa, where I had the pleasure to meet our host, I spent a
great part of my time going back and forth between the two capitals. I
have also the honour to be the secretary of a society for the promotion
of a better understanding between the citizens of Germany and England.”
“Rubbish!” the Duke exclaimed. “The Germans don't want a better
understanding. They only want to fool us into believing that they do.”
Seaman looked a little pained. He stuck to his guns, however.
“His Grace and I,” he observed, “are old opponents on this subject.”
“We are indeed,” the Duke agreed. “You may be an honest man, Mr. Seaman,
but you are a very ignorant one upon this particular topic.”
“You are probably both right in your way,” Dominey intervened, very much
in the manner of a well-bred host making his usual effort to smooth over
two widely divergent points of view. “There is no doubt a war party in
Germany and a peace party, statesmen who place economic progress first,
and others who are tainted with a purely military lust for conquest.
In this country it is very hard for us to strike a balance between the
two.”
Seaman beamed his thanks upon his host.
“I have friends,” he said impressively, “in the very highest circles
of Germany, who are continually encouraging my work here, and I have
received the benediction of the Kaiser himself upon my efforts to
promote a better feeling in this country. And if you will forgive my
saying so, Duke, it is such ill-advised and ill-founded statements as
you are constantly making about my country which is the only bar to a
better understanding between us.”
“I have my views,” the Duke snapped, “and they have become convictions.
I shall continue to express them at all times and with all the eloquence
at my command.”
The Ambassador, to whom portions of this conversation had now become
audible, leaned a little forward in his place.
“Let me speak first as a private individual,” he begged, “and express my
well-studied opinion that war between our two countries would be simply
race suicide, an indescribable and an abominable crime. Then I will
remember what I represent over here, and I will venture to add in
my ambassadorial capacity that I come with an absolute and heartfelt
mandate of peace. My task over here is to secure and ensure it.”
Caroline flashed a warning glance at her husband.
“How nice of you to be so frank, Prince!” she said. “The Duke sometimes
forgets, in the pursuit of his hobby, that a private dinner table is not
a platform. I insist upon it that we discuss something of more genuine
interest.”
“There isn't a more vital subject in the world,” the Duke declared,
resigning himself, however, to silence.
“We will speak,” the Ambassador suggested, “of the way in which our host
brought down those tall pheasants.”
“You will tell me, perhaps,” Seaman suggested to the lady to his right,
“how you English women have been able to secure for yourselves so much
more liberty than our German wives enjoy?”
“Later on,” Stephanie whispered to her host, with a little tremble in
her voice, “I have a surprise for you.”
After dinner, Dominey's guests passed naturally enough to the
relaxations which each preferred. There were two bridge tables,
Terniloff and the Cabinet Minister played billiards, and Seaman, with a
touch which amazed every one, drew strange music from the yellow keys
of the old-fashioned grand piano in the drawing-room. Stephanie and her
host made a slow progress through the hall and picture gallery. For some
time their conversation was engaged solely with the objects to which
Dominey drew his companion's attention. When they had passed out of
possible hearing, however, of any of the other guests, Stephanie's
fingers tightened upon her companion's arm.
“I wish to speak to you alone,” she said, “without the possibility of
any one overhearing.”
Dominey hesitated and looked behind.
“Your guests are well occupied,” she continued a little impatiently,
“and in any case I am one of them. I claim your attention.”
Dominey threw open the door of the library and turned on a couple of the
electric lights. She made her way to the great open fireplace, on which
a log was burning, looked down into the shadows of the room and back
again at her host's face.
“For one moment,” she begged, “turn on all the lights. I wish to be sure
that we are alone.”
Dominey did as he was bidden. The furthermost corners of the room, with
its many wings of book-filled shelves, were illuminated. She nodded.
“Now turn them all out again except this one,” she directed, “and wheel
me up an easy-chair. No, I choose this settee. Please seat yourself by
my side.”
“Is this going to be serious?” he asked, with some slight disquietude.
“Serious but wonderful,” she murmured, lifting her eyes to his. “Will
you please listen to me, Leopold?”
She was half curled up in a corner of the settee, her head resting
slightly upon her long fingers, her brown eyes steadily fixed upon her
companion. There was an atmosphere about her of serious yet of tender
things. Dominey's face seemed to fall into more rigid lines as he
realised the appeal of her eyes.
“Leopold,” she began, “I left this country a few weeks ago, feeling that
you were a brute, determined never to see you again, half inclined to
expose you before I went as an impostor and a charlatan. Germany
means little to me, and a patriotism which took no account of human
obligations left me absolutely unresponsive. I meant to go home
and never to return to London. My heart was bruised, and I was very
unhappy.”
She paused, but her companion made no sign. She paused for so long,
however, that speech became necessary.
“You are speaking, Princess,” he said calmly, “to one who is not
present. My name is no longer Leopold.”
She laughed at him with a curious mixture of tenderness and bitterness.
“My friend,” she continued, “I am terrified to think, besides your name,
how much of humanity you have lost in your new identity. To proceed
it suited my convenience to remain for a few days in Berlin, and I was
therefore compelled to present myself at Potsdam. There I received a
great surprise. Wilhelm spoke to me of you, and though, alas! my heart
is still bruised, he helped me to understand.”
“Is this wise?” he asked a little desperately.
She ignored his words.
“I was taken back into favour at Court,” she went on. “For that I owe to
you my thanks. Wilhelm was much impressed by your recent visit to him,
and by the way in which you have established yourself here. He spoke
also with warm commendation of your labours in Africa, which he seemed
to appreciate all the more as you were sent there an exile. He asked
me, Leopold,” she added, dropping her voice a little, “if my feelings
towards you remained unchanged.”
Dominey's face remained unrelaxed. Persistently he refused the challenge
of her eyes.
“I told him the truth,” she proceeded. “I told him how it all began, and
how it must last with me--to the end. We spoke even of the duel. I told
him what both your seconds had explained to me,--that turn of the wrist,
Conrad's wild lunge, how he literally threw himself upon the point of
your sword. Wilhelm understands and forgives, and he has sent you this
letter.”
She drew a small grey envelope from her pocket. On the seal were the
Imperial Hohenzollern arms. She passed it to him.
“Leopold,” she whispered, “please read that.”
He shook his head, although he accepted the letter with reluctant
fingers.
“Read the superscription,” she directed.
He obeyed her. It was addressed in a strange, straggling handwriting to
_Sir Everard Dominey, Baronet_. He broke the seal unwillingly and drew
out the letter. It was dated barely a fortnight back. There was neither
beginning or ending; just a couple of sentences scrawled across the
thick notepaper:
“It is my will that you offer your hand in marriage to the Princess
Stephanie of Eiderstrom. Your union shall be blessed by the Church and
approved by my Court.
“WILHELM.”
Dominey sat as a man enthralled with silence. She watched him.
“Not on your knees yet?” she asked, with faint but somewhat resentful
irony. “Can it be, Leopold, that you have lost your love for me? You
have changed so much and in so many ways. Has the love gone?”
Even to himself his voice sounded harsh and unnatural, his words
instinct with the graceless cruelty of a clown.
“This is not practical,” he declared. “Think! I am as I have been
addressed here, and as I must remain yet for months to come--Everard
Dominey, an Englishman and the owner of this house--the husband of Lady
Dominey.”
“Where is your reputed wife?” Stephanie demanded, frowning.
“In the nursing home where she has been for the last few months,” he
replied. “She has already practically recovered. She cannot remain there
much longer.”
“You must insist upon it that she does.”
“I ask you to consider the suspicions which would be excited by such a
course,” Dominey pleaded earnestly, “and further, can you explain to me
in what way I, having already, according to belief of everybody, another
wife living, can take advantage of this mandate?”
She looked at him wonderingly.
“You make difficulties? You sit there like the cold Englishman whose
place you are taking, you whose tears have fallen before now upon my
hand, whose lips--”
“You speak of one who is dead,” Dominey interrupted, “dead until the
coming of great events may bring him to life again. Until that time your
lover must be dumb.”
Then her anger blazed out. She spoke incoherently, passionately, dragged
his face down to hers and clenched her fist the next moment as though
she would have struck it. She broke down with a storm of tears.
“Not so hard--not so hard, Leopold!” she implored. “Oh! yours is a
great task, and you must carry it through to the end, but we have his
permission--there can be found a way--we could be married secretly. At
least your lips--your arms! My heart is starved, Leopold.”
He rose to his feet. Her arms were still twined about his neck, her lips
hungry for his kisses, her eyes shining up into his.
“Have pity on me, Stephanie,” he begged. “Until our time has come there
is dishonour even in a single kiss. Wait for the day, the day you know
of.”
She unwound her arms and shivered slightly. Her hurt eyes regarded him
wonderingly.
“Leopold,” she faltered, “what has changed you like this? What has dried
up all the passion in you? You are a different man. Let me look at you.”
She caught him by the shoulders, dragged him underneath the electric
globe, and stood there gazing into his face. The great log upon the
hearth was spluttering and fizzing. Through the closed door came the
faint wave of conversation and laughter from outside. Her breathing was
uneven, her eyes were seeking to rend the mask from his face.
“Can you have learnt to care for any one else?” she muttered. “There
were no women in Africa. This Rosamund Dominey, your reputed wife--they
tell me that she is beautiful, that you have been kindness itself to
her, that her health has improved since your coming, that she adores
you. You wouldn't dare--”
“No,” he interrupted, “I should not dare.”
“Then what are you looking at?” she demanded. “Tell me that?”
Her eyes were following the shadowed picture which had passed out of the
room. He saw once more the slight, girlish form, the love-seeking light
in those pleading dark eyes, the tremulous lips, the whole sweet appeal
for safety from a frightened child to him, the strong man. He felt the
clinging touch of those soft fingers laid upon his, the sweetness of
those marvellously awakened emotions, so cruelly and drearily stifled
through a cycle of years. The woman's passion by his side seemed
suddenly tawdry and unreal, the seeking of her lips for his something
horrible. His back was towards the door, and it was her cry of angry
dismay which first apprised him of a welcome intruder. He swung around
to find Seaman standing upon the threshold--Seaman, to him a very angel
of deliverance.
“I am indeed sorry to intrude, Sir Everard,” the newcomer declared, with
a shade of genuine concern on his round, good-humoured face. “Something
has happened which I thought you ought to know at once. Can you spare me
a moment?”
The Princess swept past them without a word of farewell or a backward
glance. She had the carriage and the air of an insulted queen. A shade
of deeper trouble came into Seaman's face as he stepped respectfully to
one side.
“What is it that has happened?” Dominey demanded.
“Lady Dominey has returned,” was the quiet reply.