THE SECRET CAVALIER
That evening the Countess of Wyndcliffe appeared at dinner, in the
gay restaurant at Gurnigel, looking radiant in a pretty cyclamen gown
and wearing her pearls--bought, by the way, out of the check which
came to her after the tragic death from pneumonia of an American girl
she had been chaperoning up the Nile.
To the handsome young pair she gave a glowing description of her old
friend Nellie Price, who had married a well-known Swiss heart
specialist, and how she had, after her visit, had her shingled hair
trimmed by a Spaniard who was an artist, at a _coiffeur’s_ close to
the station.
Her ex-butler was still in Berne, and was leaving by the ten o’clock
express for Calais that night--a fact which of course she withheld
from the happy pair. They had been out on a ski picnic with the expert
runner, Mr. Mallins, who had taken out a party, and to whom the
visitors at the hotel were all indebted for kindly advice and help.
In every winter-sports hotel there crop up English nobodies, mostly
with a military title, who proclaim themselves skiers or bob-runners,
who put on immaculate winter-sports suits and sweaters, and pose as
experts, only to be driven out by those who really can ski or bob. It
was so at Gurnigel, just as at all winter-sports centres--centres,
alas! of petty jealousies, and where men and women make fools of
themselves.
After all, when one leaves Dover for gaiety on the Continent, what
matters? What mattered, indeed, when at a winter-sports hotel at
Mürren the visitors were once invited by a notice posted in the hall
to subscribe to an amusement fund, and the visitors were at once
lavish in their gifts? What mattered when, a few nights later, there
was bought a handsome prize for the best dress at a midnight carnival,
and lo! the proprietress of the hotel won it, and carried away the
prize her visitors had subscribed for?
What matters? Nobody cared. Happily, that was unique. Only such an
incident is actively discussed when visitors to Switzerland return to
London and chat over their reminiscences in their own drawing-rooms.
Yet there remains the fact that Switzerland is the winter playground
of Europe, and it well deserves to be so till the end of time.
It was a gala night at Gurnigel, a masked ball, with a midnight supper
in the interval. So after dinner Sibell put on the _sari_ of an Indian
lady of high caste, a wonderful garment of shot orange, gold and green
tissue, with her scarlet marriage brand upon her brow, but masked of
course, while Brinsley Otway was dressed as an Arab sheik, with
darkened face, also masked, and daggers stuck in his belt; but Lady
Wyndcliffe was too tired to put on one of her fancy costumes.
The great ballroom was the scene of mad gaiety that night. As fancy
dresses were not put on till after dinner, the maskers could be
recognized only by their friends.
After two fox-trots with her lover, Sibell suddenly looked up and saw
a rather tall, masked man in the costume of a cavalier bowing and
sweeping his plumed hat across his knees, and at the same time, in a
low half-whisper, he invited her to dance.
She accepted, and instantly knew what an excellent dancer he was.
They went around the ballroom without exchanging words with each
other, until suddenly he whispered into her ear:
“I know you, Miss Dare. When we have finished this dance, will you
allow me to sit with you for a few moments? I want to tell you
something in strictest confidence.”
Much intrigued, the girl, wondering who the cavalier might be and what
he desired to say, assented. Therefore, when the dance had ended,
instead of continuing in the encore, they both strolled away to the
big lounge adjoining the dance-room, and sat down apart from the rest.
“Miss Dare,” he said, “you have no idea of my identity, and you will
never know. I am speaking quite seriously. I may as well say that I am
no friend of yours, not even an acquaintance, but simply the bearer of
an urgent message to you. Before I deliver it, however, I must have
your solemn assurance that you breathe not a word of it to a soul--not
even to Dr. Otway, to whom you are engaged.”
“I don’t understand!” she exclaimed in slight alarm. “I don’t follow
you! At least you can disclose your name.”
“My Christian name is Edward--simply that. Just think of me as
Edward,” was his answer.
“Edward what?”
But he only chuckled to himself behind his mask, replying:
“That does not matter. Will you give me the undertaking I seek? Please
do, as we cannot sit here together very long without arousing your
fiancé’s interest in me. And I am not anxious for that.”
“Why should Dr. Otway be kept in ignorance?” she asked resentfully,
with natural curiosity.
“Because I am instructed that it should be so,” the stranger replied.
“As I have told you, I am merely acting as the mouthpiece of another.”
“You are indeed very mysterious! Surely you can be more explicit!” she
protested. “You ask me to keep a secret from the man whom I am about
to marry. It’s hardly fair, is it?”
“If you give me your undertaking you will, on hearing what I have to
say, quickly realize that, in the circumstances, silence will be best.
Really, Miss Dare,” he went on, “I regret to say so, but there is no
time for argument. I see that the doctor is already in search of you.”
“Very well,” said the girl hastily. “I give my undertaking to tell him
nothing.”
“Good. Then my message, sent you in secret by one who wishes you well,
and will help you in dire necessity, is to the effect that there is a
conspiracy--a subtle and damnable plot--to part you from Dr. Otway. So
be forewarned.”
“A plot!” gasped the girl. “By whom?”
“I’m sorry, but I unfortunately have no information upon that point,”
replied the mysterious stranger in the exquisite garb of a cavalier.
“My only duty has been to warn you. I beg of you to take precautions.
Of how the coup will be effected I have no knowledge, neither has, I
believe, the person whose mouthpiece I am. It was not deemed safe to
write to you, hence this present subterfuge of mine.”
“But how can we possibly be separated, devoted as we are to each
other?” she asked, her nervous fingers toying with her jewelled
wrist-watch.
“Other lovers, as devoted as you both are, have, alas! been victims of
wicked cunning and despicable plots. Parents and relatives are often
to blame where it is a question of money, or of social advancement.”
“But my aunt, Lady Wyndcliffe, heartily approves of Brinsley,” she
declared.
“If you are quite certain of that, then I fear I can make no further
suggestion,” he said, in a voice that sounded curious.
“What do you mean? Do you know my aunt?”
“Not from Adam.”
“She’s sitting over there, in a cyclamen frock, with those two elderly
men”; and the girl indicated the trio.
“Oh!” he said. “So that’s Lady Wyndcliffe! How very interesting. I’ve
heard of her, of course--of her gay dances at Claridge’s, and her
luncheons and dinners at the Ritz. She’s always in the limelight, it
seems.”
“You seem to hint, Mr. Edward, that she is not quite so favorable to
my marriage with Dr. Otway as she makes out, eh?”
“My dear Miss Dare, I hint at nothing. I have merely delivered my
message, in the hope that you will heed it, and keep both eyes and
ears open.”
“What you have said has entirely mystified me,” she remarked. “Who is
this unknown friend of mine who keeps his or her identity a secret?”
“It is a friend who desires to remain unidentified. But do believe me
when I tell you that, although your friend has never seen you--only
photographs of you--you nevertheless have a true friend.”
The girl paused. The more the stranger said the more deeply did she
become intrigued.
“Well,” she exclaimed, after reflection, “if you refuse to disclose
the identity of this unknown friend of mine, please present to him my
compliments and thanks. Tell him that I am much mystified.”
“Naturally,” laughed her companion. “Take my advice, Miss Dare, and be
prepared for any untoward circumstance that might lead to a breach
between your lover and yourself. As I have already suggested to you,
be forearmed against any _contretemps_.”
“Will it come soon, do you think?” she inquired in a low, tremulous
voice, her eyes showing narrowed and anxious through her mask.
“Ah! How can we tell?” he asked, drawing a slight sigh, which she in
an instant regarded as a sign of sympathy. “When the blow falls you
will be expecting it, and be able to stave it off.”
“And may I not warn Brinsley?” she begged. “It isn’t fair to him to
keep him in the dark.”
“I agree. But I can give no permission myself, Miss Dare,” he replied
seriously. “I have to obtain it. This I will do. Look in the personal
column of _The Times_ of next Monday for a message addressed to ‘S,’
and the word will be either ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ And if the latter, you will
know that the decision is inexorable. Your friend wishes you well, but
he is compelled, because of certain contingencies, to exercise the
greatest caution. He sends you word through myself of the clever plot
against your happiness, in order that you may expect and frustrate
it.”
“But is my aunt implicated in it? Surely not?”
“I am entirely ignorant of the details,” was the mysterious
masquerader’s quiet response. “However, I would ask you one question
which your unknown friend is anxious to know”; and, after he had
paused for a few moments, he inquired: “Did your aunt, Lady
Wyndcliffe, once have in her service a butler named Ashe?”
“Ashe!” she echoed. “Of course she had! He was discharged for
impertinence not very long ago.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “That is all my friend wishes to know.”
“Surely Ashe has nothing to do with my affairs!” she exclaimed
excitedly.
“How can he? A mere servant,” he said; and as at that moment the man
in the garb of an Arab sheik was seen approaching, the mysterious
cavalier rose, bowed courteously, waved his plumed hat across his
knees again, and, strolling away, was seen in the ballroom no more.
“Who’s your gay cavalier?” asked Brinsley with natural
inquisitiveness, as he rejoined his fiancée.
“I--well, I really don’t know. Quite a nice man he seems, but he made
himself mysterious. That’s all!”
“He seemed to be talking to you very seriously.”
“Yes,” she said, her woman’s innate wit coming to her rescue on the
instant. “He seems to be a very sad person. A new arrival, I suppose.
He was telling me of his wife. They were both here last season, but
she has left him, and he seems inconsolable, poor fellow!”
“I wonder who he is,” exclaimed Brinsley in sympathy, his jealousy
quite disarmed by Sibell’s explanation. “Take good stock of him, and
let’s try and identify him afterwards. Did he tell you his name?”
“Of course not, Brin. He was masked. And why should I want to know the
man’s name?” she laughed.
As a waltz was just commencing, they rose together and joined in the
dancing. Little did Brinsley Otway dream of those warning words which
had been whispered into Sibell’s ear, or little did the pair suspect
the fatal pitfall which had been opened before them by the base and
unscrupulous machinations of those bent upon feathering their own
nests at the expense of a girl’s love and happiness.
The mad dance proceeded. Balloons and serpentines were everywhere. The
electroliers were festooned with thousands of yards of multicolored
paper ribbon, and thousands of yards of the same clung to the feet of
the dancers. Confetti was half an inch deep everywhere, and, to the
strains of the amateur jazz-band which had temporarily relieved the
professional orchestra, the lovers fox-trotted around the room,
watched furtively by the young-looking peeress in cyclamen.
Sibell’s brain was awhirl. What could the stranger have meant by his
dark hints of conspiracy against her happiness? As she danced in her
lover’s arms she tried to recall all that he had said; all those
meaning words he had used; all the hints and warnings. The latter were
certainly serious enough, but why had he, a perfect stranger, who
admitted that he had never met her before that evening, made such a
curious inquiry as he had done regarding her aunt’s discharged
manservant, Albert Ashe?
She recollected that, although the fellow had always been most polite
and courteous, even to obsequiousness, yet she had always
instinctively disliked him, and was secretly very glad when he had
been discharged for impertinence. Nevertheless, it was indeed strange
that the mysterious masquerader should know of him.
That there was a conspiracy afoot, a secret plot, conceived by an
enemy, to part her from Brinsley, was the main point. What she had
heard from the masked man’s lips held her stunned and stupefied, yet,
by reason of her promise to divulge nothing to her lover, she was now
held dumb and powerless.
Who could possibly be jealous of her happiness? Bliss such as she was
now experiencing amid these unsullied snows had never been hers before
in all her life. Why should it all end? Who was there in the world who
could conspire to prevent their union?
The dance was concluded, and supper was announced. They went to a long
table in the big dining-room, where they joined a party of about
twenty others with whom they had formed friendships in the hotel.
Chatter and loud peals of laughter sounded on every hand, masks were
lifted, champagne corks popped, and serpentines came hurtling through
the air and fell upon the table. But Sibell had lost interest in it
all.
Her keen eyes were diligently searching everywhere to discover her
secret cavalier. But from the moment he had bowed so courteously and
left her, he had disappeared. He had delivered his mysterious message,
and his mission was apparently at an end.
Not far away from her, at a _table-à-deux_ in a corner, was seated a
middle-aged man in the brown habit of a Capuchin monk, chatting
merrily with a pretty, fair-haired girl dressed as a Columbine.
Now and then the man raised his brown eyes, and watched Sibell
furtively, but so changed was he in appearance that it was not
surprising that she failed to again recognize him.