We all knew Isobel's history. It had taken barely twenty minutes to tell
it, but they had been twenty minutes of tragedy. We were all, I think,
in different ways affected. Monsieur Feurgéres alone sat back in his
seat like a carved image, his face white and haggard, his deep-set eyes
fixed upon vacancy. We felt that he had passed wholly away from the
world of present things. He himself was lingering amongst the shadows of
that wonderful past, upon which he had only a moment before dropped the
curtain. He had told us to ask him questions, but I for my part felt
that questions just then were a sacrilege. Arthur, however, seemed to
feel nothing of this. It was he who took the lead.
"Isobel, then," he said, "is the granddaughter of the King of
Waldenburg, the only child of his eldest daughter! Her mother was
divorced from her husband, Prince of Herrshoff, and afterwards married
to you. What about her father?"
"He died two years after the divorce was granted," Feurgéres said
without turning his head. "Isobel was hurried away from the Court
through the influence of her aunt, the Archduchess of Bristlaw, and sent
to a convent in France. It was not intended that she should ever
reappear at the Court of Waldenburg."
"Why not?"
"The King is very old, and he is the richest man in Europe. Isobel is
the daughter of his eldest and favourite child. The Archduchess also has
a daughter, and, failing Isobel, she will inherit."
"Has the King," I asked, "taken any steps to discover Isobel?"
"He has been told that she is dead," Feurgéres answered.
We were all silent then for several minutes. The things which we had
heard were strange enough, but they let in a flood of light upon all the
events of the last few months. It was Feurgéres himself who broke in
upon our thoughts.
"Gentlemen," he said, "there is another thing which I must tell you."
His voice was very low but firm. He had turned in his chair, and was
facing us all. His eyes were no longer vacant. He spoke as one speaks of
sacred things.
"All Europe," he said, "was pleased to discuss what was called the
elopement of the Princess Isobel with Feurgéres the player. The
gutter-press of the world filled their columns with sensational and
scandalous lies. We at no time made any reply. There was no need. If now
I break the silence of years it is that Isobel shall know the truth. It
is you, Mr. Greatson, who will tell her this, and many other things.
Listen carefully to what I say. The husband of the Princess Isobel was a
blackguard, a man unfit for the society of any self-respecting woman.
She was living in misery when I was bidden to the Court of Waldenburg. I
was made the more welcome there, perhaps, because I myself am a
descendant of an ancient and honourable French family. I met the
Princess Isobel often, and we grew to love each other. Of the struggle
which ensued between her sense of duty and my persuasions I say nothing.
She was a highly sensitive and very intellectual woman, and she had a
profound conviction of the unalienable right of a woman to live out her
life to its fullest capacity, to gather into it to the full all that is
best and greatest. Her position at Waldenburg was impossible. I proved
it to her. I prevailed. But----"
He paused, and held up his hand.
"The whole story of our elopement was a lie. There was no elopement. The
Princess Isobel left her husband accompanied only by a maid and a
lady-in-waiting. They lived quietly in Paris until her husband procured
his divorce. Then we were married, but until then we had not met since
our parting at Waldenburg. Isobel's mother was ever a pure and holy
woman. Let Isobel know that. Let her know that the greatest and most
wonderful sacrifice a woman ever made was surely hers--when she denied
herself her own daughter lest the merest shadow of shame should rest
upon her in later years. It is for that same reason that I myself have
kept away from Isobel. I have watched over her always, but at a
distance. That is why I am content to stand aside even now and yield up
my place to strangers."
It was Arthur again who questioned him.
"Mr. Feurgéres," he said, "you have told us wonderful things about
Isobel. You have told us wonderful things about the past, but you have
not spoken at all about the future. Is it your wish that she returns to
Waldenburg, or is she to remain Isobel de Sorrens?"
Feurgéres turned his head and looked searchingly at Arthur. The boy's
face was flushed with excitement. He made no effort to conceal his great
interest. Feurgéres looked at him steadfastly, and it was long before he
spoke.
"You are asking me," he said slowly, "the very question which I have
been asking myself for a long time. Isobel's proper place is at
Waldenburg, and yet there are many and grave reasons why I dread her
going there. The King is an old man, the Court is ruled by the
Archduchess, a hard, unscrupulous woman. Already she has schemed to get
the child into her power. I dread the thought of her there, alone and
friendless. Her mother spoke of this to me upon her deathbed. She shrank
always from the idea that even the shadow of those hideous calumnies
which oppressed her own life should darken a single moment of Isobel's.
I believe that if she were here at this moment she would place the two
issues before her and bid her take her choice. I think that it is what
we must do."
Arthur stood up. He looked very eager and handsome, though a little
boyish.
"Monsieur Feurgéres," he said, "I love Isobel. Give her to me, and I
will look after her future. I am not rich, but I will make a home for
her. She is too old to stay here with us any longer. I will make her
happy! Indeed I will!"
Monsieur Feurgéres looked back at that vacant spot upon the wall, and
was silent for some time. It was impossible to gather anything from his
face, though Arthur watched him fixedly all the time.
"And Isobel?" he asked at length.
"I have not spoken to her," Arthur said. "There was a compact between us
that we should not whilst she was under our care."
Monsieur Feurgéres turned to me.
"That sounds like a compact of your making, Arnold Greatson," he said.
"What am I to say to your friend?"
"It is surely," I said, "for Isobel to decide. It is only another issue
to be placed before her with those others of which you have spoken. You
say that you must leave for St. Petersburg to-morrow. Will you see her
now?"
He shook his head. I might almost have imagined him indifferent but for
the sudden twitching of his lips, the almost pitiful craving which
flashed out for a moment from his deep-set eyes. These were signs which
came and went so quickly that I doubt if either of the others observed
them. But I at least understood.
"I will not see her at all," he said. "It is better that I should not.
If she should decide upon Waldenburg, the less she has seen of me the
better. I leave it to you, Arnold Greatson, to put these matters
faithfully before Isobel. I claim no guardianship over her. Her mother's
sole desire was that when she had reached her present age the whole
truth should be placed before her, and she should decide exactly as she
thought best. That is my charge upon you," he continued, looking me
steadfastly in the face, "and I know that you will fulfil it. I shall
send you my address in case it is necessary to communicate with me."
He rose to his feet, prepared for departure. Arthur intercepted him.
"If Isobel will have me, then," he said, "you will not object?"
"Isobel shall make her own choice of these various issues," he answered.
"I claim no guardianship over her at all. If any further decision has to
be given, you must look to Mr. Greatson."
Arthur did look at me, but his eyes fell quickly. He turned once more to
Monsieur Feurgéres.
"Whether you claim it or not," he said, "you are really her guardian,
not Arnold. I shall tell her that you left her free to choose."
"I have said all that I have to say," Monsieur Feurgéres replied.
"Except this to you, Mr. Greatson," he added, turning to me. "You can
have no longer any hesitation in using the money which stands in
Isobel's name at the National Bank. You will find that it has
accumulated, and I have also added to it. Isobel will always be
reasonably well off, for I have left all that I myself possess to her,
with the exception of one legacy."
Without any further form of farewell he passed away from us. It was so
obviously his wish to be allowed to depart that we none of us cared to
stop him. Then we all three looked at one another.
"To-morrow," Mabane said, "you must tell Isobel."
"Why not to-night?" Arthur interposed.
"Why not to-night, indeed?" Isobel's soft voice asked. "If, indeed,
there is anything more to tell."
We were all thunderstruck as she glided out from behind the screen which
shielded the inner door, the door which led to her room. It needed only
a single glance into her face to assure us that she knew everything. Her
eyes were still soft with tears, shining like stars as she stood and
looked at me across the floor; her cheeks were pale, and her lips were
still quivering.
"I heard my name," she said. "The door was unfastened, so I stole out.
And I think that I am glad I did. I had a right to know all that I have
heard. It is very wonderful. I keep thinking and thinking, and even now
I cannot realize."
"You heard everything, Isobel?" Arthur exclaimed meaningly.
"Everything!" she answered, her eyes suddenly seeking the carpet. "I
thank you all for what you have said and done for me. To-morrow, I
think, I shall know better how I feel about these things."
"Quite right, Isobel," Allan said quietly. "There are great issues
before you, and you should live with them for a little while. Do not
decide anything hastily!"
Arthur pressed forward to her side.
"You will give me your hand, Isobel?" he pleaded. "You will say
good-night?"
She gave it to him passively. He raised it to his lips. It was his
active pronouncement of himself as her suitor. I watched her closely,
and so did Allan. But she gave no sign. She held out her hand to us,
too--a cold, sad little hand it felt--and turned away. There was
something curiously subdued about her movements as well as her silence
as she passed out of sight.
Arthur took up his hat. He was nervous and uneasy. His tone was almost
threatening.
"I shall be here early in the morning," he said. "I suppose you will
allow me to see Isobel?"
"By all means," I answered. "As things are now you need not go away
unless you like. Your room is still empty. Our compact is at an end.
Stay if you will."
He hesitated for a moment, and then threw down his hat. He sank into an
easy chair, and covered his face with his hands.
"I've been a beast, I know!" he half sobbed. "I can't help it. Isobel is
everything in the world to me. You fellows can't imagine how I care for
her."
I laid my hand upon his shoulder--a little wearily, perhaps, though I
tried to infuse some sympathy into my tone.
"Cheer up, Arthur!" I said. "You have your chance. Don't make a trouble
of it yet."
Arthur shook his head despondently.
"I think," he said, "that she will go to Waldenburg!"
Book III
CHAPTER I
Arthur flung himself into the room pale, hollow-eyed, the picture of
despair.
"Any news?" he cried, hopelessly enough, for he had seen my face.
"None," I answered.
"Anything from Feurgéres?"
"Not yet."
"Tell me again--where did you telegraph him?"
"Dover, Calais, Paris, Ostend, Brussels, Cologne!"
"And no reply?"
"As yet none."
"Let us look again at the note you found."
I smoothed it out upon the table. We had read it many times.
"There is something else which I must tell you before I leave
England. Come to me at once. The bearer will bring you. Come alone.
"HENRI FEURGÉRES.
"P.S.--You will be back in an hour. Disturb no one. It is possible
that I may ask you to keep secret what I have to say."
"This note," I remarked, tapping it with my forefinger, "was taken in to
Isobel by Mrs. Burdett at a quarter to eight. It was brought, she said,
by a respectable middle-aged woman, with whom Isobel left the place soon
after eight. We heard of this an hour later. At eleven o'clock we began
the search for Monsieur Feurgéres. At three, Allan discovered that he
had left the _Savoy Hotel_ at ten for St. Petersburg. Since then we have
sent seven telegrams, the delivery of which is very problematical--and
we have heard--nothing!"
Allan laid his hand gently upon my shoulder.
"We may get a reply from Feurgéres at any moment," he said, "but there
will be no news of Isobel. That note is a forgery, Arnold."
"I am afraid it is," I admitted. "Feurgéres was a man of his word. He
would never have sent for Isobel."
"Then she is lost to us," Arthur groaned.
I caught up my hat and coat.
"Not yet," I said. "I will go and see what Lady Delahaye has to say
about this. It can do no harm, at any rate."
"Shall I come?" Arthur asked, half rising from his chair.
"I would rather go alone," I answered.
* * * * *
The butler, who knew me by sight, was courteous but doubtful.
"Her ladyship has been receiving all the afternoon," he told me, "but I
believe that she has gone to her rooms now. Her ladyship dines early
to-night because of the opera. I will send your name up if you like,
sir."
I walked restlessly up and down the hall for ten minutes. Then a lady's
maid suddenly appeared through a green baize door and beckoned me to
follow her.
"Her ladyship will see you upstairs, sir, if you will come this way,"
she announced.
I followed her into a little boudoir. Lady Delahaye, in a blue
dressing-gown, was lying upon a sofa. She eyed me as I entered with a
curious smile.
"This is indeed an unexpected pleasure," she murmured. "Do sit down
somewhere. It is long past my hour of receiving, and I am just getting
ready for dinner, but I positively could not send you away. Now, please,
tell me all about it."
"You know why I have come, then?" I remarked.
"My dear man, I haven't the least idea," she protested. "It is sheer
unadulterated curiosity which made me send Perkins for you up here.
We're not at all upon the sort of terms, you know," she added, looking
up at me with her big blue eyes, "for this sort of thing."
"Isobel left us this morning!" I said bluntly. "She received a note
signed Feurgéres, which I am sure was a forgery. She left us at eight
o'clock, and she has not returned."
Lady Delahaye looked at me with a faint smile. Her expression puzzled
me. I was not even able to guess at the thoughts which lay underneath
her words.
"How anxious you must be," she murmured. "Do you know, I always wondered
whether Isobel would not some day weary of your milk-and-water
Bohemianism. Your Scotch friend is worthy, no doubt, but dull, and the
boy was too hopelessly in love to be amusing. And as for you--well--you
would do very nicely, no doubt, my dear Arnold, but you are too stuffed
up with principles for a girl of Isobel's antecedents. So she has cut
the Gordian knot herself! Well, I am sorry!"
"You are sorry!" I repeated. "Why?"
She smiled sweetly at me.
"Because my dear friend has promised me that wonderful emerald necklace
if I could get the child away from you, and I think that very soon, with
the help of that stupid boy, I should have succeeded," she said
regretfully. "Such emeralds, Arnold! and you know how anything green
suits me."
"You do not doubt, then, but that it is the Archduchess who has done
this?" I said.
Lady Delahaye lifted her eyebrows.
"Either the Archduchess, or Isobel has walked off of her own sweet
will," she remarked calmly. "In any case you have lost the child, and I
have lost my necklace. I positively cannot risk losing my dinner too,"
she added, with a glance at the clock, "so I am afraid--I am so sorry,
but I must ask you to go away. Come and see me again, won't you? Perhaps
we can be friends again now that this bone of contention is removed."
"I have never desired anything else, Lady Delahaye," I said. "But if my
friendship is really of any value to you, if you would care to earn my
deepest gratitude, you could easily do so."
"Really! In what manner?"
"By helping me to regain possession of the child."
She laughed at me, softly at first, and then without restraint. Finally
she rang the bell.
"My dear Arnold," she exclaimed, wiping her eyes, "you are really too
naïve! You amuse me more than I can tell you. My maid will show you the
way downstairs. Do come and see me again soon. Good-bye!"
So that was the end of any hope we may have had of help from Lady
Delahaye. I called a hansom outside and drove at once to Blenheim House,
the temporary residence of the Archduchess and her suite. A footman
passed me on to a more important person who was sitting at a round table
in the hall with a visitor's book open before him. I explained to him my
desire to obtain a few moments' audience with the Archduchess, but he
only smiled and shook his head.
"It is quite impossible for her Highness to see anyone now before her
departure, sir," he said. "If you are connected with the Press, I can
only tell you what I have told all the others. We have received a
telegram from Illghera with grave news concerning the health of his
Majesty the King of Waldenburg, and notwithstanding the indisposition of
the Princess Adelaide, the Archduchess has arranged to leave for
Illghera at once. A fuller explanation will appear in the _Court
Circular_, and the Archduchess is particularly anxious to express her
great regret to all those whom the cancellation of her engagements may
inconvenience. Good-day, sir!"
The man recommenced his task, which was apparently the copying out of a
list of names from the visitor's book, and signed to the footman with
his penholder to show me out. But I stood my ground.
"You are leaving to-day, then?" I said.
"We are leaving to-day," the man assented, without glancing up from his
task. "We are naturally very busy."
"Can I see the Baron von Leibingen?" I asked.
"It is quite impossible, sir," the man answered shortly. "He is engaged
with her Highness."
"I will wait!" I declared.
"Then I must trouble you, sir, to wait outside," he said, with a little
gesture of impatience. "I do not wish to seem uncivil, but my orders
to-day are peremptory."
At that moment a door opened and a man came across the hall, slowly
drawing on his gloves. I looked up and saw the Baron von Leibingen. He
recognized me at once, and bowed courteously. At the same time there was
something in his manner which gave me the impression that he was not
altogether pleased to see me.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Greatson?" he asked, pausing
for a moment by my side.
"I am anxious to obtain five minutes' interview with the Archduchess," I
answered. "If you could manage that for me I should be exceedingly
obliged."
He shook his head.
"It is quite impossible!" he said decisively. "You have heard of the
serious news from Illghera, without doubt. We shall be on our way there
in a few hours."
I drew him a little on one side.
"Is Isobel here, Baron?" I asked bluntly.
"I beg your pardon--is who here?" he inquired, with the air of one who
is puzzled by an incomprehensible question.
"Isobel--the Princess Isobel, if you like--has been lured from our care
by a forged message. We know her history now, and we are able to
understand the nature of the interest which your mistress has shown in
her. Therefore, when I find her missing I come to you. I want to know if
she is in this house."
"If she were," the Baron remarked, "I, and everyone else who knows
anything about it, would say at once that she was in her proper place.
If she were, I should most earnestly advise the Archduchess to keep her
here. But I regret to say that she is not. To tell you the truth, the
Archduchess is so annoyed at the young lady's refusal to accept her
protection, that she has lost all interest in her. I doubt whether she
would receive her now if she came."
"Perhaps," I remarked slowly, "she has gone to Illghera."
"It is, of course," the Baron agreed, "not an impossibility."
"If I do not succeed in my search," I said, "it is to Illghera that I
shall come."
"You will find it," the Baron assured me, with a smile, "a most charming
place. I shall be delighted to renew our acquaintance there."
"His Majesty," I continued, "is, I have heard, very accessible. I shall
be able to tell him Isobel's story. You may keep the child away from
him, Baron, but you cannot prevent his learning the fact of her
existence and her history."
"My young friend," the Baron answered, edging his way towards the door,
"your enigmas at another time would be most interesting. But at present
I have affairs on hand, and I am pressed for time. I will permit myself
to say, however, that you are altogether deceiving yourself. It was the
one wish of the Archduchess to have taken Isobel to her grandfather and
begged him to recognize her."
"You decline to meet me fairly, then--to tell me the truth? Mind, I
firmly believe that Isobel is now under your control. I shall not rest
until I have discovered her."
"Then you may discover, my young friend," the Baron said, putting on his
hat, and turning resolutely away, "the true meaning of the word
weariness. You are a fool to ask me any questions at all. We are on
opposite sides. If I knew where the child was you are the last person
whom I should tell. Her place is anywhere--save with you!"
He bowed and turned away, whispering as he passed to a footman, who at
once approached me. I allowed myself to be shown out. As a matter of
fact, I had no alternative. But on the steps was an English servant in
the Blenheim livery. I slipped half a sovereign into his hand.
"Can you tell me what time the Archduchess leaves, and from what
station?" I asked.
"I am not quite sure about the time, sir," the man answered, "but the
'buses are ordered from Charing Cross, and they are to be here at eight
to-night."
It was already past seven. I lit a cigarette and strolled on towards the
station.
CHAPTER II
At Charing Cross station a strange thing happened. The Continental train
arrived whilst I was sauntering about the platform, and out of it,
within a few feet of me, stepped Feurgéres. He was pale and haggard, and
he leaned heavily upon the arm of his servant as he stepped out of his
carriage. When he saw me, however, he held out his hand and smiled.
"You expected me, then?" he exclaimed.
"Not I," I answered. "You have taken my breath away."
"I had your telegram at Brussels," he explained. "I wired St. Petersburg
at once, and turned back. Any news?"
"None," I answered.
"What are you doing here?"
I told him in a few rapid words. He listened intently, nodding his head
every now and then.
"The Archduchess has her," he said, "and if only one of us had the ghost
of a legal claim upon the child our difficulties would end. She is an
unscrupulous woman, but there are things which even she dare not do.
What are they doing over there?"
He pointed to the next platform. I took him by the arm and dragged him
along.
"It is the special!" I exclaimed. "We must see them start."
Red drugget was being stretched across the platform, and to my dismay
the barricades were rolled across. The luggage was already in the van,
and the guard was looking at his watch. Then a small brougham drove
rapidly up and stopped opposite to the saloon. Baron von Leibingen
descended, and was immediately followed by the Archduchess. Together
they helped from the carriage and across the platform a dark, tall girl,
at the first sight of whom my heart began to beat wildly. Then I
remembered the likeness between the cousins and what I had heard of the
Princess Adelaide's indisposition. She was almost carried into the
saloon, and at the last moment she looked swiftly, almost fearfully,
around her. I could scarcely contain myself. The likeness was
marvellous! As the train steamed out of the station Feurgéres pushed
aside the barricade and walked straight up to the station-master.
"I want a special," he said, "to catch the boat. I am Feurgéres, and I
am due at Petersburg Wednesday."
The station-master shook his head.
"You can have a special, sir, in twenty minutes, but you cannot catch
the boat. The one I have just sent off would never do it, but the boat
has a Royal command to wait for her."
"Can't you give me an engine which will make up the twenty minutes?"
Feurgéres asked.
"It is impossible, sir," the station-master answered. "We have not an
engine built which would come within ten miles an hour of that one."
"Very good," Feurgéres said. "I will have the special, at any rate. Be
so good as to give your orders at once."
"You will gain nothing if you want to get on, sir," the station-master
remarked. "An ordinary train will leave here in two hours, which will
catch the next boat."
"The special in twenty minutes," Feurgéres answered sharply. "Forty
pounds, is it not? It is here!"
The station-master hurried away. I scarcely understood Feurgéres' haste
to reach Dover. When I told him so he only laughed and led me away
towards the refreshment-room. He ordered luncheon baskets to be sent out
to the train, and he made me drink a brandy-and-soda. Then he took me by
the arm.
"You are not much of a conspirator, my friend, Arnold Greatson," he
said. "You have been within a dozen yards of Isobel within the last few
minutes, and you have not recognized her."
I stopped short. That wonderful likeness flashed once more back upon my
mind. Certainly in the Mordaunt Rooms it had not been so noticeable. And
her eyes! I looked at Feurgéres, and he nodded.
"The Princess Adelaide either remains in England or has gone on quietly
ahead," he said. "They have dressed Isobel in her clothes, and the
general public could never tell the difference. You see how difficult
they have made it for us to approach her. They will be hedged around
like this all across the Continent. Oh, it was a very clever move!"
I scarcely answered him. My eyes were fixed upon the tangled wilderness
of red and green lights, amongst which that train had disappeared. What
had they done to her, these people, that she should scarcely have been
able to crawl across the platform? What had they done to make her accept
their bidding, and leave England without a word or message to any of us?
It had not been of her own choice, I was sure enough of that.
"Come!" Feurgéres said quietly.
I followed him to the platform, where the saloon carriage and engine
were already drawn up. Feurgéres brought with him his servant and all
his luggage. A few curious porters and bystanders saw us start. No one,
however, manifested any particular interest in us. There was no one
whose business it seemed to be to watch us.
I sat back in my corner and looked out into the darkness. Feurgéres,
opposite to me, was leaning back with half-closed eyes. From his soft,
regular breathing it seemed almost as though he slept. For me there was
no thought of rest or sleep. I made plans only to discard them,
rehearsed speeches, appeals, threats, only to realize their hopeless
ineffectiveness. And underneath it all was a dull constant pain, the
pain which stays.
Our journey was about three-parts over when Feurgéres suddenly sat up in
his seat, and opening his dressing-case, drew out a Continental
timetable.
"In a sense that station-master was right," he remarked, turning over
the leaves. "We shall not reach Paris any the sooner for taking this
special train. On the other hand, we shall have time to ascertain in
Dover whether our friends really have gone on to Calais, or whether they
by any chance changed their minds and took the Ostend boat. I sincerely
trust that that course will not have presented itself to them."
"Why?" I asked.
"Somewhere on the journey," he remarked, "they must pause. They will
have to exchange Isobel for the Princess Adelaide, and make their plans
for the disposal of Isobel. If they should do this, say, in Brussels, we
shall be at a great disadvantage. If, however, they should stay in
Paris, we should be in a different position altogether. The chief of the
police is my friend. I am known there, and can command as good service
as the Archduchess herself. We must hope that it will be Paris. If so,
we shall arrive--let me see, six hours behind them; but supposing they
do break their connection, we shall have still five hours in Paris with
them before they can get on. If they are cautious they will go to
Illghera _viâ_ Brussels and their own country. If, however, they do not
seriously regard the matter of pursuit they will go direct."
A few moments later we came to a standstill in the town station.
Feurgéres let down the window, and talked for a few minutes with the
station-master. Then he resumed his seat.
"We will go on to the quay," he said. "It is almost certain that our
friends left by the Paris boat. We shall have four hours to wait, but we
can secure our cabins, and perhaps sleep."
We moved slowly on to the quay. A few enquiries there completely assured
us. Midway across the Channel, plainly visible still, was a disappearing
green light.
"That's the _Marie Louise_, sir," a seaman told me. "Left here five and
twenty minutes ago. The parties you were enquiring about boarded her
right enough. The young lady had almost to be carried. She's the new
turbine boat, and she ought to be across in about half an hour from
now."
Monsieur Feurgéres engaged the best cabin on the steamer, and his
servant fitted me up a dressing-case with necessaries for the journey
from his master's ample store. Then we went into the saloon, and had
some supper. Afterwards we stood upon deck watching the passengers come
on board from the train which had just arrived. Suddenly I seized
Feurgéres by the arm and dragged him inside the cabin.
"The Princess Adelaide!" I exclaimed. "Look!"
We saw her distinctly from the window. She was dressed very plainly, and
wore a heavy veil which she had just raised. She stood within a few feet
of us, talking to the maid, who seemed to be her sole companion.
"Find my cabin, Mason," she ordered. "I shall lie down directly we
start. I am always ill upon these wretched night boats. It is a most
unpleasant arrangement, this."
Feurgéres looked at me and smiled.
"Isobel's features," he remarked, "but not her voice. You see, we are on
the right track. We must contrive to keep out of that young lady's way."
* * * * *
To keep out of the way of the Princess Adelaide was easy enough,
presuming that she kept her word and remained in her cabin. I watched
her enter it and close the door. Afterwards I wrapped myself in an
ulster of Feurgéres' and went out on deck. It was a fine night, but
windy, and a little dark. I lit a pipe and leaned over the side. I had
scarcely been there two minutes when I heard a light footstep coming
along the deck and pause a few feet away. A girl's voice addressed me.
"Can you tell me what that light is?"
I knew who it was at once. It was the most hideous ill-fortune. I
answered gruffly, and without turning my head.
"Folkestone Harbour!"
I thought that after that she must surely go away. But she did nothing
of the sort. She came and leaned over the rail by my side.
"You are Mr. Arnold Greatson, are you not?"
My heart sank, and I could have cursed my folly for leaving my cabin.
However, since I was discovered there was nothing to do but to make the
best of it.
"Yes, I am Arnold Greatson," I admitted.
"I wonder if you know who I am?" she asked.
"You are the Princess Adelaide of----"
She held up her hand.
"Stop, please! I see that you know. For some mysterious reason I am
travelling almost alone, and under another name which I do not like at
all. You are very fond of my cousin, Isobel, are you not, Mr. Greatson?"
I tried to see her face, but it was half turned away from me. Her voice,
however, reminded me a little of Isobel's.
"Yes," I admitted slowly. "You see, she was under our care for some
time, and we all grew very fond of her."
"But you--you especially, I mean," she went on. "Do not be afraid of me,
Mr. Greatson. I know that my mother is very angry with you, and has
tried to take Isobel away, but if I were she I would not come. I think
that she must be very much happier as she is."
"I--I am too old," I said slowly, "to dare to be fond of anyone--in that
way."
"How foolish!" she murmured. "Do you know, Mr. Greatson, that I am only
eighteen, and that I am betrothed to the King of Saxonia. He is over
forty, very short, and he has horrid turned-up black moustaches. He is
willing to marry me because I am to have a great fortune, and my mother
is willing for me to marry him because I shall be a Queen. But that is
not happiness, is it?"
"I am afraid not," I answered.
"Mr. Greatson," she continued, "I feel that I can talk to you like this
because I have read your books. I like the heroes so much, and of course
I like the stories too. I think that Isobel is very wise not to want to
come back to Waldenburg. I wish that I were free as she is, and had not
to do things because I am a Princess. And I am sure that she is very
fond of you."
"Princess----" I began.
She stopped me.
"If you knew how I hated that word!" she murmured. "I may never see you
again, you know, after this evening, so it really does not matter--but
would you mind calling me Adelaide?"
"Adelaide, then," I said, "may I ask you a question?"
"As many as you like."
"Do you know where Isobel is now?"
Her surprise was obviously genuine.
"Why, of course not! Is she not at your house in London?"
I shook my head.
"She is a few hours in front of us on her way to Paris," I said, "with
your mother and the Baron von Leibingen and the rest of your people. She
is travelling in your clothes and in your name. That is why you were
left to follow as quietly as possible."
She laid her hand upon my arm. Her eyes were full of tears, and her
voice shook.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she cried softly, "so very sorry. Why cannot my
mother leave her alone with you? I am sure she would be happier."
"I think so too," I answered. "That is why I am going to try and fetch
her back."
She looked at me very anxiously.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "you do not know my mother. If she makes up
her mind to anything she is terribly hard to change. I do hope that you
succeed, though. Why ever did Isobel leave you?"
"She received a forged letter, written in somebody else's name," I said.
"How your mother has induced her to stay since, though, I do not know.
She looked very ill at Charing Cross, and she had to be helped into the
train."
The Princess Adelaide went very white.
"It was she I heard this morning--cry out," she murmured. "They told me
it was one of the servants who had had an accident. Mr. Greatson, this
is terrible!"
She turned her head away, and I could see that she was crying.
"You must not distress yourself," I said kindly. "I daresay that it will
all come right. You will see Isobel, I think, in Paris. If you do, will
you give her a message?"
"Of course, I will," she answered.
"Tell her that we are close at hand, and that we have powerful friends,"
I whispered. "We shall get to see her somehow or other, and if she
chooses to return she shall!"
"Yes. Anything else?"
"I think not," I answered.
"Do you not want to send her your love?" she asked, with a faint smile.
"Of course," I said slowly.
She leaned a little over towards me.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "do you know what I should want you to do if I
were Isobel--what I am quite sure that she must want you to do now?"
"Tell me!"
"Why, marry her! She would be quite safe then, wouldn't she?"
I tried to smile in a non-committal sort of way, but I am afraid there
were things in my face beyond my power to control.
"You forget," I answered. "I am thirty-four, and Isobel is only
eighteen. Besides, there is someone else who wants to marry Isobel. He
is young, and they have been great friends always. I think that she is
fond of him."
She shook her head doubtfully.
"I do not think that thirty-four is old at all, and if you care for
Isobel, I would not let anyone else marry her," she declared. "Is that
Calais?"
"Yes."
"I think that I will go now in case my maid should see us together," she
said. "Oh, I can tell you where we are going in Paris. Will that help
you?"
"Of course it will," I answered.
"Number 17, Rue Henriette," she whispered. "Please come a little further
this way a moment."
I obeyed her at once. We were quite out of sight now, in the quietest
corner of the ship.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "you will think that I am a very strange girl.
I am going to be married in a few months to a man I do not care for one
little bit, and it seems to me that that will be the end of my life. I
want you to marry Isobel, and I hope you will both be very
happy--and--will you please kiss me once? I am Isobel's cousin, you
know."
I leaned forward and touched her lips. Then I grasped her hands warmly.
"You are very, very kind," I said gratefully, "and you can't think how
much happier you have made me feel. If only--you were not a Princess!"
She flitted away into the darkness with a little broken laugh. She
passed me half an hour later in the Customs' house with a languid
impassive stare which even her mother could not have excelled.
CHAPTER III
Feurgéres looked at me in surprise.
"What have you been doing to yourself?" he exclaimed. "Is the fresh air
so wonderful a tonic, or have you been asleep and dreaming of Paradise?"
I laughed.
"The sea air was well enough," I answered, "but I have been having a
most interesting conversation."
"With whom?" he asked.
"The Princess Adelaide!"
He drew a little closer to me.
"You are serious?"
"Undoubtedly. Listen!"
Then I told him of my conversation with Isobel's cousin, excepting the
last episode. His gratification was scarcely equal to mine. He was a
little thoughtful for some time afterwards. I am sure he felt that I had
been indiscreet.
"The Princess Adelaide," I said, "will not betray us. I am sure of that.
She will tell her mother nothing."
"These Waldenburgs," he answered gravely, "are a crafty race. It is in
their blood. They cannot help it."
"Isobel is a Waldenburg," I reminded him.
"She is her mother's daughter," he said. "There is always one alien
temperament in a family."
"In this case," I declared, "two!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"We shall soon know," he said, "whether this young lady is honest or
not. A man will meet us at Paris with an exact record of the doings of
the Archduchess and her party. We shall know then where Isobel is. If
the address is the same as that given you by the Princess Adelaide, I
will believe in her."
"But not till then?" I remarked, smiling.
"Not till then!" he assented.
Before we left Calais, Feurgéres sent more telegrams, and for an hour
afterwards he sat opposite to me with wide-open eyes, seeing nothing, as
was very evident, save the images created by his own thoughts. As we
reached Amiens, however, he spoke to me.
"You had better try and get some sleep," he said. "You may have little
time for rest in Paris."
"And you?" I asked.
"It is another matter," he answered. "I am accustomed to sleeping very
little; and besides, it is probable that this affair may become one
which it will be necessary for you to follow up alone. The sight of me,
or the mention of my name, is like poison to all the Waldenburgs. They
would only be the more bitter and hard to deal with if they knew that I,
too, had joined in the chase. I hope to be able to do my share
secretly."
I followed his suggestion, and slept more or less fitfully all the way
to Paris. I was awakened to find that the train had come to a
standstill. We were already in the station, and as I hastily collected
my belongings I saw that Feurgéres had left me, and was standing on the
platform talking earnestly to a pale, dark young Frenchman, sombrely
dressed and of insignificant appearance. I joined him just as his
companion departed. He turned towards me with a peculiar smile.
"My apologies to the Princess," he said. "The address is correct. They
have gone to a suite of rooms belonging to the Baron von Leibingen."
"They are there still, then?" I exclaimed.
"They are there still," Feurgéres assented, "and they show no immediate
signs of moving on. They are apparently waiting for someone--perhaps for
the Princess Adelaide. Inside the house and out they are being closely
watched, and directly their plans are made I shall know of them."
I looked, as I felt, a little surprised. Feurgéres smiled.
"I am at home here," he said, "and I have friends. Come! My own
apartments are scarcely a stone's-throw away from the Rue Henriette.
Estere will see our things safely through the Customs."
We drove through the cold grey twilight to the Rue de St. Antoine, where
Feurgéres' apartments were. To my surprise servants were at hand
expecting us, and I was shown at once into a suite of rooms, in one of
which was a great marble bath all ready for use. Some coffee and a
change of clothes were brought me. All my wants seemed to have been
anticipated and provided for. I had always imagined Feurgéres to be a
man of very simple and homely tastes, but there were no traces of it in
his home. He showed me some of the rooms while we waited for breakfast,
rooms handsomely furnished and decorated, full of art treasures and
curios of many sorts collected from many countries.
But, in a sense, it was like a dead house. One felt that it might be a
dwelling of ghosts. There were nowhere any signs of the rooms being
used, the habitable air was absent. Everything was in perfect order.
There was no dust, none of the chilliness of disuse. Yet one seemed to
feel everywhere the sadness of places which exist only for their
history. One door only remained closed, and that Feurgéres unlocked with
a little key which hung from his chain. But he did not invite me to
enter.
"You will excuse me for a few moments," he said. "My housekeeper will
show you into the breakfast-room. Please do not wait for me."
An old lady, very primly dressed in black, and wearing a curious cap
with long white strings, bustled me away. As Feurgéres opened the door
of the room, in front of which we had been standing, the air seemed
instantly sweet with the perfume of flowers. The old lady sighed as she
poured me out some coffee. I am ashamed to say that I felt, and
doubtless I looked, curious.
"Would it not be as well for me to wait for Monsieur Feurgéres?" I
asked. "He will not be very long, I suppose?"
The old lady shook her head sadly.
"Ah! but one cannot say!" she answered. "Monsieur had better begin his
breakfast."
"Your master has perhaps someone waiting to see him?" I remarked.
Madame Tobain--she told me her name--shook her head once more. She spoke
softly, almost as though she were speaking of something sacred.
"Monsieur did not know, perhaps--it was the chamber of Madame. Always
Monsieur spends several hours a day there when he is in Paris, and
always after he has performed at the theatre he returns immediately to
sit there. No one else is allowed to enter; only I, when Monsieur is
away, am permitted once a day to fill it with fresh flowers--flowers
always the most expensive and rare. Ah, such devotion, and for the dead,
too! One finds it seldom, indeed! It is the great artists only who can
feel like that!"
She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, dropped me a curtsey,
and withdrew. Feurgéres came in presently, and I avoided looking at him
for the first few minutes. To tell the truth, there was a lump in my own
throat. When he spoke, however, his tone was as usual.
"I shall ask you," he said, "to stay indoors, but to be prepared to
start away at a moment's notice. I am going to make a few enquiries
myself."
His voice drew my eyes to his face, and I was astonished at his
appearance. The skin seemed tightly drawn about his cheeks, and he was
very white. As though in contradiction to his ill-looks, however, his
eyes were unusually brilliant and clear, and his manner almost buoyant.
"Forgive me, Monsieur Feurgéres," I said, "but it seems to me that you
had better rest for a while. You have been travelling longer than I
have, and you are tired."
He smiled at me almost gaily.
"On the contrary," he declared, "I never felt more vigorous. I----"
He stopped short, and walked the length of the room. When he returned he
was very grave, but the smile was still upon his lips. He laid his hand
almost affectionately upon my shoulder.
"My dear friend," he said softly, "I think that you are the only one to
whom I have felt it possible to speak of the things which lie so near my
heart. For I think that you, too, are one of those who know, and who
must know, what it is to suffer. We who carry the iron in our hearts,
you know, are sometimes drawn together. The things which we may hide
from the world we cannot hide from one another. Only for you there is
hope, for me there has been the wonderful past. People have pitied me
often, my friend, for what they have called my lonely life. They little
know! I am not a sentimentalist. I speak of real things. Isobel, my
wife, died to the world and was buried. To me she lives always. Just
now--I have been with her. She sat in her old chair, and her eyes smiled
again their marvellous welcome to me. Only--and this is why I speak to
you of these things--there was a difference."
He was silent for a few minutes. When he continued, his voice was a
little softer but no less firm.
"Dear friend," he said, "I will be honest. When Isobel was taken from me
I had days and hours of hideous agony. But it was the craving for her
body only, the touch of her lips, the caress of her hands, the sound of
her voice. Her spirit has been with me always. At first, perhaps, her
coming was faint and indefinable, but with every day I realized her more
fully. I called her, and she sat in her box and watched me play, and
kissed her roses to me. I close the door upon the world and call her
back to her room, call her into my arms, whisper the old words, call her
those names which she loves best--and she is there, and all my burden of
sorrow falls away. My friend, a great love can do this! A great, pure
love can mock even at the grave."
I clasped his hand in mine.
"I think," I said, "that I will never pity you again. You have triumphed
even over Fate--even over those terrible, relentless laws which
sometimes make a ghastly nightmare of life even to the happiest of us.
You have turned sorrow into joy. It is a great deed. You have made my
own suffering seem almost a vulgar thing."
"Ah, no!" he said, "for you, too, there is hope. You, too, know that we
need never be the idle, resistless slaves of Fate--like those others.
Will and faith and purity can kindle a magic flame to lighten the
darkness of the greatest sorrow. I speak to you of these
things--now--because I think that the end is near."
He suddenly sank into a chair. I looked at him in alarm, but his face
was radiant. There was no sign of any illness there.
"You are young, Arnold Greatson," he said. "They tell me that you will
be famous. Yet you are not one of those to turn your face to the wall
because the greatest gift of life is withheld from you. That is why I
have lifted the curtain of my own days. I know you, and I know that you
will triumph. It is a world of compensations after all for those who
have the wit to understand."
I think that he had more to say to me, but we were interrupted. There
was a knock at the door, and the man entered whom I had seen talking
with Feurgéres upon the platform of the railway station. Feurgéres rose
at once, calm and prepared. They talked for a while so rapidly that I
could not follow them. Then he turned to me.
"They are preparing for a move," he announced. "They are going south as
though for Marseilles and Illghera, but they insist upon a special
train. They have declined a saloon attached to the train de luxe, and
Monsieur Estere here has doubts as to their real destination. Wait here
until I return. Be prepared for a journey."
* * * * *
They left me alone. I lit a cigarette and settled down to read. In less
than half an hour, however, I was disturbed. There was a knock at the
door, and Madame Tobain entered.
"There is a lady here, sir, who desires to see Monsieur!" she announced.
A fair, slight woman in a long travelling cloak brushed past her. She
raised her veil, and I started at once to my feet. It was Lady Delahaye.
CHAPTER IV
It did not need a word from Lady Delahaye to acquaint me fully with what
had happened. Indeed, my only wonder had been that this knowledge had
not come to her before. She greeted me with a smile, but her face was
full of purpose.
"Where is he?" she asked simply.
"Not here," I answered.
She seated herself, and began to unpin the travelling veil from her hat.
"So I perceive," she remarked. "He will return?"
"Yes," I admitted, "he will return."
She folded the veil upon her knee and looked across at me thoughtfully.
"What an idiot I have been!" she murmured. "After all, that emerald
necklace might easily have been mine."
"I am not so sure about that," I answered. "I think I know what is in
your mind, but I might remind you that suspicion is one thing and proof
another."
"The motive," she answered, "is the difficult thing, and that is found.
I suppose the police are good for something. They should be able to work
backwards from a certainty."
"Are you," I asked, "going to employ the police? Don't you think that,
for the good of everyone, and even for your husband's own sake, the
thing had better remain where it is?"
She laughed scornfully.
"You would have me let the man go free who shot another in the back
treacherously and without warning?" she exclaimed. "Thank you for your
advice, Arnold Greatson. I have a different purpose in my mind."
I moved my chair and drew a little nearer to her.
"Lady Delahaye--" I began.
"The use of my Christian name," she murmured, "would perhaps make your
persuasions more effective. At any rate, you might try. I have never
forbidden you to use it."
"If you have any regard for me at all, then, Eileen," I said, "you will
think seriously before you take any steps against Monsieur Feurgéres.
Remember that he had, or thought he had, very strong reasons for acting
as he did. Looking at it charitably, your husband's proceedings were
open to very grave misconstruction. There will be a great deal of
unpleasant scandal if the story is raked up again, and Isobel's whole
history will be told in court. How will that suit the Archduchess?"
"Not at all," Lady Delahaye admitted frankly; "but the Archduchess is
not the only person to be considered. You seem to forget that this is no
trifling matter. It is a murderer whom you are shielding, the man who
killed my husband whom you would have me let go free."
"Technically," I admitted, "not actually. Your husband did not die of
his wound. He was in a very bad state of health."
"I cannot recognize the distinction," Lady Delahaye declared coldly. "He
died from shock following it."
"Consider for a moment the position of Monsieur Feurgéres," I pleaded.
"Isobel was the only child of the woman whom he had dearly loved. The
care of her was a charge upon his conscience and upon his honour. Any
open association with him he felt might be to her detriment later on in
life. All that he could do was to watch over her from a distance. He saw
her, as he imagined, in danger. What course was open to him? Forget for
the moment that Major Delahaye was your husband. Put yourself in the
place of Feurgéres. What could he do but strike?"
"He broke the law," she said coldly, "the law of men and of God. He must
take the consequences. I am not a vindictive woman. I would have
forgiven him for making a scene, for striking my husband, or taking away
the child by force. But he went too far."
"Have you," I asked, "been to the police?"
"Not yet."
I caught at this faint hope.
"You came here to see him first? You have something to propose--some
compromise?"
She shook her head slowly.
"Between Monsieur Feurgéres and myself," she said, "there can be no
question of anything of the sort. There is nothing which he could offer
me, nothing within his power to offer, which could influence me in the
slightest."
"Then why," I asked, "are you here?"
"To see you," she answered. "I want to ask you this, Arnold. You wish
Monsieur Feurgéres to go free. You wish to stay my hand. What price are
you willing to pay?"
I looked at her blankly. As yet her meaning was hidden from me.
"Any price!" I declared.
Then she leaned over towards me.
"What is he to you, Arnold--this man?" she asked softly. "You are
wonderfully loyal to some of your friends."
"I know the story of his life," I answered, "and it is enough. Besides,
he is an old man, and I fancy that his health is failing. Let him end
his days in peace. You will never regret it, Eileen. If my gratitude is
worth anything to you----"
"I want," she interrupted, "more than your gratitude."
We sat looking at each other for a moment in a silence which I for my
part could not have broken. I read in her face, in her altered
expression, and the softened gleam of her eyes, all that I was expected
to read. I said nothing.
"It is not so very many years, Arnold," she went on, "since you cared
for me, or said that you did. I have not changed so much, have I? Give
up this senseless pursuit of a child. Oh, you guard your secret very
bravely, but you cannot hide the truth from me. It is not all
philanthropy which has made you such a squire of dames. You believe that
you care for her--that child! Arnold, it is a foolish fancy. You belong
to different hemispheres; you are twice her age. It will be years before
she can even realize what life and love may be. Give it all up. She is
in safe hands now. Come back to London with me, and Monsieur Feurgéres
shall go free."
"Monsieur Feurgéres, Madame, thanks you!"
He had entered the room softly, and stood at the end of the screen. Lady
Delahaye's face darkened.
"May I ask, sir, how long you have been playing the eavesdropper?" she
demanded.
"Not so long, Madame, as I should have desired," he answered, "yet long
enough to understand this. My young friend here seems to be trying to
bargain with you for my safety. Madame, I cannot allow it. If your
silence is indeed to be bought, the terms must be arranged between you
and me."
She looked at him a trifle insolently.
"I have already explained to Mr. Greatson," she remarked, "that
bargaining between you and me is impossible because you have nothing to
offer which could tempt me."
"And Mr. Greatson has?"
"That, Monsieur," she answered, "is between Mr. Greatson and myself."
Monsieur Feurgéres stood his ground.
"Lady Delahaye," he said, "I want you to listen to me for a moment. It
is not a justification which I am attempting. It is just a word or two
of explanation, to which I trust you will not refuse to listen."
"If you think it worth while," she answered coldly.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Who can tell! I have the fancy, however, to assure you that what took
place that day at the Café Grand was not the impulsive act of a man
inspired with a homicidal mania, but was the necessary outcome of a long
sequence of events. You know the peculiar relations existing between
Isobel and myself. I had not the right to approach her, or to assume any
overt act of guardianship. Any association with me would at once have
imperilled any chance she may have possessed of being restored to her
rightful position at Waldenburg. I accordingly could only watch over her
by means of spies. This I have always done."
"With what object, Monsieur Feurgéres?" Lady Delahaye asked. "You could
never have interfered."
"The care of Isobel--the distant care of her--was a charge laid upon me
by her mother," Feurgéres answered. "It was therefore sacred. I trusted
to Fate to find those who might intervene where I dared not, and Fate
sent me at a very critical moment Mr. Arnold Greatson. Lady Delahaye, to
speak ill of a woman is no pleasant task--to speak ill of the dead is
more painful still. Yet these are facts. The Archduchess was willing to
go to any lengths to prevent Isobel's creditable and honourable
appearance in Waldenburg. It was the Archduchess who, after what she has
termed her sister's disgrace, sent Isobel secretly to the convent, and
your husband, Lady Delahaye, who took her there. It was your husband who
brought her away, and it was the announcement of his visit to the
convent, and an ill-advised confidence to a friend at his club in Paris,
which brought me home from America. I will only say that I had reason to
suspect Major Delahaye as the guardian of Isobel--even the Archduchess
was ignorant of the position which he had assumed. Since I became a
player there are many who forget that my family is noble. Major Delahaye
was one of these. He returned a letter which I wrote to him with a
contemptuous remark only. My friend the Duc d'Autrien saw him on my
behalf. From him your husband received a second and a very plain
warning. He disregarded it. Once more I wrote. I warned him that if he
took Isobel from the convent he went to his death. That is all!"
There was a silence. Lady Delahaye was very pale. She looked imploringly
at me.
"Monsieur Feurgéres," she said, "I am not your judge. I do not wish to
seem vindictive. Will you leave me with Mr. Greatson for a few minutes?"
"Madame, I cannot," he answered gravely. "Apart from the fact that I
decline to have my safety purchased for me, especially by one to whom I
already owe too much, it is necessary that Mr. Greatson leaves this
house within the next quarter of an hour."
I sprang to my feet. I forgot Lady Delahaye. I forgot that this man's
life and freedom rested at her disposal. The great selfishness was upon
me.
"I am ready!" I exclaimed.
Lady Delahaye looked, and she understood. Slowly she rose to her feet
and crossed the room towards the door. I was tongue-tied. I made no
protest--asked no questions. Feurgéres opened the door for her and
summoned his servant, but no word of any sort passed between them. Then
he turned suddenly to me. His tone was changed. He was quick and alert.
"Arnold," he said, "the rest is with you. They are taking her to the
convent. Madame Richard is here, and the Cardinal de Vaux. They have a
plot--but never mind that. If she passes the threshold of the convent
she is lost. It is for you to prevent it."
"I am ready!" I cried.
He opened a desk and tossed me a small revolver.
"Estere waits below in the carriage. He will drive with you to the
station. You take the ordinary express to Marcon. There an automobile
waits for you, and you must start for the convent. The driver has the
route. Remember this. You must go alone. You must overtake them. Use
force if necessary. If you fail--Isobel is lost!"
"I shall not fail!" I answered grimly.
"Bring her back, Arnold," he said, with a sudden change in his tone. "I
want to see her once more."
I left him there, and glancing upwards from the street as the carriage
drove off, I waved my hand to the slim black figure at the window, whose
wan, weary eyes watched our departure with an expression which at the
time I could not fathom. It was not until I was actually in the train
that I remembered what Lady Delahaye's silent departure might mean for
him.
CHAPTER V
Our plans were skilfully enough laid, but the Archduchess also had
missed nothing. We rushed through the village of Argueil without having
seen any sign of the carriage, and it was not until we had reached the
vineyard-bordered road beyond that we saw it at last climbing the last
hill to the convent.
"Shall we catch it?" I gasped.
The _chauffeur_ only smiled.
"Monsieur may rest assured," he answered, changing into his fourth
speed, notwithstanding the slight ascent.
Half-way up the hill we were barely one hundred yards behind. The man
glanced at me for instructions.
"Blow your horn," I said.
He obeyed. The carriage drew to the side of the road. We rushed by, and
I caught a glimpse of three faces. My spirits rose. There was only the
Baron to deal with. Madame Richard and Isobel were the other occupants
of the carriage.
"Stop, and draw the car across the road!" I ordered.
The man obeyed. I sprang to the ground. The Baron had his head out of
the window, and the driver was flogging his horses.
"If you do not stop," I called out, "I shall shoot your horses."
The driver took no notice. He had flogged his horses into a gallop, and
was coming straight at me. I fired, and one of the horses, after a wild
plunge came down, dragging the other with him, and breaking the pole.
The driver was thrown on to the top of them and rolled off into the
hedge, cursing volubly. The Baron leaned out of the window, and he had
something in his hand which gleamed like silver in the sunlight.
"I have had enough of you, my young friend," he said fiercely, and
instantly fired.
An unseen hand struck his arm as he pulled the trigger. I felt my hat
quiver upon my head as I sprung forward. The Baron had no time to fire
again. I caught him by the throat and dragged him into the road.
"I have had more than enough of you, you blackguard," I muttered, and I
shook him till he groaned, and threw him across the road.
Isobel stretched out her arms to me--Isobel herself, but how pale and
changed!
"Arnold, Arnold, take me away!" she moaned.
I would have lifted her out, but Madame Richard had seized her.
"The child is vowed," she said. "You shall not touch her. She belongs to
God."
"Then give her to me," I cried, "for I swear she is nearer to Heaven in
my arms than yours."
The woman's black eyes flashed terrible things at me, and she wound
herself round Isobel with a marvellous strength. For a moment I was
helpless.
"Madame," I said, "I have never yet raised my hand against a woman, but
if you do not release that girl this moment I shall have to forget your
sex."
"Never!" she shrieked. "Help! Baron! Cocher!"
Some blue-bloused men looked up from their work in the vineyards a long
way off. It was no time for hesitation. I set my teeth, and I caught
hold of the woman's arms. Her bones cracked in my hands before she let
go. Isobel at last was free!
"Jump up and get in the automobile, Isobel!" I said. "Bear up, dear! It
is only for a moment now."
Half fainting she staggered out and groped her way across the road. Once
she nearly fell, but my _chauffeur_ leaped down and caught her. Then
Madame Richard looked in my eyes and cursed me with slow, solemn words.
I sprang away from her. She followed. I jumped into the automobile. She
stood in front of it and dared us to start. The driver backed a little,
suddenly shot forward, and with a wonderful curve avoided her. She ran
to meet the peasants who were streaming now across the fields. We could
hear for a few minutes her shrill cries to them. Then the vineyards
became patchwork, and the still air a rushing wind. Our _chauffeur_ sat
grim and motionless, like a figure of fate, and we did our forty miles
an hour.
"You have orders?" I asked him once.
"But yes, Monsieur," he answered. "We go to Paris--and avoid the
telegraph offices."
All the while Isobel was only partially conscious. Gradually, however,
her colour became more natural, and at last she opened her eyes and
smiled at me. Her fingers faintly pressed mine. She said nothing then,
but in about half an hour she made an effort to sit up.
"Dear Arnold," she murmured, "you are indeed my guardian. Oh----"
She broke off, and shuddered violently.
"Please don't try to talk yet," I said. "I shouldn't have been much of a
guardian, should I, if I hadn't fetched you out of this scrape? Besides,
it was Monsieur Feurgéres who planned everything."
"Arnold," she murmured, "I--haven't eaten anything for some time. They
put things in my food to make me drowsy, so I dared not."
Under my breath I made large demands upon my stock of profanity. Then I
leaned over and spoke to the _chauffeur_. We were passing through a
small town, and he at once slackened pace and pulled up at a small
restaurant. With the first mouthful of soup Isobel's youth and strength
seemed to reassert themselves. After a cutlet and a glass of wine she
had colour, and began to talk. She even grumbled when I denied her
coffee, and hurried her off again. In the automobile she came close to
my side, and with a shyness quite new to her linked her arm in mine. So
we sped once more on our way to Paris.
Conversation, had Isobel been fit for it, was scarcely possible. But in
a disjointed sort of way she tried to tell me things.
"I was inside the house," she said, "and the door of the room was locked
before I knew that Monsieur Feurgéres was not there--that the letter was
not a true one. My aunt came and talked to me. She tried to be kind at
first. Afterwards she was very angry. She said that my grandfather was
an old man, that he wished to see me before he died. I must go with her
at once. I said that I would go if I might see you first, but that only
made her more angry still. She said that my life had been a disgrace to
our family, that I must not mention your name, that I must speak as
though I had just left the convent. Then I, too, lost my temper. I said
that I would not go to Illghera. I did not want to see my grandfather,
or any of my relations. They had left me alone so many years that now I
could do without them altogether. She never interrupted me. She looked
at me all the time with a still, cold smile. When I had finished she
said only, 'We shall see,' and she left me alone. They brought me food,
and after I had taken some of it I was ill. After that everything seemed
like a dream. I simply moved about as they told me, and I did not seem
to care much what happened. Then in Paris Adelaide came into my room.
She brought me some chocolate, and she told me that you were near. I
think that I should have died but for her. I began to listen to what
they said. I found out that they never meant to take me to Illghera. It
was the convent all the time. Adelaide brought me more chocolate, and
kissed me. Then I made up my mind to fight. I would not take their food.
I told myself all the time that I was not ill--I would not be ill. That
is why I was able to look out for you, to strike at the Baron when he
tried to shoot you, and to walk by myself. Arnold, why does my aunt hate
me so?"
I did not answer her, for even as she talked her voice grew fainter and
fainter, and in a moment or two she was in a dead sleep. Her head fell
upon my shoulder, her hand rested in mine. So she remained until we
reached the outskirts of Paris. Then the noise of passing vehicles, and
the altered motion of the car over the large cobble-stones woke her. She
pressed my arm.
"I am safe, Arnold?" she murmured, with a shade of anxiety still in her
tone.
"Quite," I assured her.
In a few moments we turned into the Rue de St. Antoine and drew up
before Monsieur Feurgéres' house. In the hall we met Tobain. I could see
that she had been weeping, and her tone, as she took me a little on one
side, was full of anxiety.
"Monsieur," she murmured, "I am afraid----"
I stopped her.
"The young lady first," I said. "She has been ill. Where shall I take
her?"
She threw open the door of the dining-room. A small round table,
elegantly appointed, was spread with such a supper as Feurgéres knew
well how to order. There was a gold foiled bottle, flowers, salads and
fruits. Tobain nodded vigorously as she drew up a chair for Isobel.
"It was Monsieur himself who ordered everything," she exclaimed. "He was
so particular that everything should be of the best, and the wine he
fetched himself."
"Where is Monsieur Feurgéres?" I asked, struck by some note of hidden
feeling in her tone.
"I will take you to him," she answered, "if Mademoiselle will wait
here."
In the hall she no longer concealed her fears.
"Monsieur," she said, "I am afraid. Soon after you had left, and the
master had given his orders for the supper, he called me to him. He was
standing before the door of Madame's chamber, the room which it is not
permitted to enter, and his hands and arms were full of flowers. He had
been to the florists himself, I knew, for there were more than usual.
'Tobain,' he said, 'always, as you know, I lock the door of this room
when I enter. To-day I shall not do so. But you must understand that no
one is permitted to enter but my friend, Mr. Arnold Greatson, who will
return this evening. Those are my orders, Tobain.' 'But, Monsieur,
dejeuner?' 'Remember, Tobain--Mr. Arnold Greatson only.' Then I caught a
glimpse of his face, Monsieur, and I was afraid. I have been afraid ever
since. It was the face of a young man, so brilliant, so eager. I was at
my master's marriage, and the look was there then. He went in and he
closed the door, and since then, Monsieur, I have heard no sound, and
many hours have passed. Monsieur will please enter quickly."
For myself, I shared, too, Tobain's nameless apprehensions. I left her,
and knocked softly at the door. There was no answer. So I entered.
The room was in darkness, but the opening of the door touched a spring
under the carpet, and several heavily-shaded electric lamps filled the
apartment with a soft dim light. Monsieur Feurgéres was sitting opposite
to me, his eyes closed, a faint smile upon his lips. He had the air of a
man who slept with a good conscience, and whose dreams were of the
pleasantest. Close drawn to his was another chair, against which he
leaned somewhat, and over the arm of which one hand was stretched,
resting gently upon the soft mass of deep pink roses, whose perfume made
fragrant the whole room. I spoke to him.
"Monsieur Feurgéres," I cried, "it is done. I have brought Isobel. She
is here."
There was no answer. Had I, indeed, expected any, I could almost have
believed that the smile, so light and delicate a thing, which quivered
upon his pale lips, deepened a little as I spoke. But that, of course,
was fancy, for Monsieur Feurgéres had won his heart's desire. Softly,
and with fingers which felt almost sacrilegious, I broke off one of the
blossoms with which the empty chair was laden, and with it in my hands I
went back to Isobel.
CHAPTER VI
Isobel knew the whole truth. I told her one evening--the only one on
which we two had dined out together alone. I think that the weather had
tempted me to this indulgence, which I had up to now so carefully
avoided. An early summer, with its long still evenings, had driven us
out of doors. The leaves which rustled over our heads, stirred by the
faintest of evening breezes, made sweeter music for us than the violins
of the more fashionable restaurants, and no carved ceiling could be so
beautiful as the star-strewn sky above. I omitted nothing. I laid the
whole situation before her. When I had finished, she was very white and
very quiet.
"And now that you have told me all this," she asked, after a long
silence, "does it remain for me to make my choice? Even now I do not see
my way at all clearly. My relations do not want me. Monsieur Feurgéres
has left me some money. Cannot I choose for myself how I shall spend my
life?"
"I am afraid," I answered, "that you may not. For my part I am bound to
say, Isobel, that I think Monsieur Feurgéres was right. The letter of
which I have told you, and which I found in my room, was written only a
few hours before his death. At such a time a man sees clearly. You are
not only yourself the Princess Isobel of Waldenburg, but you have a
grandfather who has never recovered the loss of your mother and of you.
It was not his fault or by his wish that you were sent away from
Waldenburg. He has been deceived all the time by your aunt the
Archduchess. I think that it is your duty to go to him."
"You will come with me?" she murmured anxiously.
"I shall not leave you," I answered slowly, "until you are in his
charge. But afterwards----"
"Well?" she interrupted anxiously.
"Afterwards," I said, firmly keeping my eyes away from her and bracing
myself for the effort, "our ways must lie apart, Isobel. You are the
daughter of one of Europe's great families, you have a future which is
almost a destiny. You must fulfil your obligations."
I saw the look in her face, and my heart ached for her. I leaned forward
in my chair.
"Dear child," I said, "remember that this is what your mother would have
wished. Monsieur Feurgéres believed this before he died, and I think
that no one else could tell so well what she would have desired for you.
Just now it may seem a little hard to go amongst strangers, to begin
life all over again at your age. But, after all, we must believe that it
is the right thing."
Her face was turned away from me, but I could see that her cheeks were
pale and her lips trembling. She said nothing, I fancied because she
dared not trust her voice. Above the tops of the trees the yellow moon
was slowly rising; from a few yards away came all the varied clatter of
the Boulevard. And around us little groups and couples of people were
gay--gay with the invincible, imperishable gaiety of the Frenchman who
dines. The white-aproned waiters smiled as with deft hands they served a
different course, or with a few wonderful touches removed all traces of
the repast, and served coffee and liqueurs upon a spotless cloth. And
amidst it all I watched with aching heart Isobel, the child of to-day,
the woman of to-morrow, as she fought her battle.
Her face seemed marble-white in the strange light, half natural, half
artificial. When she spoke at last she still kept her face turned away
from me.
"The right thing!" she murmured. "That is what I want to do. I want to
do what she would have wished. But just now it seems a little hard. I do
not want to be a princess. I do not want to be rich. Monsieur Feurgéres
has made me independent, and that is all I desire. I would like to be
free to live always my own life--free like you and Allan, who paint and
write and think, for I, too, would love so much to be an artist. But it
seems that all these things have been decided for me--by you and
Monsieur Feurgéres. No," she added quickly, "I know very well that you
are right. I am willing to do what Monsieur Feurgéres thinks that my
mother would have wished. I will go to my grandfather, and if he wishes
it I will stay with him. But there will be a condition!"
She turned at last and looked at me. The lines of her mouth had altered,
the carriage of her head, a subtle change in her tone, told their own
story. It was the Princess Isobel who spoke.
"I will not have my mother ignored or spoken of as one who forgot her
rank and station. These are all very well, but they are trifles compared
with the great things of life. I am proud of my mother's courage, I am
proud of the love which made his life, after she had gone, so beautiful.
I know that you understand me, Arnold, but I do not think that those
others will. They must bear with me, or I shall not stay."
I looked at her wonderingly. It seemed to me so strange that, under our
very eyes, the child whom I had led by the hand through Covent Garden on
that bright Spring morning should have developed in thought and mind
under our own roof, and with so little conscious instruction, into a
woman of perceptions and character. Somewhere the seed of these things
must have lain hidden. One knows so little, after all, of those whom one
knows best.
"It is a fair condition, Isobel," I said. "You are going into a world
which is hedged about with conventions and prejudices. The things which
are so clear to you and to me, they may look at differently. You must be
received as your mother's daughter, and not as the King's
granddaughter."
She nodded gravely. Then she leaned across the table and looked into my
eyes. Notwithstanding her pallor and her black dress, I was forced to
realize what I ever forbade my thoughts to dwell upon--her great and
increasing beauty. She looked into my eyes, and my heart stood still.
"Arnold," she murmured, "shall you miss me?"
My heel dug into the turf beneath my foot. My eyes fell from hers. I
dared not look at her.
"We shall all miss you so much," I said gravely, "that life will never
be the same again to us. You made it beautiful for a little time, and
your absence will be hard to bear. I suppose we shall all turn to hard
work," I added, with an attempt at lightness. "Allan will paint his
great picture, Arthur will invent a new motor and make his fortune, and
I shall write my immortal story."
"The story," she said, "which you would not show me?"
Show her! How could I, when I knew that for one who read between the
lines the story of my own suffering was there? My secret had been hard
enough to keep faithfully, even from her to whom the truth, had she ever
divined it, must have seemed so incredible.
"That one, perhaps," I answered lightly, "or the next! Who can tell? One
is never a judge of one's own work, you know."
"Why would you not show me that story, Arnold?" she asked softly.
I met her eyes fixed upon me with a peculiar intentness. I tried to
escape them, but I could not. It was impossible for me to lie to her. My
voice shook as I answered her.
"Don't ask me, Isobel!" I said. "We all make mistakes sometime, you
know. Not to show you that story when you asked me was one of mine."
"If you had it here----?"