This little difference of opinion,” the Prince remarked, looking thoughtfully through the emerald green of his liqueur,” interests me. Our friend Dolinski here thinks that he will not come because he will be afraid. De Brouillac, on the contrary, says that he will not come because he is too sagacious. Felix here, who knows him best, says that he will not come because he prefers ever to play the game from outside the circle, a looker-on to all appearance, yet sometimes wielding an unseen force. It is a strong position that.”
Lucille raised her head and regarded the last speaker steadily.
“And I, Prince!” she exclaimed, “I say that he will come because he is a man, and because he does not know fear.”
The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer bowed low towards the speaker.
“Dear Lucille,” he said, so respectfully that the faint irony of his tone was lost to most of those present, “I, too, am of your opinion. The man who has a right, real or fancied, to claim you must indeed be a coward if he suffered dangers of any sort to stand in the way. After all, dangers from us! Is it not a little absurd?”
Lucille looked away from the Prince with a little shudder. He laughed softly, and drank his liqueur. Afterwards he leaned back for a moment in his chair and glanced thoughtfully around at the assembled company as though anxious to impress upon his memory all who were present. It was a little group, every member of which bore a well-known name. Their host, the Duke of Dorset, in whose splendid library they were assembled, was, if not the premier duke of the United Kingdom, at least one of those whose many hereditary offices and ancient family entitled him to a foremost place in the aristocracy of the world. Raoul de Brouillac, Count of Orleans, bore a name which was scarcely absent from a single page of the martial history of France. The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer kept up still a semblance of royalty in the State which his ancestors had ruled with despotic power. Lady Muriel Carey was a younger daughter of a ducal house, which had more than once intermarried with Royalty. The others, too, had their claims to be considered amongst the greatest families of Europe.
The Prince glanced at his watch, and then at the bridge tables ready set out.
“I think,” he said, “that a little diversion – what does our hostess say?”
“Two sets can start at least,” the Duchess said. “Lucille and I will stay out, and the Count de Brouillac does not play.”
The Prince rose.
“It is agreed,” he said. “Duke, will you honour me? Felix and Dolinski are our ancient adversaries. It should be an interesting trial of strength.”
There was a general movement, a re-arrangement of seats, and a little buzz of conversation. Then silence. Lucille sat back in a great chair, and Lady Carey came over to her side.
“You are nervous to-night, Lucille,” she said.
“Yes, I am nervous,” Lucille admitted. “Why not? At any moment he may be here.”
“And you care – so much?” Lady Carey said, with a hard little laugh.
“I care so much,” Lucille echoed.
Lady Carey shook out her amber satin skirt and sat down upon a low divan. She held up her hands, small white hands, ablaze with jewels, and looked at them for a moment thoughtfully.
“He was very much in earnest when I saw him at Sherry’s in New York,” she remarked, “and he was altogether too clever for Mr. Horser and our friends there. After all their talk and boasting too. Why, they are ignorant of the very elements of intrigue.”
Lucille sighed.
“Here,” she said, “it is different. The Prince and he are ancient rivals, and Raoul de Brouillac is no longer his friend. Muriel, I am afraid of what may happen.”
Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.
“He is no fool,” she said in a low tone. “He will not come here with a magistrate’s warrant and a policeman to back it up, nor will he attempt to turn the thing into an Adeiphi drama. I know him well enough to be sure that he will attempt nothing crude. Lucille, don’t you find it exhilarating?”
“Exhilarating? But why?”
“It will be a game played through to the end by masters, and you, my dear woman, are the inspiration. I think that it is most fascinating.”
Lucille looked sadly into the fire.
“I think,” she said, “that I am weary of all these things. I seem to have lived such a very long time. At Lenox I was quite happy. Of my own will I would never have left it.”
Lady Carey’s thin lips curled a little, her blue eyes were full of scorn. She was not altogether a pleasant woman to look upon. Her cheeks were thin and hollow, her eyes a little too prominent, some hidden expression which seemed at times to flit from one to the other of her features suggested a sensuality which was a little incongruous with her somewhat angular figure and generally cold demeanour. But that she was a woman of courage and resource history had proved.
“How idyllic!” she exclaimed. “Positively medieval! Fancy living with one man three years.”
Lucille smiled.
“Why, not? I never knew a woman yet however cold however fond of change, who had not at some time or other during her life met a man for whose sake she would have done – what I did. I have had as many admirers – as many lovers, I suppose, as most women. But I can truthfully say that during the last three years no thought of one of them has crossed my mind.”
Lady Carey laughed scornfully.
“Upon my word,” she said. “If the Prince had not a temper, and if they were not playing for such ruinous points, I would entertain them all with these delightful confidences. By the bye, the Prince himself was once one of those who fell before your chariot wheels, was he not? Look at him now – sideways. What does he remind you of?”
Lucille raised her eyes.
“A fat angel,” she answered, “or something equally distasteful. How I hate those mild eyes and that sweet, slow smile. I saw him thrash a poor beater once in the Saxe Leinitzer forests. Ugh!”
“I should not blame him for that,” Lady Carey said coldly. “I like masterful men, even to the point of cruelty. General Dolinski there fascinates me. I believe that he keeps a little private knout at home for his wife and children. A wicked little contrivance with an ivory handle. I should like to see him use it.”
Lucille shuddered. This tete-a-tete did not amuse her. She rose and looked over one of the bridge tables for a minute. The Prince, who was dealing, looked up with a smile.
“Be my good angel, Countess,” he begged. “Fortune has deserted me to-night. You shall be the goddess of chance, and smile your favours upon me.”
A hard little laugh came from the chair where Lady Carey sat. She turned her head towards them, and there was a malicious gleam in her eves.
“Too late, Prince,” she exclaimed. “The favours of the Countess are all given away. Lucille has become even as one of those flaxen-haired dolls of your mountain villages. She has given her heart away, and she is sworn to perpetual constancy.”
The Prince smiled.
“The absence,” he said, glancing up at the clock, “of that most fortunate person should surely count in our favour.”
Lucille followed his eyes. The clock was striking ten. She shrugged her shoulders.
“If the converse also is true, Prince,” she said, “you can scarcely have anything to hope for from me. For by half-past ten he will be here.”
The Prince picked up his cards and sorted them mechanically.
“We shall see,” he remarked. “It is true, Countess, that you are here, but in this instance you are set with thorns.”
“To continue the allegory, Prince,” she answered, passing on to the next table, “also with poisonous berries. But to the hand which has no fear, neither are harmful.”
The Prince laid down his hand.
“Now I really believe,” he said gently, “that she meant to be rude. Partner, I declare hearts!”
Felix was standing out from the next table whilst has hand was being played by General Dolinski, his partner. He drew her a little on one side.
“Do not irritate Saxe Leinitzer,” he whispered. “Remember, everything must rest with him. Twice to-night you have brought that smile to his lips, and I never see it without thinking of unpleasant things.”
“You are right,” she answered; “but I hate him so. He and Muriel Carey seem to have entered into some conspiracy to lead me on to say things which I might regret.”
“Saxe Leinitzer,” he said, “has never forgotten that he once aspired to be your lover.”
“He has not failed to let me know it,” she answered. “He has even dared – ah!”
There was a sudden stir in the room. The library door was thrown open. The solemn-visaged butler stood upon the threshold.
“His Grace the Duke of Souspennier!” he announced.
CHAPTER XVIII
There was for the moment a dead silence. The soft patter of cards no longer fell upon the table. The eyes of every one were turned upon the newcomers. And he, leaning upon his stick, looked only for one person, and having found her, took no heed of any one else.
“Lucille!”
She rose from her seat and stood with hands outstretched towards him, her lips parted in a delightful smile, her eyes soft with happiness.
“Victor, welcome! It is like you to have found me, and I knew that you would come.”
He raised her fingers to his lips – tenderly – with the grace of a prince, but all the affection of a lover. What he said to her none could hear, for his voice was lowered almost to a whisper. But the colour stained her cheeks, and her blush was the blush of a girl.
A movement of the Duchess recalled him to a sense of his social duty. He turned courteously to her with extended hand.
“I trust,” he said, “that I may be forgiven my temporary fit of aberration. I cannot thank you sufficiently, Duchess, for your kind invitation.”
Her answering smile was a little dubious.
“I am sure,” she said “that we are delighted to welcome back amongst us so old and valued a friend. I suppose you know every one?”
Mr. Sabin looked searchingly around, exchanging bows with those whose faces were familiar to him. But between him and the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer there passed no pretense at any greeting. The two men eyed one another for a moment coldly. Each seemed to be trying to read the other through.
“I believe,” Mr. Sabin said, “that I have that privilege. I see, however, that I am interrupting your game. Let me beg you to continue. With your permission, Duchess, I will remain a spectator. There are many things which my wife and I have to say to one another.”
The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer laid his cards softly upon the table. He smiled upon Mr. Sabin – a slow, unpleasant smile.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that our game must be postponed. It is a pity, but I think it had better be so.”
“It must be entirely as you wish,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I am at your service now or later.”
The Prince rose to his feet.
“Monsieur le Due de Souspennier,” he said, “what are we to conclude from your presence here this evening?”
“It is obvious,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I claim my place amongst you.”
“You claim to be one of us?”
“I do!”
“Ten years ago,” the Prince continued, “you were granted immunity from all the penalties and obligations which a co-membership with us might involve. This privilege was extended to you on account of certain great operations in which you were then engaged, and the object of which was not foreign to our own aims. You are aware that the period of that immunity is long since past.”
Mr. Sabin leaned with both hands upon his stick, and his face was like the face of a sphinx. Only Lucille, who knew him best of all those there, saw him wince for a moment before this reminder of his great failure.
“I am not accustomed,” Mr. Sabin said quietly, “to shirk my share of the work in any undertaking with which I am connected. Only in this case I claim to take the place of the Countess Lucille, my wife. I request that the task, whatever it may be which you have imposed upon her, may be transferred to me.”
The Prince’s smile was sweet, but those who knew him best wondered what evil it might betoken for his ancient enemy.
“You offer yourself, then, as a full member?”
“Assuredly!”
“Subject,” he drawled, “to all the usual pains and privileges?”
“Certainly!”
The Prince played with the cards upon the table. His smooth, fair face was unruffled, almost undisturbed. Yet underneath he was wondering fiercely, eagerly, how this might serve his ends.
“The circumstances,” he said at last, “are peculiar. I think that we should do well to consult together – you and I, Felix, and Raoul here.”
The two men named rose up silently. The Prince pointed to a small round table at the farther end of the apartment, half screened off by a curtained recess.
“Am I also,” Mr. Sabin asked, “of your company?”
The Prince shook his head.
“I think not,” he said. “In a few moments we will return.”
Mr. Sabin moved away with a slight enigmatic gesture. Lucille gathered up her skirts, making room for him by her side on a small sofa.
“It is delightful to see you, Victor,” she murmured. “It is delightful to know that you trusted me.”
Mr. Sabin looked at her, and the smile which no other woman had ever seen softened for a moment his face.
“Dear Lucille,” he murmured, “how could you ever doubt it? There was a day, I admit, when the sun stood still, when, if I had felt inclined to turn to light literature, I should have read aloud the Book of Job. But afterwards – well, you see that I am here.”
She laughed.
“I knew that you would come,” she said, “and yet I knew that it would be a struggle between you and them. For – the Prince – ” she murmured, lowering her voice, “had pledged his word to keep us apart.”
Mr. Sabin raised his head, and his eyes traveled towards the figure of the man who sat with his back to them in the far distant corner of the room.
“The Prince,” he said softly, “is faithful to his ancient enmities.”
Lucille’s face was troubled. She turned to her companion with a little grimace.
“He would have me believe,” she murmured, “that he is faithful to other things besides his enmities.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“I am not jealous,” he said softly, “of the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer!”
As though attracted by the mention of his name, which must, however, have been unheard by him, the Prince at that moment turned round and looked for a moment towards them. He shot a quick glance at Lady Carey. Almost at once she rose from her chair and came across to them.
“The Prince’s watch-dog,” Lucille murmured. “Hateful woman! She is bound hand and foot to him, and yet – “
Her eyes met his, and he laughed.
“Really,” he said, “you and I in our old age might be hero and heroine of a little romance – the undesiring objects of a hopeless affection!”
Lady Carey sank into a low chair by their side. “You two,” she said, with a slow, malicious smile, “are a pattern to this wicked world. Don’t you know that such fidelity is positively sinful, and after three years in such a country too?”
“It is the approach of senility,” Mr. Sabin answered her. “I am an old man, Lady Muriel!”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You are like Ulysses,” she said. “The gods, or rather the goddesses, have helped you towards immortality.”
“It is,” Mr. Sabin answered, “the moss delicious piece of flattery I have ever heard.”
“Calypso,” she murmured, nodding towards Lucille, “is by your side.”
“Really,” Mr. Sabin interrupted, “I must protest. Lucille and I were married by a most respectable Episcopalian clergyman. We have documentary evidence. Besides, if Lucille is Calypso, what about Penelope?”
Lady Carey smiled thoughtfully.
“I have always thought,” she said, “that Penelope was a myth. In your case I should say that Penelope represents a return to sanity – to the ordinary ways of life.”
Mr. Sabin and Lucille exchanged swift glances. He raised his eyebrows.
“Our little idyll,” he said, “seems to be the sport and buffet of every one. You forget that I am of the old world. I do not understand modernity.”
“Ulysses,” she answered, “was of the old world, yet he was a wanderer in more senses of the word than one And there have been times – “
Her eyes sought his. He ignored absolutely the subtlety of meaning which lurked beneath the heavy drooping eyelids.
“One travels through life,” he answered, “by devious paths, and a little wandering in the flower-gardens by the way is the lot of every one. But when the journey is over, one’s taste for wandering has gone – well, Ulysses finished his days at the hearth of Penelope.”
She rose and walked away. Mr. Sabin sat still and watched her as though listening to the soft sweep of her gown upon the carpet.
“Hateful woman!” Lucille exclaimed lightly. “To make love, and such love, to one’s lawful husband before one’s face is a little crude, don’t you think?”
He shook his head.
“Too obvious,” he answered. “She is playing the Prince’s game. Dear me, how interesting this will be soon.”
She nodded. A faint smile of bitterness had stolen into her tone.
“Already,” she said, “you are beginning to scent the delight of the atmosphere. You are stiffening for the fight. Soon – “
“Ah, no! Don’t say it,” he whispered, taking her hand. “I shall never forget. If the fight seems good to me it is because you are the prize, and after all, you know, to fight for one’s womenkind is amongst the primeval instincts.”
Lady Carey, who had been pacing the room restlessly, touching an ornament here, looking at a picture there, came back to them and stood before Mr. Sabin. She had caught his last words.
“Primeval instincts!” she exclaimed mockingly. “What do you know about them, you of all men, a bundle of nerves and brains, with a motor for a heart, and an automatic brake upon your passions? Upon my word, I believe that I have solved the mystery of your perennial youth. You have found a way of substituting machinery for the human organ, and you are wound up to go for ever.”
“You have found me out,” he admitted. “Professor Penningram of Chicago will supply you too with an outfit. Mention my name if you like. It is a wonderful country America.”
The Prince came over to them, fair and bland with no trace upon his smooth features or in his half-jesting tone of any evil things.
“Souspennier,” he said, holding out his hand, “welcome back once more to your old place. I am happy to say that there appears to be no reason why your claim should not be fully admitted.”
Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.
“I presume,” he said, “that no very active demands are likely to be made upon my services. In this country more than any other I fear that the possibilities of my aid are scanty.”
The Prince smiled.
“It is a fact,” he said, “which we all appreciate. Upon you at present we make no claim.”
There was a moment’s intense silence. A steely light glittered in Mr. Sabin’s eyes. He and the Prince alone remained standing. The Duchess of Dorset watched them through her lorgnettes; Lady Carey watched too with an intense eagerness, her eyes alight with mingled cruelty and excitement. Lucille’s eyes were so bright that one might readily believe the tears to be glistening beneath.
CHAPTER XIX
I will not pretend,” Mr. Sabin said, “to misunderstand you. My help is not required by you in this enterprise, whatever it may be, in which you are engaged. On the contrary, you have tried by many and various ways to keep me at a distance. But I am here, Prince – here to be dealt with and treated according to my rights.”
The Prince stroked his fair moustache.
“I am a little puzzled,” he admitted, “as to this – shall I not call it self-assertiveness? – on the part of my good friend Souspennier.”
“I will make it quite clear then,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Lucille, will you favour me by ringing for your maid. The carriage is at the door.”
The Prince held out his hand.
“My dear Souspennier,” he said, “you must not think of taking Lucille away from us.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Sabin answered coolly. “Why not?”
“It must be obvious to you,” the Prince answered, “that we did not send to America for Lucille without an object. She is now engaged in an important work upon our behalf. It is necessary that she should remain under this roof.”
“I demand,” Mr. Sabin said, “that the nature of that necessity should be made clear to me.”
The Prince smiled with the air of one disposed to humour a wilful child.
“Come!” he said. “You must know very well that I cannot stand here and tell you the bare outline, much less the details of an important movement. To-morrow, at any hour you choose, one from amongst us shall explain the whole matter – and the part to be borne in it by the Countess!”
“And to-night?” Mr. Sabin asked.
The Prince shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the clock.
“To-night, my dear friend,” he said, “all of us, I believe, go on to a ball at Carmarthen House. It would grieve me also, I am sure, Duke, to seem inhospitable, but I am compelled to mention the fact that the hour for which the carriages have been ordered is already at hand.”
Mr. Sabin reflected for a few moments.
“Did I understand you to say,” he asked, “that the help to be given to you by my wife, Lucille, Duchess of Souspennier, entailed her remaining under this roof?”
The Prince smiled seraphically.
“It is unfortunate,” he murmured, “since you have been so gallant as to follow her, but it is true! You will understand this perfectly – to-morrow.”
“And why should I wait until to-morrow?” Mr. Sabin asked coolly.
“I fear,” the Prince said, “that it is a matter of necessity.”
Mr. Sabin glanced for a moment in turn at the faces of all the little company as though seeking to discover how far the attitude of his opponent met with their approval. Lady Carey’s thin lips were curved in a smile, and her eyes met his mockingly. The others remained imperturbable. Last of all he looked at Lucille.
“It seems,” he said, smiling towards her, “that I am called upon to pay a heavy entrance fee on my return amongst your friends. But the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer forgets that he has shown me no authority, or given me no valid reason why I should tolerate such flagrant interference with my personal affairs.”
“To-morrow – to-morrow, my good sir!” the Prince interrupted.
“No! To-night!” Mr. Sabin answered sharply. “Lucille, in the absence of any reasonable explanation, I challenge the right of the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer to rob me even for an hour of my dearest possession. I appeal to you. Come with me and remain with me until it has been proved, if ever it can be proved, that greater interests require our separation. If there be blame I will take it. Will you trust yourself to me
Lucille half rose, but Lady Carey’s hand was heavy upon her shoulder. As though by a careless movement General Dolinski and Raoul de Brouillac altered their positions slightly so as to come between the two. The Duke of Dorset had left the room. Then Mr. Sabin knew that they were all against him.
“Lucille,” he said, “have courage! I wait for you.”
She looked towards him, and her face puzzled him. For there flashed across the shoulders of these people a glance which was wholly out of harmony with his own state of barely subdued passion – a glance half tender, half humorous, full of subtle promise. Yet her words were a blow to him.
“Victor, how is it possible? Believe me, I come if I could. To-morrow – very soon, it may be possible. But now. You hear what the Prince says. I fear that he is right!”
To Mr. Sabin the shock was an unexpected one. He had never doubted but that she at least was his side. Her words found him unprepared, and a moment he showed his discomfiture. His recovery however, was swift and amazing. He bowed to Lucille, and by the time he raised his head even the reproach had gone from his eyes.
“Dear lady,” he said, “I will not venture to dispute your decision. Prince, will you appoint a time to-morrow when this matter shall be more fully explained to me?”
The Prince’s smile was sweetness itself, and his tone very gentle. But Mr. Sabin, who seldom yielded to any passionate impulse, kept his teeth set and his hand clenched, lest the blow he longed to deal should escape him.
“At midday to-morrow I shall be pleased to receive you,” he said. “The Countess, with her usual devotion and good sense, has, I trust, convinced you that our action is necessary!”
“To-morrow at midday,” Mr. Sabin said, “I will be here. I have the honour to wish you all good-night.”
His farewell was comprehensive. He did not even single out Lucille for a parting glance. But down the broad stairs and across the hall of Dorset House he passed with weary steps, leaning heavily upon his stick. It was a heavy blow which had fallen upon him. As yet he scarcely realised it.
His carriage was delayed for a few moments, and just as he was entering it a young woman, plainly dressed in black, came hurrying out and slipped a note into his hand.
“Pardon, monsieur,” she exclaimed, with a smile. I feared that I was too late.”
Mr. Sabin’s fingers closed over the note, and he stepped blithely into the carriage. But when he tore it open and saw the handwriting he permitted himself a little groan of disappointment. It was not from her. He read the few lines and crushed the sheet of paper in his hand.
“I am having supper at the Carlton with some friends on our way to C. H. I want to speak to you for a moment. Be in the Palm Court at 12.15, but do not recognise me until I come to you. If possible keep out of sight. If you should have left my maid will bring this on to your hotel.
“M. C.”
Mr. Sabin leaned back in his carriage, and a frown of faint perplexity contracted his forehead.
If I were a younger man,” he murmured to himself, “I might believe that this woman was really in earnest, as well as being Saxe Leinitzer’s jackal. We were friendly enough in Paris that year. She is unscrupulous enough, of course. Always with some odd fancy for the grotesque or unlikely. I wonder – “
He pulled the check-string, and was driven to Camperdown House. A great many people were coming and going. Mr. Sabin found Helene’s maid, and learnt that her mistress was just going to her room, and would be alone for a few minutes. He scribbled a few words on the back of a card, and was at once taken up to her boudoir.
“My dear UNCLE,” Helene exclaimed, “you have arrived most opportunely. We have just got rid of a few dinner people, and we are going on to Carmarthen House presently. Take that easy-chair, please, and, light a cigarette. Will you have a liqueur? Wolfendon has some old brandy which every one seems to think wonderful.”
“You are very kind, Helene,” Mr. Sabin said. “I cannot refuse anything which you offer in so charming a manner. But I shall not keep you more than a few minutes.”
“We need not leave for an hour,” Helene said, “and I am dressed except for my jewels. Tell me, have you seen Lucille? I am so anxious to know.”
“I have seen Lucille this evening,” Mr. Sabin answered.
“At Dorset House!”
“Yes.”
Helene sat down, smiling.
“Do tell me all about it.”
“There is very little to tell,” Mr. Sabin answered.
“She is with you – she returns at least!”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “She remains at Dorset House.”
Helene was silent. Mr. Sabin smoked pensively a moment or two, and sipped the liqueur which Camperdown’s own servant had just brought him.
“It is very hard, Helene,” he said, “to make you altogether understand the situation, for there are certain phases of it which I cannot discuss with you at all. I have made my first effort to regain Lucille, and it has failed. It is not her fault. I need not say that it is not mine. But the struggle has commenced, and in the end I shall win.”
“Lucille herself – ” Helene began hesitatingly.
“Lucille is, I firmly believe, as anxious to return to me as I am anxious to have her,” Mr. Sabin said.
Helene threw up her hands.
“It is bewildering,” she exclaimed.
“It must seem so to you,” Mr. Sabin admitted.
“I wish that Lucille were anywhere else,” Helene said. “The Dorset House set, you know, although they are very smart and very exclusive, have a somewhat peculiar reputation. Lady Carey, although she is such a brilliant woman, says and does the most insolent, the most amazing things, and the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer goes everywhere in Europe by the name of the Royal libertine. They are powerful enough almost to dominate society, and we poor people who abide by the conventions are absolutely nowhere beside them. They think that we are bourgeois because we have virtue, and prehistoric because we are not decadent.”
“The Duke – ” Mr. Sabin remarked.
“Oh, the Duke is quite different, of course,” Helene admitted. “He is a fanatical Tory, very stupid, very blind to anything except his beloved Primrose League. How he came to lend himself to the vagaries of such a set I cannot imagine.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“C’est la femme toujours!” he remarked. “His Grace is, I fear, henpecked, and the Duchess herself is the sport of cleverer people. And now, my dear niece, I see that the time is going. I came to know if you could get me a card for the ball at Carmarthen House to-night.”
Helene laughed softly.
“Very easily, my dear UNCLE. Lady Carmarthen is Wolfendon’s cousin, you know, and a very good friend of mine. I have half a dozen blank cards here. Shall I really see you there?”
“I believe so,” Mr. Sabin answered.
“And Lucille?”
“It is possible.”
“There is nothing I suppose which I can do in the way of intervention, or anything of that sort?”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“Lucille and I are the best of friends,” he answered. “Talk to her, if you will. By the bye, is that twelve o’clock? I must hurry. Doubtless we shall meet again at the ball.”
But Carmarthen House saw nothing of Mr. Sabin that night.
CHAPTER XX
Mr. Sabin from his seat behind a gigantic palm watched her egress from the supper-room with a little group of friends.
They came to a halt in the broad carpeted way only a few feet from him. Lady Carey, in a wonderful green gown, her neck and bosom ablaze with jewels, seemed to be making her farewells.
“I must go in and see the De Lausanacs,” she exclaimed. “They are in the blue room supping with the Portuguese Ambassador. I shall be at Carmarthen House within half an hour – unless my headache becomes unbearable. Au revoir, all of you. Good-bye, Laura!”
Her friends passed on towards the great swing doors. Lady Carey retraced her steps slowly towards the supper-room, and made some languid inquiries of the head waiter as to a missing handkerchief. Then she came again slowly down the broad way and reached Mr. Sabin. He rose to his feet.
“I thank you very much for your note,” he said. “You have something, I believe, to say to me.”
She stood before him for a moment in silence, as though not unwilling that he should appreciate the soft splendour of her toilette. The jewels which encircled her neck were priceless and dazzling; the soft material of her gown, the most delicate shade of sea green, seemed to foam about her feet, a wonderful triumph of allegoric dressmaking. She saw that he was studying her, and she laughed a little uneasily, looking all the time into his eyes.
“Shockingly overdressed, ain’t I?” she said. “We were going straight to Carmarthen House, you know. Come and sit in this corner for a moment, and order me some coffee. I suppose there isn’t any less public place!”
“I fear not,” he answered. “You will perhaps be unobserved behind this palm.”
She sank into a low chair, and he seated himself beside her. She sighed contentedly.
“Dear me!” she said. “Do men like being run after like this?”
Mr. Sabin raised his eyebrows.
“I understood,” he said, “that you had something to say to me of importance.”
She shot a quick look up at him.
“Don’t be horrid,” she said in a low tone. “Of course I wanted to see you. I wanted to explain. Give me one of your cigarettes.”
He laid his case silently before her. She took one and lit it, watching him furtively all the time. The man brought their coffee. The place was almost empty now, and some of the lights were turned down.
“It is very kind of you,” he said slowly, “to honour me by so much consideration, but if you have much to say perhaps it would be
better if you permitted me to call upon you to-morrow. I am afraid of depriving you of your ball – and your friends will be getting impatient.”
“Bother the ball – and my friends,” she exclaimed, a certain strained note in her tone which puzzled him. “I’m not obliged to go to the thing, and I don’t want to. I’ve invented a headache, and they won’t even expect me. They know my headaches.”
“In that case,” Mr. Sabin said, “I am entirely at your service.”
She sighed, and looked up at him through a little cloud of tobacco smoke.
“What a wonderful man you are,” she said softly. “You accept defeat with the grace of a victor. I believe that you would triumph as easily with a shrug of the shoulders. Haven’t you any feeling at all? Don’t you know what it is like to feel?”
He smiled.
“We both come,” he said, “of a historic race. If ancestry is worth anything it should at least teach us to go about without pinning our hearts upon our sleeves.”
“But you,” she murmured, “you have no heart.”
He looked down upon her then with still cold face and steady eyes.
“Indeed,” he said, “you are mistaken.”
She moved uneasily in her chair. She was very pale, except for a faint spot of pink colour in her cheeks.
“It is very hard to find, then,” she said, speaking quickly, her bosom rising and falling, her eyes always seeking to hold his. “To-night you see what I have done – I have, sent away my friends – and my carriage. They may know me here – you see what I have risked. And I don’t care. You thought to-night that I was your enemy – and I am not. I am not your enemy at all.”
Her hand fell as though by accident upon his, and remained there. Mr. Sabin was very nearly embarrassed. He knew quite well that if she were not his enemy at that moment she would be very shortly.
“Lucille,” she continued, “will blame me too. I cannot help it. I want to tell you that for the present your separation from her is a certain thing. She acquiesces. You heard her. She is quite happy. She is at the ball to-night, and she has friends there who will make it pleasant for her. Won’t you understand?”
“No,” Mr. Sabin answered.
She beat the ground with her foot.
“You must understand,” she murmured. “You are not like these fools of Englishmen who go to sleep when they are married, and wake in the divorce court. For the present at least you have lost Lucille. You heard her choose. She’s at the ball to-night – and I have come here to be with you. Won’t you, please,” she added, with a little nervous laugh, “show some gratitude?”
The interruption which Mr. Sabin had prayed for came at last. The musicians had left, and many of the lights had been turned down. An official came across to them.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Sabin, “but we are closing now, unless you are a guest in the hotel.”
“I am staying here,” Mr. Sabin answered, rising, “but the lady – “
Lady Carey interrupted him.
“I am staying here also,” she said to the man.
He bowed at once and withdrew. She rose slowly to her feet and laid her fingers upon his arm. He looked steadily away from her.
“Fortunately,” he said, “I have not yet dismissed my own carriage. Permit me.”
* * * * *
Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon his stick as he slowly made his way along the corridor to his rooms. Things were going ill with him indeed. He was not used to the fear of an enemy, but the memory of Lady Carey’s white cheeks and indrawn lips as she had entered his carriage chilled him. Her one look, too, was a threat worse than any which her lips could have uttered. He was getting old indeed, he thought, wearily, when disappointment weighed so heavily upon him. And Lucille? Had he any real fears of her? He felt a little catch in his throat at the bare thought – in a moment’s singular clearness of perception he realised that if Lucille were indeed lost the world was no longer a place for him. So his feet fell wearily upon the thickly carpeted floor of the corridor, and his face was unusually drawn and haggard as he opened the door of his sitting-room.
And then – a transformation, amazing, stupefying. It was Lucille who was smiling a welcome upon him from the depths of his favourite easy-chair – Lucille sitting over his fire, a novel in her hand, and wearing a delightful rose-pink dressing-gown. Some of her belongings were scattered about his room, giving it a delicate air of femininity. The faint odour of her favourite and only perfume gave to her undoubted presence a wonderful sense of reality.
She held out her hands to him, and the broad sleeves of her dressing-gown fell away from her white rounded arms. Her eyes were wonderfully soft, the pink upon her cheeks was the blush of a girl.
“Victor,” she murmured, “do not look so stupefied. Did you not believe that I would risk at least a little for you, who have risked so much for me? Only come to me! Make the most of me. All sorts of things are sure to happen directly I am found out.”
He took her into his arms. It was one of the moments of his lifetime.
“Tell me,” he murmured, “how have you dared to do this?”
She laughed.
“You know the Prince and his set. You know the way they bribe. Intrigues everywhere, new and old overlapping. They have really some reason for keeping you and me apart, but as regards my other movements, I am free enough. And they thought, Victor – don’t be angry – but I let them think it was some one else. And I stole away from the ball, and they think – never mind what they think. But you, Victor, are my intrigue, you, my love, my husband!”
Then all the fatigue and all the weariness, died away from Mr. Sabin’s face. Once more the fire of youth burned in his heart. And Lucille laughed softly as her lips met his, and her head sank upon his shoulder.
CHAPTER XXI
Lady Carey suddenly dropped her partner’s arm. She had seen a man standing by himself with folded arms and moody face at the entrance to the ball-room. She raised her lorgnettes. His identity was unquestionable.
“Will you excuse me for a moment, Captain Horton,” she said to her escort. “I want particularly to speak to Mr. Brott.”
Captain Horton bowed with the slight disappointment of a hungry man on his way to the supper-room.
“Don’t be long,” he begged. “The places are filling up.
Lady Carey nodded and walked swiftly across to where Brott was standing. He moved eagerly forward to meet her.
“Not dancing, Mr. Brott?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“This sort of thing isn’t much in my way,” he answered. “I was rather hoping to see the Countess here. I trust that she is not indisposed.”
She looked at him steadily.
“Do you mean,” she said, “that you do not know where she is?”
“I?” he answered in amazement. “How should I? I have not seen her at all this evening. I understood that she was to be here.”
Lady Carey hesitated. The man was too honest to be able to lie like this, even in a good cause. She stood quite still for a moment thinking. Several of her dearest friends had already told her that she was looking tired and ill this evening. At that moment she was positively haggard.
“I have been down at Ranelagh this afternoon,” she said slowly, “and dining out, so I have not seen Lucille. She was complaining of a headache yesterday, but I quite thought that she was coming here. Have you seen the Duchess?”
He shook his head.
“No. There is such a crowd.”
Lady Carey glanced towards her escort and turned away.
“I will try and find out what has become of her,” she said. “Don’t go away yet.”
She rejoined her escort.
“When we have found a table,” she said, “I want you to keep my place for a few moments while I try and find some of my party.”
They passed into the supper-room, and appropriated a small table. Lady Carey left her partner, and made her way to the farther end of the apartment, where the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer was supping with half a dozen men and women. She touched him on the shoulder.
“I want to speak to you for a moment, Ferdinand,” she whispered.
He rose at once, and she drew him- a little apart.
“Brott is here,” she said slowly.
“Brott here!” he repeated. “And Lucille?”
“He is asking for her – expected to find her here. He is downstairs now, looking the picture of misery.”
He looked at her inquiringly. There was a curious steely light in her eyes, and she was showing her front teeth, which were a little prominent.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that she has deceived us?”
“What else? Where are the Dorsets?”
“The Duchess is with the Earl of Condon, and some more people at the round table under the balcony.”
“Give me your arm,” she whispered. “We must go and ask her;”
They crossed the room together. Lady Carey sank into a vacant chair by the side of the Duchess and talked for a few minutes to the people whom she knew. Then she turned and whispered in the Duchess’s ear.
“Where is Lucille?”
The Duchess looked at her with a meaning smile.
“How should I know? She left when we did.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. It was all understood, wasn’t it?”
Lady Carey laughed unpleasantly.
“She has fooled us,” she said. “Brott is here alone. Knows nothing of her.”
The Duchess was puzzled.
“Well, I know nothing more than you do,” she answered. “Are you sure the man is telling the truth?”
“Of course. He is the image of despair.”
“I am sure she was in earnest,” the Duchess said. “When I asked her whether she should come on here she laughed a little nervously, and said perhaps or something of that sort.”
“The fool may have bungled it,” Lady Carey said thoughtfully. “I will go back to him. There’s that idiot of a partner of mine. I must go and pretend to have some supper.”
Captain Horton found his vis-a-vis a somewhat unsatisfactory companion. She drank several glasses of champagne, ate scarcely anything, and rushed him away before he had taken the edge off his appetite. He brought her to the Duchess and went back in a huff to finish his supper alone. Lady Carey went downstairs and discovered Mr. Brott, who had scarcely moved.
“Have you seen anything of her?” she asked.
He shook his head gloomily.
“No! It is too late for her to come now, isn’t it?”
“Take me somewhere where we can talk,” she said abruptly. “One of those seats in the recess will do.”
He obeyed her, and they found a retired corner. Lady Carey wasted no time in fencing.
“I am Lucille’s greatest friend, Mr. Brott, and her confidante,” she said.
He nodded.
“So I have understood.”
“She tells me everything.”
He glanced towards her a little uneasily.
“That is comprehensive!” he remarked.
“It is true,” she answered. “Lucille has told me a great deal about your friendship! Come, there is no use in our mincing words. Lucille has been badly treated years ago, and she has a perfect right to seek any consolation she may find. The old fashioned ideas, thank goodness, do not hold any longer amongst us. It is not necessary to tie yourself for life to a man in order to procure a little diversion.”
“I will not pretend to misunderstand you, Lady Carey,” he said gravely, “but I must decline to discuss the Countess of Radantz in connection with such matters.”
“Oh, come!” she declared impatiently; “remember that I am her friend. Yours is quite the proper attitude, but with me it doesn’t matter. Now I am going to ask you a plain question. Had You any engagement with Lucille to-night?”
She watched him mercilessly. He was colouring like a boy. Lady Carey’s thin lips curled. She had no sympathy with such amateurish love-making. Nevertheless, his embarrassment was a great relief to her.
“She promised to be here,” he answered stiffly.
“Everything depends upon your being honest with me,” she continued. “You will see from my question that I know. Was there not something said about supper at your rooms before or after the dance?”
“I cannot discuss this matter with you or any living person,” he answered. “If you know so much why ask me?”
Lady Carey could have shaken the man, but she restrained herself.
“It is sufficient!” she declared. “What I cannot understand is why you are here – when Lucille is probably awaiting for you at your rooms.”
He started from his chair as though he had been shot.
“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “She was to – “
He stopped short. Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, written you or something, I suppose!” she exclaimed. “Trust an Englishman for bungling a love affair. All I can tell you is that she left Dorset House in a hansom without the others, and said some thing about having supper with some friends.”
Brott sprang to his feet and took a quick step towards the exit.
“It is not possible!” he exclaimed.
She took his arm. He almost dragged her along.
“Well, we are going to see,” she said coolly. “Tell the man to call a hansom.”
They drove almost in silence through the Square to Pall Mall. Brott leaped out onto the pavement directly the cab pulled up.
“I will wait here,” Lady Carey said. “I only want to know that Lucille is safe.”
He disappeared, and she sat forward in the cab drumming idly with her forefingers upon the apron. In a few minutes he came back. His appearance was quite sufficient. He was very pale. The change in him was so ludicrous that she laughed.
“Get in,” she said. “I am going round to Dorset House. We must find out if we can what has become of her.”
He obeyed without comment. At Dorset House Lady Carey summoned the Duchess’s own maid.
“Marie,” she said, “you were attending upon the Countess Radantz to-night?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“At what time did she leave?”
“At about, eleven, my lady.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Lady Carey looked steadily at the girl.
“Did she take anything with her?”
The girl hesitated. Lady Carey frowned.
“It must be the truth, remember, Marie.”
“Certainly, my lady! She took her small dressing-case.”
Lady Carey set her teeth hard. Then with a movement of her head she dismissed the maid. She walked restlessly up and down the room. Then she stopped short with a hard little laugh.
“If I give way like this,” she murmured, “I shall be positively hideous, and after all, if she was there it was not possible for him – “
She stopped short, and suddenly tearing the handkerchief which she had been carrying into shreds threw the pieces upon the floor, and stamped upon them. Then she laughed shortly, and turned towards the door.
“Now I must go and get rid of that poor fool outside,” she said. “What a bungler!”
Brott was beside himself with impatience.
“Lucille is here,” she announced, stepping in beside him. “She has a shocking headache and has gone to bed. As a matter of fact, I believe that she was expecting to hear from you.”
“Impossible!” he answered shortly. He was beginning to distrust this woman.
“Never mind. You can make it up with her to-morrow. I was foolish to be anxious about her at all. Are you coming in again?”
They were at Carmarthen House. He handed her out.
“No, thanks! If you will allow me I will wish you good-night.”
She made her way into the ball-room, and found the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer, who was just leaving.
“Do you know where Lucille is she asked.
He looked up at her sharply. “Where?”
“At the Carlton Hotel-with him.”
He rose to his feet with slow but evil promptitude. His face just then was very unlike the face of an angel. Lady Carey laughed aloud.
“Poor man,” she said mockingly. “It is always the same when you and Souspennier meet.”
He set his teeth.
“This time,” he muttered, “I hold the trumps.”
She pointed at the clock. It was nearly four. “She was there at eleven,” she remarked drily.
CHAPTER XXII
His Highness, the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer!”
Duson stood away from the door with a low bow. The Prince – in the buttonhole of whose frock-coat was a large bunch of Russian violets, passed across the threshold. Mr. Sabin rose slowly from his chair.
“I fear,” the Prince said suavely, “that I am an early visitor. I can only throw myself upon your indulgence and plead the urgency of my mission.”
His arrival appeared to have interrupted a late breakfast of the Continental order. The small table at which Lucille and Mr. Sabin were seated was covered with roses and several dishes of wonderful fruit. A coffee equipage was before Lucille. Mr. Sabin, dressed with his usual peculiar care and looking ten years younger, had just lit a cigarette.
“We have been anticipating your visit, Prince,” Mr. Sabin remarked, with grim courtesy. “Can we offer you coffee or a liqueur?”
“I thank you, no,” the Prince answered. “I seldom take anything before lunch. Let me beg that you do not disturb yourselves. With your permission I will take this easy-chair. So! That is excellent. We can now talk undisturbed.”
Mr. Sabin bowed.
“You will find me,” he said, “an excellent listener.”
The Prince smiled in an amiable manner. His eyes were fixed upon Lucille, who had drawn her chair a little away from the table. What other woman in the world who had passed her first youth could sit thus in the slanting sunlight and remain beautiful?
“I will ask you to believe,” the Prince said slowly, “how sincerely I regret this unavoidable interference in a domestic happiness so touching. Nevertheless, I have come for the Countess. It is necessary that she returns to Dorset House this morning.”
“You will oblige me,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “by remembering that my wife is the Duchesse de Souspennier, and by so addressing her.”
The Prince spread out his hands – a deprecating gesture.
“Alas!” he said, “for the present it is not possible. Until the little affair upon which we are now engaged is finally disposed of it is necessary that Lucille should be known by the title which she bears in her own right, or by the name of her late husband, Mr. James B. Peterson.”
“That little affair,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “is, I presume, the matter which you have come to explain to me.”
The Prince smiled and shook his head.
“Explain! My dear Duke, that is not possible. It is not within your rights to ask questions or to require any explanation as to anything which Lucille is required to do by us. You must remember that our claim upon her comes before yours. It is a claim which she cannot evade or deny. And in pursuance of it, Countess, I deeply regret having to tell you that your presence at Dorset House within the next hour is demanded.”
Lucille made no answer, but looked across the table at Mr. Sabin with a little grimace.
“It is a comedy,” she murmured. “After all, it is a comedy!”
Mr. Sabin fingered his cigarette thoughtfully.
“I believe,” he said, “that the Duchess realises her responsibilities in this matter. I myself have no wish to deny them. As ordinary members we are both pledged to absolute obedience. I therefore place no embargo upon the return of my wife to Dorset House. But there are certain conditions, Prince, that considering the special circumstances of the case I feel impelled to propose.”
“I can recognise,” the Prince said, “no conditions.”
“They are very harmless,” Mr. Sabin continued calmly. “The first is that in a friendly way, and of course under the inviolable law of secrecy, you explain to me for what part Lucille is cast in this little comedy; the next that I be allowed to see her at reasonable intervals, and finally that she is known by her rightful name as Duchesse de Souspennier.”
The forced urbanity which the Prince had assumed fell away from him without warning. The tone of his reply was almost a sneer.
“I repeat,” he said, “that I can recognise no conditions.”
“It is perhaps,” Mr. Sabin continued, “the wrong word to use. We submit to your authority, but you and I are well aware that your discretionary powers are large. I ask you to use them.”
“And I,” the Prince said, “refuse. Let me add that I intend to prevent any recurrence of your little adventure of last night. Lucille shall not see you again until her task is over. And as for you, my dear Duke, I desire only your absence. I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but your name has been associated in the past with too many failures to inspire us with any confidence in engaging you as an ally. Countess, a carriage from Dorset House awaits you.”
But Lucille sat still, and Mr. Sabin rose slowly to his feet.
“I thank you, Prince,” he said, “for throwing away the mask. Fighting is always better without the buttons. It is true that I have failed more than once, but it is also true that my failures have been more magnificent than your waddle across the plain of life. As for your present authority, I challenge you to your face that you are using it to gain your private ends. What I have said to you I shall repeat to those whose place is above yours. Lucille shall go to Dorset House, but I warn you that I hold my life a slight thing where her welfare is concerned. Your hand is upon the lever of a great organization, I am only a unit in the world. Yet I would have you remember that more than once, Prince, when you and I have met with the odds in your favour the victory has been mine. Play the game fairly, and you have nothing to fear from me but the open opposition I have promised you. Bring but the shadow of evil upon her, misuse your power but ever so slightly against her, and I warn you that I shall count the few years of life left to me a trifle – of less than no account – until you and I cry quits.”
The Prince smiled, a fat, good-natured smile, behind which the malice was indeed well hidden.
“Come, come, my dear Souspennier,” he declared. “This is unworthy of you. It is positively melodramatic. It reminds me of the plays of my Fatherland, and of your own Adelphi Theatre. We should be men of the world, you and I. You must take your defeats with your victories. I can assure you that the welfare of the Countess Lucille shall be my special care.”
Lucille for the first time spoke. She rose from her chair and rested her hands affectionately upon her husband’s shoulder.
“Dear Victor,” she said, “remember that we are in London, and, need I add, have confidence in me. The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer and I understand one another, I believe. If we do not it is not my fault. My presence here at this moment should prove to you how eagerly I shall look forward to the time when our separation is no longer necessary.”
She passed away into the inner room with a little farewell gesture tender and regretful. Mr. Sabin resumed his seat.
“I believe, Prince,” he said, “that no good can come of any further conference between you and me. We understand one another too well. Might I suggest therefore that you permit me to ring?”
The Prince rose to his feet.
“You are right,” he said. “The bandying of words between you and me is a waste of time. We are both of us too old at the game. But come, before I go I will do you a good turn. I will prove that I am in a generous mood.”
Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders.
“If anything in this world could inspire me with fear,” he remarked, “it would be the generosity of the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer.”
The Prince sighed.
“You always misunderstand me,” he murmured. “However, I will prove my words. You spoke of an appeal.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I intend to impeach you for making use of the powers entrusted to you for your own private ends – in other words, for making an arbitrary misuse of your position.”
The Prince nodded.
“It is very well put,” he said. “I shall await the result of your appeal in fear and trembling. I confess that I am very much afraid. But, come now, I am going to be generous. I am going to help you on a little. Do you know to whom your appeal must be made?”
“To the Grand Duke!” Mr. Sabin replied.
The Prince shook his head.
“Ah me!” he said, “how long indeed you have been absent from the world. The Grand Duke is no longer the head of our little affair. Shall I tell you who has succeeded him?”
“I can easily find out,” Mr. Sabin answered.
“Ah, but I warned you that I was in a generous mood,” the Prince said, with a smile. “I will save you the trouble. With your permission I will whisper the name in your ear. It is not one which we mention lightly.”
He stepped forward and bent his head for a moment. Afterwards, as he drew back, the smile upon his lips broadened until he showed all his teeth. It was a veritable triumph. Mr. Sabin, taken wholly by surprise, had not been able to conceal his consternation.
“It is not possible,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “He would not dare.”
But in his heart he knew that the Prince had spoken the truth.
CHAPTER XXIII
After all,” said the Prince, looking up from the wine list, “why cannot I be satisfied with you? And why cannot you be satisfied with me? It would save so much trouble.”
Lady Carey, who was slowly unwinding the white veil from her picture hat, shrugged her shoulders.
“My dear man,” she said, “you could not seriously expect me to fall in love with you.”
The Prince sipped his wine – a cabinet hock of rare vintage – and found it good. He leaned over towards his companion.
“Why not?” he asked. “I wish that you would try – in earnest, I mean. You are capable of great things, I believe – perhaps of the great passion itself.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured derisively.
“And yet,” he continued, “there has always been in our love-making a touch of amateurishness. It is an awkward word, but I do not know how better to explain myself.”
“I understand you perfectly,” she answered. “I can also, I think, explain it. It is because I never cared a rap about you.”
The Prince did not appear altogether pleased. He curled his fair moustache, and looked deprecatingly at his companion. She had so much the air of a woman who has spoken the truth.
“My dear Muriel!” he protested.
She looked at him insolently.
“My good man,” she said, “whatever you do don’t try and be sentimental. You know quite well that I have never in my life pretended to care a rap about you – except to pass the time. You are altogether too obvious. Very young girls and very old women would rave about you. You simply don’t appeal to me. Perhaps I know you too well. What does it matter!”
He sighed and examined a sauce critically. They were lunching at Prince’s alone, at a small table near the wall.
“Your taste,” he remarked a little spitefully, “would be considered a trifle strange. Souspennier carries his years well, but he must be an old man.”
She sipped her wine thoughtfully.
“Old or young,” she said, “he is a man, and all my life I have loved men, – strong men. To have him here opposite to me at this moment, mine, belonging to me, the slave of my will, I would give – well, I would give – a year of my life – my new tiara – anything!”
“What a pity,” he murmured, “that we cannot make an exchange, you and I, Lucille and he!”
“Ah, Lucille!” she murmured. “Well, she is beautiful. That goes for much. And she has the grand air. But, heavens, how stupid!”
“Stupid!” he repeated doubtfully.
She drummed nervously upon the tablecloth with her fingers.
“Oh, not stupid in the ordinary way, of course, but yet a fool. I should like to see man or devil try and separate us if I belonged to him – until I was tired of him. That would come, of course. It comes always. It is the hideous part of life.”
“You look always,” he said, “a little too far forward. It is a mistake. After all, it is the present only which concerns us.”
“Admirable philosophy,” she laughed scornfully, “but when one is bored to death in the present one must look forward or backward for consolation.”
He continued his lunch in silence for a while.
“I am rebuked!” he said.
There came a pause in the courses. He looked at her critically. She was very handsomely dressed in a walking costume of dove-coloured grey. The ostrich feathers which drooped from her large hat were almost priceless. She had the undeniable air of being a person of breeding. But she was paler even than usual, her hair, notwithstanding its careful arrangement, gave signs of being a little thin in front. There were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She knew these things, but she bore his inspection with indifference.
“I wonder,” he said reflectively, “what we men see in you. You have plenty of admirers. They say that Grefton got himself shot out at the front because you treated him badly. Yet – you are not much to look at, are you?”
She laughed at him. Hers was never a pleasant laugh, but this time it was at least natural.
“How discriminating,” she declared. “I am an ugly woman, and men of taste usually prefer ugly women. Then I am always well dressed. I know how to wear my clothes. And I have a shocking reputation. A really wicked woman, I once heard pious old Lady Surbiton call me! Dear old thing! It did me no end of good. Then I have the very great advantage of never caring for any one more than a few days together. Men find that annoying.”
“You have violent fancies,” he remarked, “and strange ones.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “They concern no one except myself.”
“This Souspennier craze, for instance!”
She nodded.
“Well, you can’t say that I’m not honest. It is positively my only virtue. I adore the truth. I loathe a lie. That is one reason, I daresay, why I can only barely tolerate you. You are a shocking – a gross liar.”
“Muriel!”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she exclaimed irritably. “You must hear the truth sometimes. And now, please remember that I came to lunch with you to hear about your visit this morning.”
The Prince gnawed his moustache, and the light in his eyes was not a pleasant thing to see. This woman with her reckless life, her odd fascination, her brusque hatred of affectations, was a constant torment to him. If only he could once get her thoroughly into his power.
“My visit,” he said, “was wholly successful. It could not well be otherwise. Lucille has returned to Dorset House. Souspennier is confounded altogether by a little revelation which I ventured to make. He spoke of an appeal. I let him know with whom he would have to deal. I left him nerveless and crushed. He can do nothing save by open revolt. And if he tries that – well, there will be no more of this wonderful Mr. Sabin.”
“Altogether a triumph to you,” she remarked scornfully. “Oh, I know the sort of thing. But, after all, my dear Ferdinand, what of last night. I hate the woman, but she played the game, and played it well. We were fooled, both of us. And to think that I – “
She broke off with a short laugh. The Prince looked at her curiously.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you had some idea of consoling the desolate husband?”
“Perhaps I had,” she answered coolly. “It didn’t come off, did it? Order me some coffee, and give me a cigarette, my friend. I have something else to say to you.”
He obeyed her, and she leaned back in the high chair.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I have nothing whatever to do with you and Lucille. I suppose you will get your revenge on Souspennier through her. It won’t be like you if you don’t try, and you ought to have the game pretty well in your own hands. But I won’t have Souspennier harmed. You understand?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Souspennier,” he said, “must take care. If he oversteps the bounds he must pay the penalty.”
She leaned forward. There was a look in her face which he knew very well.
“You and I understand one another,” she said coolly. “If you want me for an enemy you can have me. Very likely I shall tell you before long that you can do what you like with the man. But until I do it will be very dangerous for you if harm comes to him.”
“It is no use,” he answered doggedly. “If he attacks he must be silenced.”
“If he attacks,” she answered, “you must give me twenty-four hours clear notice before you move a hand against him. Afterwards – well, we will discuss that.”
“You had better,” he said, looking at her with an ugly gleam in his eyes, “persuade him to take you for a little tour on the Continent. It would be safer.”
“If he would come,” she said coolly, “I would go to-morrow. But he won’t – just yet. Never mind. You have heard what I wanted to say. Now shall we go? I am going to get some sleep this afternoon. Everybody tells me that I look like a ghost.”
“Why not come to Grosvenor Square with me?” he leaning a little across the table. “Patoff shall make you some Russian tea, and afterwards you shall sleep as long as you like.”
“How idyllic!” she answered, with a faint sarcastic smile. “It goes to my heart to decline so charming an invitation. But, to tell you the truth, it would bore me excessively.”
He muttered something under his breath which startled the waiter at his elbow. Then he followed her out of the room. She paused for a few moments in the portico to finish buttoning her gloves.
“Many thanks for my lunch,” she said, nodding to him carelessly. “I’m sure I’ve been a delightful companion.”
“You have been a very tormenting one,” he answered gloomily as he followed her out on to the pavement.
“You should try Lucille,” she suggested maliciously.
He stood by her side while they waited for her carriage, and looked at her critically. Her slim, elegant figure had never seemed more attractive to him. Even the insolence of her tone and manner had an odd sort of fascination. He tried to hold for a moment the fingers which grasped her skirt.
“I think,” he whispered, “that after you Lucille would be dull!”
She laughed.
“That is because Lucille has morals and a conscience,” she said, “and I have neither. But, dear me, how much more comfortably one gets on without them. No, thank you, Prince. My coupe is only built for one. Remember.”
She flung him a careless nod from the window. The Prince remained on the pavement until after the little brougham had driven away. Then he smiled softly to himself as he turned to follow it.
“No!” he said. “I think not! I think that she will not get our good friend Souspennier. We shall see!”
CHAPTER XXIV
A barely furnished man’s room, comfortable, austere, scholarly. The refuge of a busy man, to judge by the piles of books and papers which littered the large open writing-table. There were despatch boxes turned upside down, a sea of parchment and foolscap. In the midst of it all a man deep in thought.
A visitor, entering with the freedom of an old acquaintance, laid his hand upon his shoulder and greeted him with an air of suppressed enthusiasm.
“Planning the campaign, eh, Brott? Or is that a handbook to Court etiquette? You will need it within the week. There are all sorts of rumours at the clubs.”
Brott shook himself free from his fit of apathetic reflection. He would not have dared to tell his visitor where his thoughts had been for the last half hour.
“Somehow,” he said, “I do not think that little trip to Windsor will come just yet. The King will never send for me unless he is compelled.”
His visitor, an ex-Cabinet Minister, a pronounced Radical and a lifelong friend of Brott’s, shrugged his shoulders.
“That time,” he said, “is very close at hand. He will send for Letheringham first, of course, and great pressure will be brought to bear upon him to form a ministry. But without you he will be helpless. He has not the confidence of the people.”
“Without me,” Brott repeated slowly. “You think then that I should not accept office with Letheringham?”
His visitor regarded him steadily for a moment, open-mouthed, obviously taken aback.
“Brott, are you in your right senses?” he asked incredulously. “Do you know what you are saying?”
Brott laughed a little nervously.
“This is a great issue, Grahame,” he said. “I will confess that I am in an undecided state. I am not sure that the country is in a sufficiently advanced state for our propaganda. Is this really our opportunity, or is it only the shadow of what is to come thrown before? If we show our hand too soon all is lost for this generation. Don’t look at me as though I were insane, Grahame. Remember that the country is only just free from a long era of Conservative rule.”
“The better our opportunity,” Grahame answered vigorously. “Two decades of puppet government are enervating, I admit, but they only pave the way more surely to the inevitable reaction. What is the matter with you, Brott? Are you ill? This is the great moment of our lives. You must speak at Manchester and Birmingham within this week. Glasgow is already preparing for you. Everything and everybody waits for your judgment. Good God, man, it’s magnificent! Where’s your enthusiasm? Within a month you must be Prime Minister, and we will show the world the way to a new era.”
Brott sat quite still. His friend’s words had stirred him for the moment. Yet he seemed the victim of a curious indecision. Grahame leaned over towards him.
“Brott, old friend,” he said, “you are not ill?”
Brott shook his head.
“I am perfectly well,” he said.
Grahame hesitated.
“It is a delicate thing to mention,” he said. “Perhaps I shall pass even the bounds of our old comradeship. But you have changed. Something is wrong with you. What is it?”
“There is nothing,” Brott answered, looking up. “It is your fancy. I am well enough.”
Grahame’s face was dark with anxiety.
“This is no idle curiosity of mine,” he said. “You know me better than that. But the cause which is nearer my heart than life itself is at stake. Brott, you are the people’s man, their promised redeemer. Think of them, the toilers, the oppressed, God’s children, groaning under the iniquitous laws of generations of evil statesmanship. It is the dawn of their new day, their faces are turned to you. Man, can’t you hear them crying? You can’t fail them. You mustn’t. I don’t know what is the matter with you, Brott, but away with it. Free yourself, man.”
Brott sighed wearily, but already there was a change in him. His face was hardening – the lines in his face deepened. Grahame continued hastily – eagerly.
“Public men,” he said, “are always at the mercy of the halfpenny press, but you know, Brott, your appearance so often in Society lately has set men’s tongues wagging. There is no harm done, but it is time to stop them. You are right to want to understand these people. You must go down amongst them. It has been slumming in Mayfair for you, I know. But have done with it now. It is these people we are going to fight. Let it be open war. Let them hear your programme at Glasgow. We don’t want another French Revolution, but it is going to be war against the drones, fierce, merciless war! You must break with them, Brott, once and for ever. And the time is now.”
Brott held out his hand across the table. No one but this one man could have read the struggle in his face.
“You are right, Grahame. I thank you. I thank you as much for what you have left unsaid as for what you have said. I was a fool to think of compromising. Letheringham is a nerveless leader. We should have gone pottering on for another seven years. Thank God that you came when you did. See here!”
He tossed him over a letter. Grahame’s cheek paled as he read.
“Already!” he murmured.
Brott nodded.
“Read it!”
Grahame devoured every word. His eyes lit up with excitement.
“My prophecy exactly,” he exclaimed, laying it down. “It is as I said. He cannot form the ministry without you. His letter is abject. He gives himself away. It is an entreaty. And your answer?”
“Has not yet gone,” Brott said. “You shall write it yourself if you like. I am thankful that you came when you did.”
“You were hesitating?” Grahame exclaimed.
“I was.”
Grahame looked at him in wonder, and Brott faced him sturdily.
“It seems like treason to you, Grahame!” he said. “So it does to me now. I want nothing in the future to come between us,” he continued more slowly, “and I should like if I can to expunge the memory of this interview. And so I am going to tell you the truth.” Grahame held out his hand.
“Don’t!” he said. “I can forget without.”
I3rott shook his head.
“No,” he said. “You had better understand everything. The halfpenny press told the truth. Yet only half the truth. I have been to all these places, wasted my time, wasted their time, from a purely selfish reason – to be near the only woman I have ever cared for, the woman, Grahame!”
“I knew it,” Grahame murmured. “I fought against the belief, I thought that I had stifled it. But I knew it all the time.”
“If I have seemed lukewarm sometimes of late,” Brott said, “there is the cause. She is an aristocrat, and my politics are hateful to her. She has told me so seriously, playfully, angrily. She has let me feel it in a hundred ways. She has drawn me into discussions and shown the utmost horror of my views. I have cared for her all my life, and she knows it. And I think, Grahame, that lately she has been trying constantly, persistently, to tone down my opinions. She has let me understand that they are a bar between us. And it is a horrible confession, Grahame, but I believe that I was wavering. This invitation from Letheringham seemed such a wonderful opportunity for compromise.”
“This must never go out of the room,” Grahame said hoarsely. “It would ruin your popularity. They would never trust you again.
“I shall tell no one else,” Brott said.
“And it is over?” Grahame demanded eagerly.
“It is over.”
* * * * *
The Duke of Dorset, who entertained for his party, gave a great dinner that night at Dorset House, and towards its close the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer, who was almost the only non-political guest, moved up to his host in response to an eager summons. The Duke was perturbed.
“You have heard the news, Saxe Leinitzer?”
“I did not know of any news,” the Prince answered. “What is it?”
“Brott has refused to join with Letheringham in forming a ministry. It is rumoured even that a coalition was proposed, and that Brott would have nothing to do with it.”
The Prince looked into his wineglass.
“Ah!” he said.
“This is disturbing news,” the Duke continued. You do not seem to appreciate its significance.”
The Prince looked up again.
“Perhaps not,” he said. “You shall explain to me.”
“Brott refuses to compromise,” the Duke said. “He stands for a ministry of his own selection. Heaven only knows what mischief this may mean. His doctrines are thoroughly revolutionary. He is an iconoclast with a genius for destruction. But he has the ear of the people. He is to-day their Rienzi.”
The Prince nodded.
“And Lucille?” he remarked. “What does she say?”
“I have not spoken to her,” the Duke answered. “The news has only just come.”
“We will speak to her,” the Prince said, “together.”
Afterwards in the library there was a sort of informal meeting, and their opportunity came.
“So you have failed, Countess,” her host said, knitting his grey brows at her.
She smilingly acknowledged defeat.
“But I can assure you,” she said, “that I was very near success. Only on Monday he had virtually made up his mind to abandon the extreme party and cast in his lot with Letheringham. What has happened to change him I do not know.”
The Prince curled his fair moustache.
“It is a pity,” he said, “that he changed his mind. For one thing is very certain. The Duke and I are agreed upon it. A Brott ministry must never be formed.”
She looked up quickly.
“What do you mean?”
The Prince answered her without hesitation.
“If one course fails,” he said, “another must be adopted. I regret having to make use of means which are somewhat clumsy and obvious. But our pronouncement on this one point is final. Brott must not be allowed to form a ministry.”
She looked at him with something like horror in her soft full eyes.
“What would you do?” she murmured.
The Prince shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” he said, “we are not quite medieval enough to adopt the only really sensible method and remove Mr. Brott permanently from the face of the earth. We should stop a little short of that, but I can assure you that Mr. Brott’s health for the next few months is a matter for grave uncertainty. It is a pity for his sake that you failed.”
She bit her lip.
“Do you know if he is still in London?” she asked.
“He must be on the point of leaving for Scotland,” the Duke answered. “If he once mounts the platform at Glasgow there will be no further chance of any compromise. He will be committed irretrievably to his campaign of anarchy.”
“And to his own disaster,” the Prince murmured.
Lucille remained for a moment deep in thought. Then she looked up.
“If I can find him before he starts,” she said hurriedly, “I will make one last effort.”
CHAPTER XXV
He peered forward over his desk at the tall graceful figure whose