That same afternoon, while Charlie Rolfe was bidding farewell to his
sister Marion, Max Barclay was sitting in the cosy study of one of the
smaller houses in Cromwell Road, smoking cigarettes with a thin-faced,
grey-haired, grey-bearded man whose cast of features at once betrayed
him to be a foreigner.
The well-furnished room was the typical den of a studious man, as its
owner really was, for about it was an air of solid comfort, while upon
the floor near where the elder man was lying back in his leather
easy-chair were scattered some newspapers with headings in unfamiliar
type--the Greek alphabet.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, giving forth an aroma unusual to
English nostrils--that pleasant aroma peculiar to Servian tobacco.
The younger man, dressed in well-fitting, dark grey flannels, his long
legs sprawled out as he lay back in his chair taking his ease and
gossiping with his friend, was, without doubt, a handsome fellow. Tall
beyond the average run of men, with lithe, clean-cut limbs, smart and
well-groomed, with closely-cropped dark hair, a pair of merry dark eyes,
and a small dark moustache which had an upward trend, his air was
distinctly military. Indeed, until a few months before he had held a
commission, in a cavalry regiment, but had resigned on account of the
death of his father and his consequent succession to the wide and
unencumbered Barclay estates in Lincolnshire and up in the Highlands.
Though now possessor of a fine old English home and a
seventeenth-century castle in Scotland, Max Barclay preferred to divide
his time between his chambers in Dover Street and wandering about the
Continent. There was time enough to "settle down," he always declared.
Besides, both the houses were too big and too gloomy to suit his rather
simple bachelor tastes. His Aunt Emily, an old lady of seventy, still
continued to live at Water Newton Hall, not far from that quaint, old
world and many-spired town, Stamford; but Kilmaronock Castle was
unoccupied save for six weeks or so when he went up with friends for the
shooting season.
Agents were frequently making tempting offers to him to let the place to
certain wealthy Americans, but he refused all inducements. The fine old
place between Crieff and Perth had never been let during his father's
lifetime, and he did not intend that any stranger, except his own
friends, should enjoy the splendid shooting now.
"My dear Petrovitch," he was saying between whiffs of his cigarette, "It
is indeed reassuring what you tell me regarding the settled state of the
country. You have surely had sufficient internal troubles of late."
"Ah, yes!" sighed the elder man, a deep, thoughtful expression upon his
pleasant, if somewhat sallow, countenance. "Servia has passed through
her great crisis--the crisis through which every young nation must pass
sooner or later; and now, heaven be thanked, a brighter day has dawned
for us. Under our new _regime_ prosperity is assured. But"--and
pausing, he looked Max straight in the face, and in a changed voice, a
voice of increased earnestness and confidence, he added with only a
slight accent, for he spoke English very well--"I did not ask you here
to discuss politics. We Servians are, I fear, sad gossips upon our own
affairs. I wanted to speak to you upon a subject of greatest importance
to myself personally, and of someone very dear to me. Now we have been
friends, my dear Max, you and I, through some years, and I feel--nay, I
know, that you will regard what I say in entire confidence."
"Most certainly," was the young Englishman's reply, though somewhat
surprised at his friend's sudden change of manner.
It was true that he had known Dr Michael Petrovitch for quite a number
of years.
Long ago, when he had first visited Belgrade, the Servian capital, the
man before him, well-known throughout the Balkans as a patriot, was
occupying the position of Minister of Finance under King Milan. Both
his Excellency and his wife had been extremely kind to him, had
introduced him to the smart social set, had obtained for him the
_entree_ to the Palace festivities, and had presented him to Queen
Nathalie. Thus a firm friendship had been established between the two
men.
But affairs in Servia had considerably changed since then. Madame
Petrovitch, a charming English lady, had died, and his Excellency, after
becoming Minister of Commerce and subsequently Foreign Minister in
several succeeding Cabinets, had gone abroad to represent his country at
foreign Courts, first St Petersburg, then Berlin, and then
Constantinople, finally returning and coming to live in England.
Even now he was not more than fifty, and it had long ago been whispered
that his Majesty was constantly urging him to return and accept the
portfolio of Finance or of Commerce. But he steadily declined. As a
statesman, his abilities had long ago been recognised by Europe, and
none knew his value or appreciated him more than his own sovereign; yet
for private reasons he preferred to live quietly in the Cromwell Road to
returning to all the worries of State and those eternal bickerings in
the Servian Skuptchina.
He was a man of even temper, of charming manner, and of scrupulous
honesty. Had he been dishonest in his dealings he might have amassed a
great fortune while occupying those posts in the various ministries.
But he had preferred to remain as he was, upright, even though
comparatively poor.
"Well?" asked Max, after a long silence. "I am waiting."
"It is a matter to which I refer not without some hesitation," declared
his friend. "I want to speak to you about Maud."
"About Maud. Well?"
"I am worried about the child--a good deal."
"For what reason?" asked Max, considerably surprised.
Maud was Petrovitch's only daughter, a very beautiful girl, now nineteen
years of age, who had been brought up in England and to whom he was
entirely devoted.
"Well, she has fallen in love."
"All girls do sooner or later," replied Max, philosophically.
"But she's too young yet--far too young. Twenty-five is quite early
enough for a girl to marry."
"And who's the man?"
"Your friend--Charlie Rolfe."
"Charlie!" he exclaimed, in great surprise. "And he's in love with
Maud. Are you quite sure of this?"
"Quite. She meets him in secret, and though Rolfe is your friend, Max,
I tell you I don't like it," he declared.
"I am not surprised. Secret affections never meet with a parent's
approbation. If Charlie is in love with her, and the affection is
mutual, why doesn't he come straight and tell you?"
"Exactly my argument," declared Petrovitch, lighting a fresh cigarette
with the end of one half-consumed. "But tell me, Rolfe is an intimate
friend of yours, is he not?"
"Very," was Max's reply, though he did not inform his friend of his love
for Marion.
"What is his exact position?"
"As far as I know, he is private secretary to old Samuel Statham, the
great financier. His position is quite a good one--as far as
confidential secretaryships go."
"Statham! I've heard of him. There's some extraordinary story about
his house in Park Lane, isn't there? Nobody has ever been inside, or
something."
"There is, I believe, some cock and bull story," responded Max. "The
old fellow is a bit eccentric, and doesn't care for people prying all
over his house. He lives alone, and has no friends. Do you know, one
can be very lonely in London. It is a perfect Sahara to those who are
friendless."
"Yes," said Petrovitch, huskily. "I know it by experience myself. When
I was a youth I lived here. I was a foreign clerk in an insurance
office in the city, and I lived perfectly alone--among all these
millions. I remember it all as though it were only yesterday. I was
indeed glad to get back to Servia."
"But why are you worried about Maud, old fellow?" Max asked. "Don't
you like Rolfe--or what?"
"I like him very much, indeed I took a great fancy to the young fellow
when you introduced him to me last year at Aix-les-Bains. From the very
first I noticed that he was attracted towards the child, and I did not
object because I thought a little flirtation would amuse her. These
secret meetings, however, I don't like. It is not right. She's met him
in St James's Park, and at other places of late, and they have gone for
long walks together without my knowledge or sanction."
Max thought for a moment.
"Does she know that you are aware of the meetings?"
"No."
"Well, I must admit that I had no idea matters had gone so far as they
evidently have," he said. "I, of course, knew that he has greatly
admired Maud from the very first. He was, in fact, always speaking of
her in admiration, yet I believed that he did not consider his position
to be sufficiently established in warranting him to declare his love to
her. Shall I throw out a gentle hint to him that the secret meetings
would be best discontinued?"
"If he were to discontinue his visits here altogether it would, I think,
be best," said Petrovitch in a hard voice, quite unusual to him.
Max was surprised at this. Had any unpleasantness occurred between the
two men, which his friend was concealing, knowing that Rolfe was his
most intimate chum?
"Does he come often?"
"He calls about once a week--upon me, ostensibly, but really in excuse
to see the child."
"And now--let us speak frankly, old fellow," Max said, bending slightly
towards the man seated opposite him. "Do you object to Rolfe paying his
attentions to your daughter?"
"Yes--I do."
"Then I very much regret that I ever introduced him. We were together
at Aix-les-Bains for three weeks last summer, and, as you know, we met.
You were my old friend, and I could not help introducing him. I regret
it now, and can only hope you will forgive me such an indiscretion."
"It was not indiscreet at all--only unfortunate," he answered, almost
snappishly.
"But tell me straight out--what do you wish me to do?" Max urged.
"Recollect that if I can serve you in any way you have only to command
me."
"Even at the expense of your friend's happiness?" asked Petrovitch, his
sharp eyes fixed upon the young man.
"If he really loves her, the circumstances of the cue are altered," was
the diplomatic answer.
"And if he does not? If it is, as I suspect, a mere flirtation--what
then?"
"Then I think you should leave the matter to me, to act with my
discretion," young Barclay replied. He recollected that Charlie was
Marion's brother, and he saw himself already in a somewhat difficult
position. "My own idea is," he went on, "that it is something more than
a mere flirtation, and that the reason of the secret meetings is because
he fears to ask your consent to be allowed to pay court to your
daughter."
"What makes you think so?"
"From some words that his sister Marion let drop the other day."
"Ah! Marion is a sweet and charming girl," the elder man declared.
"What a pity she should be compelled to drudge in a shop!"
"Yes," replied Max, quickly. "It is a thousand pities. She's far too
refined and good for that life."
"A matter of unfortunate necessity, I suppose."
Necessity! Max Barclay bit his lips when he recollected how very easily
she might leave that shop-life if she would only accept money from him.
But how could she? How could he offer it to her without insult?
No. Until she consented to be his wife she must still remain there, at
the beck and call of every irritating tradesman's wife who cared to
enter the department to purchase a ready-made costume or a skirt "with
material for bodice."
"I'm sorry for Marion," Dr Petrovitch went on. "She frequently comes
here of an evening, and often on Sundays to keep Maud company. They get
on most excellently together."
"Yes; she is devoted to Maud. She has told me so."
"I believe she is," Petrovitch said. "And yet it is unfortunate, for
friendliness with Marion must also mean continued friendliness with her
brother."
"Ah! I see now that you do not like him," Max said, openly, for he
could not now fail to see from his friend's expression that something
had occurred. What it was he was utterly unable to make out.
"No, I don't," was the ex-Minister's plain, determined answer. "And to
tell you the truth, I have other views regarding Maud's future. So just
tell the young man whatever you think proper. Only request him neither
to call here, nor to attempt to see the child again!"