When nabob Hugh Johnstone’s carriage dashed swiftly down the crowded
Chandnee Chouk, on its return to the marble house, the driver and
footman, as well as the slim syce runners, were alarmed at the old
man’s appearance when he was half led, half carried out of his luxurious
vehicle. The staggering sufferer reached his rooms and was surrounded by
a bevy of frightened menials, while the equippage dashed away in search
of old Doctor McMorris, the surgeon par excellence of Delhi. A second
butler had hastily darted away to the Delhi Club with an imperative
summons for Major Alan Hawke, who had, unfortunately, left for the day.
With a shudder of affright Mademoiselle Justine Delande had slipped into
a booth on the great thoroughfare, only to feel safe when she glided
into Ram Lal Singh’s jewel shop, to be swiftly hurried into the rear
reception room by the argus-eyed merchant, who had noted the swiftly
passing carriage. Her womanly conscience was as tender as her heart.
“Lock the door, Ram Lal!” cried Alan Hawke, “We will be in the pagoda
in the garden. Let no one pass this door, on your life!” When they were
alone, Major Alan Hawke led the trembling woman away to to the hidden
bower, where Ram Lal had hospitably spread a feast of India’s choicest
cakes and dainties.
Only there, in that haven of safety, dared the excited Justine to
falter. “If you knew what I have suffered! He drove almost over me as I
crossed the Chandnee Chouk, and I had a struggle to leave Nadine. There
is the curse of an old family sorrow there. The father and daughter are
arrayed against each other.”
“Forget it all, my dear Justine,” murmured Alan Hawke. “Here you are
hidden now and perfectly safe with me. Never mind those people now. Let
us only think of each other. You were simply matchless in your behavior
at the house.”
“Oh, I fear him so! I fear that hard old man!” whispered the timid
woman, as she dropped her eyes before Alan Hawke’s ardent glances. He
had noted the growing touch of coquetry in her dress; he measured the
tell-tale quiver of her voice, and he smiled tenderly when she shyly
showed him the diamond bracelet, securely hidden upon her left arm.
“I put this on to show you that I do trust you,” she murmured. “And
I wear it every night. It seems to give me courage.” The happy Major
pressed her hand warmly.
“Let it be a secret sign between us, an omen of brighter days for all
of us. Stand by me and I will stand by you to the last. We will all meet
happily yet by the beautiful shores of Lake Leman!”
In half an hour, Justine Delande was completely at her ease, for well
the artful renegade knew how to circle around the dangerous subject
nearest his heart--the secret history of Nadine Johnstone’s mother.
He had dropped easily into the wooing and confidential intimacy which
lulled Justine Delande into a fool’s paradise of happy content.
She was sinking away and now losing her will and identity in his own,
without one warning qualm of conscience. For Alan Hawke’s dearly bought
knowledge of womankind now stood him in great stead.
“One single familiarity, one questionable liberty, and this cold-pulsed
Heloise would fly forever. She must be left to her day dreams and to
the work of a sweet self-deception,” he artfully mused. They were
interrupted but a moment, when Ram Lal Singh glided to the door of the
pagoda.
“I must now go to the bungalow to see Madame Louison and have her
approve her horses and carriage. She has sent word that she will drive
this afternoon. And,” he whispered breathlessly, “Old Johnstone is very
sick. He has sent all over the city to find you, and now his own private
man bids me go there at once. He must have me, if he can’t find you.”
Major Hawke mused a moment. “Give me the keys! Put your best man on
guard to watch for any intruders! Go first to the Mem-Sahib! Keep your
mouth shut! Remember about me and--” He pointed to the governess, now
timidly cowering in a shadowy corner. “Let the old devil wait till you
are done with her! Pump the old wretch! Find out what he wants! Say that
I went off for a day’s jaunt!” Alan Hawke smiled grimly as he seated
himself tenderly at Justine Delande’s side. “Old Hugh did not last long!
They must have had their first skirmish. If he is a coward at heart, she
will rule him with a rod of iron. What is her hold over him? I warrant
that the jade will never tell me. She will fight him to the death in
silence, and try to hoodwink me. We will see, my lady! We will see!”
“Now, Justine,” softly said the renegade, “tell me all of the story
of this strange father and daughter! Ram Lal has reconnoitered! We are
safe! Both Hugh and his daughter are at home!”
The reassured governess frankly opened her heart to her wary listener.
It was an hour before the recital was finished, and Miss Justine was
gayly chatting over the impromptu breakfast, when the details of these
last stormy days at Delhi were described. “I cannot make it all out. She
is certainly his legitimate daughter. He is crafty, covetous, miserly,
and yet he lives in a scornful splendor here. Both my sister and myself
look forward to learning the whole story through my visit here. Of
course, on our arrival, Nadine and myself wondered not at the gloomy
solitude of the marble house. But the affronts to society, the practical
imprisonment of this girl, this chilling silence as to her mother, have
roused her brave young heart. Not a picture, not a single memento, not
even a jewel, not a tress of hair, not even a passing mention of where
that shadowy mother lies buried!” the Swiss woman sighed. “He is a brute
and tyrant--a man of a stony heart and an iron hand!”
“You have never been made his confidante?” earnestly asked the Major.
“Never!” promptly replied Justine. “Beyond a grave courtesy and the curt
answers to our reports, with liberal payment, we know no more now than
when the prattling child of four was brought to us.
“She has no childish memories of her own. I have overheard all the
unhappy scenes of the last month. There are the tearful prayers of
Nadine, then the old man’s harsh threats, and then only his cold
avoidance follows. Strange to say--gentle and warm-hearted, formed
for love, and yearning to know of the dear mother whom she has fondly
pictured in her dreams, Nadine Johnstone has all the courage of a
soldier’s daughter, and her fearless bravery of soul is as inflexible
as steel. She returns frankly to the contest, and his only refuge is the
wall of cold silence that he has built up between them!”
“Has he tried to punish her in any way--to intimidate her?” eagerly
cried the Major.
“Not yet,” answered Justine. “She tells me all, and he knows it. I can
see that his eyes are fixed on me now with a growing hatred. He fears
that I uphold her in this duel of words, of answerless questions.
“He has threatened her roughly with sending her away to some place, to
‘come to her senses,’ alone, and--” the frightened woman said, “That
is what I fear--some sudden, rough brutality. He despairs of making her
love him. If she were suddenly removed--and I cast adrift on the world,
alone, here, he would, I suppose, send me back to Switzerland. He can
do no less, but I would lose her forever from my sight. I know that
he hates me, and we have always hoped that he would make us a handsome
present, on her marriage. Euphrosyne and I have been as mothers to her.”
There were tears in the woman’s anxious eyes now. She was startled as
Hawke bounded to his feet.
“By God!” he cried, forgetting himself. “That’s just his little game!
It must never be! See here, Justine! I have reason to think that you are
right. He may try to spirit her away and separate her forever from you
and Euphrosyne. He would cut off the only two friends who could connect
her with this strange past. Yes, that’s his little game! And--” he
slowly concluded, controlling himself, “I have reason to think he may
go about it at once. He is afraid of me, also, about some old official
business. Now, I will watch over your interests. The least this old
miser can do is to give you a neat little home in Geneva, as a final
recompense.”
Justine Delande’s eyes sparkled in gratitude. The acute Major had easily
learned from the garrulous Francois that the “Institut Pour les Jeunes
Dames” was an intellectual property only; the fine old mansion belonging
to a rich Genevese banker. Major Alan Hawke was now busied in writing
upon a few leaves torn from his betting book.
“Listen to me!” he gravely said. “Promise me that you will never let
these papers leave you a moment.”
“I will carry them in my passport case, around my neck,” murmured
Justine. “My money in notes, and a few articles.”
“Good!” energetically cried Hawke. “I will write the same to Euphrosyne,
and send it by ‘registered post’ to-day.”
“Here!” he suddenly cried, “Just pencil a few words to her to say that
you are with me, and that we understand each other; that our interests
are to be one; and that she must keep the faith and help us both, for
both our sakes. I will mail it so that old Johnstone will be powerless
to injure any of us three.” He gave her another leaflet from his book,
and detached a golden pencil from his watch chain.
There was a crimson flush upon her cheek, as she vainly essayed to
write. Her hand trembled, and then with a sob, her head fell upon
her breast; with an infinite art, the triumphant renegade soothed the
excited woman, and, it was only through her happy tears that she saw
him, before her there, duplicating the secret addresses.
“Now, Justine; my Justine!” softly said Alan Hawke. “Here is a secret
address in Allahabad, and a secret address in London. If this man
decides to send Nadine away, he will do it secretly in some way. There
are several seaports open to leave India. You will be, of course, sent
out of Hindostan with her. It would be just his little game, however,
to separate you at the first foreign port, to pay you off royally, and
then--neither you nor Euphrosyne would ever see Nadine again. There is
something hanging over him that he would hide from her. He fears me,
also, for my official power. Remember, now! No matter whatever happens
you can always find a way to telegraph to me. If I am in India, here
to Allahabad; if in Europe, to London. Now, Euphrosyne will know always
where I am. Telegraph me the whereabouts of Nadine Johnstone, or, where
you are forced to leave her, telegraph the vessel you are on, and her
destination, and, I swear to you, by the God who made me, I will track
her down, and we three shall find a way to reach her later. He would
like to lock her up in a living tomb, if he found it to be to his
interest. A cheap private asylum in Germany, or some low haunt in
France, perhaps hide her away in Italy as a pretended invalid. The man
is mad--simply mad--about this baronetcy, and in some strange way the
girl stands between him and it. Do you promise?”
“I promise you all!” faltered the excited woman. “Let me go now. Let me
go home, Alan,” she murmured, and there were no heart secrets between
them any more, as the blushing woman, still trembling with the audacity
of her own burning emotions, was led safely to the door of the jewel
mart.
“Be brave, be brave, dear Justine,” he whispered. “Old Johnstone has
sent for me. You shall have your home yet; I guarantee it. I shall
be frequently at the house in the next few days. Remember to control
yourself, and to watch the sly game of this old brute. I will stay here
and send off at once our first letter to Euphrosyne. This girl will
have a million pounds. You and your sister must not be robbed of the
recompense of nearly twenty years of tenderness. Cleave to her, heart to
heart, and tell me all. I will make you both rich!”
“Trust me to the death! I understand all now,” whispered Justine, her
breast heaving in a new and strange emotion, flooding her chilly veins
as with a subtle fiery elixir.
“Then go, but, dear one, be here two days from now at the same time.
Should any accident happen, Ram Lal will then come and bear to you my
message. You can trust him. I will stay here and send this registered
letter from here at once. Then, Hugh Johnstone has three loving
guardians to outwit before he can hide away your beautiful nursling!”
“For you.” he softly whispered, as he slipped a little packet into her
hand, when she stole out of the shop, after Alan Hawke had judiciously
reconnoitered.
“Dear, simple soul!” contentedly reflected Major Hawke, as he busied
himself with the important letter to the staid Euphrosyne. “She has
given me her heart, in her loving eagerness to defend that child, and
the key to the whole situation. It would be just like this old brute
to spirit the girl away to baffle Madame Berthe Louison. That is, if he
dare not kill or intimidate her. And that I must look to. I think that
I see my way to that girl’s side now. God, what a pot of money she will
have!”
When Alan Hawke had finished his boldly warm letter to Euphrosyne, he
sealed it and sent it to the post by Ram Lal’s footman. The world looked
very bright to him as, enjoying a capital cheroot, he studied for a half
hour a wall map of India. “There’s a half dozen ways to spirit her
out of the Land of the Pagoda Tree. I must watch and trust to Justine.
To-night I may or may not know what this devil of a Berthe Louison is up
to. Will she try to take the girl away? That would be fatal.”
“Hardly--hardly,” he decided, as he mixed a brandy pawnee. He gazed
around at Ram Lal’s sanctum, in which the old usurer received the
Europeans whom he fleeced in his nipoy-lending operations. “A pretty
snug joint. Many a hundred pounds have I dropped here.” It was neatly
furnished forth with service magazines, London papers, army lists, and
all the accessories of a London money-lender’s den. When the receipt
for his registered letter was laid away in his pocket-book, Alan Hawke
calmly ordered his carriage. “I’ll take a brush around town and show
them that I am out of all these intrigues,” he decided. It was six hours
later when he drew up at the Club, having passed Madame Berthe Louison’s
splendid turnout swinging down the Chandnee Chouk. On the box the alert
Jules, in a yager’s uniform, sat beside the dusky driver, and, even in
the dusk, he could see the neat French maid seated, facing her mistress.
“By God! She has the nerve of a Field Marshal! She will never hide her
light under a bushel!” he had gasped when Madame Louison, at ten feet
distant, gazed at him impassively through her longue vue, and then
calmly cut him. He was soon besieged by a crowd of gay gossips at the
Club upon dismounting from his trap.
“Tell us, Hawke, who is the wonderful beauty who has taken the Silver
Bungalow,” was the excited chorus.
“How the devil should I know, when you fellows do not,” good-humoredly
cried Alan Hawke, as the Club steward edged his way through the throng.
“There’s a message for you, Major,” said the functionary. “Mr. Hugh
Johnstone is quite ill at his house, and has been sending all over for
you.”
“Ah! This is grave news” ostentatiously cried Hawke. “I’ll drive over at
once.” And then he fled away, leaving the gay loiterers still discussing
the lovely anonyma whose advent was now the one sensation of the hour.
“Who the devil can her friends be?”
“She plays a bold game,” mused the startled Major.
On her return to the marble house, Justine Delande had been welcomed by
the anxious-eyed apparition of Nadine Johnstone, who burst into her
room in a storm of tears. “I have been so frightened,” she cried as she
clasped her returning governess in her trembling grasp.
“My father has just had a terrible seizure--an attack while riding out
on business. He will see no one but Doctor McMorris, and besides, he
has the old jewel merchant searching all over Delhi for Major Hawke. You
must not leave me a moment, Justine.”
“Is he better?” demanded Justine, with guilty qualms.
“He is resting now, but he will not be quieted till he sees this strange
man,” answered the disconsolate girl.
“How beautiful she is,” mused the Swiss woman, as Nadine Johnstone sat
with parted lips relating the excitements of the morning. The wooing
Indian climate was fast ripening the exquisite loveliness of eighteen.
Her dark eyes gleamed with earnestness, and the rich brown locks crowned
her stately head as with a coronal of golden bronze. The roses on her
cheeks were not yet faded by the insidious climate of burning India, and
a thrilling earnestness accented the music of her voice.
“What can we do, Nadine?” murmured Justine Delande.
“Nothing,” sighed the motherless girl. “But when this Major Hawke
comes, you must, for my sake, find out all you can. Ah! To leave India
forever!” she sighed. Her marble prison was only a place of sorrow and
lamentation.
Major Hawke’s flying steeds reached the marble house, after a circuit
to Ram Lal’s jewel mart. Without leaving his carriage, he called out the
obsequious old Hindu. The dusk of evening favored Ram Lal in his adroit
lying.
He gave a brief account of Hugh Johnstone’s strange morning seizure,
forgetting to divulge to Hawke that the old nabob had already bribed him
heavily to watch the inmate of the Silver Bungalow, and report to him
her every movement. Nor, did the Hindu divulge his secret report to
Madame Berthe Louison, after her ostentatious public carriage promenade.
He further hid the fact that Madame Louison had deftly pressed a hundred
pounds upon him, in return for a daily report of the secret life of the
marble house. But he smiled blandly, when Major Hawke hastily said “Will
he die?”
“No; he is all right! He was over there with the Mem-Sahib this morning,
and something must have happened.”
“What happened?” imperiously demanded Hawke.
“I don’t know,” slowly answered Ram Lal.
“Don’t lie to me, Ram Lal,” fiercely said the Major. “I have a
fifty-pound note if you will find out.”
“He is going there to-morrow,” slowly said Ram.
“All right, watch them both. I’ll be back here. Wait for me.” And then
at a nod the horses sprang away.
“Fools! Fools all!” glowered Ram Lal, as he straightened up from his low
salaam. “I’ll have those stolen jewels yet. Now is the time to gain his
confidence. He is an old man, and weak, and, cowardly.”
When Major Hawke entered the great doors of the marble house, he was
gravely received by Mademoiselle Justine Delande. “He has been asking
every ten minutes for you,” she said. “I am to show you at once to his
rooms.”
“Now, what’s this? what’s all this?” cheerfully cried the Major as he
entered the vast sleeping-room of the Anglo-Indian. Old Johnstone feebly
pointed to the door, and motioned to his attendants to leave the room.
He was worn and gaunt, and his ashen cheeks and sunken eyes told of some
great inward convulsion. He had aged ten years since the pompous tiffin.
“I’m not well, Hawke! Come here! Near to me!” he huskily cried. And
then, the hunter and the hunted gazed mutely into each other’s eyes.
“What’s gone wrong?” frankly demanded the Major. The old man scowled in
silence for a moment.
“I have no one I dare trust but you,” he unwillingly said. “You know
something of my position, my future. I want to know if you have ever met
this woman who has taken the Silver Bungalow--a kind of a French woman.
There’s her card.” Old Johnstone’s haggard eyes followed Hawke, as he
silently studied the bit of pasteboard.
“Madame Berthe Louison,” he gravely read. And, then, with a magnificent
audacity, he lied successfully. “Never even heard the name,” he
murmured.
“Fellows at the Club speaking of some such woman today. Pretty woman, I
supppose a declassee.” Hawke, lifted his eyebrows.
“No, a she-devil!” almost shouted old Hugh. “Now, I want you to watch
her and find out who her backers are. She is trying to annoy me. Be
prudent, and I’ll make it a year’s pay to you.” Hawke’s greedy eyes
lightened as he bowed. “But never mention my name. Come here as often
as you will. Go now and look up what you can. I’ll see you to-morrow, in
the afternoon. Don’t scrape acquaintance with her. Just watch her. I’m
going there to-morrow morning myself.”
“You?” said Hawke.
“Yes,” half groaned the old man, turning his face to the wall. “Come
to-morrow afternoon. Spare no money. I’ll make it right. Don’t linger a
minute now.”
Major Alan Hawke was gayly buoyant as the horses trotted back to Ram Lal
Singh’s, where he proposed to await the hour of ten o’clock. “I fancy,
my lady, that you, too, will pay toll, as well as Hugh Johnstone,”
he murmured. “You shall pay for all you get, and pay as you go.”
He cheerfully dined alone in Ram Lal’s little business sanctum, and
listened to the measured disclosures of the Hindu in return for the
fifty-pound note.
“It’s to-morrow’s interview that I want to know about,” quietly directed
the major, whereat Ram Lal modestly said:
“I’ll find a way to let you know all.”
“That’s more than she will, the sly devil,” said Hawke, in his heart, as
he leaned back in the consciousness of “duty well done.”
In the Silver Bungalow, Alixe Delavigne sat in her splendid dining-room,
under the ministrations of her Gallic body-guard. Her eyes were very
dreamy as she recalled all the fearful incidents of the annee terrible.
The flight from Paris after their father’s death, the escape to England,
the refuge at a Brighton hotel--the sudden projecture of Hugh Fraser
athwart their humble lives. When the returned Indian functionary
abandoned all other pursuits and plainly showed his mad craving to
follow Valerie Delavigne everywhere, then the younger sister had learned
of his rank, of his long leave and wealth and future prospects. The man
was most personable then. He was of a solid rank and a brilliant civil
position, and the penniless daughters of the dead Colonel Delavigne were
now reduced to a few hundred francs. The hand of Misery was upon them,
poor and friendless. Alixe, with a shudder, recalled the two years of
silence, since the ardent Pierre Troubetskoi had whispered to beautiful
Valerie Delavigne in Paris: “I go to Russia, but I will soon return and
you must wait for me!”
Day by day, when the skies grew darker, Valerie Delavigne had gazed
with a haunting sorrow in her eyes, at her helpless sister. Some strange
possessing desire had urged Hugh Fraser on to woo and win the helpless
French beauty, whom an adverse fate had stranded in England. The mute
sacrifice of the wedding was followed by the two years of Valerie’s
loveless marriage. It was an existence for the two sisters, bought by
the sacrifice of one and Troubetskoi never had written!
Sitting alone, waiting for the morrow, to face Hugh Fraser once more,
Alixe Delavigne recalled, with a vow of vengeance, that sad past, the
slow breaking of the butterfly, the revelation of all Hugh Fraser’s
cold-hearted tyranny, the sway of his demoniac jealousy--jealous, even,
of a sister’s innocent love. And that last miserable scene, on the eve
of their projected voyage to India, when the maddened tyrant discovered
Pierre Troubetskoi’s long-belated letter, returned once more to madden
her. Fraser had simply raged in a demoniac passion.
For the mistake of a life was at last revealed when that one letter
came! The letter addressed to the wife as Valerie Delavigne, which had
followed them slowly upon their travels, and, by a devil’s decree, had
fallen, by a spy-servant’s trick, into Hugh Fraser’s hands. It mattered
not that the coming lover was even yet ignorant of the miserable
marriage. The envelope, with its address, was missing, when the long
pages of burning tenderness were read by the infuriated husband. “I have
been buried a year in the snows of Siberia,” wrote Pierre, “upon the
secret service of the Czar. I was ill of a fever for long months upon my
return, and now I am coming to take you to my heart, never to be parted
any more.” The address of his banker in Paris, all the plans for
their voyage to Russia, even the tender messages to the sister of his
love--all these were the last goad to a maddened man, whose raging
invective and brutal violence drove a weeping woman out into the
cheerless night. He deemed her the Russian’s cherished mistress. With a
shudder Alixe Delavigne recalled the white face of the discarded mother,
whose babe slumbered in peace, while the half-demented woman fled away
to the shelter of the house of an old French nurse.
The morrow, when Hugh Fraser bade her also leave his house forever, was
pictured again in her mind, and the insolent gift of the hundred-pound
note, with the words, “Go and find your sister! Never darken my door
again!” She had taken that money and used it to save her sister’s life.
The darkened sick-chamber, the flight across the channel, and the rugged
path which led Valerie, at last, to die in peace in Pierre Troubetskoi’s
arms--all this returned to the resolute avenger of a sister who had
died, dreaming of the little childish face hidden from her forever, “He
shall pay the price of his safety to the uttermost farthing, to the last
little humiliation,” she cried, starting up as Alan Hawke stood before
her, for the hour of ten had stolen upon her. “Nadine shall love her
mother, and that love shall bridge the silent gulf of Death!”
“You have been agitated?” he gently said, for there were tell-tale tears
upon her lashes. “Tell me, is it victory or defeat?”
“I shall see my sister’s child, to-morrow,” the Lady of Jitomir bravely
said. “And he--the man of the iron heart--shall conduct me to his house
in honor.” There was that shining on her transfigured face which made
Alan Hawke murmur:
“There is a great love here--greater than the hate which demands an eye
for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”
He waited, abashed and silent, for his strange employer’s orders of the
day.
“Is there anything I can do for you to-morrow?” said Alan Hawke. “Do
you find your arrangements convenient for you here in every way?” The
respectful tone of his manner touched Berthe Louison’s heart. He was
beginning to win his way to her regard by judiciously effacing himself.
“I am entirely at home, thanks to your thoughtful provision,” she
smiled. “There is nothing to-night. Have you seen Johnstone?” Her dark
eyes were steadfastly fixed upon him now.
“Yes; he sent for me. He is very much agitated and, I should say, he is
almost at your mercy. But beware of an apparent surrender on his part.
He is--capable of anything!”
“I know it. I am on my guard,” slowly replied Berthe Louison. She saw
that Alan Hawke had spoken the truth to her--even with some mental
reservations. “To-morrow morning will determine my public relations with
Hugh Johnstone. Come to me to-morrow night, and do not be surprised if
we meet as guests at Hugh Johnstone’s table. You must only meet me as a
stranger. I may leave here for a few days, and then I will place you in
charge of my interests in my absence.”
The Major gravely replied:
“You may depend upon me wherever you may wish to call upon me.”
“Strange mutability of womanhood,” he mused a half hour later as he
left the lady’s side. “There is a woman whom I should not care to
face tomorrow morning if I were in Hugh Johnstone’s shoes.” It was the
renegade’s last verdict as he slept the sleep of the prosperous. The
Willoughby dinner and his own feast now occupied his attention, for his
mysterious employer had bade him to eat, drink, and be merry.
At ten o’clock the next day the “gilded youth” of the Delhi Club all
knew that Hugh Johnstone had betaken himself to the Silver Bungalow, in
the carriage of the woman whose beauty was now an accepted fact. Hugely
delighted, these ungodly youth winked in merry surmises as to the
relationship between the budding Baronet and the hidden Venus. Even bets
as to discreetly “distant relationship,” or a forthcoming crop of late
orange blossoms were the order of the day. But silent among the merry
throng, the handsome Major, making his due call of ceremony upon General
Willoughby, denied all knowledge of the designs of either of the high
contracting parties.
In due state, escorted by the alert Jules Victor, Hugh Johnstone entered
the Silver Bungalow, to find his Cassandra silently awaiting him. There
was no memory of the happenings of the day before in her unconstrained
greeting. The door of the strategic cabinet was ajar, but the tottering
visitor had no fears of an ambush. For Madame Alixe Delavigne calmly
said: “Jules, you may remain within call, in the hall.”
The old nabob’s heart leaped up in a welcome relief at this command. His
wrinkled face was of the hue of yellowed ivory, and his cold blue eyes
were weak and watery, as he heavily lurched into a chair facing his
hostess. Courage and craft had not failed him, for already Douglas
Fraser was speeding on to Delhi from Calcutta, the sole occupant of
a special train. In the long vigil of the night, Hugh Johnstone had
evolved a plan to ward off the blow of the sword of Fate! But watchfully
silent he awaited his enemy’s conversational attack.
“Damn her! I will outwit her yet!” he silently swore.
“Before you give me your answer, Hugh Fraser,” said the calm-voiced
woman, “I wish to tell you again what, in your mad jealousy, you would
not believe. I swear to you that Pierre Troubetskoi’s letter, written to
my dead sister, was written in ignorance of her marriage with you. The
frightful scenes of the carnage of Paris had tossed us to and fro, and
the careless destruction of the envelope, addressed to my sister under
her maiden name, prevented me from proving her innocence as a wife.
Pierre Troubetskoi had long known my father, who had been an attache in
Russia. He was Valerie’s knightly suitor. And he fell into the estates
which now burden me with wealth, while absent upon the Czar’s secret
affairs. My gallant old father was sacrificed to the frenzy of the time;
his soldier’s face betrayed him, his rosette of the Legion doomed him,
Troubetskoi’s letter to our father demanding Valerie’s hand was returned
to the writer, through the Russian Legation, a year later, after the
reorganization of the Paris Post-office. I do not ask you to believe
this, but by the God of Heaven, it is my warrant for forcing myself to
the side of my dead sister’s child. She shall yet have every acre and
every rouble that Pierre Troubetskoi would have given to this child
whom you hide. My sister died with her empty arms stretched to Heaven,
imploring God for her child. And now, what terms will you make with me.
In the one case, an armed peace; in the other, ‘war to the knife!’”
“What would you have?” he stubbornly muttered. “You seek my ruin.”
“I do not!” solemnly answered Berthe Louison. “God has blasted your life
in denying you the love of your own child. You rule her by fear. You, in
your selfish passion, once reached out your strong hand and crushed this
girl’s mother, a poor, fragile flower, in her girlhood. Valerie believed
Pierre to be dead or false when she timidly crossed the threshold of
the wedded home which you made a prison for her! You only care for
this bubble Baronetcy and for your heaped-up hoards. The tribute of
the shrieking ryot! Now, here are my terms: I will go down with you to
Calcutta, and deliver over to you there the receipt for the deposit of
jewels which holds back your coveted honor. You may do with them as you
will! A visit to the Viceroy will at once clear the path. Tell any story
you will of their recovery. An underling’s unfaithfulness or the loss of
the paper. You may remove them and surrender them as you will. Perhaps a
fanciful discovery of their hiding-place here, their surrender by Hindu
thieves, frightened at last; any of these conventional lies will clear
your official record of the olden stain. Long years ago I would have
treated with you, but I wanted to find the child. You hid her away from
me. I found you out by chance in your changed name and new official
residence.”
“And your terms?” demanded Johnstone. He saw, with lightning cunning, a
pathway leading him out of his troubles. The vigil of the night before
had borne its fruit already.
“That I have free access to your house and home. That I shall be the
honored guest at your table. That I shall be left in no dubious social
standing here. That I may see your daughter, learn to know her, and you
may prudently arrange the story I am to tell her later. As Madame Berthe
Louison, a tourist of wealth, an art dilettante, a French woman of rank
and position, your social guaranty will keep the pack of human wolves
away from my retreat here. I have my papers to prove all this.”
“When must this be? Before I receive the jewels? Before my title to the
baronetcy is perfected? What guaranty have I?” he replied.
“My honor alone! I pledge you now that I will not make myself known to
Nadine until you have received the jewels and the Crown has obtained its
long sequestered property. We are to come back here together. The
future relations can be decided upon when I have satisfied my natural
affection; when your innocently besmirched record has been righted.”
Hugh Johnstone’s silvered head was bowed for a long interval in his
trembling hands. “You will not betray me to the authorities, when all is
done? Your lips shall be sealed as to the past?” Alixe Delavigne bowed
in silence. “Then I accept your terms upon one condition only: That
until we return from Calcutta, you will only see Nadine in my presence
or in that of Mademoiselle Delande, her governess. It is only fair. When
you have restored to me the jewels, you can then concert with me upon a
plan to enlighten Nadine, with no scandal to me, no heart-break to her.
The slightest gossip as to a family skeleton reaching the Viceroy or the
home authorities would lead to my public disgrace.”
Alixe Delavigne paced the room in silence for a few moments, while Hugh
Johnstone’s eyes were fixed upon the opened cabinet whence Jules Victor
had so fiercely sprung forth as a champion.
“Be it so!” sternly replied Alixe Delavigne. “And may God confound and
punish the one who breaks the pact.”
“When do you wish to come? When can you go to Calcutta? I would like
to hasten matters,” demanded the old nabob, with his eyes averted. The
beautiful woman paused, and after a moment replied:
“To-morrow, come here and bring me to your house to dine. This afternoon
you may call here and drive me over Delhi in your carriage. This will
set a public seal upon our acquaintance. My maid can accompany us. This
done, I will go to Calcutta with my two European servants, as you wish.
You can take the train on either the preceding or the following day. It
will avoid both spies and gossip.”
“I will go before you and await you!” eagerly said Hugh Johnstone,
rising. “I will ask another person to dine with us to-morrow, and this
evening I will prepare my daughter for the dinner, so that your coming
will be no surprise to her. Shall I bring my carriage here at four
to-day?”
“I will await you,” gravely said Alixe Delavigne, as she bowed in answer
to her guest’s formal signal of departure.
An hour later Jules Victor reported to his mistress: “We drove to the
telegraph office, where I awaited the gentleman for some time, and then
we repaired to his home.”
There was a disgruntled man whose curses upon his kinsman’s changing
moods were both loud and deep when Douglas Fraser received a telegram
that night at Allahabad. “Is the old man crazy?” he demanded, as he
read the words: “Wait at Allahabad for me. Keep shady. With you in three
days. Telegraph your address.” The canny young Scot thought of a coming
legacy and obeyed the head of his clan.
Madame Berthe Louison, as Delhi was destined to know her, lingered long
over her afternoon driving toilet. There was a recurring fear which made
her tremble. “Would Hugh Johnstone divulge the facts as to the jewels
to the Viceroy, and so gain his free rehabilitation-and then defy her?
No-no! He never would dare!” she answered. “My agents are even now
watching that bank. The bank would never give up the sealed packages
contents unknown, save on surrender of the carefully drawn receipts.”
And then Berthe remembered her own secret work at Calcutta. The
Grindlays knew of the surreptitious attempts made by the plausible Hugh
Fraser to withdraw the deposit long before the baronetcy episode. And
Berthe laughed, in memory of her capture of the receipts in the old days
at Brighton, while looking for the stolen letter.
Long before that rising star of fashion, Major Alan Hawke, returned from
General Willoughby’s delightful dinner upon the day of Hugh Johnstone’s
crafty surrender, he knew that Hugh Johnstone had astounded Delhi by a
personal exploitation of the Lady of the Silver Bungalow.
“By Gad! Hawke!” roared old Brigadier Willoughby, with his mouth full of
chutney, “Johnstone is going the pace! First he produces a daughter, a
hidden treasure, and now this wonderfully beautiful French countess.”
“I suppose, General,” lightly said the Major, “the old nabob will marry
and retire to Europe on his coming baronetcy.”
“Likely enough!” sputtered Willoughby. “You lucky young dog. I suppose
you are in the secret?”
But neither that night, nor two days later, at Major Hawke’s superb
dinner at the Delhi Club, did the jeunesse doree of the old capital
extract an admission from that mysterious “secret service” man, Major
Alan Hawke. “You cannot deny, Hawke, that you dined at the marble house
with the beauty whom we are all toasting,” said a rallying roisterer.
“And--with the Veiled Rose of Delhi!” said another, still more eagerly.
“It is true, gentlemen” gravely said Major Hawke, “that I was invited to
dinner at the marble house, but Madame Louison is a stranger to me,
and I believe a tourist of some rank. It was merely a formal affair.
I believe that she brought letters from Paris to Hugh Johnstone.” Late
that night Alan Hawke laughed, as he pocketed his winnings at baccarat.
“Three hundred pounds to the good! I’m a devil for luck!” And he sat
down in his room to think over all the events of a day which had half
turned his head. Warned by Justine Delande that Madame Louison was
bidden to dine with Hugh Johnstone, Alan Hawke closely interrogated her.
She evidently knew and suspected nothing. “Ah! Berthe plays a lone hand
against the world,” he smiled.
His mysterious employer had merely bidden him be ready to meet her
there, without surprise. There was as yet no lightning move up on the
chess board, and in vain he studied her resolute, smiling face. “All I
can tell you,” murmured Justine to her handsome Mentor, in the seclusion
of Ram Lal’s back room, “is that this Madame Berthe Louison comes to
spend the day in looking over Hugh Johnstone’s art treasures. Nadine and
I are to meet her, with the master. Do you know aught of her?”
“Nothing, dear Justine,” unhesitatingly lied Alan Hawke. “Watch her and
tell me all.”
“I will,” smilingly replied the Swiss. “I have a strange fear that Hugh
Johnstone has known her before, that he intends to marry her, and then
to send us two, Nadine and I, away to a quiet life in Europe.” Whereupon
Alan Hawke laughed loud and long.
“She is only a bird of passage, some wealthy globe wanderer, perhaps
even a sly adventuress. No, old Johnstone will not tempt Fortune.”
“He has been so unusually amiable,” agnostically said Justine. “Of
course he could hide such a design easily from Nadine, who knows nothing
of love.”
“She will learn! She will learn--in due time,” laughed Hawke. “There is
but one thing possible. This whole pretended visit may be a sham--she
may even be the belle amie of this old curmudgeon.”
“I will watch all three of them! You shall know all!” murmured Justine,
as she stole away, not without the kisses of her secret knight burning
upon her lips.
“What a consummate actress!” mused Alan Hawke, when, for the first time,
since Nadine Johnstone’s arrival, a formal dinner party enlivened the
dull monotony of the marble house. The round table, set for five, gave
Hugh Johnstone the strategic advantage of separating his secret enemy
from his blushing daughter. Hawke demurely paid his devoirs to Madame
Justine Delande, with a finely studied inattention to either the guest
of the evening or the beautiful girl who only murmured a few words when
presented to her father’s only visitor. “I wonder if Justine, poor soul,
will see the resemblance?” It had been a triumph of art, Madame Berthe
Louison’s magnificent dinner toilette, those rich robes which effaced
the opening-rose beauty of the slim girl in the simplicity of her rare
Indian lawn frock. Rich color and flowers and diamonds heightened the
splendid loveliness of the woman who “looked like a queen in a play that
night.”
Alas, for Justine Delande, she was so busied with her mute telegraphy to
Alan Hawke that she never saw the startling family likeness of the two
women so eagerly watched by Hugh Johnstone. But the keen-eyed Alan Hawke
saw the girl’s fascinated gaze. He noted her virginal bosom heaving in
a new and strange emotion. He marked the tender challenge of her dreamy
eyes as Berthe Louison’s loving soul spoke out to the radiant young
beauty only held away from her heart by the stern old skeleton at the
feast.
The long-drawn-out splendors of the feast were over, and the ladies had,
at last, retired. Hawke observed the stony glare with which Johnstone
whispered a few words of command to Justine Delande, when the two men
sought the smoking-room.
The door was hardly closed upon them when the coffee and cigars were
served, when Johnstone, striding forward, locked the door.
“See here, Hawke!” abruptly said the host “I want you to serve me
to-night, and to stand by me while this she-devil is in Delhi. I’ve
got to run down to Calcutta on business for a few days. She will not be
here. She has some business of her own down there, also. First, find
out for me, for God’s sake, all about her. How she came here; where
she hides in Europe; who her friends are. When you are able to, you can
follow her over the world. I’ll foot the bill, as the Yankees say.
“Now, to-night, I wish you to take your leave conventionally. Get away
at once, and go immediately and telegraph to Anstruther in London. No,
don’t deny you are intimate with him. I know it. Telegraph him that I am
in a position, now, to trace out and restore those missing jewels. The
secret of their hiding is mine at last. Here’s a hundred pounds. Don’t
spare your words. Within a month they will be in the hands of the
Viceroy. I have to play a part to get them--a dangerous part. I pledge
my whole estate to back this. But I must have my Baronetcy so that I
can leave India, for I fear the vengeance of the devils who robbed the
captured Princes of Oude.
“Once in England, I am safe. I’ll not leave till I get the Baronetcy,
and the jewels will not be delivered up until I get it. I am closely
watched here.”
Hawke’s eyes burned fiercely. “And if I was to take the train and tell
the Viceroy this?” he boldly said.
“Then I would say that you had lied--that is all.”
“What do I get?” coolly demanded Hawke.
“Five thousand pounds the day that I get my Baronetcy,” quietly replied
Johnstone.
“I’ll not do it,” hotly cried Hawke. “You might say I lied,” he sneered.
“I want it now!”
The two men glared at each other in a mutual distrust. Hugh Johnstone
pondered a moment, and said deliberately:
“I’ll give you five accepted drafts for a thousand pounds each, when
I return from Calcutta, on Glyn, Carr & Glyn, my London bankers, dated
thirty days apart. That will make you sure of your money, and me, sure
of my Baronetcy. Will you act?” Hawke knocked the ash off his Havana
lightly.
“Yes, if you give me a thousand pounds cash bonus now! I am deliberately
misleading Anstruther to help you. And I risk my own place to do it.”
“All right,” said Johnstone as he left the room, and in a few moments
returned with a check-book. “There’s your thousand pounds. Now listen.
Not a word to old General Willoughby. He is a meddlesome old sot. I
shall slip away quietly. To deceive the Delhi scandal-mongers you must
call here every day in my absence. Mademoiselle Delande will receive
you. My daughter, of course, sees no one in my absence. And you can
inform Delhi secretly, guardedly, that Madame Berthe Louison is an art
enthusiast, a Frenchwoman of rank and fortune, and one who, in her short
stay, only studies the wonders of old Oude. I don’t want this damned
pack of local lady-killers--the lobster-backs--to get after her. Do you
understand? I’ll have further use for you. I may retire to Europe. You
can trust the Swiss woman. I will give her my orders.”
“All right! I will go and telegraph as soon as I can make my adieux.
When do you start for Calcutta?” Hawke asked warily.
“The moment you get Anstruther’s reply,” decisively replied Johnstone.
“I’ll be away for a couple of weeks in all!” Hawke turned paler than
his wont, but he mused in silence and cheerfully finished his coffee
and cognac. In half an hour, he left an aching void in Justine Delande’s
bosom, but some subtle magnetism had so drawn Berthe Louison and the
heart-stirred Justine together that Hugh Johnstone was happy, when, with
courtly gallantry, he escorted the beauty, who had set Delhi all agog,
to her garden-bowered nest.
“Have I kept my compact?” said Berthe, as they stood once more in her
“tiger’s den.”
“You have, madame!” said Hugh Johnstone. “I have been considering all.
I will leave secretly for Calcutta in two or three days. You had better
follow me in a week. I have some private business there. I will ask
my friend, Major Hawke, to show you the environs. You can trust him.
Telegraph me to Grindlay’s Bank, Calcutta, of your arrival. I will meet
you. Our business transacted, we can return together on the same train.
All will then be safe.” His own secret preparations were all made.
“I agree to all,” said Berthe. “And, as to Nadine?”
Johnstone turned with blazing eyes, “You are to see her each day, at her
own home, in the presence of Justine Delande. She will have my orders.
Remember our compact! All your future association with her depends on
your prudence. I will not be betrayed or openly disgraced!” His face was
as black as a murderer caught in the act.
“I remember!” said the beauty of the Bungalow.
“To mystify the fools here, if I will bring my daughter and take you for
a drive, each day at four, till I go,” said Johnstone. “And, then,
I’ll have Hawke show you the city.” He bowed, and at once disappeared,
leaving his enemy laughing. But he grinned.
“If she knew that I go to meet Douglas Fraser, my lady would pass an
uneasy night! I hold the trump cards now!”
Major Alan Hawke smiled grimly the next day, when he presented to Hugh
Johnstone a neatly got up cipher, answering dispatch in code words which
had cost Ram Lal just half of the bribe which Hawke gave him for the sly
Hindu telegraph clerk.
“Ah! Anstruther was prompt!” said the neatly tricked nabob, when Hawke
translated:
“Intelligence gratifying. Name approved and on list. Appointment sure!”
Three days later, Delhi missed Hugh Johnstone from the afternoon drives,
which showed Madame Louison and Nadine to an eager bevy of Madame
Grundys. But the envied of all men was Major Alan Hawke, escorting
Madame Louison for a week over the storied plains of the Jumna.
When Madame Berthe Louison and her two body servants took the Calcutta
train, local society jumped to its sage conclusion.
“Old Hugh will lead the beautiful Countess to the altar, while Major
Alan Hawke will bear off the Rosebud of Delhi, and so become the
richest son-in-law in India.” But the handsome Alan Hawke, each morning
lingering with Justine Delande in the grounds of the marble house,
never saw the face of Nadine Johnstone. The beautiful girl breathlessly
awaited her new-made friend’s return. But stern old Hugh Johnstone, at
Calcutta, laughed as he thought of his own secret coup de main.
“Wait! Wait till I return!” he gloated. “She is powerless now!”