then, gentlemen and ladies, is good-bye. I must apologise for any
inconvenience that may have been caused by your detention, either to
yourselves or to the society which you represent, and I must thank you
for the great pleasure you have afforded me by your company. I think
that, at least, you will be able to report that you have suffered no
great discomforts while my guests."
"We have been most excellently entertained," Lord Burnley replied, and
a murmur of assent ran round the table.
The Albanian Bishop rose to his feet, lifting his glass.
"Your health, sir," he said, and the other delegates drank the toast.
(All except Lord John Lester, who impatiently muttered "Pshaw!")
"Indeed," said Mlle. Binesco, "Dr. Franchi has been more than kind.
Another few days, and we might have fallen into the hands of the
iniquitous traffickers behind him and been deported overseas--but he
personally has been most good to us. _All_ we could want...."
Fergus Macdermott had pushed to the front of the interested onlookers.
"I'd like to ask you one question, sir. Why didn't your people finish
the job they began on myself--if it was your people, and not, as I
suspect, some Sinn Fein scoundrels?"
The ex-cardinal gave his kindly smile.
"It was certainly my people, Mr. Macdermott. But, in attacking you,
they made a mistake. When they perceived who you were, they desisted.
They had, you see, orders not to remove certain delegates, of whom you
and your colleague from South Ireland were two, from the scene. It was
considered that the Irish delegates would serve the cause I have the
honour to represent better by their presence at the Assembly than by
their absence from it."
"Enough talk," Signor Cristofero put in. "It is time we went."
"Brief and to the point as ever, dear brother. Good-bye, then,
gentlemen and ladies. I regret, Lord Burnley, not to have had time in
which to finish the interesting conversation we began last night on
the subject of my present book. It will have to keep for happier days.
Meanwhile, I hope to have a quiet little time in which to meditate on
and complete the book."
As he passed Henry Beechtree on his way to the door, he stopped.
"Ah, my dear young man. Luck did not favour our little plan, did it?"
"That person," said the disagreeable voice of Charles Wilbraham, "is,
if I may be allowed to mention it, a young woman, Dr. Franchi."
The ex-cardinal turned to him a cold face.
"I have known that, Mr. Wilbraham, a good deal longer than you have."
He smiled sweetly at Henry.
"Yes, my young friend. There was an incident, you may recollect, of a
goldfish.... I have several--er--nephews and nieces--and have watched
them grow up. Never yet have I seen the boys disturbed by such
episodes. Masculine nerves are, as a rule, more robust. You should
remember this in future.... You will pardon my having noticed the
incident. I would never have referred to it had not the subject been
raised. Some day you shall dine with me again, if you will.... But my
good brother grows impatient. Good-bye again, my friends. A rivederci."
He was led away. He would be taken to Geneva in a police launch, with
the detective, the police, and the arrested servants. The delegates
and press were to follow in the steamer.
49
The return journey of the rescuers and the rescued was a happy one
indeed. If fraternity had prevailed on the outward voyage, now far
more were all (or most) hearts knit together. What happy greetings
were exchanged, what stories related, what mysteries made clear! The
happy press were told the tale of each captured delegate; they learnt
of the pursuit after vice of the two public-spirited ladies, and their
consequent entrapment, of the decoy of Lord John Lester through his
devotion to the Union of the League, of how Professor Inglis had been
betrayed through his pity for the poor Greek woman, of how Dr. Chang,
leaving the Bergues hotel at midnight, had taken a walk through the
Saint Gervais quarter, and been led by the smell of opium to
investigate a mysterious opium den whose floor had failed beneath his
feet and dropped him into an underground passage, along which he had
been conducted to an exit close to the Seujet Wharf, hustled into a
covered boat, and carried up the lake. Many such strange tales the
released captives told, and the journalists took down breathlessly on
their writing-pads. Geneva, one perceived, must be full of the paid
agents of the ex-cardinal and the society which employed him. Not that
Dr. Franchi had told his captives anything of this society; he had
merely said that he was anxious for good company, and had therefore
taken the liberty of capturing the pick of the eminent persons present
at Geneva and entertaining them as his guests.
"If you knew, gentlemen," he had said, "how one wearies for a little
intelligence, a little wit, a little _bonhomie_, in this dour
country!"
Naturally, they had not believed him, but some of them had been, all
the same, a little flattered at their own selection.
They had had, it seemed, a delightful time. Books, newspapers,
delicate food and wines, games, conversation, everything except
liberty, had been provided for their delectation.
"One can't help, in some ways, being even a little sorry it is at an
end," Lord Burnley murmured, as he watched the lights of the château
recede, and thought of the dusty days of labour which were to follow.
"If only it's not too late--if only irretrievable damage has not been
done," muttered Lord John Lester, frowning at the same lights,
thinking of the vast agenda for the session, and of the growling
nations of the world.
"I think," the voice of Charles Wilbraham came, high and conceited, to
Henry Beechtree as he lurked disgraced in a corner and listened and
watched, "I think we may say we have put a spoke in the wheel of
these scoundrels this time. Yes; _I_ think we may say that...."
50
Henry that night packed his things. He was leaving next day. He was
not going to wait to be dismissed by his paper. He knew that, if he
did not go, he would with ignominy be removed.
So he packed, in his small hot room after dinner, with the cats and
dogs uttering their cries in the courtyard below, and beyond them the
small whispering cry of water beating and shuffling against the wharf.
His adventure was over. In fact, Henry must now be called Miss
Montana, for such was, in truth, her name, and such, as Charles
Wilbraham had truly said, her sex.
How superciliously had he said it, how superciliously staring her down
the while. As, long ago, he had superciliously stared her down when he
had said to his secretary, "This cannot go on, Miss Montana. I must
make another arrangement. Particularly in view of Paris...."
Particularly in view of Paris. Ah, yes, that was the sting. Who would
have wanted to go on being Charles Wilbraham's secretary but for
Paris? For to that heaven of secretaries, the Paris Peace Conference,
Charles had been called, and was going that month, January, 1919. She
had been going with him. What delight! What a world of joy had opened
before her when she heard it! What a peace! It would make up for all
the weary years of war, all the desolating months of servitude to
Charles Wilbraham. And now, within a fortnight of starting, Charles
said he must make another arrangement. For his secretary had shown
gross carelessness, hopeless incompetence: she had done a frightful
thing. She had put a Foreign Office letter into an envelope addressed
to the Archbishop of Westminster, and vice versa, and so despatched
them. It was the climax, so Charles told her, of a long series of
misdeeds. Also, she was slow on the typewriter, spelt Parliament with
a small p, and used the eraser too frequently, and you could, said
Charles, see the smudge made by that a mile off. So--in fine, Charles
must make another arrangement and must in fact, in point of fact, he
unctuously told her, ask her forthwith to take a minute to the
establishment, bidding them obtain for him another secretary. The
bitterness of that moment swept back to Henry now across the years.
She remembered how, wordless, sullen, and fighting that dizziness that
attacked her in moments of stress, she had stood before him, loathing
his smooth voice, his lofty choice of words, his whole arrogant,
pompous presence. Then he had dictated the minute.
"_From_ Mr. Wilbraham.
"_To_ the Establishment Branch.
"I find I have to make other arrangements about a secretary. I
shall be glad if you will transfer Miss Montana to other work,
and send some one to me more thoroughly efficient. It would be
well if I could have a selection up for interview and make a
choice, preferably after a preliminary trial. The work will be
responsible, as I am going out to the Peace Conference in a
fortnight.
"8.1.1919."
"Kindly see," Charles had ordered her, "that that is typed and goes
down immediately. I shall be glad to have it for initialing in not
more than five minutes from now."
That had been the way Charles had always addressed his secretaries;
Charles was like that. Courtesy to a subordinate was, in his view,
wholly wasted. He kept all he had of it for his superiors. "The only
really rude man in the Ministry," Henry had heard him called by the
typists, and typists always know.
Miss Montana had been subsequently transferred to the Establishment
Branch, where she had spent her time typing chits about other people's
salaries and appointments. Finally, when the staff was reduced, she
was the first to be dismissed. She had never been to Paris; never
seen the Peace Conference. Charles, with first one bullied secretary,
now another, had moved on his triumphant way from conference to
conference, a tour unbroken by his appointment to the staff of the
League of Nations Secretariat. Miss Montana had never been to a
conference in her life.
In her loafing, idle and poor, about London, with her idle and poor
brother and her Irish journalist lover, bitterness had grown more
bitter. No money, no prospects, no career. Only chance bits of
freelance journalism, not enough to pay the rent of decent rooms. She
had vowed to be revenged on Charles, but no way presented itself. She
had prayed God to send her to some bright continental place with a
sunny climate and if possible with some sort of conference going on,
but no ladder thereto reared itself for her climbing. Her lover, a
young man from Dublin, who wrote for, among other papers, the _British
Bolshevist_, went out to represent this journal at the League Assembly
at Geneva one year. He fell foul there of Charles Wilbraham, who
objected to his messages, which, indeed, were not in the best of
taste; but, as he said, if you write for vulgar papers you must send
vulgar messages sometimes or they won't print you. Charles had him
boycotted from public dinners, and otherwise annoyed. Hearing of it,
Miss Montana consecrated afresh her vow to be revenged on Charles. The
next year this journalist was to have gone to Geneva again, but
instead he encountered an Orange bullet while reporting a riot in
Belfast on August 15th, and was still laid up with the effects at the
beginning of September. Then Miss Montana had conceived her brilliant
idea. She would take his place. She would get back on Charles. She
would disguise herself so that he would not know her if they met,
and somehow she would be avenged. Incidentally, she would have a
conference, in a bright continental climate, and earn some money.
Eventually she had persuaded the young man to write to the
_Bolshevist_ telling them that he had a journalist friend already in
Geneva, one Henry Beechtree, who might safely be entrusted with the
not onerous job of reporting the proceedings of the Assembly for them.
The _Bolshevist_ did not really much care who did this job, or how it
was done, so they accepted the services of this Mr. Beechtree.
Thus, for Miss Montana, opened out at once an entertaining adventure,
a temporary and scanty means of livelihood, and a chance of revenge.
Surely now, knowing what she knew of Charles (for she had worked hard
to collect injurious facts), she could somehow bring him to indignity
and disgrace. How she had worked for this end! How patiently she had
schemed, waited, watched, prayed, made friends with a dull girl,
followed Charles about.... Let him wait, she had said; only let
Charles wait. And now had come her hour, and it had, after all, turned
on her and proved to be, as always, the hour not of herself, but of
Charles. Charles was in the right; she was in the wrong. Charles (she
might have known it) had done nothing so unseemly as to retain
armament shares while entering the staff of the League; Charles had
transferred his money to beer. Charles had not conspired against the
League. Rather had Charles conceived the clever idea of engaging a
famous detective to solve the mystery, and triumphantly he had had it
solved. Charles emerged from this business, as always from every
business, with credit; Charles was triumphantly in the right.
It came to Miss Montana afresh, what she had really always known, that
the Charleses of this world always are in the right. You cannot put
them in the wrong. They put you in the wrong, for ever and ever. They
may be all wrong, within and without, but they cannot be in the wrong.
The wrong is in them, not they in it. However false, selfish,
complacent, arrogant, and abominable a life Charles might have led,
one would know that at the Judgment Day he would somehow be in the
right.... Right with God, Charles would be, and contemptuously and
without surprise he would watch his neighbours' condemnation. Had he
not joined the True Church to make sure of this ultimate rightness,
and because it was fashionable just now? Much Charles cared for
religion! If Catholics were once more to be persecuted instead of
admired, how soon would Charles leave them! Yes, Charles would always
be in the right with the best people....
The heart and soul of Miss Montana went out passionately across land
and sea to her wild journalist lover in Dublin, that poor and reckless
failure, with whom nothing went right, who had scarcely a shilling to
his name nor an ounce of health in his body. He was more than all the
Charles Wilbrahams of the world together; infinitely more brilliant,
more valuable, more alive; but never did he succeed, for life was not
on his side. And now he would lose his job on the _British Bolshevist_
(not that that mattered much), and be further discredited, for
perpetrating this fraud which had been so unfortunately exposed. He
would go under, deeper and deeper under, and so would she. The
underworld, that vague and fearful place, would receive them. His
generous and trusting love for her had joined with his love of a joke
to sink him. Together they would sink, and over their bodies Charles
Wilbraham would climb, as on stepping-stones, to higher things. Higher
and higher, plumping with prosperity like a filbert in the sun, while
his eyes dropped fatness, and his corn and wine and oil increased....
Thus bitterly mused Miss Montana, sitting in her grimy room by her
shabby gladstone bag, throwing therein her pyjamas, her socks, her
collars, her safety razor, her passport (the passport was about Denis
O'Neill, but it had served Henry Beechtree well enough; there is one
advantage about passports: the nonsensical story on them is seldom
read, nor the foolish portrait glanced at).
To-morrow she would walk once more about the romantic, clean, and
noble city, look her last on the most lovely lake, visit the ice-cream
café and perhaps go up Salève, which she had not yet had time to do.
Or up the lake to Nyons. She would not visit the Assembly Hall or the
Secretariat, for by those she encountered there she would be looked at
askance. She had made a fool of herself and been made a fool of, and
she had, it would be supposed, tried to make a fool of Committee 9 in
order to spite Charles Wilbraham. She would be thought no gentleman,
even no lady. And yet, did they but know it, she had accused Charles
in good faith, though with such rancour as they would be amazed to
know of, such rancour as Serb-Croat-Slovenes scarce feel against
Albanians, or Bolsheviks against Bourgeoisie.
Miss Montana, past laughter, past tears, past sleep, and even now past
hate, considered for a while where comfort could best be sought, then
crept down the crazy winding staircase of her lodgings and so to the
lake's edge. She would take a boat and have a last moonlight row.
51
The September days went by, and once again, on the shores of that most
lovely lake, the nations assembled and talked.
* * * * *
GLASGOW: W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD.
Messrs.
COLLINS'
Latest Novels
[Illustration]
_Messrs. COLLINS will always be glad to send their book lists
regularly to readers who will send name and address._
PIRACY
Michael Arlen
This is the story of Ivor Pelham Marlay between the ages of 18 and 32,
and the period is London, 1910-1922. It is the history of England, two
loves, and an ideal. Mr. Arlen deals with all the types of London
Society, and he likes to bring out the queer and unexpected sides of
his characters. No one who read Mr. Arlen's first book, _A London
Venture_, or his delightful short stories, _A Romantic Lady_, needs to
be told that he writes wittily and well.
TYLER OF BARNET
Bernard Gilbert
Author of _Old England_
This long, powerful novel shows the dilemma of a middle-aged man with
an invalid wife and grown-up children, who falls passionately in love
for the first time. As he is a man of iron self-control he represses
his passion till it bursts all bounds, with a tragic result. No one
now writing knows so well or describes so vividly life in the English
countryside as does Bernard Gilbert.
THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE
Freeman Wills Crofts
Another brilliantly ingenious detective story by the author of _The
Ponson Case_. The mystery of the real business of the syndicate
utterly baffled the clever young "amateurs" who tried to solve it, and
it took all the experience and perseverance of the "professionals" to
break up the dangerous and murderous gang.
THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED
F. Scott Fitzgerald
This book has caused an even greater sensation in America than _This
Side of Paradise_. It is a long, searching, and absolutely convincing
study of degeneration, that degeneration which ruins so many of the
rich, young, idle people. The "smart set" of New York is hurled into
the limelight and mercilessly revealed. A witty, pungent, and entirely
original book.
DANDELION DAYS
Henry Williamson
This is the tale of a boy's last terms at a public school, a very
sensitive, unusual boy, and it is in a sense a sequel to _The
Beautiful Years_. It is the work of a very clever young writer whose
nature essays have attracted the widest attention here and in America,
and is utterly unlike the usual "school story." It is a subtle and
beautifully written study of character.
BEANSTALK
Mrs. Henry Dudeney
A charmingly told novel of Sussex. The theme is Motherhood, and all
the emotional subtleties of the desire for children.
PENDER AMONG THE RESIDENTS
Forrest Reid
This is an episode in the life of Rex Pender, who inherited and came
to live at Ballycastle. It is the story of the curious spiritual
experience which came to him there. It is in a sense a "ghost story,"
but it is told by an artist and a stylist. "The Residents," moreover,
are admirably contrasted, and in some cases deliciously humorously
drawn. A charming, enigmatic, "different" book.
THE DEAVES AFFAIR
Hulbert Footner
This is a story of Evan Weir's wooing, and a very strenuous and
original pursuit it proved. In fact the lady of his choice so far
dissembled her love, as frequently to threaten his further existence.
At the time, Evan was acting as secretary to old Simeon Deaves, famed
as the possessor of the "tightest wad" in New York.
Now certain individuals had designs upon old Simeon and his hoard, and
amongst them was the forcible and beautiful object of Evan's
affections.
Like _The Owl Taxi_, it goes with a splendid snap, and is packed with
exciting and humorous incidents.
ROSEANNE
Madame Albanesi
The author calls this an "old-fashioned story." It does not concern
itself with sex or any other problems, but is just a lively, well-told
life of a very fascinating heroine who has plenty of adventures
sentimental and otherwise.
Collins' 'First Novel' Library
Autumn Titles
EXPERIENCE
Catherine Cotton
This charming chronicle has no "plot." It is an attempt to present a
happy, witty, simple-minded woman who attracted love because she gave
it out. This is a very difficult type of book to write. The attention
of the reader must be aroused and held by the sheer merit of the
writing, and the publishers believe they have found in Catherine
Cotton a writer with just the right gifts of wit, sympathy, and
understanding.
DOMENICO
H. M. Anderson
This is the story of a Cardinal of Rome, a member of one of the great
noble families. In his youth something had happened which had thrown a
shadow over his life. There are three great crises in his life, one of
them due to this shadow, one to the contrast between his conscience
and his ambition, and the third when, an exile in England, he falls in
love. Miss Anderson shows much skill in drawing the character of this
great and tragic figure.
[Transcriber's Notes and Amendments:
In addition to the listed inconsistencies in hyphenation or
spelling, nationalities in general are inconsistently hyphenated
and were left as printed.
Hotel / Hôtel
lake-side / lakeside
world-platform / world platform
Costa Rica / Costa-Rica
Spanish American / Spanish-American(s)
deputy-President / Deputy President / Deputy-President
bookshop / book-shop / book shop
motor launch / motor-launch
gold-fish / goldfish
Zeligowski / Zeligowsky
Jugo-Slav / Yugo-Slav
master criminals / master-criminals
The following is a list of corrections made to the original.
Ch. 4, p. 29, 'télégramme là' to 'télégramme-là'.
("Ce télégramme-là, celui qui dit 'j'ai traversé par là,)
Ch. 9, p. 44, added close double quote after 'ten-thirty'.
(ten-thirty.")
Ch. 11, p. 56, 'If' to 'if'.
("if we're both going out to)
Ch. 11, p. 56, 'Wembly' to 'Wembley'.
(Miss Doris Wembley looked at Beechtree)
Ch. 14, p. 65, added close double quote after 'everything'.
(scarf--that is everything.")
Ch. 15, p. 75, added period after 'moment'.
(moment. He was not fit)
Ch. 15, p. 78, 'Beech-tree' to 'Beechtree'.
("You don't drink this toast, Mr.
Beechtree?")
Ch. 17, p. 94, changed nested double quotes to single quotes.
('those damned Red Indians.')
Ch. 22, p. 118, changed 'hwy' to 'why'.
("And why not?" inquired the Belfast voice)
Ch. 22, p. 121, added open double quote before 'There'.
("There were always elements of)
Ch. 23, p. 124, added close single quote after 'live!'.
(would live!' Now, do I ask too much)
Ch. 23, p. 124, added open double quote before 'is'.
(she added as she rose, "is)
Ch. 35, p. 168, changed 'news' to 'News'.
(For men are not News.)
Ch. 39, p. 199, changed double quote to single quote.
(Monday, 8 a.m., Bathe, Kra----')
Ch. 42, p. 214, added period after 'Mr'.
("And who, if I may ask, is Mr. Henry Beechtree?")
Ch. 43, p. 225, removed extra 'you' in 'you many of you'.
(many of you know it and him)
Ch. 45, p. 231, changed 'Jaques' to 'Jacques'.
(Jacques_. Pulling his soft hat over his eyes)
Ch. 46, p. 234, changed 'if' to 'it'.
(What I do mind is that it isn't Wilbraham)
The following Italian errors have been retained:
Ch. 15, p. 78, retained 'Nel zuppo'.
(In the soup, sure thing. Nel zuppo!)
Ch. 17, p. 97, retained 'chretiani'.
(non son chretiani loro!")
Ch. 38, p. 187, retained 'Voul'.
("Voul scendere, forse?")
]