In the dull hazy London sunset Fopstone Road, which leads from Earl's
Court Road into Nevern Square, was quite deserted.
There is a silence and monotony in the eminently respectable
thoroughfares in that particular district that, to their residents, is
often very depressing. Traffic there is none save a stray hansom or a
tradesman's cart at long intervals, while street organs and even the
muffin men avoid them because, unlike the poorer districts, they find no
stray coppers and no customers.
On the same evening as the events recorded in the previous chapters,
about six o'clock, just as the red dusky after-glow was deepening into
twilight, Charlie Rolfe emerged from Earl's Court Station, walked along
to the corner of Fopstone Road, and, halting, looked eagerly down it.
But there was not a soul. Indeed there was no sound beyond that of a
distant cab whistle somewhere in Nevern Square.
For about five minutes he waited, glancing impatiently at his watch, and
then, turning upon his heel, strolled along in the direction of the
Square.
A few moments later, however, there hurried up behind him a sweet-faced,
smartly-dressed girl who, as he turned to meet her, laughed merrily,
saying:
"I do hope, Charlie, I haven't kept you waiting, but I've had such
trouble to get out. Dad asked me to write some private letters in
English for him; I really believe he suspects something. We meet too
often."
"No, darling," answered Rolfe, raising his hat and taking her small
gloved hand. "We don't meet frequently enough for me. And I think that
your father is entirely unsuspicious. I was with him last night, and he
did not strike me as possessing any knowledge of these secret meetings
of ours."
"Yes, but you know how dangerous it is," replied the pretty girl,
glancing round. "Somebody might pass, recognise me, and tell dad."
"And what then, dearest?" he laughed. "Why your fears are utterly
groundless."
"I know, but--"
"But what?"
"Well, dad would be annoyed--that's all--annoyed with both of us."
"He must already have seen, darling, that I love you. He isn't blind,"
said Charlie Rolfe, moving slowly along at her side.
Hers was, indeed, a face that would attract attention anywhere, oval,
delicately moulded, slightly flushed by the momentary excitement of
meeting her lover. Her hair was well-dressed, her narrow-waisted figure
still girlish; her dress, a pale biscuit-coloured cloth, which, in its
refined simplicity, suited well the graceful contour of the slender
form, and contrasted admirably with the soft white skin; the dark hair,
a stray coquettish little wisp of which fell across her brow beneath her
neat black hat, and the dark brown eyes, so large, luminous, and
expressive.
Her gaze met his. Every sensitive feature, every quiet graceful
movement told plainly of her culture and refinement, while on her face
there rested an indescribable charm, a look of shy, sweet humility, of
fond and all-consuming love for the man beside her.
As she lifted her eyes at the words of affection he was whispering into
her ear as they went along the quiet, deserted street, she perceived how
tall and athletic he was, and noticed, woman-like, the masculine
perfection of his dress, alike removed from slovenliness and foppery.
"No," she said at last, her eyes gazing in abstraction in front of her.
"I don't suppose dad is in any way blind. He generally is too
wide-awake. I have to make all sorts of excuses to get out--
dressmakers, painting-lessons, buying evening gloves, a broken watch--
and all sorts of thing like that. The fact is," she declared, laughing
sweetly and glancing again at him, "I have almost exhausted all the
subterfuges."
"Ah, dearest, a woman can always find some excuse," he remarked, joining
in her laughter.
"Yes, but that's all very well; you haven't a father," she protested,
"so you don't know."
She had only left school at Brighton two years before, therefore her
clandestine meetings with Charlie Rolfe were adventures which she dearly
loved. And, moreover, they both of them were devoted to each other.
Charlie absolutely adored her. Hitherto women had never attracted him,
but from the day of their introduction on the gravelled walk in front of
the Villa des Fleurs at Aix, his whole life had changed. He was hers--
hers utterly and entirely.
For three months he had existed in constant uncertainty, until one warm
evening at Scarborough--where she and her father were staying at the
Grand--while they were alone together in the sloping garden of the Spa
he summoned courage to tell her the secret of his heart, and to his
overwhelming joy found that his passion was reciprocated. Thus had they
become lovers.
As Max rightly guessed, he had feared for the present to tell Dr
Petrovitch the truth lest he should object and a parting be the result.
His position was not what he wished it to be. As secretary to the
eccentric old financier, his salary was an adequate one, but not
sufficient to provide Maud with a home such as her own. He therefore
intended in a little while to tell old Statham the truth, and to ask for
more. And until he had done so, he hesitated to demand of the Doctor
his daughter's hand.
Together they strolled slowly on, chatting as lovers will. At the
bottom of Fopstone Road they continued round the crescent of Philbeach
Gardens, along Warwick Road, and crossing Old Brompton Road, entered
that maze of quiet, eminently respectable streets in the neighbourhood
of Redcliffe Square, strolling slowly on in the falling gloom.
"Do you know, darling," he exclaimed at last, "I wanted to see you very
particularly this evening, because I am leaving London to-night for
Servia."
"For Servia!" she cried, halting and fixing her great eyes upon his in
quick surprise.
"Yes."
Her countenance fell.
"Then you--you are leaving me?"
"It is imperative, my darling," he said, in a low, tender voice, taking
her hand in his. He wished to kiss her sweet lips, but there in the
open street such action was impossible. Courtship in our grimy,
matter-of-fact London has many drawbacks, even though every house
contains its life-romance and every street holds its man or woman with a
broken heart.
"But you never told me," she complained. "You've left it until the last
minute. Do you start from Charing Cross to-night?"
"Yes. I would leave to-morrow at nine, and catch the Orient express
from Calais for Belgrade, but I have business to do in Paris to-morrow."
"Ah! Belgrade!" sighed the girl. "I wonder if I shall ever see it
again? Long ago I used to be so fond of it, and we had so very many
good friends. Dear old dad is so popular. Why, when we drove out the
people in their brown homespun clothes used to run after the carriage
and cheer `Petrovitch the Patriot,' as they call dad."
"Of course you will return soon," Charlie said. "No doubt your father
will be induced to enter the new Pashitch Cabinet."
The girl shook her head dubiously.
"I know the King has several times asked him to return to Servia, but
for some mysterious reason he has always declined."
"But he is the most popular man in the country, and he cannot remain
away much longer. It is his duty to return and assist in the
Government."
"Yes. But my mother died in Belgrade, you know, and I think that may be
the reason he does not care to return," replied the girl. "Why are you
going there?" she asked.
"On a mission for Statham--regarding a mining concession," he answered.
"You know we have a lot of interests out there. Perhaps I shall be away
only a week or two--perhaps six months."
"Six months!" she cried in a blank voice. "It is such a long, long time
to look forward to."
"I have no desire to leave you, my own darling," he declared, looking
straight into her beautiful face. "But the mission is confidential, and
for that reason I have received orders to go."
"Your train leaves at nine," she said, "and it is already nearly seven--
only two hours! And those two remaining hours I cannot spend with you,
for I must be in to dinner at seven. I must leave you in a moment," she
added, and the faint flush in her face died away.
Her voice ceased. He looked down musing, without replying. He was
impressed by her utter loneliness--impressed, too, without knowing it by
the time and place. The twilight of the short evening was gathering
fast. A cold damp feeling was mingled with the silence of the dull,
drab London street. It struck him that it felt like a grave.
A slight nervous trembling came over his well-beloved, and a weary
little sigh escaped her lips.
That sigh of hers recalled him to a sense of her distress at his
departure, and the face that met her troubled eyes was, in an instant,
as full as ever of resolute hopefulness.
"What matters, my own, if I am away?" he asked with a smile. "We love
each other, and that is all-sufficient."
All the pity of his strong, tender nature went forth to the lovely girl
whom he loved with such strong passionate devotion.
"What matter, indeed!" she cried, hoarsely, tears springing to her eyes.
"Is it no matter that I see you, Charlie? Ah! you do not know how I
count the hours when we shall meet again--how--how--" And unable to
further restrain her emotion, she burst into tears.
He was silent. What, indeed, could he say?
Reflections, considerations, possibilities crowded in upon his mind,
already disturbed and perplexed. The sweetness of the hours passed in
her society had increased insensibly ever since that well-remembered
afternoon in Aix; the tones of her voice, the notes of those melodious
old Servian songs she so often sang, her slightest action held a charm
for him such as his earnest nature had never experienced before.
And they must part.
Within himself he doubted whether they would ever meet again. He had
secret fears--fears of something that was in progress--something that
might entirely change his life--something he held secret from her.
But he put the thought away. It was a horrible reflection--a qualm of
conscience. What would she think of him if she actually knew the truth?
He bit his lip, and in resolution again took her white-gloved hand.
"No, darling," he said, softly, in an earnest effort to cheer her. "I
will return very soon. Be brave, and remember that my every thought is
of you always--of you, my love."
"I know," she sobbed. "I know, Charlie, but--but I cannot really help
it. Forgive me."
"Forgive you! Of course I do, sweetheart; only do not cry, or they will
certainly suspect something when you sit down to dinner."
His argument decided her, and she slowly dried her tears, saying:
"I only wish I could go to Charing Cross to see you off. But an hour
ago I telephoned to your sister Marion to come and dine with us, and go
with me to a concert at Queen's hall."
"And she accepted?" he asked, quickly, almost breathlessly.
Rolfe gave a sigh of relief. At any rate neither his sister nor his
well-beloved would be at Charing Cross at nine that evening.
"I must try and bring her to the station, if possible. Does she know
you are going?" asked the girl.
"Oh, yes. But I particularly asked her not to see me off."
"In order that I might come alone. Oh! how very good of you, Charlie!"
"No. Forgive me for saying so, but like a good many men who travel a
lot I never like being seen off--not even by you, yourself, my darling!"
"Very well," she sighed, looking up into his serious eyes. "I must, I
suppose, act as you wish. May God protect you, my dearest, and bring
you back again in safety to me." Then as he whispered into her ear
words of courage and ardent affection, with linked arms they re-traced
their steps back to Earl's Court Road, where, with lingering reluctance,
he took affectionate leave of her.
Having watched her turn the corner, he went slowly back towards Earl's
Court Station, and as he did so, beneath his breath he murmured "Ah! if
she knew--if she knew! But she must never know--she shall never know--
never as long as I have breath. I love her--love her better than my
life--and she is mine. Yet--yet how can I, after--after--"
And he sighed deeply without concluding the sentence, while his face
went ashen pale at the thought which again crossed his mind--a thought,
secret and terrible.