She sighed. She did not seem altogether satisfied.
"Sometimes, Arnold," she said thoughtfully, "you puzzle me very much.
You treat me always as though I were a child; you keep me at arm's
length always, as though there were between us some impassable barrier,
as though it could never be possible for you to come into my world or
for me to pass into yours. I know that you are wiser and cleverer than I
am, but I can learn. I have been learning all the time. Are we always to
remain at this great distance?"
"Dear Isobel," I answered, "you forget that I am more than twice your
age. You are eighteen, and I am thirty-four. I cannot make myself young
like you. I cannot call back the years, however much I might wish to do
so. And for the rest, I have been your guardian. I, a poor writer of no
particular family and very meagre fortune, and you my ward, a princess
standing at the opposite pole of life. I have had to remember these
things, Isobel."
She leaned a little further across the table. Again her eyes held mine,
and I felt my heart beat like a boy's at the touch of her soft white
fingers as she laid her hand on mine.
"I wish," she murmured, "oh, I wish----"
"So we've found you at last, have we?"
Isobel's speech was never ended. Mabane and Arthur stood within a few
feet of us, the former grave, the latter white and angry. I rose slowly
to my feet and held out my hand to Allan.
"I am glad to see you, Allan!" I said.
He looked first at my hand, and afterwards at me. Then, with a sigh of
relief, he took it and nearly wrung it off.
"And I can't tell you how glad I am to see you both again!" he
exclaimed. "We've heard strange stories--or rather Arthur has--from his
friend Lady Delahaye, and at last we decided to come over and find out
all about it for ourselves. Don't take any notice of Arthur," he added
under his breath, "he's not quite himself."
Arthur was standing with his back to me, talking to Isobel. Certainly
her welcome was flattering enough. I realized with a sudden gravity that
I had not heard her laugh like this since she had been in England.
Arthur continued talking in a low, earnest tone.
"How did you find us?" I asked Allan.
"We called at the Rue de St. Antoine," he answered. "The housekeeper
said that she had heard you talk about dining at one of these places.
Arnold?"
"Well?"
"Why are you and Isobel staying on in Paris?"
"First of all," I answered promptly, "we had to stay for the funeral,
and now there are some legal formalities which cannot be finished until
to-morrow. I am Monsieur Feurgéres' executor, Allan, and he has left me
twenty thousand pounds. Isobel has the rest."
"I am delighted, old chap," Mabane declared heartily. "In fact, I'll
drink your health."
I called a waiter and ordered liqueurs. Arthur took his with an ill
grace, and he still avoided any direct speech with me. Isobel was
evidently uneasy, and looked at me once or twice as though anxious that
I should break up their _tête-à-tête_. But when I had paid the bill and
we rose to go, Allan passed his arm through mine, and I was forced to
let the two go on.
"Let the boy have his chance," Allan said, pausing a little as we turned
into the Boulevard. "He's in such a state that he won't listen to reason
only from her."
"But," I protested, "it is absurd for him to speak to her. Does he know
who she is? The Princess Isobel of Waldenburg! Their little kingdom is
small enough, but they play at royalty there."
Allan nodded.
"He knows. But he's a good-looking boy, and the girls have spoilt him a
little. He has an idea that she cares for him."
"Impossible!" I declared, sharply.
"No! Not impossible!" Allan answered, shaking his head. "They have been
together a great deal, you must remember, and Arthur can be a very
delightful companion when he chooses. No, it isn't impossible, Arnold."
I shook my head.
"Isobel's future is already arranged," I said. "In three days' time I am
taking her to her grandfather. If he receives her, as I believe that he
will receive her, she will pass out of our lives as easily as she came
into them. She will marry a grand duke, perhaps even a petty king. She
will be plunged into all manner of excitements and gaiety. Her years
with us will never be mentioned at Court. She herself will soon learn to
look back on them as a quaint episode."
"You do not believe it, Arnold?" Mabane declared scornfully.
"Heaven only knows what I believe," I answered, with a little burst of
bitterness. "Look at that!"
We had reached the Rue de St. Antoine. Isobel stood in the doorway at
the apartments waiting for us. But Arthur had already disappeared.
CHAPTER VII
I examined the tickets carefully and placed them in my pocket-book. Then
I paused to light a cigarette on my way out of the office, and almost
immediately felt a hand upon my arm. I looked at first at the hand. It
was feminine and delicately gloved. Then I looked upwards into the blue
eyes of Lady Delahaye.
"Abominable!" she murmured. "You are not glad to see me!"
I raised my hat.
"The Boulevard des Italiennes," I said, "has never seemed to me to be a
place peculiarly suitable for the display of emotion."
"Come and try the Rue Strelitz," she answered, smiling.
I glanced down at her. She was gowned even more perfectly than
usual--Parisienne to the finger-tips. She had too all the delightful
confidence of a woman who knows that she is looking her best.
I smiled back at her. It was impossible to take her seriously.
"Your invitation," I said, "sounds most attractive. But I am curious to
know what would happen to me in the Rue Strelitz. Should I be offered
poison in a jewelled cup, or disposed of in a cruder fashion? Let me
make my will first, and I will come. I am really curious!"
"Arnold," she said, looking up at me with very bright eyes, "you are
brutal."
"Not quite that, I hope," I protested.
"Let me tell you something," she continued.
We were in rather a conspicuous position. Lady Delahaye seemed suddenly
to realize it.
"May I beg for your escort a little way?" she said. "I am not
comfortable upon the Boulevard alone."
"You could scarcely fail," I remarked, throwing away my cigarette, "to
be an object of attention from the Frenchman, who is above all things a
judge of your sex. I will accompany you a little way with pleasure.
Shall we take a fiacre?"
"I would rather walk," she answered. "Do you mind coming this way? I
will not take you far."
"I have two whole unoccupied hours," I assured her, "which are very much
at your service."
"Where, then," she asked, "is Isobel?"
"Shopping with Tobain," I answered.
"Are you not afraid," she asked with a smile, "to send her out alone
with Tobain?"
"Not in the least," I answered. "Monsieur Feurgéres' only friend in
Paris was the chief commissioner of police, and he has been good enough
to take great interest in us. Isobel is well watched."
"I wonder," she said, after a moment's pause, "whether you have still
any faith in me!"
"My dear lady!"
"I wish I could make you believe me. The--her Highness--she prefers us
here to call her Madame--has relinquished altogether her designs against
you. She desires an alliance."
"Is this," I asked, "an invitation to me to join in the spoils? Am I to
become murderer, or poisoner, or abductor, or what?"
Lady Delahaye bit her lip.
"You are altogether too severe," she said. "Madame simply realizes that
she has been mistaken. She is willing for Isobel to be restored to her
grandfather. It will mean a million or so less dowry for Adelaide, but
that must be faced. Madame desires to make peace with you."
"I am charmed," I answered. "May I ask exactly what this means?"
Lady Delahaye smiled up at me.
"The Archduchess will explain to you herself," she said. "I am taking
you to her."
I slackened my pace.
"I think not," I said. "To tell you the truth, the Archduchess terrifies
me. I see myself inveigled into a room with a trap-door, or knocked on
the head by hired bullies, and all manner of disagreeable things. No,
Lady Delahaye, I think that I will not run the risk."
She laughed softly.
"I know that you will come," she said softly.
"And why?" I asked.
"Because you are a man, and you do not know fear!"
I raised my hat and proceeded.
"My head is turned," I said. "Nothing flatters a coward so much as the
imputation of bravery. I think that I shall go with you anywhere."
"Even--to the Rue Strelitz?"
"My courage may fail me at the last moment," I answered. "At present it
feels equal even to the Rue Strelitz."
Again she laughed.
"You are a fraud, Arnold," she declared. "As if we did not know--I and
Madame and all of us, that in Paris, even throughout France, you could
walk safely into any den of thieves you choose. Your courage isn't worth
a snap of the fingers. Any man can be brave who has the archangels of
Dotant at his elbows."
"What an easily pricked reputation," I answered regretfully. "Well, it
is true. Dotant was Feurgéres' greatest friend, and even Isobel might
walk the streets of Paris alone and in safety. Hence, I presume, the
amiable desire of the Archduchess for an alliance."
Lady Delahaye shrugged her lace-clad shoulders.
"My dear Arnold," she said, "for myself I adore candour, and why should
I try and deceive you? Madame has played a losing game, and knows it.
She has the courage to admit defeat. She can still offer enough to make
an alliance desirable. For instance, those tickets in your pocket for
Illghera will take you there, it is true, but they will not take you
into the presence of the King."
"The King," I remarked pensively, "leads a retired life."
"He does," Lady Delahaye answered. "He has the greatest objection to
visitors, and for a stranger to obtain an audience is almost an
impossibility. He never leaves the grounds of the villa, and his
secretary, who opens all his letters, is--a friend of Madame's."
"You have put your case admirably," I remarked. "If Madame is sincere, I
should at least like to hear what she has to say."
Lady Delahaye drew a little sigh of content.
"At last," she exclaimed, "I do believe that you are going to behave
like a reasonable person."
I could not refrain from the natural retort.
"I have an idea," I said, "that up to now my actions have been fairly
well justified."
We were mounting the steps of her house. She looked round and raised her
eyebrows.
"We must let bygones be bygones!" she said. "Madame has declared that
henceforth she adjures all intrigue."
A footman took my hat and stick in the hall. Lady Delahaye led me into a
small boudoir leading out of a larger room. She herself only opened the
door and closed it, remaining outside. I was alone with the Archduchess.
She rose slowly to her feet, a very graceful and majestic-looking
person, with a suggestion of Isobel in her thin neck and the pose of her
head. She did not hold out her hand, and she surveyed me very
critically. I ventured to bestow something of the same attention upon
her. She was certainly a very beautiful woman, and her expression by no
means displeasing. She had Isobel's dark blue eyes, and there was a
humorous line about her mouth which astonished me.
"I am not offering you my hand, Mr. Greatson," she said, "because I
presume that until we understand each other better it would be a mere
matter of form. Still, I am glad that you have come to see me."
"I am very glad too, Madame," I answered, "especially if my visit leads
to a cessation of the somewhat remarkable proceedings of the last few
weeks."
The Archduchess smiled.
"Well," she said, "I am forced to admit myself beaten. I have been
ill-served, it is true, but I suppose my methods are antiquated."
"They belong properly," I admitted, "to a few centuries ago."
Madame smiled a little queerly.
"A few centuries ago," she said, "I fancy that if our family history is
true, the affair would have been more simple."
"I can well believe it," I answered.
Madame relapsed into her chair, from which I judged that the preliminary
skirmishing was over.
"You will please to be seated, Mr. Greatson!"
I obeyed.
"I am not going to play the hypocrite with you, sir," she said quietly.
"It is not worth while, is it? The object of the struggle between us has
been, on my part, to keep Isobel and her grandfather apart. You have
doubtless correctly gauged my motive. Isobel's mother was my father's
favourite child. If he had an idea that her child was alive, he would
receive her without a word. She would completely usurp the place of
Adelaide, my own daughter, in his affection--and in his will."
"In his will!" I repeated quietly. "Yes, I understand."
Madame nodded.
"It is quite simple," she said. "For myself I am willing to admit that I
am an ambitious woman. Money for its own sake I take no heed of, but it
remains always one of the great levers of the world, and it is the only
lever by means of which I can gain what I desire. I never forget that
the country over which my father rules was once an absolute kingdom, and
semi-Royalty does not appeal to me. The betrothal of my daughter
Adelaide to Ferdinand of Saxonia was of my planning entirely. The dowry
required by the Council of Saxonia is so large that it could not
possibly be paid if any portion of my father's fortune, great though it
is, is diverted towards Isobel. Hence my desire to keep Isobel and her
grandfather apart."
"Madame," I said, "you are candour itself. I can only regret that it is
my hard fate to oppose such admirable plans."
"I have been given to understand," the Archduchess said, "that it is now
your intention to take Isobel yourself to Illghera!"
"The tickets," I murmured, "are in my pocket."
Madame bowed.
"Well," she said, "I have seen and heard enough of you to make no
further effort to thwart or even to influence you. Yet I have a
proposition to make. First of all, consider these things. If we come to
no arrangement with each other I shall use every means I can to prevent
your obtaining an interview with my father. Everything is in my favour.
He is very old, he has a hatred of strangers, he grants audiences to no
one. He never passes outside the grounds of the villa, and all the gates
are guarded by sentries, who admit no one save those who have the
entrée. Then, if you attempt to approach him by correspondence, his
private secretary, who opens every letter, is one of my own appointing.
I have exaggerated none of these things. It will be difficult for you to
approach the King. You may succeed--you seem to have the knack of
success--but it will take time. Isobel's re-appearance will be without
dignity, and open to many remarks for various reasons. You may even fail
to convince my father, and if you failed the first time there would be
no second opportunity."
"What you say, Madame," I admitted, "is reasonable. I have never assumed
that as yet my task is completed. I recognize fully the difficulties
that are still before me."
"You have common-sense, Mr. Greatson, I am glad to see," she continued.
"I am the more inclined to hope that you will accede to my proposition.
Briefly, it is this! Let me have the credit of bringing Isobel to her
grandfather. Her year in London would at all times, in these days of
scandal, be a somewhat delicate matter to publish. What you have done,
you have done, as I very well know, from no hope of or desire for
reward. Efface yourself. It will be for Isobel's good. I myself shall
stand sponsor for her to the world. I shall have discovered her in the
convent here, and I shall take her back to her rightful place with
triumph. All your difficulties then will vanish, your end will have been
creditably and adequately attained. For myself the advantage is obvious.
A difference to Adelaide it must make, but it will inevitably be less if
the credit of her discovery remains with me. Have I made myself clear,
Mr. Greatson?"
"Perfectly," I answered. "But you forget there is Isobel herself to be
considered. She is no longer a child. She has opinions and a will of her
own."
"She owes too much to you," Madame replied quietly, "to disregard your
wishes."
I believed from the first that the woman was in earnest, and her
proposal an honest one. And yet I hesitated. The past was a little
recent. She showed that she read my thoughts.
"Come," she said, "I will prove to you that I mean what I say. To-night
I will give a dinner-party--informal, it is true, but the Prince of
Cleves, my cousin the Cardinal, and your own ambassador, shall come. I
will introduce Isobel as my niece. The affair will then be established.
Do you consent?"
For one moment I hesitated. I knew very well what my answer meant.
Absolute effacement, the tearing out of my life for ever of what had
become the sweetest part of it. In that single moment it seemed to me
that I realized with something like complete despair the barrenness of
the days to come.
"Madame, if Isobel is to be persuaded," I answered, "I consent."
CHAPTER VIII
"This, then," the Prince remarked, raising his eyeglass, "is the young
lady whose romantic history you have been recounting to me? But, my dear
lady, she is charming!"
Madame held out her hands affectionately and kissed Isobel, who had
entered the room with her cousin, on both cheeks. Then she took her by
the hand and presented her to the Prince of Cleves and several others of
the company. Isobel was a little pale, but her manner was perfectly easy
and self-possessed. She was dressed, somewhat to my surprise, in the
deepest mourning, and she even wore a band of black velvet around her
neck.
"My dear child," her aunt said pleasantly, "I scarcely think that your
toilette is a compliment to us all. White should be your colour for many
years to come."
Isobel raised her eyes. Her tone was no louder than ordinary, but
somehow her voice seemed to be possessed of unusually penetrating
qualities.
"My dear aunt," she said, "you forget I am in mourning for my
stepfather, Monsieur Feurgéres, who was very good to me."
A company of perfectly bred people accepted the remark in sympathetic
silence. There was not even an eyebrow raised, but I fancy that Isobel's
words, calmly spoken and with obvious intent, struck the keynote of her
future relations with her aunt.
Isobel, a few minutes later, brought her cousin over to me.
"Adelaide is very anxious to know you, Arnold!" she said quietly. This
was all the introduction she offered. Immediately afterwards her aunt
called Isobel away to be presented to a new arrival.
"Mr. Greatson," Adelaide said earnestly, "I cannot tell you how
delighted I am that all this trouble is over, and that Isobel is coming
to us. But I think--I think she is paying too great a price. I think my
mother is hatefully, wickedly cruel!"
"My dear young lady," I protested, "I do not think that you must say
that. Your mother's conditions are necessary. In fact, whether she made
them or not, I think that they would be inevitable."
"You are not even to come to Illghera with us? Not to visit us even?"
I shook my head.
"I belong to the great family of Bohemians," I reminded her, "who have
no possessions and but one dress suit. What should I do at Court?"
"What indeed!" she answered, with a little sigh, "for you are a citizen
of the greater world!"
"There is no such thing," I answered. "We carry our own world with us.
We make it small or large with our own hands."
"For some," she murmured, "the task then is very difficult. Where one
lives in a forcing-house of conventions, and the doors are fast locked,
it is very easy to be stifled, but it is hard indeed to breathe."
"Princess," I said gravely, "have you examined the windows?"
"I do not understand you," she answered.
"But it is simple, surely," I declared. "Even if you must remain in the
forcing-house, it is for you to open the windows and breathe what air
you will. For your thoughts at least are free, and it is of our thoughts
that our lives are fashioned."
She sighed.
"Ah, Mr. Greatson," she said, "one does not talk like that at Court."
"You have a great opportunity," I answered. "Character is a flower which
blossoms in all manner of places. Sometimes it comes nearest to
perfection in the most unlikely spots. Prosperity and sunshine are not
the best things in the world for it. Sometimes in the gloomy and
desolate places its growth is the sturdiest and its flowers the
sweetest."
The service of dinner had been announced. The English Ambassador took
Adelaide away from me, but as she accepted his arm she looked me in the
eyes with a grave but wonderfully sweet smile.
"I thank you very much, Mr. Greatson," she said. "Our little
conversation has been most pleasant."
The Archduchess swept up to me. She was looking a little annoyed.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "Isobel is pleading shyness--an absurd excuse.
She insists that you take her in to dinner. I suppose she must have her
own way to-night, but it is annoying."
Madame looked at me as though it were my fault that her plans were
disarranged, which was a little unfair. And then Isobel, very serene,
but with that weary look about the eyes which seemed only to have
increased during the evening, came quietly up and took my arm.
"If this is to be our last evening, Arnold, we will at least spend as
much of it as possible together," she said gently. "I will be a very
dutiful niece, aunt, to-morrow."
We moved off together, but not before I was struck with something
singular in Madame's expression. She stood looking at us two as though
some wholly new idea had presented itself to her. She did not follow us
into the dining-room for some few moments.
The dinner itself, for an informal one, was a very brilliant function.
There were eighteen of us at a large round table, which would easily
have accommodated twenty-four. The Cardinal, whose scarlet robes in
themselves formed a strange note of colour, sat on the Archduchess's
right, touching scarcely any of the dishes which were continually
presented to him, and sipping occasionally from the glass of water at
his side. The other men and women were all distinguished, and their
conversation, mostly carried on in French, was apt, and at times
brilliant. Isobel and I perhaps, the former particularly, contributed
least to the general fund. Isobel met the advances of her right-hand
neighbour with the barest of monosyllables. Lady Delahaye, who sat on my
left, left me for the most part discreetly alone. Yet we two spoke very
little. I could see that Isobel was disposed to be hysterical, and that
her outward calm was only attained by means of an unnatural effort. Yet
I fancied that my being near soothed her, and every time I spoke to her
or she to me, a certain relief came into her face. All the while I was
conscious of one strange thing. The Archduchess, although she had the
Cardinal on one side and the Prince of Cleves on the other, was
continually watching us. Her interest in their conversation was purely
superficial. Her interest in us, on the contrary, was an absorbing one.
I could not understand it at all.
The conclusion of dinner was marked by an absence of all ceremony. The
cigarettes had already been passed round before the Archduchess rose,
but those who chose to remain at the table did so. Isobel leaned over
and whispered in my ear.
"Come with me into the drawing-room. I want to talk to you."
I obeyed, and the Archduchess seemed to me purposely to leave us alone.
We sat in a quiet corner, and when I saw that there were tears in
Isobel's eyes, I knew that my time of trial was not yet over.
"Arnold," she said quietly, "you care--whether I am happy or not? You
have done so much for me--you must care!"
"You cannot doubt it, Isobel," I answered.
"I do not. This sort of life will not suit me at all. I do not trust my
aunt. I am weary of strangers. Let us give it all up. Take me back to
London with you. I feel as though I were going into prison."
"Dear Isobel," I said, "you must remember why we decided that it was
right for you to rejoin your people."
"Oh, I know," she answered. "But even to the last Monsieur Feurgéres
hesitated. My mother would never have wished me to be miserable."
I shook my head.
"I believe that Feurgéres was right," I answered. "I believe that your
mother would wish to see you in your rightful place. I believe that it
is your duty to claim it."
Then I think that for the first time Isobel was unfair to me, and spoke
words which hurt.
"You do not wish to have me back again," she said slowly. "I have been a
trouble to you, I know, and I have upset your life. You want me to go
away."
I did not answer her. I could not. She leaned forward and looked into my
face, and instantly her tone changed. Her soft fingers clutched mine for
a moment.
"Dear Arnold," she whispered, "I am sorry! Forgive me! I will do what
you think best. I did not mean to hurt you."
"I am quite sure that you did not, Isobel," I answered. "Listen! I am
speaking now for Allan as well as for myself, and for Arthur too. To
tear you out of our lives is the hardest thing we have ever had to do.
Your coming changed everything for us. We were never so happy before. We
shall never know anything like it again. If you were what we thought, a
nameless and friendless child, you would be welcome back again, more
welcome than I can tell you. But you have your own life to live, and it
is not ours. You have your own place to fill in the world, and, forgive
me, your mother's memory to vindicate. Monsieur Feurgéres was right. For
her sake you must claim the things that are yours."
"But shall I never see you again, Arnold?" she asked, with a little
catch in her breath.
I set my teeth. I could see that the Archduchess was watching us.
"Our ways must lie far apart, Isobel," I said. "But who can say? Many
things may happen. The Princess Isobel may visit the studios when she is
in London or at Homburg. She may patronize the poor writer whose books
she knows."
Isobel sat and listened to me with stony face.
"I wonder," she murmured, "why the way to one's duty lies always through
Hell?"
Isobel's lips were quivering, and I dared make no effort to console her.
The Archduchess came suddenly across the room to us, and bent
affectionately over Isobel.
"My dear child," she said, "you are overtired. Go and talk to Adelaide.
She is alone in the music-room. I have something to say to Mr.
Greatson."
Isobel rose and left us at once. The Archduchess took her place. She was
carrying a fan of black ostrich feathers, and she waved it languidly for
some time as though in deep thought.
"Mr. Greatson," she said at length.
I turned and found her eyes fixed curiously upon me. These were moments
which I remembered all my life, and every little detail in connection
with them seemed flashed into my memory. The strange perfume, something
like the burning of wood spice, wafted towards me by her fan, the
glitter of the blue black sequins which covered her magnificent gown,
the faint smile upon her parted lips, and the meaning in her eyes--all
these things made their instantaneous and ineffaceable impression. Then
she leaned a little closer to me.
"Mr. Greatson," she repeated, "I know your secret!"
CHAPTER IX
I am afraid that for the moment I lost my self-possession. I had gone
through so much during the last few hours, and this woman spoke with
such confidence--so quietly, and yet with such absolute conviction--that
I felt the barriers which I had built about myself crumbling away. I
answered her lamely, and without conviction.
"My secret! I do not know what you mean. I have no secret!"
The black feathers fluttered backwards and forwards once more. She
regarded me still with the same quiet smile.
"You love my niece, Mr. Greatson," she said.
"Madame," I answered, "you are jesting!"
"Indeed I am not," she declared. "I have made a statement which is
perfectly true."
"I deny it!" I exclaimed hoarsely.
"You can deny it as much as you like, if you think it worth while to
perjure yourself," she replied coolly. "The truth remains. I have had a
good deal of experience in such matters. You love Isobel, and I am not
at all sure that Isobel does not love you."
"Madame," I protested, "such statements are absurd. I am no longer a
young man. I am thirty-four years old. I have no longer any thought of
marriage. Isobel is no more than a child. I was nearly her present age
when she was born. The whole idea, as I trust you will see, is
ridiculous."
The Archduchess regarded me still with unchanged face.
"Your protestations, Mr. Greatson," she said, "amuse, but utterly fail
to convince me."
"Let us drop the subject, then," I said hastily. "At least, if you
persist in your hallucination, I hope you will believe this. I have
never spoken a word of what could be called love-making to the child in
my life."
"I believe you implicitly," she answered promptly. "I believe that I
know and can appreciate your position. Let me tell you that I honour you
for it."
"Madame," I murmured, "you are very good. Let us now abandon the
subject."
"By no means," she answered. "On the contrary, I should like to discuss
it with you fully."
"Madame!" I exclaimed.
"Let us suppose for a moment," she went on calmly, "that I am correct,
that you really love Isobel, but that your peculiar position has imposed
upon your sense of honour the necessity for silence. Well, your
guardianship of her may now be considered to have ended. From to-night
it has passed into my hands. Still, you would say the difference between
your positions is immeasurable. You are, I doubt not, a gentleman by
birth, but Isobel comes from one of the ancient and noble families of
the world, and might almost expect to share a throne with the man whom
she elects to marry. It is true, in effect, Mr. Greatson, that you are
of different worlds."
"Madame," I answered, "why do you trouble to demonstrate such obvious
facts? They are incontestable. But supposing for a moment that your
surmises concerning myself were true, you will understand that they are
painful for me to listen to."
"You must have patience, Mr. Greatson," she said quietly. "At present I
am feeling my way through my thoughts. There is rash blood in Isobel's
veins, and I should like her life to be happier than her mother's. She
is unconventional and a lover of freedom. The etiquette of our Court at
Illghera will chafe her continually. I wonder, Mr. Greatson, if she
would not be happier--married to some one of humbler birth, perhaps, but
who can give her the sort of life she desires."
I was for a moment dumb with astonishment. Apart from the amazement of
the whole thing, the Archduchess was not in the least the sort of person
to be seriously interested in the abstract question of Isobel's
happiness. At least, I should not have supposed her capable of it. I
imagine that she must have read my thoughts, for after a searching
glance at me she continued:
"You doubt my disinterestedness, Mr. Greatson. Perhaps you are right. I
wish the child well, but there is also this fact to be considered.
Isobel married to an English gentleman such as, say, yourself, would be
no longer a serious rival to my daughter in the affections of her
grandfather."
Then indeed I began to understand. What a woman of resource! She watched
me closely behind the feathers of her fan.
"Come," she said, "this time my plot is an innocent one, and it is for
Isobel's happiness as well as for my daughter's benefit. Speak to her
now. Marry her at once, here in Paris, and I will give her for dowry
twenty thousand pounds!"
I ground my heel into the carpet, and I was grateful for those long
black feathers which waved gracefully in front of my face. For I was
tempted--sorely tempted. The woman's words rang like mad music in my
brain. Speak to her! Why not? It was the great joy of the world which
waited for me to pluck it. Why not? I was not an old man, the child was
fond of me, a single word of compliance, and I might step into my
kingdom. Oh, the rapture of it, the wonderful joy of taking her hands in
mine, of dropping once and for ever the mask from my face, the gag from
my tongue! A rush of wild thoughts turned me dizzy. My secret was no
longer a secret at all. The Archduchess leaned a little closer to me,
and whispered behind those fluttering feathers--
"You are a very wonderful person, Mr. Greatson, that you have kept
silence so long. The necessity for it has passed. The child loves you. I
am sure of it."
But my moment of weakness was over. I had a sudden vision of Feurgéres,
standing on the stage, listening with bowed head to the thunder of
applause, but with his eyes turned always to the darkened box, with its
lonely bouquet of pink roses--lonely to all save him, who alone saw the
hand which held them--of Feurgéres in his sanctuary, bending lovingly
over that chair, empty to all save him, Feurgéres, with that smile of
unearthly happiness upon his lips--calm, debonair and steadfast. This
was the man who had trusted me. I raised my head.
"Madame," I said quietly, "what you suggest is impossible."
She stared at me in incredulous astonishment.
"But I do not understand," she exclaimed weakly. "You agree, surely?"
I shook my head.
"On the contrary, Madame," I said, "I beg that you will not allude
further to the matter."
The Archduchess muttered something in German to herself which I did not
understand. Perhaps it was just as well.
"You will vouchsafe me," she begged, speaking very slowly, and keeping
her eyes fixed on me, "some reason for your refusal?"
"I will give you two," I answered. "First, it is contrary to the spirit
of my promise to Monsieur Feurgéres."
Her lip curled.
"Well?"
"Secondly," I continued, "I should be taking a dishonourable advantage
of my position with regard to Isobel. She is very grateful to me, and
she would very likely mistake her sentiments if I were to speak to her
as you suggest. She is too young to know what love is. She has met no
young men of her own rank, she does not understand in the least what
sort of position is in store for her."
"These are your reasons, then?"
"I venture to think that they are sufficient ones, Madame," I answered.
The Archduchess rose.
"We shall need a new Cervantes," she remarked, "to do justice to the
Englishman of to-day. I shall keep my word, Mr. Greatson, as regards
Isobel, and I can promise you this. If gaiety and eligible suitors, and
the luxury of her new life are not sufficient to stifle any sentimental
follies she may be nursing just now, I will not rest till I find other
means. Adelaide's future is arranged. I will set myself to make Isobel's
equally brilliant. I will make her the beauty of Europe. She shall
forget in a month the squalid days of her life with you and your friends
in an attic."
"So long as Isobel is happy," I answered, "my mission is accomplished,
and I am content."
"You are a fool and a liar!" she answered contemptuously. "You will love
her all your days, and you know it. You will grow to curse the memory of
this hour in which you threw away the only chance you will ever have of
winning her. The only chance, mind, I will answer for that. I wish you
good-evening, Mr. Greatson. You are excused. Isobel, as you are aware,
remains here. You will find her in the music-room with Adelaide. Go and
make your adieux, and make them quickly. You will be interrupted in
three minutes."
She swept away from me with only the slightest inclination of her head.
I made my way to the music-room, where Isobel and her cousin were
sitting together. Directly I entered, the latter, with a little nod of
curious meaning to me, rose and left us alone. I held out my hands.
"Isobel, dear," I said, "this must be--our farewell, then--for a time!"
She placed her hands in mine. They were as cold as ice. Her cheeks were
white, her eyes seemed fastened upon mine. All the while her bosom was
heaving convulsively, but she said nothing.
"I can only wish you what Arthur and Allan have already wished you," I
said, "happiness! You have every chance of it, dear. You surely deserve
it, for you brightened up our dull lives so that we can, no one of us,
ever forget you. Think of us sometimes. Good-bye!"
I stooped and kissed her lightly on the cheek. But suddenly her arms
were wound around my neck. With a strength which was amazing she held me
to her.
"Arnold!" she sobbed. "Oh, Arnold!"
Her lips were upon mine, and in another second I should have been lost,
for my arms would have been around her. The door opened and closed. We
heard the jingling of sequins, the sweep of a silken train. The
Archduchess had entered. Isobel's arms fell from my neck, but her cheeks
were scarlet, and her eyes like stars.
"You--are going?" she pleaded.
"I am going," I answered huskily.
The Archduchess came down the room, humming a light tune.
"So the dread farewell is over, then!" she exclaimed, with light good
humour. "Come, child, no red eyes. Remember, a Waldenburg weeps only
twice in her life. Once more, good-night, Mr. Greatson."
I had reached the door. Isobel was standing still with outstretched
arms. The Archduchess glided between us--and I went.
* * * * *
The next morning I travelled unseen by the Riviera express, to which the
saloon of the Archduchess had been attached, all the way to Illghera. I
saw her driven with the others to the villa.
Two days afterwards, from a hill overlooking the grounds, I saw an old
gentleman in a pony chaise preceded by two footmen in dark green livery.
Adelaide walked on one side, and Isobel on the other. That night I left
Illghera for England.
CHAPTER X
I knew the moment I opened the door that changes were on foot. Our
studio sitting-room was dismantled of many of its treasures. Allan, with
his coat off and a pipe in his mouth, was throwing odds and ends in a
promiscuous sort of way into a huge trunk which stood open upon the
floor. Arthur, a few yards off, was rolling a cigarette.
Our meeting was not wholly free from embarrassment. I think that for the
first time in our lives there was a cloud between Allan and myself. He
stood up and faced me squarely.
"Arnold," he said, "where is Isobel?"
"In Illghera with her grandfather," I answered. "Where else should she
be?"
"Are you sure?"
"I have seen her there with my own eyes," I affirmed.
There was a moment's pause. I saw the two exchange glances. Then Allan
held out his hand.
"That damned woman again!" he exclaimed. "Forgive me, Arnold!"
"Willingly," I answered, "when I know what for."
"Suspecting you. Lady Delahaye wrote Arthur a note, in which she said
that the Archduchess and you had made fresh plans. You can guess what
they were. And Illghera was off. You did hurry us away from Paris a bit,
you know, and I was fool enough to imagine for a moment that there might
be something in it. Forgive me, Arnold!" he added, holding out his hand.
"And me!" Arthur exclaimed, extending his.
I held out a hand to each. There was something grimly humorous in this
reception, after all that I had suffered during the last few days. My
first impulse of anger died away almost as quickly as it had been
conceived.
"My friends," I said, "the Archduchess did propose some such scheme to
me, but you forget that my honour was involved, not only to you, not
only to the child, but to a dead man. I can look you both in the face
and assure you that in word and letter I have been faithful to my
trust."
"I knew it!" Allan declared gruffly. "Dear old chap, forgive me!"
"I am the brute who dangled the letter before his eyes," Arthur
exclaimed bitterly, "and I am the only one of the three who has broken
our covenant."
"My dear friends," I said slowly, "the things which are past, let us
forget. Isobel has gone back to the life which claimed her. No barrier
which human hand could rear could separate her from us so effectually
and irrevocably as the mere fact that she has taken up the position
which belongs to her. She is the Princess Isobel of Waldenburg, a king's
grandchild. And we are--what we are! Let me now make my confession to
you. I, too, loved her."
The two hands which held mine tightened for a moment their grasp. The
old "camaraderie" was established once more.
"It is I who was responsible for her coming," I continued. "It is only
fitting that I, too, should suffer. How she grew into our hearts you all
know. She has gone, and nothing can ever be the same. Yet I for one do
not regret it. I regret nothing! I am content to live with the memory of
these wonderful days she spent with us."
"And I!" Allan declared.
"And I!" Arthur echoed.
I wrung their hands, for it was a joy to me to feel that we had come
once more into complete accord.
"You know what sort of a state we were drifting into when she came," I
continued. "We were like thousands of others. We were rubbing shoulders,
hour by hour and day by day, with the world which takes no account of
beautiful things. She came and laid the magician's hand upon our lives.
We had perforce to alter our ways, to alter our surroundings, our
amusements, our ideals. Joy came with her, and pain may find a secret
place in our hearts now that she has gone, but I do not think that
either of us would willingly blot out from his life these last two
years. Would you, Arthur?"
"Not I!" he declared. "We had to learn ourselves to teach her. To chuck
the things that were rotten, anyhow, just because she was around. Jolly
good for us, too!"
"I agree with Arthur and you," Allan said. "I agree with all that you
have said. The child was dear to me too. So dear, that I do not think
that it would be easy to go back to our old life without her. That is
why----"
He glanced around the room. Our hands fell apart. I lit a cigarette and
looked at the open trunk.
"You are going away, Allan?"
He nodded.
"I'm off to Canada," he said. "I've an old uncle there who's worth
looking after, and he's always bothering me to pay him a visit. Right
time of the year, too--and hang it all, Arnold, I've sat here for a week
in front of an empty canvas, and I'd go to hell sooner than stand it any
longer!"
"And you, Arthur?"
"I have been appointed manager of our Paris Depôt," Arthur answered a
little grandiloquently. "I couldn't refuse it. Much better pay and more
fun, and all that sort of thing, and--oh, hang it all, Arnold, is it
likely a fellow could stay here now she's gone?" he wound up, with a
little catch in his throat.
So the old days were over! I looked at my desk, and by the side of it
was the chair in which she used sometimes to sit while I read to her.
Then I think that I, too, was glad that this change was to come.
"There is one thing, Arnold," Mabane said quietly, "about her things. We
locked the door of her room. Mrs. Burdett has packed up most of her
clothes, but there are the ornaments and a few little things of her own.
We should like to go in--Arthur and I. We have waited for you."
"We will go now," I answered. "She will have no need of anything that
she has left behind. We will each choose a keepsake, and lock the rest
up."
We entered the room all together, almost on tiptoe. If we had been
wearing hats I am sure that we should have taken them off. How, with
such trifling means at her command, she could have left behind in that
tiny chamber so potent an impression of daintiness and comfort I cannot
tell. But there it was. Her little bed, with its spotless counterpane,
was hung with pink muslin. There was a lace spread upon her
toilet-table, on which her little oddments of silver made a brave show.
Only one thing seemed out of place, a worn little slipper peeping out
from under a chair. I thrust it into my pocket. The others took some
trifle from the table. Then, as silently as we had entered, we left the
room. As I turned the key I choked down something in my throat, and did
my best to laugh--a little unnaturally, I am afraid.
"Come!" I cried, "it is I who am responsible for this attack of
sentiment. I will show you how to get rid of it. You dine with me at
Hautboy's. I have money--lots of it. Feurgéres left me twenty thousand
pounds. Hautboy's and a magnum of the best. How long will you fellows be
dressing?"
They tried to fall into my mood. Allan mixed cocktails. We drank and
smoked and shouted to one another uproariously from our rooms as we
changed our clothes. We drove to Hautboy's three in a hansom, and Arthur
spent his usual five minutes chaffing the young lady behind the tiny
bar. But when the wine came, and our glasses were filled, a sudden
silence fell upon us. We looked at each other, and we all knew what was
in the minds of all of us. It was Allan who spoke.
"To Isobel!" he said softly.
We drank in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. But afterwards
Arthur raised his glass high above his head.
"To the Princess Isobel!" he cried. "Long life and good luck to her!"
Afterwards there were no more toasts.
* * * * *
Arthur and Allan went their several ways within twenty-four hours of our
farewell dinner. I saw them both off, and I forced them with great
difficulty to share to some small extent in Feurgéres' legacy. Then I
took some rooms near my club in the heart of London, and line for line,
word for word, I re-wrote the whole of the story which I had not dared
to show to Isobel, determined that the one thing I still had which was
part of her body and soul should be the best that my brain and skill
could fashion. So the winter and the early spring passed, and then my
story was published.
CHAPTER XI
A miracle of white daintiness, from the spotless muslin of her gown to
the creamy lace which hung from her parasol. So far as toilette went,
Lady Delahaye was always an artist. Yet my pulses were unmoved, and my
heart unstirred, as she stood under my dark cedar-tree and welcomed me
with all the expression which her tone and eyes could command.
"So you see, Sir Hermit," she murmured, "what happens to those who will
not go to the mountain? Seriously, I hope you are glad to see me."
"Why not?" I answered calmly. "Will you come inside, or shall we sit
here in the shade?"
"Here, by all means," she answered, subsiding gracefully into a wicker
chair.
"You will let me order you some tea?"
She checked my movement towards the house.
"For Heaven's sake, no! I have been paying calls all the afternoon with
Mrs. Jerningham, and you know what that means. She has gone to the Hall
now, and I am to pick her up in half an hour."
"You are staying at Eastford House, then?" I remarked.
"For a few days. Can you guess why?"
"The house parties there have the reputation of being amusing," I
suggested.
She shook her head.
"It was not that. Can you make no better guess?"
"I am a dunce at riddles," I admitted.
"You are a dunce at many things," she replied. "The reason I came was
because I knew that you were living in these parts, and I had a fancy to
see you again."
"You are very good," I remarked.
She looked at me critically.
"You have not changed," she said slowly. "One would almost say that the
life of a recluse agrees with you. You have by no means the white and
wasted look which I expected. Is it fame which you have found so potent
a tonic?"
I laughed lightly.
"Don't call it fame," I answered. "Success, if you will. My profession
is so much of a lottery. A whiff of public opinion, a criticism which
hits the popular fancy, and the bubble is floated. I'm not pretending
that I don't appreciate it, but it was a stroke of luck all the same."
She was silent for a few moments. From outside we could hear the
jingling of harness as Mrs. Jerningham's fat bays resented the onslaught
of officious flies. Nearer at hand there was only the lazy humming of
bees to break the stillness of the summer afternoon. Lady Delahaye
sighed.
"You are talking nonsense, and you know it," she said. "I do not want to
flatter you. Any man who has the trick of the pen, and chooses to give
himself wholly and utterly away, can write a powerful story."
"I am afraid that I do not understand you," I protested.
"Yes, you do. You cut open your own heart, and you offered the world a
magnifying glass to study its wounds. You wrote your own story. You told
the tale of your own suffering. Of course it was strong, of course it
rang with all the truth of genius. So you loved that child, Arnold! You,
a man of the world, not a callow schoolboy. You loved her magnificently.
Did she know?"
"She did not know," I answered. "She never will know."
"She may read the book!"
"She may read it, and yet not know," I answered.
"It is true," she murmured. "Unless she loved herself she might not
understand."
Again we were silent for a while. The perfume of the cedars floated upon
the hot breathless air. Lady Delahaye half closed her eyes and leaned
back.
"You read the newspapers, Sir Hermit?"
"Sometimes."
"You have heard the news from Waldenburg?"
"I read of the King's death."
"And of the betrothal of the Princess Isobel?"
"Yes. I have read also of that."
"The cousins will both be the consorts of reigning sovereigns, small
though their kingdoms may be. One reads great things of Adelaide. Her
people call her already 'the well-beloved.'"
A swift rush of thought carried me back to the dark stormy crossing,
when the rain had beaten in our faces, and the wind came booming down
the Channel. Adelaide stood once more by my side. I heard the quiet,
bitter words, the low, passionate cry of her troubled heart. "The
well-beloved" of her people! After all, race tells.
"I spoke but twice alone to the Princess Adelaide," I said. "I learnt
enough of her, however, to be sure that in any position she would do the
thing that was right and gracious."
"And so will Isobel," Lady Delahaye said. "I know the race well. The men
are degenerates, but the women have nerve to rule and courage to hold
their own against the world. Isobel's future may well be the more
brilliant of the two. Can you realize, I wonder, that Isobel of
Waldenburg was once the child who filled your brain with such strange
fancies?"
"I never think," I answered, "of Isobel of Waldenburg."
"You are wise," she answered. "She is as surely separated from us
eternally as though she had made that little journey from which one does
not return. Yet you--you are going to hug your wounds all your life. Is
that wise, my friend?"
I laughed softly.
"You are mistaken," I assured her. "I have no wounds--not even regrets.
I believe that there are few men happier. Look at my home!"
"It is beautiful," she admitted.
"My gardens, my flowers, my cedar-tree and my books," I said. "These are
all a joy to me. What more can a man want? Friends have moods, and they
pass away out of one's life. The friends who smile from my study wall
are patient and always ready. There is one to fit every hour. They do
not change. They are always ready to show me the way into the world
beautiful, to cheer me when I am sad, to laugh with me when I am gay.
You must not waste any sympathy on me, Lady Delahaye. The man who has
learnt to live alone is the man who has learnt the greatest lesson life
has to teach. He is the man for whom the sun shines always, who carries
with him for ever the magic key."
Lady Delahaye disturbed the smoothness of my turf with the point of her
parasol.
"Are there no times," she asked in a low tone, "when these things fail
you? No times when like calls for like, when the human part of you finds
the comfort of ashes a dead thing? You and your books and your flowers!"
she cried scornfully, raising her head and looking at me with heightened
colour. "Bah! You are a man, are you not, like the others? How long will
these content you? How long will you stop your ears and forget that life
has passions and joys which these dead things can never yield to you?"
"Until," I answered, "the magician comes who can make me believe it. And
I am afraid, Lady Delahaye, that he has passed me by."
She rose to her feet.
"I am answered," she said. "I promise you that I will not intrude again
into this Paradise of wood and stone. Give me a cigarette to keep off
these flies, and take me down to the carriage. Thanks! If one might
venture upon a prophecy, my dear Arnold, I think that I can see your
fate very clearly written. I do not even need your hand to read it."
"Would the spell," I asked, "be broken if I shared the knowledge?"
"Not in the least," she answered, with a hard little laugh. "You will
become one of those half-mad sort of creatures whom people call cranks,
or you will marry your housekeeper. In either case you will deserve your
fate."
So Lady Delahaye drove away down the white dusty road, and I walked back
to the study from whence her coming had brought me. As I sat down to my
interrupted work I smiled. How little she understood!
I wrote till seven o'clock. Punctually at that hour there was a discreet
knock at the door, and my servant reminded me that it was time to
change. At a quarter before eight I strolled into the garden and
selected a piece of heliotrope for the buttonhole of my dinner coat. A
few minutes later my dinner was served.
My table was a small round one set in front of the open French windows.
Looking a little to the right I could see the extent of my domain--a low
laurel hedge, a sloping field beyond, in which my two Alderneys were
standing almost knee-deep amongst the buttercups; a ring fence, a
paddock, and, beyond, the road. To the left were my gardens, the
sweetness of which came stealing through the window with the very
faintest breath of the slowly moving air, bordered by that ancient red
brick wall, mellowed and crumbling with the sun and west winds of
generations, and in front of me my lawn and the cedar-tree under which
Lady Delahaye had sat an hour or so ago and prophesied evil things. My
lips parted into a smile as I thought of her words. Did she indeed think
me a creature so weak as to pile gloom on the top of sorrow, to shut my
eyes to all the joys of life, because supreme happiness was denied me,
to play skittles with my self-respect, and--marry a kitchen-maid? I, who
had turned over great pages in the book of life! I, who had known
Feurgéres! Wallace had left the room for a moment, and I raised my glass
full of clear amber wine, and drank silently my evening toast. I drank
to the memory of the greatest love I had ever known, to the man whose
strong and beautiful life had taught me how to fashion my own. Perhaps
my thoughts flashed a little further afield. It was so always when I
thought of Feurgéres, but it was to the joyous and wonderful memory of
those earlier days, to Isobel the child I drank. Isobel of Waldenburg
had passed away into the world of shadows. I courted no heartaches by
vain thoughts of her. I pored over no papers to find mention of her
name. I was content with what had gone before.
I morbid! Lady Delahaye had judged me wrongly indeed. I, before whom two
great worlds stretched themselves continually, full of countless
treasures, always changing, yet always beautiful. Only yesterday I had
seen the sun rise. I had seen the still slumbering world break into
quivering life. I had seen the curtain roll up on a new act of this most
wonderful of all plays to the music of an orchestra hidden indeed in my
grove of chestnuts, but sweeter, more joyous, more full of the promise
of perfect things than ever a violin touched by human fingers. Then the
thrushes had hopped out on to my dew-spangled lawn, where before the hot
sun the grey, gossamer-like mist was vanishing like breath from a
mirror; my roses raised their heads, and the breeze from the west--a
lazy, fluttering breeze--borrowed their sweetness; my peaches cracked
through their full skins upon the wall, and the bees commenced their
eternal lullaby of murmuring sounds. Then at night--such a night as
this, too, promised to be--I had watched the shadows come creeping over
the land when the sun had set and the moon had barely risen; a new order
of things had come. The fire of the day was replaced by the infinite
peace of night. Beyond the confines of my little domain the whole world
lay hushed and hidden. There were few stars as yet to mock with their
passionless serenity the toilers of the earth, worn out with the long
day's struggle. Only a great quiet--a great, peaceful quiet--and the
shadows of dim things!
I morbid, with eyes to see these things, with a whole room full of
waiting friends, ready at a touch of my fingers, the turning of a page,
to take me by the hand and lead into even other worlds as beautiful as
this, to scale with me the mountains, or to wander along the
flower-strewn valleys. Lady Delahaye was a very foolish woman. She had
seen nothing of my well-ordered household, of the ease, the
luxury--simple, yet almost Sybaritic--with which I had surrounded
myself. She did not understand life from my point of view--life as
Feurgéres had lived it. The life sentimental, but not passionate; the
life to be evolved by will from the tangle of bruised hopes and hot
desires. The life----
I set down my glass empty. The last drop had tasted like vinegar. Always
one has to fight, and for a while I sat in silence before my table piled
now with dishes of fruit. My hands gripped the sides of my chair, my
eyes were fixed upon a twinkling light which had shot out from the
distant hillside. Always one has to fight for the things worth
having--and the pain soon passes.
In a few minutes I rose. I lit a cigarette from the box which Wallace
had placed at my elbow, and with a handful more in my pocket I stepped
outside. On the lawn under the cedar-tree something was lying--something
pink and fluffy, and very soft to the fingers. As I held it at arm's
length a faint, familiar perfume stole up from its flouncy depths. The
pain was all gone now. I smiled as I looked at it. It was Lady
Delahaye's parasol!
I turned it over meditatively. The fancy seized me that it had been left
there on purpose--my last chance! Eastford House was barely a mile and a
half away--a very reasonable after-dinner stroll. I smiled to myself as
I summoned Wallace from the dining-room.
"Take this parasol over to Eastford House as soon as you have served my
coffee," I directed. "Lady Delahaye must have left it here this
afternoon."
"Very good, sir," Wallace answered, relieving me of my burden and
carrying it into the house.
Then I departed on my usual evening pilgrimage. I entered the flower
garden by a little iron gate, and walked slowly amongst my roses. Here
the air was full of delicate scents--lavender insistent; mignonette
faint, but penetrating; homely wall-flowers, sweet even as the roses
themselves. Night insects now were buzzing around me; the bushes took to
themselves phantasmal shapes; even the path, very narrow and overgrown,
was hard to find. I filled my hand with flowers and made my way slowly
back to the cedar-tree. The shadows were deeper now. It was the one hour
of darkness before the rising of the late moon. I threw myself into a
low chair, and the flowers on to the seat which encircled the
cedar-tree. Oh, wonderful Feurgéres, who had taught me the sweetness of
such moments as this!
Always she came the same way; yet to-night it seemed to me that a
startling note of reality heralded her coming. The ghostliness of her
movements, that noiseless flitting across the lawn were changed. Almost
I could have sworn that the little iron gate had indeed been opened and
closed, that real footsteps had fallen lightly enough, but, with actual
sound, upon the gravel path, that I could hear the soft swish of a real
dress from the slim white figure which came hesitatingly across the
lawn. Oh, Feurgéres was a great man! It was a great thing which he had
taught me. My pulses were thrilled with expectant joy. Reality itself
could be no more real. But to-night--to-night was a triumph indeed! She
was dressed differently. She wore a long white travelling cloak, a veil
pushed back from her hat. I did not understand. My fancy had never
dressed her like this. That little cry, her pause. Had I indeed done
greater things than Feurgéres, and summoned to my side real flesh and
blood?
"Arnold!"
I gripped the sides of my chair. I felt my breath coming shorter. A cry.
I could not keep it back from my quivering lips.
"Isobel!"
I could not move. I was afraid of what I had done. And then she dropped
on her knees by my side, and real arms were about my neck, real kisses
were upon my lips. Then I no longer had any fear, for from whatever
world she had come the joy of it was like a foretaste of heaven. I drew
her to me, held her passionately, and I knew that this was no creature
of my mind's fashioning, but a live woman, whose heart beat so wildly
against my own....
"It was all Adelaide," she murmured presently. "She brought me your
book, and afterwards we talked. She was alone with my grandfather--and
then he sent for me. I was afraid, for this was in his last days. Shall
I tell you what he said, Arnold?"
"Yes," I answered, tightening my grasp upon her. "Go on talking!" For I
was fighting still for belief.
"He took my hand quite calmly, and I knew at once that I had nothing to
fear. 'Isobel,' he said, 'they tell me that you have your mother's blood
in your veins, that freedom means more to you than ambition, that you
are a woman first and a Waldenburg afterwards. Is this true?' Then I
told him everything, and he kissed me. 'Go your own way, Isobel,' he
said, 'but stay with me while I live. Adelaide has shown me many things
which I did not understand. Poor child!' He sent for his lawyers,
Arnold, and he made me a poor woman. I am much too poor to be a princess
any longer--unless I may be yours."
Then I believed--this, the strangest of all things that may happen to a
man. My garden of fancies, which Feurgéres had shown me so well how to
cultivate, passed away into the mists. Before the moon rose, Paradise
was there.
THE END
* * * * *
THE NOVELS OF E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
A Prince of Sinners
Anna the Adventuress
The Master Mummer
A Maker of History
Mysterious Mr. Sabin
The Yellow Crayon
The Betrayal
The Traitors
Enoch Strone
A Sleeping Memory
The Malefactor
A Daughter of the Marionis
The Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown
A Lost Leader
The Great Secret
The Avenger
As a Man Lives
The Missioner
The Governors
The Man and His Kingdom
A Millionaire of Yesterday
The Long Arm of Mannister
Jeanne of the Marshes
The Illustrious Prince
The Lost Ambassador
Berenice
The Moving Finger
* * * * *
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