According to plans made earlier in the day, a small shooting party left
the Hall immediately after luncheon and did not return until late in the
afternoon. Julian, therefore, saw nothing more of Catherine until she
came into the drawing-room, a few minutes before the announcement of
dinner, wearing a wonderful toilette of pale blue silk, with magnificent
pearls around her neck and threaded in her Russian headdress. As is the
way with all women of genius, Catherine’s complete change of toilette
indicated a parallel change in her demeanour. Her interesting but
somewhat subdued manner of the previous evening seemed to have vanished.
At the dinner table she dominated the conversation. She displayed an
intimate acquaintance with every capital of Europe and with countless
personages of importance. She exchanged personal reminiscences with Lord
Shervinton, who had once been attached to the Embassy at Rome, and with
Mr. Hannaway Wells, who had been first secretary at Vienna. She spoke
amusingly of Munich, at which place, it appeared, she had first studied
art, but dilated, with all the artist’s fervour, on her travellings
in Spain, on the soft yet wonderfully vivid colouring of the southern
cities. She seemed to have escaped altogether from the gravity of which
she had displayed traces on the previous evening. She was no longer the
serious young woman with a purpose. From the chrysalis she had changed
into the butterfly, the brilliant and cosmopolitan young queen of
fashion, ruling easily, not with the arrogance of rank, but with the
actual gifts of charm and wit. Julian himself derived little benefit
from being her neighbour, for the conversation that evening, from first
to last, was general. Even after she had left the room, the atmosphere
which she had created seemed to linger behind her.
“I have never rightly understood Miss Abbeway,” the Bishop declared.
“She is a most extraordinarily brilliant young woman.”
Lord Shervinton assented.
“To-night you have Catherine Abbeway,” he expounded, “as she might have
been but for these queer, alternating crazes of hers--art and socialism.
Her brain was developed a little too early, and she was unfortunately,
almost in her girlhood, thrown in with a little clique of brilliant
young Russians who attained a great influence over her. Most of them are
in Siberia or have disappeared by now. One Anna Katinski--was brought
back from Tobolsk like a royal princess on the first day of the
revolution.”
“It is strange,” the Earl pronounced didactically, “that a young lady of
Miss Abbeway’s birth and gifts should espouse the cause of this Labour
rabble, a party already cursed with too many leaders.”
“A woman, when she takes up a cause,” Mr. Hannaway Wells observed,
“always seeks either for the picturesque or for something which appeals
to the emotions. So long as she doesn’t mix with them, the cause of the
people has a great deal to recommend it. One can use beautiful phrases,
can idealise with a certain amount of logic, and can actually achieve
things.”
Julian shrugged his shoulders.
“I think we are all a little blind,” he remarked, “to the danger in
which we stand through the great prosperity of Labour to-day.”
The Bishop leaned across the table.
“You have been reading Fiske this week.”
“Did I quote?” Julian asked carelessly. “I have a wretched memory. I
should never dare to become a politician. I should always be passing off
other people’s phrases as my own.”
“Fiske is quite right in his main contention,” Mr. Stenson interposed.
“The war is rapidly creating a new class of bourgeoisie. The very
differences in the earning of skilled labourers will bring trouble
before long--the miner with his fifty or sixty shillings, and the
munition worker with his seven or eight pounds--men drawn from the same
class.”
“England,” declared the Earl, indulging in his favourite speech, “was
never so contented as when wages were at their lowest.”
“Those days will never come again,” Mr. Hannaway Wells foretold grimly.
“The working man has tasted blood. He has begun to understand his power.
Our Ministers have been asleep for a generation. The first of these
modern trades unions should have been treated like a secret society in
Italy. Look at them now, and what they represent! Fancy what it will
mean when they have all learnt to combine!--when Labour produces real
leaders!”
“Can any one explain the German democracy?” Lord Shervinton enquired.
“The ubiquitous Fiske was trying to last week in one of the Reviews,”
Mr. Stenson replied. “His argument was that Germany alone, of all the
nations in the world, possessed an extra quality or an extra sense--I
forget which he called it--the sense of discipline. It’s born in
their blood. Generations of military service are responsible for it.
Discipline and combination--that might be their motto. Individual
thought has been drilled into grooves, just as all individual effort is
specialised. The Germans obey because it is their nature to obey. The
only question is whether they will stand this, the roughest test they
have ever had--whether they’ll see the thing through.”
“Personally, I think they will,” Hannaway Wells pronounced, “but if I
should be wrong--if they shouldn’t--the French Revolution would be a
picnic compared with the German one. It takes a great deal to drive a
national idea out of the German mind, but if ever they should understand
precisely and exactly how they have been duped for the glorification of
their masters--well, I should pity the junkers.”
“Do your essays in journalism,” the Bishop asked politely, “ever lead
you to touch upon Labour subjects, Julian?”
“Once or twice, in a very mild way,” was the somewhat diffident reply.
“I had an interesting talk with Furley this morning,” the Prime Minister
observed. “He tells me that they are thinking of making an appeal to
this man Paul Fiske to declare himself. They want a leader--they want
one very badly--and thank heavens they don’t know where to look for
him!”
“But surely,” Julian protested, “they don’t expect necessarily to find
a leader of men in an anonymous contributor to the Reviews? Fiske, when
they have found him, may be a septuagenarian, or a man of academic
turn of mind, who never leaves his study. ‘Paul Fiske’ may even be the
pseudonym of a woman.”
The Earl rose from his place.
“This afternoon,” he announced, “I read the latest article of this Paul
Fiske. In my opinion he is an exceedingly mischievous person, without
the slightest comprehension of the forces which really count in
government.”
The Bishop’s eyes twinkled as he left the room with his hand on his
godson’s arm.
“It would be interesting,” he whispered, “to hear this man Fiske’s
opinion of your father’s last speech in the House of Lords upon land
interests!”
It was not until the close of a particularly unsatisfactory evening of
uninspiring bridge that Julian saw anything more of Catherine. She came
in from the picture gallery, breathless, followed by four or five of the
young soldiers, to whom she had been showing the steps of a new dance,
and, turning to Julian with an impulsiveness which surprised him, laid
her fingers imperatively upon his arm.
“Take me somewhere, please, where we can sit down and talk,” she begged,
“and give me something to drink.”
He led the way into the billiard room and rang the bell.
“You have been overtiring yourself,” he said, looking down at her
curiously.
“Have I?” she answered. “I don’t think so. I used to dance all through
the night in Paris and Rome, a few years ago. These young men are so
clumsy, though--and I think that I am nervous.”
She lay back in her chair and half closed her eyes. A servant brought
in the Evian water for which she had asked and a whisky and soda for
Julian. She drank thirstily and seemed in a few moments to have overcome
her fatigue. She turned to her companion with an air of determination.
“I must speak to you about that packet, Mr. Orden,” she insisted.
“Again?”
“I cannot help it. You forget that with me it is a matter of life or
death. You must realise that you were only entrusted with it. You are a
man of honour. Give it to me.”
“I cannot.”
“What are you thinking of doing with it, then?”
“I shall take it to London with me to-morrow,” he replied, “and hand it
over to a friend of mine at the Foreign Office.”
“Would nothing that I could do or say,” she asked passionately,
“influence your decision?”
“Everything that you do or say interests and affects me,” he answered
simply, “but so far as regards this matter, my duty is clear. You have
nothing to fear from my account of how it came into my possession. It
would be impossible for me to denounce you for what I fear you are. On
the other hand, I cannot allow you the fruits of your enterprise.”
“You consider me, I suppose,” she observed after a moment’s pause, “an
enemy spy?”
“You have proved it,” he reminded her.
“Of Overman--my confederate,” she admitted, “that was true. Of me it is
not. I am an honest intermediary between the honest people of Germany
and England.”
“There can be no communication between the two countries during wartime,
except through official channels,” he declared.
Her eyes flashed. She seemed in the throes of one of those little bursts
of tempestuous passion which sometimes assailed her.
“You talk--well, as you might be supposed to talk!” she exclaimed,
breaking off with an effort. “What have official channels done to
end this war? I am not here to help either side. I represent simply
humanity. If you destroy or hand over to the Government that packet, you
will do your country an evil turn.”
He shook his head.
“I am relieved to hear all that you say,” he told her, “and I am
heartily glad to think that you do not look upon yourself as Overman’s
associate. On the other hand, you must know that any movement towards
peace, except through the authorised channels, is treason to the
country.”
“If only you were not the Honourable Julian Orden, the son of an English
peer!” she groaned. “If only you had not been to Eton and to Oxford! If
only you were a man, a man of the people, who could understand!”
“Neither my birth nor my education,” he assured her, “have affected my
present outlook upon life.”
“Pooh!” she scoffed. “You talk like a stiffened sheet of foolscap! I am
to leave here to-morrow, then, without my packet?”
“You must certainly leave--when you do leave--without that,” he
assented. “There is one thing, however, which I very sincerely hope that
you will leave behind you.”
“And that?”
“Your forgiveness.”
“My forgiveness for what?” she asked, after a moment’s pause.
“For my rashness this morning.”
Her eyes grew a little larger.
“Because you kissed me?” she observed, without flinching. “I have
nothing to forgive. In fact,” she went on, “I think that I should have
had more to forgive if you had not.”
He was puzzled and yet encouraged. She was always bewildering him by her
sudden changes from the woman of sober thoughtfulness to the woman of
feeling, the woman eager to give, eager to receive. At that moment it
seemed as though her sex possessed her to the exclusion of everything
outside. Her eyes were soft and filled with the desire of love, her lips
sweet and tremulous. She had suddenly created a new atmosphere around
her, an atmosphere of bewildering and passionate femininity.
“Won’t you tell me, please, what you mean?” he begged.
“Isn’t it clear?” she answered, very softly but with a suspicion of
scorn in her low tones. “You kissed me because I deliberately invited
it. I know that quite well. My anger--and I have been angry about it--is
with myself.”
He was a little taken aback. Her perfect naturalness was disarming, a
little confusing.
“You certainly did seem provocative,” he confessed, “but I ought to have
remembered.”
“You are very stupid,” she sighed. “I deliberately invited your embrace.
Your withholding it would simply have added to my humiliation. I am
furious with myself, simply because, although I have lived a great
part of my life with men, on equal terms with them, working with them,
playing with them, seeing more of them at all times than of my own sex,
such a thing has never happened to me before.”
“I felt that,” he said simply.
For a moment her face shone. There was a look of gratitude in her eyes.
Her impulsive grasp of his hand left his fingers tingling.
“I am glad that you understood,” she murmured. “Perhaps that will help
me just a little. For the rest, if you wish to be very kind, you will
forget.”
“If I cannot do that,” he promised, “I will at least turn the key upon
my memories.”
“Do more than that,” she begged. “Throw the key into the sea, or
whatever oblivion you choose to conjure up. Moments such as those
have no place in my life. There is one purpose there more intense than
anything else, that very purpose which by some grim irony of fate it
seems to be within your power to destroy.”
He remained silent. Ordinary expressions of regret seemed too
inadequate. Besides, the charm of the moment was passing. The other side
of her was reasserting itself.
“I suppose,” she went on, a little drearily, “that even if I told you
upon my honour, of my certain knowledge, that the due delivery of that
packet might save the lives of thousands of your countrymen, might save
hearts from breaking, homes from becoming destitute--even if I told you
all this, would it help me in my prayer?”
“Nothing could help you,” he assured her, “but your whole confidence,
and even then I fear that the result would be the same.”
“Oh, but you are very hard!” she murmured. “My confidence belongs to
others. It is not mine alone to give you.”
“You see,” he explained, “I know beforehand that you are speaking the
truth as you see it. I know beforehand that any scheme in which you are
engaged is for the benefit of our fellow creatures and not for their
harm. But alas! you make yourself the judge of these things, and there
are times when individual effort is the most dangerous thing in life.”
“If you were any one else!” she sighed.
“Why be prejudiced about me?” he protested. “Believe me, I am not a
frivolous person. I, too, think of life and its problems. You yourself
are an aristocrat. Why should not I as well as you have sympathy and
feeling for those who suffer?”
“I am a Russian,” she reminded him, “and in Russia it is different.
Besides, I am no longer an aristocrat. I am a citizeness of the world.
I have eschewed everything in life except one thing, and for that I have
worked with all my heart and strength. As for you, what have you done?
What is your record?”
“Insignificant, I fear,” he admitted. “You see, a very promising
start at the Bar was somewhat interfered with by my brief period of
soldiering.”
“At the present moment you have no definite career,” she declared. “You
have even been wasting your time censoring.”
“I am returning now to my profession.”
“Your profession!” she scoffed. “That means you will spend your time
wrangling with a number of other bewigged and narrow-minded people about
uninteresting legal technicalities which lead nowhere and which no one
cares about.”
“There is my journalism.”
“You have damned it with your own phrase ‘hack journalism’!”
“I may enter Parliament.”
“Yes, to preserve your rights,” she retorted.
“I am afraid,” he sighed, “that you haven’t a very high opinion of me.”
“It is within your power to make me look upon you as the bravest, the
kindest, the most farseeing of men,” she declared.
He shook his head.
“I decline to think that you would think any the better of me for
committing a dishonourable action for your sake.”
“Try me,” she begged, her hand resting once more upon his. “If you want
my kind feelings, my everlasting gratitude, they are yours. Give me that
packet.”
“That is impossible,” he declared uncompromisingly. “If you wish to
alter my attitude with regard to it, you must tell me exactly from whom
it comes, what it contains, and to whom it goes.”
“You ask more than is possible.. You make me almost sorry--”
“Sorry for what?”
“Sorry that I saved your life,” she said boldly. “Why should I not be?
There are many who will suffer, many who will lose their lives because
of your obstinacy.”
“If you believe that, confide in me.”
She shook her head sadly.
“If only you were different!”
“I am a human being,” he protested. “I have sympathies and heart. I
would give my life willingly to save any carnage.”
“I could never make you understand,” she murmured hopelessly. “I shall
not try. I dare not risk failure. Is this room hot, or is it my fancy?
Could we have a window open?”
“By all means.”
He crossed the room and lifted the blind from before one of the high
windows which opened seawards. In the panel of the wall, between the
window to which he addressed himself and the next one, was a tall,
gilt mirror, relic of the days, some hundreds of years ago, when
the apartment had been used as a drawing-room. Julian, by the merest
accident, for the pleasure of a stolen glance at Catherine, happened to
look in it as he leaned over towards the window fastening. For a single
moment he stood rigid. Catherine had risen to her feet and, without the
slightest evidence of any fatigue, was leaning, tense and alert, over
the tray on which his untouched whisky and soda was placed. Her hand
was outstretched. He saw a little stream of white powder fall into
the tumbler. An intense and sickening feeling of disappointment almost
brought a groan to his lips. He conquered himself with an effort,
however, opened the window a few inches, and returned to his place.
Catherine was lying back, her eyes half-closed, her arms hanging
listlessly on either side of her chair.
“Is that better?” he enquired.
“Very much,” she assured him. “Still, I think that if you do not mind,
I will go to bed. I am troubled with a very rare attack of nerves. Drink
your whisky and soda, and then will you take me into the drawing-room?”
He played with his tumbler thoughtfully. His first impulse was to
drop it. Intervention, however, was at hand. The door opened, and the
Princess entered with Lord Shervinton.
“At last!” the former exclaimed. “I have been looking for you
everywhere, child. I am sure that you are quite tired out, and I insist
upon your going to bed.”
“Finish your whisky and soda,” Catherine begged Julian, “and I will lean
on your arm as far as the staircase.”
Fate stretched out her right hand to help him. The Princess took
possession of her niece.
“I shall look after you myself,” she insisted. “Mr. Orden is wanted to
play billiards. Lord Shervinton is anxious for a game.”
“I shall be delighted,” Julian answered promptly.
He moved to the door and held it open. Catherine gave him her fingers
and a little half-doubtful smile.
“If only you were not so cruelly obstinate!” she sighed.
He found no words with which to answer her. The shock of his discovery
was still upon him.
“You’ll give me thirty in a hundred, Julian,” Lord Shervinton called
out cheerfully. “And shut that door as soon as you can, there’s a good
fellow. There’s a most confounded draught.”