Re-entering the room she found herself alone, Leucha having gone
downstairs into the garden to walk with Ignatia. Therefore she drew the
letter from her pocket and re-read it.
"Dearest Heart," he wrote,--"To-night the journals in Rome are
publishing the news of the King's death, and I write to you as your
Majesty--my Queen. You are my dear heart no longer, but my Sovereign.
Our enemies have again libelled us. I have heard it all. They say that
we left Treysa in company, and that I am your lover; foul lies, because
they fear your power. The _Tribuna_ and the _Messagero_ have declared
that the King contemplates a divorce; yet surely you will defend
yourself. You will not allow these cringing place-seekers to triumph,
when you are entirely pure and innocent? Ah, if his Majesty could only
be convinced of the truth--if he could only see that our friendship is
platonic; that since the clay of your marriage no word of love has ever
been spoken between us! You are my friend--still my little friend of
those old days at dear old Wartenstein. I am exiled here to a Court
that is brilliant though torn by internal intrigue, like your own. Yet
my innermost thoughts are ever of you, and I wonder where you are and
how you fare. The spies of Hinckeldeym have, I hope, not discovered
you. Remember, it is to that man's interest that you should remain an
outcast.
"Cannot you let me know, by secret means, your whereabouts? One word to
the Embassy, and I shall understand. I am anxious for your sake. I
want to see you back again at Treysa with the scandalous Court swept
clean, and with honesty and uprightness ruling in place of bribery and
base intrigue. Do not, I beg of you, forget your duty to your people
and to the State. By the King's death the situation has entirely
changed. You are Queen, and with a word may sweep your enemies from
your path like flies. Return, assert your power, show them that you are
not afraid, and show the King that your place is at his side. This is
my urgent advice to you as your friend--your oldest friend.
"I am sad and even thoughtful as to your future. Somehow I cannot help
thinking that wherever you are you must be in grave peril of new
scandals and fresh plots, because your enemies are so utterly
unscrupulous. Rome is as Rome is always--full of foreigners, and the
Corso bright with movement. But the end of the season has come. The
Court moves to Racconigi, and we go, I believe, to Camaldoli, or some
other unearthly hole in the mountains, to escape the fever. I shall,
however, expect a single line at the Embassy to say that my Sovereign
has received my letter. I pray ever for your happiness. Be brave
still, and may God protect you, dear heart.--Carl."
Tears sprang to her beautiful eyes as she read the letter of the man who
was assuredly her greatest friend--the man whom the cruel world so
erroneously declared to be her lover.
The red afterglow from over the sea streamed into the room as she sat
with her eyes fixed away on the distant horizon, beyond which lay the
wealthy, picturesque kingdom over which she was queen.
Leucha entered, and saw that she was _triste_ and thoughtful, but, like
a well-trained maid, said nothing. Little Ignatia was already asleep
after the journey, and dinner would be served in half an hour.
"I hope Madame will like Worthing," the maid remarked presently, for
want of something else to say. She had dropped the title of Majesty,
and now addressed her mistress as plain "Madame."
"Delightful--as far as I have seen," was the reply. "More rural than
Hastings, it appears. To-morrow I shall walk on the pier, for I've
heard that it is the correct thing to do at an English watering-place.
You go in the morning and after dinner, don't you?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Mr. Bourne did well to suggest this place. I don't think we shall ever
be discovered here."
"I hope not," was Leucha's fervent reply. "Yet what would the world
really say, I wonder, if it knew that you were in hiding here?"
"It would say something against me, no doubt--as it always does," she
answered, in a hard voice; and then she recollected Steinbach's serious
warning.
Dinner came at last, the usual big English joint and vegetables, laid in
that same room. The housemaid, in well-starched cap, cuffs, and apron,
was a typical seaside domestic, who had no great love for foreigners,
because they were seldom lavish in the manner of tips. An English
servant, no matter of what grade, reflects the same askance at the
foreigner as her master exhibits. She regards all "forriners" as
undesirables.
"Madame" endeavoured to engage the girl in conversation, but found her
very loath to utter a word. Her name was Richards, she informed the
guest, and she was a native of Thrapston, in Northamptonshire.
The bright, sunny days that followed Claire found most delightful.
Leucha took little Ignatia down to the sea each morning, and in the
afternoon, while the child slept, accompanied her mistress upon long
walks, either along the sea-road or through the quiet Sussex lanes
inland, now bright in the spring green. The so-called season at
Worthing had not, of course, commenced; yet there were quite a number of
people, including the "week-enders" from London, the people who came
down from town "at reduced fares," as the railway company ingeniously
puts it--an expression more genteel than "excursion." She hired a trap,
and drove with Leucha to Steyning, Littlehampton, Shoreham, those pretty
lanes about Amberley, and the quaint old town of Arundel, all of which
highly interested her. She loved a country life, and was never so happy
as when riding or driving, enjoying the complete freedom that now, for
the first time in her life, was hers.
Weeks crept by. Spring lengthened into summer, and Madame Bernard still
remained in Worthing, which every day became fuller of visitors, mostly
people from London, who came down for a fortnight or three weeks to
spend their summer holiday. And with Leucha she became more friendly,
and grew very fond of her.
She had written to Leitolf the single line of acknowledgment, and sent
it to the Austrian Embassy in Rome, enclosing it in the official
envelope which he had sent her, in order to avoid suspicion. To
Steinbach too she had written, urging him to keep her well informed
regarding the undercurrent of events at Court.
In reply he had sent her other reports which showed most plainly that,
even though the King might be contemplating an adjustment of their
differences in order that she might take her place as Queen, her enemies
were still actively at work in secret to complete her ruin. Up to the
present, however, the spies of Hinckeldeym had entirely failed to trace
her, and their cruel story that she was in Rome had on investigation
turned out to be incorrect. Her enemies were thus discomfited.
In the London papers she read telegrams from Treysa--no doubt inspired
by her enemies--which stated that the King had already applied to the
Ministry of Justice for a divorce, and that the trial was to be heard
_in camera_ in the course of a few weeks.
Should she now reveal her whereabouts? Should she communicate with her
husband and deny the scandalous charges before it became too late? By
her husband's accession her position had been very materially altered.
Her duty to the country of her adoption was to be at her husband's side,
and assist him as ruler. Not that she regretted for one single instant
leaving Treysa. She had not the slightest desire to re-enter that
seething world of intrigue; it was only the call of duty which caused
her to contemplate it. At heart, indeed, if the truth were told, she
still retained a good deal of affection for the man who had treated her
so brutally. When her mind wandered back to the early days of her
married life and the sweetness of her former love, she recollected that
he possessed many good traits of character, and felt convinced that only
the bitterness of her enemies had aroused the demon jealousy within him
and made him what he had now become.
If she were really able to clear herself of the stigma now upon her,
there might, after all, be a reconciliation--if not for her own sake,
then for the sake of the little Princess Ignatia.
These were the vague thoughts constantly in her mind during those warm
days which passed so quietly and pleasantly before the summer sea.
Ignatia was often very inquisitive. She asked her mother why they were
there, and begged that Allen might come back. From Leucha she was
learning to speak English, but with that Cockney twang which was
amusing, for the child, of course, imitated the maid's intonation and
expression.
One calm evening, when Ignatia had gone to bed and they were sitting
together in the twilight upon a seat before the softly-lapping waves up
at the west end of the town, Leucha said,--
"To-day I heard from father. He is in Stockholm, and apparently in
funds. He arrived in Sweden from Hamburg on the day of writing, and
says he hopes in a few days to visit us here."
Claire guessed by what means Roddy Redmayne had replenished his funds,
but made no remark save to express pleasure at his forthcoming visit.
From Stockholm to Worthing was a rather far cry, but with Roddy distance
was no object. He had crossed the Atlantic a dozen times, and was,
indeed, ever on the move up and down Europe.
"Guy has also left London," "the Ladybird" said. "He is in Brighton,
and would like to run over and call--if Madame will permit it."
"To call on you--eh, Leucha?" her royal mistress suggested, with a
kindly smile. "Now tell me quite truthfully. You love him, do you
not?"
The girl flushed deeply.
"I--I love him!" she faltered. "Whatever made you suspect that?"
"Well, you know, Leucha, when one loves one cannot conceal it, however
careful one may be. There is an indescribable look which always betrays
both man and woman. Therefore you may as well confess the truth to me."
She was silent for a few moments.
"I do confess it," she faltered at last, with downcast eyes. "We love
each other very fondly; but, alas, ours is a dream that can never be
realised! Marriage and happiness are not for such as we," she added,
with a bitter sigh.
"Because you have not the means by which to live honestly?" Claire
replied, in a voice of deep, heartfelt sympathy, for she had become much
attached to the girl.
"That is exactly the difficulty, madame," was the lady's maid's reply.
"Both Guy and myself hate this life of constant scheming and of
perpetual fear of discovery and arrest. He is a thief by compulsion,
and I an assistant because I--well, I suppose I was trained to it so
early that espionage and investigation come to me almost as second
nature."
"And yet you can work--and work extremely well," remarked her royal
mistress, with a woman's tenderness of heart. "I have had many maids
from time to time, in Vienna and at Treysa, but I tell you quite openly
that you are the handiest and neatest of them all. It is a pity--a
thousand pities--that you lead the life of an adventuress, for some day,
sooner or later, you must fall into the hands of the police, and after
that--ruin."
"I know," sighed the girl; "I know--only too well. Yet what can I do?
Both Guy and I are forced to lead this life because we are without
means. And again, I am very unworthy of him," she added, in a low,
despondent tone. "Guy is, after all, a gentleman by birth; while I,
`the Ladybird' as they call me, am merely the daughter of a thief."
"And yet, Leucha, you are strangely unlike other women who are
adventuresses. You love this man both honestly and well, and he is
assuredly one worthy a woman's love, and would, under other
circumstances, make you a most excellent husband."
"If we were not outlaws of society," she said. "But as matters are it
is quite hopeless. When one becomes a criminal, one must,
unfortunately, remain a criminal to the end. Guy would willingly cut
himself away from my father and the others if it were at all possible.
Yet it is not. How can a man live and keep up appearances when utterly
without means?"
"Remain patient, Leucha," Claire said reassuringly. "One day you may be
able to extricate yourselves--both of you. Who knows?"
But the girl with the dark eyes shook her head sadly, and spoke but
little on their walk back to the house.
"Ah, Leucha," sighed the pale, thoughtful woman whom the world so
misjudged, "we all of us have our sorrows, some more bitter than others.
You are unhappy because you are an outlaw, while I am unhappy because I
am a queen! Our stations are widely different; and yet, after all, our
burden of sorrow is the same."
"I know all that you suffer, madame, though you are silent," exclaimed
the girl, with quick sympathy. "I have never referred to it, because
you might think my interference impertinent. Yet I assure you that I
reflect upon your position daily, hourly, and wonder what we can do to
help you."
"You have done all that can be done," was the calm, kind response.
"Without you I should have been quite lost here in England. Rest
assured that I shall never forget the kindnesses shown by all of you,
even though you are what you are."
She longed to see the pair man and wife, and honest; yet how could she
assist them?
Next evening, Guy Bourne, well-dressed in a grey flannel suit and straw
hat, and presenting the appearance of a well-to-do City man on holiday,
called upon her, and was shown up by the servant.
The welcome he received from both mistress and maid was a warm one, and
as soon as the door was closed he explained,--
"I managed to get away from London, even though I saw a detective I knew
on the platform at London Bridge. Very fortunately he didn't recognise
me. I've found a safe hiding-place in Brighton, in a small public-house
at the top of North Street, where lodgers of our peculiar class are
taken in. Roddy is due to arrive at Hull to-day. With Harry and two
others, he appears to have made a fine haul in Hamburg, and we are all
in funds again, for which we should be truly thankful."
"To whom did the stuff belong?" Leucha inquired.
"To that German Baroness in whose service you were about eight months
ago--Ackermann, wasn't the name? You recollect, you went over to
Hamburg with her and took observation."
"Yes, I remember," answered "the Ladybird" mechanically; and her head
dropped in shame.
Little Ignatia came forward, and in her sweet, childish way made friends
with the visitor, and later, leaving Leucha to put the child to bed,
"Madame Bernard" invited Guy to stroll with her along the promenade.
She wished to speak with him alone.
The night was bright, balmy, and starlit, the coloured lights on the
pier giving a pretty effect to the picture, and there were a good many
promenaders.
At first she spoke to him about Roddy and about his own dull, cheerless
life now that he was in such close hiding. Then, presently, when they
gained the seat where she had sat with "the Ladybird" on the previous
evening, she suddenly turned to him, saying,--
"Mr. Bourne, Leucha has told me the truth--that you love each other.
Now I fully recognise the tragedy of it all, and the more so because I
know it is the earnest desire of both of you to lead an honest, upright
life. The world misjudges most of us. You are an outlaw and yet still
a gentleman, while she, though born of criminal parents, yet has a heart
of gold."
"Yes, that she has," he asserted quickly. "I love her very deeply. To
you I do not deny it--indeed, why should I? I know that we both possess
your Majesty's sympathy." And he looked into her splendid eyes in deep
earnestness.
"You do. And more. I urge you not to be despondent, either of you.
Endeavour always to cheer her up. One day a means will surely be opened
for you both to break these hateful trammels that bind you to this
unsafe life of fraud and deception, and unite in happiness as man and
wife. Remember, I owe you both a deep debt of gratitude; and one day, I
hope, I may be in a position to repay it, so that at least two loving
hearts may be united." Though crushed herself, her great, generous
heart caused her to seek to assist others.
"Ah, your Majesty!" he cried, his voice trembling with emotion as,
springing up, he took her hand, raising it reverently to his lips. "How
can I thank you sufficiently for those kind, generous words--for that
promise?"
"Ah!" she sighed, "I myself, though my position may be different to your
own, nevertheless know what it is to love, and, alas! know the acute
bitterness of the want of love."
Then a silence fell between them. He had reseated himself, his manly
heart too full for words. He knew well that this woman, whose
unhappiness was even tenfold greater than his own, was his firm and
noble friend. The world spoke ill of her, and yet she was so upright,
so sweet, so true.
And while they sat there--he, a thief, still holding the soft white hand
that he had kissed with such reverence--a pair of shrewdly evil eyes
were watching them out of the darkness and observing everything.
At midnight, when he returned to Brighton, the secret watcher, a
hard-faced, thin-nosed woman, slight, narrow-waisted, rather elegantly
dressed in deep mourning, travelled by the same train, and watched him
to his hiding-place; and having done so, she strolled leisurely down to
the King's Road, where, upon the deserted promenade, she met a bent,
wizened-faced, little old man, who was awaiting her.
With him she walked up and down until nearly one o'clock in the morning,
engaged in earnest conversation, sometimes accompanied by quick
gesticulation.
And they both laughed quietly together, the old man now and then
shrugging his shoulders.