The mystery road

By E. Phillips Oppenheim

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Title: The mystery road

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim

Illustrator: F. Vaux Wilson

Release date: February 2, 2026 [eBook #77836]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1923

Credits: Susan E., David E. Brown, Dori Allard, Mary Fahnestock-Thomas, Adam Faiz, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY ROAD ***




THE MYSTERY ROAD




[Illustration: Gerald looked him over for a moment, unmoved but
intensely curious. FRONTISPIECE. _See page 82._]




  THE MYSTERY ROAD

  By
  E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

  WITH FRONTISPIECE BY
  F. VAUX WILSON

  [Illustration]

  BOSTON
  LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
  1923




  _Copyright, 1923_,
  BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

  _All rights reserved_

  Published May, 1923


  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




  _To
  the memory of_

  _WINIFRED TOLTON_

  _the most wonderful secretary and
  dearest friend of my life I dedicate
  this story which I dictated to her
  and which she loved_




BOOK ONE




THE MYSTERY ROAD




BOOK ONE




CHAPTER I


Myrtile stood upon the crazy verandah, her eyes shaded by her hand,
gazing down the straight, narrow footpath, a sundering line across the
freshly ploughed field, which led to the village in the hollow below.
The mouldering white stone cottage from which she had issued was set
in a cleft of the pine-covered hills; it seemed to struggle against
its inborn ugliness and to succeed only because of the beauty of its
setting,--in the foreground the brown earth, with its neatly trained
vines and its quarter of an acre of fragrant violets; the orchard, pink
and white with masses of cherry blossom; beyond, a level stretch of
freshly turned brown earth, soon to become a delicate carpet of tender
green, and, by the time the vines should sprout, a sea of deep gold.
It was the typical homestead of the small French peasant proprietor.
Even the goat was not absent, the goat which came at that moment with
clanking chain to rub his nose against the girl’s knee.

Myrtile’s hand dropped to her side. The three figures were plainly
visible now. She remained quiescent, watching them with a mute tragedy
in her face which, to any one ignorant of the inner significance of
this approaching procession, must have seemed a little puzzling. For
there was nothing tragic about Jean Sargot--middle-aged, a typical
peasant of the district, with coarsened face and weather-beaten
skin--or about the companion who hung on his arm,--a plump, dark woman,
with black hair and eyes, vociferous and fluent of gesture, with a
high-pitched voice and apparently much to say. The third person, who
walked in the rear, seemed even less likely to incite apprehension. He
was more corpulent than his neighbour Jean Sargot, and he wore clothes
of a holiday type, ill suited to this quiet country promenade. His
coat was black and long, a garment, it appeared, of earlier years,
for it left a very broad gap to display a fancy waistcoat adorned by
a heavy gold chain. He wore a silk hat which had done duty at every
christening, marriage and funeral in the neighbourhood for the last
twenty years, and his whole appearance was one of discomfort. Yet the
girl’s eyes, as they rested upon him, were filled with terror.

They were near enough now for speech, and her stepfather, waving his
hand, called out to her:

“It is the Widow Dumay, little one, and our friend and neighbour,
Pierre Leschamps, who come to drink a glass of wine with us. Hurry with
the table and some chairs, and bring one--two bottles of last year’s
vintage. It is not so bad, that wine, neighbour Pierre, I can promise
you.”

“Any wine will be good after such a walk,” the widow declared, panting.
“Either the village lies too low, friend Jean, or your house too high.
It will be good to rest.”

They sank into the chairs which Myrtile had already placed upon the
verandah, Pierre Leschamps laying his hat upon a handkerchief in a safe
corner. There were beads of perspiration upon his forehead, for, unlike
his friend and host, he was unused to exercise. He kept the little
café in the village, and the strip of land which went with it he let
to others. His pale cheeks and flabby limbs told their own story. Jean
Sargot looked about him with the pride of the proprietor.

“Not so bad, this little dwelling, eh?” he exclaimed. “Four rooms, all
well-furnished, a bed such as one seldom sees, and a wardrobe made by
my own grandfather, Jacques Sargot, the carpenter. It pleases thee,
Marie?”

The widow looked around her with a little sniff.

“It might be worse,” she conceded, “but there are the children.”

“Three only,” Sargot replied, “and in a year or so they will all be in
the fields. Think what that may mean. We can sell the timber from the
strip behind and plant more vines. Children are not so bad when they
are strong.”

“The little ones are well enough,” Madame Dumay admitted, “but thy
eldest--Myrtile--she has not the air of health.”

They all looked up at the girl, who was approaching them at this
moment with wine and glasses. She was of medium height and slim. Her
complexion was creamily pale; even the skin about her neck and arms
had little of the peasant’s brown. Her neatly braided hair was of the
darkest shade of brown, with here and there some glints of a lighter
colour. Her eyes, silkily fringed, were of a wonderful shade of deep
blue, her mouth tremulous and beautiful. There was something a little
exotic about her appearance, although no actual indication of ill
health. The widow looked at her critically; Pierre, the innkeeper, with
unpleasant things in his black, beady eyes.

“Pooh! she is well enough,” her stepfather declared. “Never a doctor
has crossed this threshold since her mother died many years ago.”

Myrtile welcomed her father’s guests pleasantly but timidly. Then,
after she had filled the glasses, she would have slipped back into the
house but Jean Sargot grasped her by the arm.

“To-night, my child,” he insisted, “you must leave your books alone.
You must drink a glass of wine with us. It is an occasion, this.”

Myrtile looked from one to the other of the two visitors. She had for a
moment the air of a trapped animal. Madame Dumay made a little grimace,
but Pierre only laughed. She was a flower, this Myrtile, not like other
girls. Even the young men complained of her aloofness. He knew well how
to deal with such modesty.

“Behold,” her stepfather continued, “our two best friends! Here is good
Madame Dumay. A nice little income she makes at the shop, and a tidy
sum in her stocking.”

“Oh, là, là!” the widow interrupted. “What has that to do with thee, my
friend?”

“And also,” Jean Sargot went on, without taking heed of the
interruption, “the brave Pierre Leschamps. Oh, a gay dog, that
Leschamps! A man of property, mark you, child. And listen! Why do you
think these friends of mine are here?”

“I cannot tell,” Myrtile faltered.

“Madame Dumay will become my wife. It is what we need here. And Pierre
Leschamps--hear this, little one--he seeks a wife. He has chosen you.
I have given my consent.”

Leschamps had risen to his feet. Myrtile shrank back against the wall.
The terror had leaped now into life.

“I will not marry Monsieur Leschamps,” she declared. “The other--is
your affair. But as for me, I will not marry!”

Jean Sargot leaned back in his chair and drank his wine. His two guests
followed his example.

“Ho, ho!” he laughed. “Come, that is good! You were always a shy child,
Myrtile. Pierre shall woo you into a different humour.”

“Ay, indeed!” the innkeeper assented, leering across at the girl with
covetous eyes. “We shall understand one another presently, little one.
You need have no fear. Marriage is a pleasant thing. You will find it
so like all the others.”

“It is an institution to be toasted,” Jean Sargot declared, filling the
glasses and glancing amorously towards the widow. “Trouble not about
Myrtile, my friend Pierre. She is thine. We shall drink this glass of
wine to Marriage. It will be a festival, that, eh, Marie?”

Myrtile slipped through the open doorway. Her prospective husband
looked after her for a moment and half rose. Then he looked back at the
wine, flowing into his glass. Myrtile would keep,--wine by the side of
Jean Sargot, never! He resumed his seat. In a minute or two he would
follow her,--as soon as the second bottle was empty.

Across the stone-flagged floor, out through the little garden and
along the cypress avenue to the road, Myrtile fled. She was like a
terrified young fawn in the half-light, her hair flying behind her,
her large eyes filled with fear. Her feet seemed scarcely to touch the
grass-grown track. She fled as one who leaves behind evil things. Only
once she looked over her shoulder. No one was stirring, no one seemed
to have thought of pursuit. She reached the gate which led out on to
the road and clung to it for a moment, as though for protection. On the
other side was freedom. Her eyes filled with passionate desire. If only
she knew how to gain it!

They were singing now down at the cottage. She heard Jean Sargot’s
strident voice in some country song of harvest and vintage and what
they called love. As she stood there in the quiet of the evening, there
seemed suddenly to leap into life a very furnace of revolt. She was
weary of her monotonous tasks,--the abuse of her stepfather, generally
at night the worse for sour wine and fiery brandy; the care of those
motherless children, not of her own stock yet dependent upon her; the
grey tedium of a life unbeautiful and hopeless. And now this fresh
terror! Her fingers tore at the rough splinters of the gate. Her eyes
travelled hungrily along that great stretch of road, passing here and
there through the forests, rising in the far distance to the top of the
brown hillside, and disappearing in mystery. At the other end of the
road one might find happiness!




CHAPTER II


The two young men adopted characteristic attitudes when confronted
with the slight misadventure of a burst tyre and a delay of half an
hour. Christopher Bent deliberately filled and lit a pipe, and, seating
himself on the top of a low, grey, stone wall, gave himself up to the
joy of a wonderful view and the pleasure of unusual surroundings. His
companion, Gerald Dombey, stood peevishly in the middle of the road,
with his hands in his pockets, cursing the flint-strewn road, the
rottenness of all motor tyres, and the evil chance which led to this
mishap in the last lap of their journey.

“We’ll be on the road again in twenty minutes, your lordship,” the
chauffeur promised, as he paused for a moment to wipe the perspiration
from his forehead. “It’s been cruel going all the way from Brignolles,
and you’ve kept her at well past the forty, all the time.”

His master nodded with some signs of returning equanimity.

“Don’t distress yourself, John,” he said. “There’s no real hurry so
long as we get into Monte Carlo before dark. Come on, Christopher,” he
added, turning to his companion. “Get off that wall and let us explore.”

The two young men strolled off together. On their right was a
thickly planted forest of pine trees, fragrantly aromatic after the
warm sunshine of the April day. On their left was a stretch of very
wonderful country, a country of vineyards and pastures, of wooded
knolls and fruitful valleys. And in the background, the sombre outline
of the mountains. Gerald paused to point to the little, discoloured
house of Jean Sargot.

“Are they real people who live in these quaint cottages?” he
speculated. “That place, for instance, looks like a toy farm, with its
patch of violets, its tiny vineyard, its belt of ploughed land and this
little grove of cypresses. It is just as though some child had taken
them all from his play box and laid them out there.”

Christopher withdrew the pipe from his mouth for a moment. He was
looking at the opening in the little grove of cypresses.

“And there,” he murmured, “must be the child to whom they all belong. I
think you are right, Gerald. There is something unreal about the place.”

Gerald, too, was suddenly conscious of the girl who stood clutching
the top of the wooden gate, her face turned a little away from them,
absorbed in the contemplation of that distant spot where the road
vanished in a faint haze of blue mist.

“We will talk to her,” he declared. “You shall practise your French
upon this little rustic, Chris. She probably won’t be able to
understand a word you say.”

At the sound of their voices, Myrtile turned her head, and, at the
things which they saw in her face, there was no longer any thought of
frivolous conversation on the part of the two young men. They stood for
a moment indeed, speechless, Christopher spellbound, Gerald, of quicker
sensibility, carried for a moment into the world from which she seemed
to have fallen. Then his old habits asserted themselves. She was as
beautiful as an angel, but her feet were on the ground, and she was
obviously in distress.

“Are you alive, mademoiselle?” he asked, raising his cap.

“But certainly, monsieur,” she answered gravely. “I am alive but very
unhappy.”

“You can tell us, perhaps, the way to Cannes?” Christopher enquired.

She pointed to where the thin ribbon of road in the distance seemed to
melt into the bosom of the clouds.

“Cannes is over there, monsieur,” she said, “and there is no other road
save this one.”

“You go there often, perhaps?” Christopher ventured.

“I have never been there, monsieur,” she answered, with her eyes fixed
upon Gerald. “Night after night, when my work is done, I come here and
I watch the road just where it fades away, but I have never travelled
along it. I have never been further than the first village, down in the
hollow.”

Gerald came a step nearer to her. He leaned against the gate post. His
tone and manner became unconsciously caressing. It was generally so
when he spoke with women.

“You are in trouble, mademoiselle,” he said. “Sometimes even a stranger
may help.”

She looked down the road towards where the automobile was jacked up.

“Yes,” she admitted, “I am in great trouble. No one but a stranger
could help me because I have no friends.”

“Be brave, then, and speak on,” Gerald enjoined.

There had been no previous time in her life when Myrtile had been
required to marshal her thoughts and speak unaccustomed words, yet, at
that moment, clearly and unfalteringly she told her story. She pointed
to the weather-stained cottage behind.

“I live there,” she said, “with three half-brothers and sisters and a
stepfather. My mother was the village schoolmistress. She married for
the second time a bad man, and she died. I have taken care of those
children. I have kept the house clean and tidy. I have done what the
curé told me was my duty, and all the time I have hated it.”

“Why?” Christopher asked simply.

She looked across as though surprised at his intervention.

“Because the children are coarse and greedy and ill-mannered,” she
explained. “I wear myself out trying to make them different, but it is
useless. It is in their blood, because my stepfather--is worse. Often
he drinks too much brandy, he is quarrelsome, he is never kind. There
is not one little joy in life, only when I escape for a little time and
come here, and look down the road which leads to liberty, and wonder
what may lie at the other side of the hills there. You see, I have read
books--many books. My mother and father were both well-educated. I know
and feel that the life I am leading is terrible.”

“There is something beyond all this,” Gerald said. “There is something
of instant trouble in your face.”

Again for a moment she was voiceless, a white, dumb thing stricken
nerveless with horror. It was that look which had surprised the two
men. Her breath, as she spoke, seemed choked with unuttered sobs.

“My stepfather brought home from the village to-night--the Widow Dumay.
He is to marry her--to bring her to the farm. He brought, too, Pierre
Leschamps, the keeper of the Café.--Horrible!--horrible!”

“Pierre Leschamps,” Gerald murmured softly. “Go on.”

The girl opened her lips but the words seemed to stick in her throat.

“They propose, perhaps, to betroth you?” he asked, with quick
understanding.

Her assent was mirrored in the agony of her eyes.

“He is fat and old and he drinks,” she cried. “I would sooner die than
have him come near me!”

The two young men turned their heads and looked down at the little
farmhouse. The very abode of peace, it seemed, with its thin thread
of smoke curling up to the sky, its thatched roof, its reposeful
atmosphere. Just then, however, they caught the murmur of discordant
voices, a shrill shriek of laughter. The men were singing.

“Look upon us as two friends,” Gerald begged. “What would you have us
do?”

The girl pointed once more to where the road disappeared amongst the
hills.

“If you leave me here,” she declared, “I shall walk and run and crawl
until I pass out of sight there, and perhaps they may borrow the
widow’s cart and catch me, and then I shall kill myself. Take me with
you as far as you are going--somewhere where I can hide.”

The car glided slowly up to where they were standing. Gerald did not
hesitate for a moment. He stepped into his place at the driving wheel
and motioned to the seat by his side.

“Agreed,” he said. “We will start you, little one--tell me, how are you
called?”

“Myrtile,” she murmured.

“We will start you off on the great adventure of life. It seems to me
that there can be nothing worse in store for you than what you leave
behind.”

The girl pushed open the gate and sprang into the car like a frightened
thing. Gerald turned his head. Around the corner of the farm three
unsteady figures showed themselves; three voices--two raucous and one
shrill--called for Myrtile. There were threats, gesticulations. The
girl cowered by Gerald’s side.

“Start!” she implored. “Start, please!”

Christopher, however, still hesitated.

“I think,” he said, “we should first hear what these people have to
say. They have, after all, some claim upon the girl. It might be
possible to aid her without bringing her away from home.”

Myrtile clung to Gerald. Her eyes were swimming pools of passionate
entreaty.

“Start, monsieur,” she pleaded. “There is nothing for me but escape.
Why does the other gentleman mind?”

“Get in, there’s a good fellow,” Gerald begged impatiently. “We don’t
want to have a row with these yokels.”

The chauffeur was already in the dickey behind. Myrtile’s eyes implored
Christopher to take the place by her side. With his feet still on the
road, however, he leaned across her to Gerald.

“Gerald,” he said, “this is a more serious affair than you seem to
think. Who is going to look after the child when we get to Monte Carlo?”

“You can, if you like,” was the careless reply. “I’m not thinking of
playing the Lothario, if that is what you mean.”

“Word of honour?”

“Word of honour. Don’t be an ass, old chap. It’s up to us to give the
girl a chance.”

Christopher stripped off his coat and wrapped it around Myrtile. Then
he took the place by her side. Gerald slipped in the clutch and they
glided off.

The twilight overtook them swiftly. The lights of Monte Carlo, as
they commenced the long descent, were like pin pricks of fire thrust
through a deep blue carpet. Out in the bay, the yacht of an American
millionaire was illuminated from bow to stern. From the back of the
twin range of hills on their left, the golden horn of the moon was
beginning to show itself. Myrtile, whose eyes had been fixed upon the
flying milestones, leaned forward now with a little exclamation of
wonder.

“It is fairyland!” she cried.

Gerald looked down at her indulgently.

“You live so near and you have never been even as far as this?” he
asked.

“It is as I have told you,” she answered. “I have never travelled ten
kilometres from the farm in my life.”

Christopher was almost incredulous. Gerald, however, nodded
sympathetically. Both young men had taken it for granted from the first
that their charge understood no English.

“In France they are like that,” Gerald remarked. “It is the sous that
count. But this child--isn’t she amazing, Christopher? Except for her
clothes, there isn’t a thing about her that suggests the peasant. She
is like a child Madonna--an angel--who has stolen into the clothes of a
girl gone for her first communion.”

“I should still like to know what you are going to do with her when we
arrive?” Christopher asked bluntly. “Are you going to take her to the
Villa?”

“Later on, perhaps,” was the careless reply. “Certainly not this
evening.”

“Why not?” Christopher persisted. “Your sister is very kind-hearted. It
seems to me, as long as we have the girl on our hands, that she is the
proper person to look after her.”

Gerald smiled slightly.

“My dear Chris,” he said, “you and Mary are pals, I know, but I am not
sure that you altogether understand her. She doesn’t like surprises. We
must pave the way a little before we ask for her help.”

“And in the meantime?”

Gerald yawned.

“What a persistent fellow you are!” he observed.

“You can’t imagine that they will take her in at the hotel, without any
luggage and in our company?”

Myrtile had been looking from one to the other of her two companions
with a sense of growing trouble in her eyes.

“Messieurs,” she interrupted, “it was wrong of me not to tell you
before. I speak a little English. I understand very well.”

“You are a most amazing child!” Gerald exclaimed, looking down at her
in genuine astonishment. “You have never been ten kilometres from your
homestead, and you speak a foreign language! That comes of having a
schoolmistress for a mother, I suppose. However, have no fear. We shall
dispose of you pleasantly.”

“To-morrow,” she said timidly, “I can find work.”

“To-morrow be hanged!” Gerald replied. “Look about you, little one. We
are entering the town. If your story is true--and we know that it is,”
he added hastily, “you see for the first time shops, villas, hotels.
The building in front of us is the Casino. Now you see the lights that
fringe the bay.”

“It is amazing,” Myrtile murmured.

They drew up at the side door of the hotel where the two young men were
to stay. Gerald descended.

“Take care of the child for a few minutes, Chris,” he begged. “I am
going to interview one of the housekeepers.”

He disappeared into the hotel. Myrtile watched his tall, slim figure
until he was lost to sight. Then the fear seemed to return. She
shivered.

“I am a trouble to him,” she faltered. “He will hate me for it. I only
meant that you should drive me somewhere where I could lose myself.
Perhaps I had better go, monsieur. Can I not slip away before he
returns?”

“He would be very angry if you did,” Christopher assured her. “He has
gone to arrange for some one to look after you for the night. To-morrow
I think you will do well if you try to find some work. If you wish it,
I will help you.”

Her eyes still devoured the door through which Gerald had passed.

“Tell me his name?” she begged.

“His name,” Christopher replied, “is Gerald Annesley Dombey.”

She repeated it after him, a little hesitatingly.

“I shall always think of him as Gerald,” she said. “It is a very pretty
name. Tell me, why did the chauffeur say ‘your lordship’?”

“Because he is the eldest son of an earl and he is entitled to be
called Lord Dombey.”

“He is noble, then? I am not surprised. He seemed like that to
me.--And you, monsieur? May I know your name?”

“My name is Christopher Bent,” he replied, “plain Christopher Bent.”

“‘Christopher’ is a very nice name,” she said, with a trifle of
unconscious condescension, “but of course it is not like ‘Gerald.’”

She looked longingly back towards the crowded doorway, and the young
man who stood by her side was aware of a curious and altogether
inexplicable sensation. He suddenly found himself envying Gerald’s
careless but fascinating manners, his good looks, his light, debonair
manner of speech. Even this little waif picked up at the roadside was
already under his spell. Then Christopher remembered other things about
his friend, and his face grew stern.

Gerald returned presently with a neatly dressed young woman. He held
out his hands to Myrtile and assisted her to alight.

“It is all arranged, child,” he announced. “Annette is a chambermaid
here, and the niece of one of the housekeepers, whom I know well. She
will take you to some rooms close at hand, where you will be made
comfortable. To-morrow morning early, Christopher and I will come and
see you.”

“Mademoiselle will be entirely well suited,” the young woman declared.
“It is but a few yards away.”

Myrtile, still wrapped in Christopher’s coat, looked a little pathetic
as she stood upon the pavement by Annette’s side.

“I shall not see you again to-night, then, Monsieur Lord Dombey?” she
asked shyly.

“Not to-night,” he laughed. “And ‘Monsieur Gerald’ is quite enough from
you, petite. To-morrow we will have a long talk. Have no fear--you
shall not return to the farm unless it is your wish.”

Myrtile stooped and with a sudden, passionate gesture raised his hand
to her lips. Then she dragged Annette off, without looking behind.
Gerald laughed a little consciously.

“Our village maiden is somewhat demonstrative,” he remarked lightly.
“Come on, Chris. A cocktail whilst they unpack our clothes. I’ve
telephoned to the Villa. We must do a duty dinner there first, but
afterwards I will show you the land where the pleasure-seekers of the
world have built their Temple.”




CHAPTER III


Lady Mary Dombey was a young woman of very pleasing appearance, but
there were occasions upon which she could look stern. This was one of
them.

“I am never surprised at anything that Gerald does,” she told
Christopher, who was seated next her at the dinner table, “but I must
say that I should never have expected you to have been mixed up in one
of his escapades. What are you going to do with the girl?”

“We rather hoped for some advice from you,” was the somewhat rueful
reply.

“You are welcome to it. Send her home.”

“You wouldn’t talk like that if you’d seen the state of terror she was
in when we found her, Mary,” Gerald remarked from the other side of the
table.

“Is she very beautiful?” his sister enquired.

“Wonderfully,” Christopher pronounced.

Gerald shrugged his shoulders.

“She is of an age when all girls are beautiful,” he observed.
“Perfectly filthy time she seems to have been having, though.”

“We hoped,” Christopher ventured, a little doubtfully, “that you might
be able to make use of her as a kind of under sewing maid, or something
of that sort.”

“Thank you,” Lady Mary replied, without enthusiasm, “I am perfectly
satisfied with the services of my own maid. Besides, the servants’
quarters here are ridiculously cramped. They are all complaining, as it
is.”

Lord Hinterleys, who had taken only a languid interest in the
conversation, intervened for the first time.

“Where is the young person now?” he enquired.

“In some rooms one of the housekeepers at the hotel found for me, sir,”
Gerald replied.

“Perhaps the housekeeper can find her some employment,” his father
suggested.

“We’ll dispose of her all right,” Gerald declared confidently. “She may
wake up in the morning and feel homesick, and, if so, we’ll send her
back.”

“You know very well that she won’t do anything of the sort,”
Christopher protested.

Lady Mary rose to her feet.

“I can’t quite decide,” she said, “which of you two has lost his heart
to this paragon of village loveliness. However, I feel sure that my
advice is the best. Send her back to her people.”

Gerald strolled to the door with his sister and returned to his place,
fingering his cigarette case irritably.

“I have always thought,” he remarked, with mild sarcasm, “that a
barrister should be a person of infinite tact and perceptions. It
appears that I was wrong. I never dreamed that any one could be such a
blithering ass as you, Chris.”

“Thank you, Gerald,” his friend replied, helping himself from the
decanter which Lord Hinterleys had passed around. “In what respect have
I merited this severe criticism?”

“Why, by talking about the girl as though she were something unusual!
Mary’s a good sort, and all that, but no girl likes the man who is
sitting next her at dinner time to rave about his latest discovery of
violet eyes. You’d probably have had those violet eyes to look at
every time you came down to stay at Hinterleys, if you hadn’t made such
an ass of yourself.”

Lord Hinterleys sipped his wine thoughtfully. Gerald, who was longing
to smoke, watched its leisurely disappearance with impatience.

“I am not suggesting for a single moment,” the former observed, “that
your attitude towards this young woman is not and will not always be
entirely irreproachable, but at the same time you must remember that we
are in a country where such adventures are likely to be misunderstood.
I feel inclined, therefore, to endorse your sister’s advice. It is very
possible that the young woman, at the time you discovered her, was
indulging in a passing fit of petulance. I should do all that I could
to encourage her to return to her people.”

“We’ll talk to her in the morning, sir,” Gerald promised. “Wonderfully
this port has travelled.”

“We brought it out six years ago,” his father remarked. “Martin laid
it down himself, and it has not been disturbed since.--There, I have
finished my two glasses. I shall retire to the drawing-room and
persuade Mary to sing to me, and you two young fellows can smoke to
your hearts’ content. Give me your arm, Gerald.”

“Don’t think we shall stop long, if you’ll excuse us, sir,” Gerald
confided, as he rose to his feet. “It’s Christopher’s first night in
Monte Carlo and I want to show him the ropes. Come along, old chap, and
make your adieux,” he added, turning to his friend.

Lord Hinterleys nodded as he leaned on his ivory-topped stick.

“You young men choose weird games at which to lose your money,
nowadays,” he observed. “Filthy places, all Casinos--no ventilation,
foul atmosphere, reeking of scent and tobacco, and, to say the least
of it, a very dubious company. Still, if I were your age I suppose I
shouldn’t notice these things.--Did you do any good with those two
hunters you bought from Loxley, Gerald? One of them I thought was good
enough for some of these country steeplechases.”

Father and son became temporarily absorbed in a subject of common
interest. Lady Mary made room for Christopher by her side. She was
scarcely possessed of her brother’s good looks, but her complexion
was good, her features unexceptionable, her eyes clear and as a rule
sympathetic, her tone and manner attractive. Her figure, especially
in a riding habit, was undeniable, her skill at golf and tennis far
above the ordinary amateur. It was not for lack of offers that, at
twenty-four years of age, she was still unmarried.

“Must you rush off so soon on your first evening?” she asked
reproachfully.

“Not so far as I am concerned,” he assured her. “I would rather stay
here and listen to you sing. It’s Gerald who is dying to lose his
money.”

She made a little grimace.

“Every one goes to the Casino or the Sporting Club at night,” she said,
“and for the first few times it is amusing enough. I hope you won’t
spend all your time there. When shall we play golf?”

“To-morrow afternoon?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’m taking father out to lunch at the Club,” she said. “We’ll play
directly afterwards, if that suits you. Tell me, have you had any
interesting cases lately? I saw that you won the libel suit you were
telling me about.”

They talked for some time with interest. Lady Mary’s wit was keen
and her insight unusual. During a pause in their conversation, Lord
Hinterleys looked across the room through his horn-rimmed eyeglass.

“Your friend seems to get on very well with Mary,” he remarked.

“They’ve always been pals,” Gerald acquiesced.

“Doing pretty well at the Bar, isn’t he?”

“Thundering well. They say he’s certain to be one of our youngest K.
C’s.”

“I knew his father,” Lord Hinterleys reflected. “He was at Eton with
me. Very good stock, though not remarkably prosperous.”

“Christopher isn’t well off,” Gerald admitted. “You don’t make a lot of
money at the Bar your first few years.”

Lord Hinterleys said nothing for several moments.

“Mary has her aunt’s hundred thousand pounds,” he said at length. “She
is a difficult young person to marry. Knows her own mind, though. I
should never interfere.”

“Chris is a good fellow, but I don’t fancy he has any thought of
marrying just yet,” Gerald remarked. “You won’t mind if I take him off
now, sir? We shall meet for lunch at the Golf Club to-morrow.”

Christopher obeyed his friend’s summons without enthusiasm. Gerald,
however, was both insistent and impatient, and the two young men took
their leave a few minutes later.

Christopher, quickly impressed with the charm of the place, would have
willingly spent the remainder of the evening seated outside the Café de
Paris, watching the passers-by, listening to the music, and marvelling
at the amphitheatre of lights which fringed the bay and dotted the
whole background of hills with little specks of yellow fire. Gerald,
however, was too anxious to do the whole honours of the place. He
dragged his friend into the bureau of the Casino, where they obtained
their tickets for the Cercle Privé, and afterwards on to the Sporting
Club, the Mecca of Gerald’s desires for the evening, at any rate.
Christopher breathed a little more freely here than in the Casino; the
atmosphere was less pernicious, the crowd by which he was surrounded
far more attractive. After Gerald had taken a seat at the baccarat
table, he wandered around for some time, fascinated by this strange,
cosmopolitan gathering, their diversity in class, manners and dress.
Presently he found a seat in the little bar, ordered a whisky and soda
and leaned back to watch the never-ceasing stream of pleasure-seeking
loiterers. Suddenly, without any warning, his thoughts played him a
queer trick. The walls of the thronged room fell away; its murmur of
silvery voices, its tangle of exotic perfumes, were nonexistent. He
was back on the cool, sunlit hillside, with the odour of the violets
and the pines in his nostrils, and the girl looking over the gate. She
turned her head and he saw her face,--her beautiful eyes, with their
passionate, terrified appeal; her quivering lips, her child’s figure;
the tender appeal of her, the soul and sweetness of her innocent youth
clinging like some fresh, sweet perfume to her trembling body.

Gerald stood suddenly before him, his face aflame, his eyes brilliant.
His voice quivered with excitement.

“Christopher, you moonstruck old dodderer,” he cried, “wake up! I have
seen the most wonderful creature on earth. I won’t leave this place
until I find out who she is.”

“What, another adventure?” Christopher exclaimed. “Sit down and have a
whisky and soda.”

“Don’t talk to me about whiskies and sodas,” Gerald replied, sinking
into the vacant chair, however, and calling a waiter. “I tell you she’s
the most amazing person I ever saw--a revelation!”

“You’re not thinking about Myrtile?”

“That child? No!” was the impatient rejoinder. “I tell you it’s some
one here to-night. She’s either French or Russian or Italian--I can’t
make up my mind which. She is with an older woman, who seems to be a
sort of attendant. Every one’s talking about her, but no one seems to
know who she is.”

“This place is full of that sort of people, isn’t it?” Christopher
asked, not greatly impressed.

“That sort of people!” Gerald repeated contemptuously. “Wait till you
see her! I’m not easily led away. I’ve seen the most beautiful women in
most of the capitals of the world. I was at Vienna and Rome before the
war, you know, but I never---- Don’t move, Chris. Don’t look as though
I’ve been talking about them. Here they come!”

Christopher watched the approach of the two women with an interest
casual at first but real enough as they drew nearer. The younger of the
two walked slightly in advance. She was rather over the medium height,
and her carriage, although she was not in the least assertive, was
full of the simple dignity of one who has been accustomed to command
respect. She was slim, yet the outlines of her figure were so soft as
to become almost voluptuous. She wore a dress of perfectly plain black
lace, against which the skin of her neck and shoulders seemed of almost
alabaster whiteness. Her only ornament was a long, double string of
pearls of unusual size. Her hair, glossy and absolutely jet black,
was brushed from her forehead and around her ears so that it seemed
almost like a sheath. Her complexion was absolutely pallid, her lips a
natural scarlet. Her eyes were of a deep shade of brown, inclined to be
half-closed, as though she were short-sighted. Her eyelashes were long
and silky; her eyebrows looked as though they had been pencilled, and
yet left a conviction of entire naturalness. Such details as remained
of her toilette were unique yet simple. The woman who followed her
possessed also an air of distinction, but she was middle-aged, with
grey hair and somewhat unwieldy figure. She carried herself with an air
of deference towards her companion.

“Well?” Gerald whispered excitedly.

“She is very beautiful and very unusual,” Christopher admitted. “Have
you no idea who she is?”

“If I had found any one who knew who they were, I should have been
introduced before now,” was the blunt reply. “Freddie Carruthers has
gone down to ask the Superintendent.”

The two women subsided on to a couch. The elder one gave an order
to a waiter, the younger one glanced indifferently around. Her eyes
rested for a moment upon Gerald. There was nothing personal in their
regard--her manner was, indeed, if anything, austere--but Christopher
was conscious of a sudden indrawn breath, almost a sob, which escaped
from his companion’s lips.

“I wish Carruthers would come,” the latter muttered impatiently. “I
didn’t exaggerate, did I, Chris?”

“No,” the latter admitted, “I can’t say that you did. She is very
wonderful and very interesting. It is quite your day for adventures.”

Gerald laughed scornfully.

“You’re not comparing our little protégée from the hills with--with
her, are you?” he demanded.

“Each has her charm,” Christopher replied.

Gerald leaned back in his chair and laughed long and heartily.

“Our little wild rose,” he said, “is like a thousand others--a pretty
face, a fascinating age, confiding manners. In twenty-four hours she
would have taught you all that she could know of love and life. She is
as much a yokel intellectually as this girl is a mystery. Are there any
queens or royal princesses wandering about the world nowadays, Chris?
I swear that she looks as though she had stepped down from a throne.
Thank heavens, here comes Carruthers!”

A young man who had been staring in at the doorway recognised Gerald
and came across to them.

“No go, old thing,” he confided, leaning down. “They are registered
here as Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière--aunt and niece. The old
buffer downstairs, however, admitted that he believed that to be an
assumed name.”

“Couldn’t you bribe him, or something?” Gerald asked eagerly.

“Old Johnny fairly cornered me,” Carruthers explained. “The two ladies,
he told me, had declared their desire to remain incognito. It was not,
therefore, the business of a gentleman to be inquisitive. Whereupon I
came away with my tail between my legs. All the same, I don’t believe
he has the least idea who they are.”

“They can’t possibly escape for more than a few days, in a place like
this, without being recognised,” Gerald declared.

Carruthers stroked an incipient moustache.

“One gets nasty knocks sometimes,” he observed. “There was a milliner
and her head mannequin who fairly knocked them all silly at Biarritz
last season.”

“Don’t be a blatant ass, Freddy!” Gerald exclaimed contemptuously.
“Mannequins can learn to strut but not to walk. That habit of walking
into a crowded room as though you were the only person in it isn’t
picked up in Bond Street or the Rue de la Paix. I----”

Gerald was suddenly on his feet. The younger of the two women, in
turning towards her companion, had swept a small lace handkerchief,
which she had laid upon the table in front of them, to the floor. She
made no effort herself to regain possession of it, but glanced towards
the waiter. Gerald, however, already held it in his fingers.

“I believe this is your handkerchief, mademoiselle,” he ventured.

She accepted it with a very slight but sufficiently gracious smile.

“I thank you very much, sir,” she said, speaking in English, with a
slight foreign accent.

Some casual remark was already framing itself upon Gerald’s lips, but
it remained unuttered. The girl had turned and resumed her conversation
with her companion. She had the air of not realising that there was
another person in the room. The young man, with a little bow, returned
to his place. He hid his feelings perfectly, but his two companions
could guess at his discomfiture.

“It’s no good, old chap,” Carruthers assured him confidentially.
“They simply aren’t taking any. That Italian Prince with the swivel
eye, whom all the women are raving about, tried his best to get into
conversation. Managed to get one of his pals to address him by name,
so that they knew who he was, but there was nothing doing. Dicky Gordon
tried to get a word in edgeways at the roulette table, but it didn’t
come off. One of the croupiers, whom he knew, went out of his way to
whisper to him that the ladies did not desire acquaintances.”

Gerald sighed.

“I shall know her sooner or later,” he muttered, “but it’s such a waste
of precious time.”

The woman and the girl rose presently to their feet and turned towards
the door. Gerald, for the first time in his life, felt himself guilty
of an impertinence. He watched them descend the stairs, watched a
bowing servant run and fetch a waiting automobile. He even, from his
position at the top of the steps, leaned forward to hear if any word of
address was spoken. He was unrewarded. A footman opened the door of the
car, closed it and mounted to the side of the chauffeur. The car drove
rapidly away in the direction of Nice. Gerald waited for the porter to
remount the steps and slipped a ten franc note in his hand.

“Do you know who those two ladies were?” he asked.

“They call themselves Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière,” the man
replied, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Call themselves?” Gerald repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“There are many who come here who do not desire their presence to be
known, monsieur,” he said cautiously.

“Criminals, perhaps,--or royalty?” Gerald ventured.

The man looked imperturbably through the revolving doors.

“Many of all sorts, monsieur,” he assented. “Monsieur will excuse.”

He hastened off on some excuse connected with a waiting automobile.
Gerald had no alternative but to rejoin Carruthers and Christopher,
whom he found watching the play at one of the roulette tables.

“Any luck?” the former asked eagerly.

“Not an iota,” Gerald confessed. “I tipped the man who saw them off,
but he either knew nothing or would tell me nothing.--I shall have a
plunge at baccarat,” he added. “I feel like gambling this evening.”

“You won’t forget that we promised to go and see Myrtile early?”
Christopher reminded him.

Gerald stared at his friend.

“Myrtile? Who the devil---- Why, the child from the violet farm, of
course! I’d forgotten all about her.”




CHAPTER IV


Myrtile came flying to the door. Christopher saw her eyes travel over
his shoulder, he saw the sudden cloud upon her face. A queer little
stab of pain startled him by its very poignancy.

“Monsieur Gerald, he is not with you?” she asked disconsolately.

Christopher shook his head.

“He was up late last night,” he explained. “I went to his room but he
was fast asleep. I dare say he will come on presently.”

The girl looked at the clock--a brazen, loudly ticking of bright gilt.

“He promised to be here early,” she said. “Has he spoken of me? Has he
said anything about sending me back?”

“Nothing,” Christopher assured her. “Do you still feel that you don’t
want to go back?”

She stood quite still in the middle of the little apartment and looked
at him. Something about her was altered. It seemed almost as though she
had passed from girlhood to womanhood in the night.

“I will not go back,” she declared fiercely. “It is not that I mind
poverty or hard work. It is Pierre Leschamps. I could not bear him
near me. He shall never come near me, otherwise I shall die. Even you,
Monsieur Christopher, you do not wish me to die.”

Her eyes were swimming with tears. She leaned a little towards him and
Christopher patted her encouragingly. Her lips were very close to his,
fresh and sweet and quivering. Christopher, conscious of a rare and
almost overmastering temptation, turned away brusquely.

“Come outside,” he invited. “I will take you on the Terrace, and we
will sit in the sunshine.”

She clapped her hands, herself again almost immediately.

“Oh, I am so anxious to go down to the edge of the sea!” she cried. “It
is so wonderful. You will not mind, monsieur, that I have no hat and
that my clothes are very poor? If you should meet your friends, they
will wonder what place I have with you.”

“I have no friends here,” Christopher assured her, “and if I had, it
would not matter. Presently I will try to find Gerald again, and we
will make up our minds what to do with you.”

“Monsieur Gerald will arrange everything,” Myrtile said confidently,
as they walked out into the sunshine. “He will find me some work--I am
sure of that--only I hope that it will not take me far away. I should
like to be near him.”

They wandered down from the fashionable part of the promenade to the
pebbly beach and along the sands. Myrtile was never tired of the wonder
of it all. Often, however, she cast an anxious look backwards.

“You do not think Monsieur Gerald will be searching for us?” she asked
timidly.

Christopher was conscious of a curious sense of annoyance which he
could not altogether explain. He led the way up the steps and on to the
Terrace.

“We will take a seat here,” he suggested. “We can see the hotel and the
turning to your lodgings, and you can watch for him.”

She acquiesced willingly, and for the next half-hour she divided her
attention between the entrance to the hotel and the passers-by. At the
end of that time she became a little self-conscious.

“It is not right, Monsieur Christopher,” she said, “that I sit here
with you in these clothes and without a hat. People look at us so
strangely.”

“You look very nice,” Christopher assured her, “and besides, it is no
one else’s business but our own.”

“Then why do they look at me so strangely?” she persisted. “It must
be because I have no toilette, no hat, my shoes are ugly. Indeed,
monsieur, it is no place for me. Here are friends of yours coming, I am
sure--the beautifully dressed young lady who looks at me so curiously.”

“It is Gerald’s father and sister,” he whispered.

She was suddenly very white and frightened. Christopher rose to his
feet. Lady Mary nodded a little coldly, Lord Hinterleys acknowledged
his greeting with some surprise.

“Where is Gerald this morning?” his sister asked.

“A little lazy, I am afraid,” Christopher replied. “When he got your
message that there was to be no golf to-day, he went to sleep again.”

“And this is your little protégée, I suppose?” Mary remarked, looking
at Myrtile.

“This is Myrtile,” Christopher assented. “We are waiting for Gerald now
to decide what to do with her.”

“You wish to leave home, I understand?” Mary asked, turning to the
girl, who had risen to her feet.

“I will never return there,” Myrtile replied,--“no, not even if
Monsieur Gerald himself commanded me to. I would sooner throw myself
into the sea.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?” her questioner rejoined coldly.

“The misery I should have to face if I returned would also be extreme,”
Myrtile declared. “I am hoping to find some work here.”

“That should not be difficult,” Mary observed. “Give Gerald our love,
Christopher. I was sorry to have to put off the golf, but dad didn’t
feel equal to Mont Agel this morning.”

“Nothing serious, I hope, sir?” Christopher enquired.

“Nothing at all,” Lord Hinterleys replied. “I was a little tired, and I
always feel the air up there rather strong. Tell Gerald I hope we shall
see him some time during the day.”

He raised his hat and they passed on, Mary with a nod to Christopher
which lacked much of its usual cordiality. Myrtile looked after them
and there was trouble in her face.

“They do not like me,” she said. “They do not think that I ought to be
here with you. They are right, of course. I am just a little peasant
girl in peasant girl’s clothes. Let us go.”

Christopher’s remonstrances were in vain. She turned and walked away,
and he was obliged to follow. Just as they were leaving the promenade,
however, they came face to face with Gerald, issuing from the hotel.
He gave a little start as he recognised Myrtile. Except for a careless
thought when he had first awakened, he had forgotten all about her.
It was characteristic of him, however, to behave during the next few
minutes as though he had been thinking of no one else.

“So Christopher has been stealing a march on me!” he exclaimed. “Has he
shown you all the sights, Myrtile?”

“I waited a long time for you,” she replied. “We have been sitting on
the Terrace. Monsieur Christopher thought that you would come there.”

“And Myrtile has been a little troublesome,” Christopher said. “She is
going back to her rooms to hide because of her clothes.”

“Clothes?” Gerald repeated. “Why, of course she must have clothes. We
ought to have thought of that when we brought her away.”

“But, monsieur,” she began timidly, “even the clothes which I have at
home--my communion gown----”

Gerald waved his arm.

“Come along,” he invited. “We will transform you. What a joke!”

“Oh, monsieur!” Myrtile cried, with glistening eyes.

“I suggest,” Christopher intervened, “that if we are going to buy her a
frock we go to one of those shops higher up in the town.”

Gerald waved aside the suggestion.

“We will go to Lénore’s,” he said. “Madame Lénore is a great pal of
mine. Myrtile, you shall have clothes fit for a duchess.”

“Then they would not be fit for me,” Myrtile objected doubtfully.

“Nor, I should think,” Christopher added, “would they help her to
obtain a situation.”

Gerald, however, would listen to no remonstrances. He ushered them
into a quiet but sumptuous-looking little establishment, only a few
doors from the Hôtel de Paris. A Frenchwoman, dark and attractive,
came forward to welcome them. As soon as she recognised Gerald, the
conventional smile became one of real welcome.

“Ah, monsieur--milord!” she exclaimed. “It is good to see you again!
Her ladyship was here only three days ago. I ventured to ask if you
were to be expected. Milord does me a great honour by this visit. Will
you please to sit down?”

“Madame,” Gerald declared, “I am here on business. We have with us a
princess--the Princess Myrtile.”

“A princess?” Madame repeated, with a wondering glance at the girl.

“A princess in everything but clothes,” Gerald explained. “That is your
part. We hand her over to you. Dress her, Madame. We will return in an
hour.”

Madame’s eyes sparkled. To the real Frenchwoman, every feeling gives
way when it becomes a question of profit. She looked at Myrtile
appraisingly.

“Mademoiselle will be worth dressing,” she assured them joyfully.
“Return, as you say, in an hour, milord, and I can promise that
mademoiselle shall be all that you would desire.”

Christopher for the first time intervened.

“Look here, Gerald,” he said, “I don’t think that you are giving Madame
quite the right idea.”

“In what respect?”

“Mademoiselle is the daughter of working folk,” Christopher explained.
“She requires clothes of good quality, if you will, but clothes in
which she can seek a situation. That is so, is it not, Myrtile?”

The girl’s eyes were fixed anxiously upon Gerald.

“I should like to have what Monsieur Gerald would wish me to have,” she
replied.

“Mademoiselle has a figure so fashionable,” Madame Lénore murmured, “so
slim yet so elegant, and an expression altogether spirituelle. I have
some frocks only this morning arrived from Paris, in which she would
seem a dream.”

“We do not desire mademoiselle to become a dream,” Christopher said
stoutly. “We have the charge of her for a short time only, and the sort
of toilette which you have in your mind, I think, Madame Lénore, would
be highly unsuitable. Am I not right, Gerald?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” the young man agreed. “I’d rather like to see her
in one of Madame Lénore’s creations, though.”

“Milord and monsieur,” Madame said, “leave it to me. Return in an hour.
There shall be two costumes ready. You shall take your choice. If
mademoiselle will have the goodness to step this way----”

The two young men wandered out. They made their way back to the
Terrace, where Lord Hinterleys walked for a time, leaning on Gerald’s
arm. Mary drew Christopher on one side.

“So that is your little protégée,” she remarked.

“That is she,” Christopher admitted.

“I do not wish to seem a prude,” Mary continued, “or anything else
disagreeable, but do you really think that you are doing the right
thing, Christopher, in sitting about on the Terrace with a peasant girl
dressed--er--according to her position? The whole escapade, I think, is
ridiculous. I am not so surprised at Gerald but I am surprised at you.”

Christopher was conscious of some irritation. He liked and admired Lady
Mary, but it seemed to him that her attitude was a little unsympathetic.

“I can quite understand the whole incident seeming ill-advised,” he
admitted, “but, looking back at it, I honestly cannot see what else we
could have done.”

“You could have left the girl where she was,” Mary insisted.

Christopher shook his head.

“You didn’t see her,” he replied. “No one could have left her. When I
think of what we saw in her face, even now I am inclined to shiver.”

“Is she different, then, from other girls faced with an uncomfortable
home situation?”

“I think that what I am going to say may sound absurd,” Christopher
admitted, “but she is different. She may be only a peasant by birth,
but she has a soul.”

“Really!” his companion murmured.

“No actress could have simulated the horror we saw shining out of her
face,” he persisted. “I don’t think that I should ever have thought of
bringing her away--it was Gerald who did that--but I think that he was
right, and I should never consent to sending her back unless she were
willing to go.”

“And exactly what do you two young men propose to do with her, then?”
Mary enquired. “The girl is very attractive. You are aware, I suppose,
that the situation lends itself to misconstruction?”

He looked at her reproachfully.

“I suppose there are very few of our actions which might not be
misinterpreted in one way or another,” he replied.

She accepted the challenge of his eyes, looking him squarely in the
face.

“It is not you I am so much afraid of,” she said. “It is Gerald.”

“But you don’t believe----” he began.

“I believe that Gerald’s intentions are always good,” she interrupted;
“he is capable, even, of idealism. On the other hand, he is fatally
weak, especially where women are concerned. I fancy,” she went on, “you
will find that you have assumed a dual responsibility, and I fancy,
too, that some day you will be sorry for it.”

They slackened their pace. Just ahead, Gerald and his father had met
two women, old friends, with whom they were exchanging greetings. Lord
Hinterleys was talking with the elder; Gerald to her daughter. The
slight air of boredom, which the latter so often wore, had completely
disappeared. He was leaning towards the girl tenderly, almost
affectionately. His eyes were holding hers, he was talking earnestly
and apparently with conviction. Lady Mary touched her companion’s arm.

“That is the Gerald whom you have to fear,” she said. “You might trust
him in any other walk of life, but, although he is my own brother,
I don’t believe that he has a grain of conscience where women are
concerned. He doesn’t care about that girl, she is not the sort of
person he ever would care for, yet she will go back to lunch to-day
convinced that she has made a conquest, thinking of what he has said to
her, and finding every one else’s manner and words ordinary. Gerald has
the spirit of the philanderer in his blood. If the girl attracts him
sufficiently, you, at any rate--and probably he--will be sorry you did
not leave her to her village lover.”

“You have described Gerald correctly when you called him a
philanderer,” Christopher admitted. “I put myself in court, and on his
behalf I plead guilty to the charge. On the other hand, I have greater
faith in his kindness of heart and his sense of honour than you seem to
have. This child is helpless and innocent. For that reason I believe
that she will be as safe with Gerald as with me.”

Lady Mary sighed. The look of trouble still lingered in her eyes.

“I hope that you may be right,” she said. “I am not a superstitious
person, but I have some sort of foreboding about that child. I feel
that she is going to bring trouble, somehow or other.--In any case, let
us change the subject. The Rushmores have arrived and want some tennis.
Shall we play--say--Wednesday afternoon?”

“Delighted!” Christopher assented, already pleasantly conscious of a
changing atmosphere.




CHAPTER V


It is a fact that when the two young men reëntered the establishment
of Madame Lénore, they both failed utterly to recognise the girl who
was standing in a distant corner, talking to the proprietress. It was
not until she detached herself and came hesitatingly up to them that
they realised, with varying sensations, who she was. Gerald laughed
with pleasure and held out both his hands. Christopher’s admiration was
tempered with a certain amount of distinct disapprobation.

“Well, what does milord think?” Madame demanded.

“My congratulations!” Gerald replied enthusiastically. “My dear
Myrtile, I wonder if you realise how charming you are?”

The girl looked shyly up at Gerald, her face soft and eloquent with
pleasure.

“Mademoiselle, like that, can go anywhere,” Madame continued. “She
can lunch, if you will, with a prince at the Hôtel de Paris, spend
the afternoon at the Sporting Club, or attend the reception which the
Spanish Ambassador is giving this afternoon. She is absolutely correct
and in the latest môde.”

The two young men still contemplated their charge. She was clad in
a fine white serge costume, trimmed with silver braid. Her lace
blouse was delicately filmy and transparent, the cut of her skirt
as scanty as the last word from Paris had decreed; her white silk
stockings and suède shoes, procured from a neighbouring establishment,
irreproachable; her large hat, a gossamer-like confection of tulle
and lace. Of the charm of her appearance there could be no possible
question, but, in exact proportion with Gerald’s satisfaction,
Christopher’s disapproval seemed to grow.

“I do not criticise your clothes, Madame, or your taste,” he said,
“but we have given you the wrong idea. Mademoiselle is in search of a
situation. She is a working girl for whose future as a working girl
my friend and I are anxious to provide. Those clothes are entirely
unsuitable.”

Christopher’s words fell like a bombshell in the little establishment.
Myrtile’s eyes slowly filled with tears. Gerald was frankly angry.
Madame shrugged her shoulders.

“I did not understand that the position of mademoiselle debarred her
from being dressed becomingly,” she said, a little drily. “In any case,
it is a great waste not to give mademoiselle the advantage of charming
clothes. Her figure--why, it is adorable; of her complexion and
carriage you can judge for yourselves. Mademoiselle, dressed as she is
now, and with one or two evening gowns which I have in my mind, would
make the sensation of the season in Monte Carlo.”

“And what good would that be to her?” Christopher demanded.
“Mademoiselle has need to earn her living, and to earn it honourably.”

“Look here, Chris,” Gerald interrupted, “you’re taking this thing too
seriously. We know very well that Myrtile must be found something to do
later on, but in the meantime she may as well have a little fun. Can’t
you see for yourself how wonderful she is? She will puzzle the whole of
Monte Carlo for a week.”

“And after then?” Christopher asked.

Gerald turned impatiently away. Madame held up a wonderful confection
of white lace and silk.

“This is what I figure to myself for mademoiselle’s first evening
frock,” she said,--“this and a hat of black lace, with a string of
pearls which I could perhaps borrow. I promise you that she would make
a sensation you do not dream of.”

“It is not our wish that she make a sensation of this sort,”
Christopher persisted harshly. “It appears to me that you both wish to
provide the child----”

He stopped short. Gerald’s eyes were filled with sudden fire; the girl
was trembling.

“You’re talking like an ass, Christopher,” Gerald declared. “This is my
affair.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” Christopher rejoined stubbornly. “It is
our affair. I claim an equal right in disposing of Myrtile, and I will
not have her decked out in these clothes. What we need for her is a
plain blue serge suit and a small hat. She will always look charming,
she will always be attractive, but nothing in her future walk of life
justifies our arraying her in clothes like these.”

Madame shrugged her shoulders more disparagingly than ever.

“It is as milord and monsieur desire, of course,” she said. “I can
provide such garments as monsieur describes.”

Gerald looked at Myrtile once more. The admiration in his eyes this
time, at any rate, was absolutely genuine.

“I can’t see the harm in having the child properly turned out for, say,
one week,” he protested, turning to Christopher.

“And at the end of that week, what?”

There was a deadly directness about Christopher’s gaze. Gerald,
although there was no definitely formed thought of evil in his mind,
avoided it.

“If you are proposing to marry Myrtile,” Christopher continued, “then
the clothes you have selected are suitable. Unless you have made
up your mind to do that, I beg that Madame will show us something
different.”

There was a somewhat hectic silence for several moments. Frenchwoman
though she was, and full of tact, Madame Lénore could scarcely conceal
her contempt for the crudeness of this puritanical Englishman. Myrtile
herself felt as though a dream of Paradise were fading away. Gerald,
because he was good fellow enough at heart, felt further insistence
impossible. He was quite content to drift into danger; he was not
casuist enough to evade a plain warning.

“Well, I suppose we shall have to let this disagreeable fellow have his
way,” he declared. “Take her along, Madame, and see what you can do.
You hear my friend’s idea--plain blue serge buttoned up to the throat,
cashmere stockings and square-toed shoes.”

“There will be a compromise,” Madame declared firmly.--“And for the
rest, little one, do not trouble too much,” she whispered, as she led
Myrtile away. “I shall keep these clothes just as they are, until the
other gentleman has made up his mind to meddle no longer. Come to me
when you are ready. I can make you look so that milord will take notice
of no other woman.”

Myrtile’s eyes were swimming with tears.

“It was just for him that I wanted to keep these clothes,” she said. “I
wanted him to take me out and to feel that I looked like other girls.
As for Monsieur Christopher, I detest him!”

“Mademoiselle has reason,” the woman murmured. “He has not the chic of
milord. It is a pity that he should interfere. Perhaps later on milord
will bring you here without him.”

Myrtile’s eyes shone. Reluctantly she stretched out her arms and felt
the dress slip away from her.

In the showroom outside, neither of the two young men was particularly
disposed for conversation. Christopher felt a distinct return of his
first apprehension concerning Gerald’s attitude towards Myrtile,
whilst Gerald himself was conscious of a vague sense of resentment
at his friend’s interference, the more poignant, perhaps, because
of its wisdom. Anything in the nature of an explanation between the
two was rendered impossible by the smallness of the room and the
presence of the shop assistants. So Gerald contented himself with
lighting a cigarette, while Christopher studied a book of fashions.
Suddenly an event happened which created a new atmosphere in the little
place. Gerald relinquished his cigarette, Christopher laid down his
volume of fashions, the shop assistants and mannequins, figuratively
speaking, stood to attention. The manageress came hastening forward.
An automobile had stopped outside, a footman had thrown open the door,
Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière entered. The latter was simply
enough, though richly dressed, and she entered the shop with the air of
one conferring a peculiar honour upon the establishment. She carried
a little Pekinese dog under her arm; the footman remained standing
outside as though on guard. The greeting of the manageress was almost
reverential.

“Mademoiselle desires to see our new models?”

The newcomer glanced half unconsciously towards the two young men,
who had risen to their feet. Then she passed on, followed by the older
woman, to the most distant corner of the room. It appeared that she
wished to look at hats, and the whole establishment seemed at once
infected with an eager desire to serve her. Hats were produced on
every side, and passed from hand to hand with an air of deep anxiety.
Mademoiselle, however, it transpired was not easy to please. She
sat watching the various confections which were produced for her
inspection, with an air of tolerant indifference. Gerald moved to the
side of the bookkeeper, who alone remained at her place behind the
little desk.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “who is that young lady?”

“She appears in our books, milord, under the name of Mademoiselle de
Ponière,” was the discreet reply.

“But what is her real name?” Gerald persisted. “Who are her friends? Is
it possible to make her acquaintance?”

The woman looked at him with a slight smile. She had a tired and rather
faded face, and her hair was lined with grey.

“One hears only rumours as to whom she may be,” she answered. “For the
rest, milord should apply to Madame herself.”

Gerald waited for Madame’s reappearance with a new impatience.
Presently Myrtile came out to them once more. The transformation was
still amazing, but the blue serge costume was absolutely plain except
for its thick edging of braid, and the little toque, with its dark
blue quill, absolutely free from ornamentation. Yet it seemed almost
incredible that this graceful girl who came towards them a little shyly
but with perfect self-possession should indeed be the peasant child who
had been under their care for rather less than twenty-four hours.

“Mademoiselle is transformed,” Madame Lénore declared. “She has natural
elegance. In the simplest clothes I could give her, she would still
create an impression. I have done my best, milord and monsieur. I trust
that you are satisfied?”

“Entirely,” Gerald assented. “But, Madame Lénore, I want a word with
you.”

“If milord would excuse me for one moment,” Madame begged, with a
glance towards the further end of the shop. “One of my most valued
clients has arrived.”

Gerald drew her on one side. Myrtile glanced a little anxiously into
Christopher’s face.

“Monsieur Gerald does not seem satisfied,” she complained. “He has no
longer any pleasure in looking at me. He does not like me in these
clothes.”

“Nonsense!” Christopher replied. “Believe me, they are far more
suitable than the others.”

Myrtile was still not altogether satisfied.

“They are very wonderful,” she acknowledged, looking at herself in the
glass, “and I am very, very grateful, but when I came before, his whole
face seemed alight with pleasure, and this time he scarcely took any
notice of me at all.”

“There is something else on his mind,” Christopher assured her. “I am
certain that he is satisfied.”

Gerald found Madame Lénore quite obdurate.

“It is impossible, milord,” she declared firmly. “With many of my
clients, yes. There would be no cause for hesitation. But to present
you to mademoiselle would be impossible. She would not respond. She
would never pardon the liberty.”

“Then will you tell me who her friends are?” he persisted. “Let me
know, at least, where I should be likely to meet her?”

Madame’s manner had lost much of its amiability. She seemed genuinely
worried.

“Milord,” she said, “none of these things are possible.”

“But who is she, then?”

Madame Lénore turned away.

“No one knows,” she answered under her breath. “It is not for us to
know. Milord will excuse me.”

Gerald rejoined his companions with a cloud upon his handsome face.
Myrtile watched him timidly.

“You do not approve of these clothes?” she ventured.

“I approve of them so much,” Gerald announced, pulling himself together
with an effort, “that I am going to take you to Ciro’s to lunch. Come
along, Christopher. Madame Lénore is a disobliging old cat.”




CHAPTER VI


The two women sat on the terrace of their wistaria-covered
villa,--Madame de Ponière hunched up in her chair, smoking a cigarette
through a long tube; Pauline, her reputed niece, her coffee and
cigarette alike neglected, gazing fixedly seawards. Their immediate
environment suggested at once a taste for luxury and the means to
gratify it. The linen and silver on the little table at which they
had just lunched was of the finest possible quality,--the former
lace-bordered and adorned with a coronet. A bowl of pink roses occupied
the centre of the table. The coffee had been served in little cups
of the finest Sèvres china. In the background, a single servant was
standing, dressed in plain black livery, a man grey-haired and with
lined face, but tall and of powerful build. He possessed to the full
the immobility of feature of the trained English servant, but there was
something entirely foreign in his sphinx-like attitude and expression.
He had the air of one who neither saw nor heard save at his mistress’s
orders.

“I am weary of everything here except the sun,” Pauline declared
deliberately.

The woman opposite knocked the ash from her cigarette. Hers was an aged
and withered face, but her black eyes were still full of life and fire.
Her long, thin hand, on which flashed several strangely set rings, was
suddenly extended towards the waiting servant. Without a word he bowed
and disappeared.

“One must wait,” Madame de Ponière declared.

“For what?” the girl asked lazily.

The older woman’s eyes glittered for a moment.

“For what will surely come,” she declared. “The portents are all there.
The writing is no longer upon the wall--it blazes to the sky.”

“And meanwhile,” Pauline murmured, “the sun shines, my heart beats in
tune to it, and I feel all the time the weariness of the days.”

“It is the insurgence of youth,” the older woman conceded indulgently.
“I suppose the greatest must feel it some day.”

“There was a girl in the dressmaker’s shop,” Pauline went on. “The good
Madame Lénore amused me by speaking of her. She is a peasant, it seems,
picked up on the road by two young Englishmen and brought here for the
first time in her life only yesterday. These young men have amused
themselves by decking her out in the clothes of another class. The girl
is beautiful, and she sees fairyland everywhere. She is in love with
one of the young men, of course. One could see that in her face.”

“A very ordinary affair,” the older woman observed. “What of it?”

“Nothing except that I rather envy the girl.”

Madame de Ponière’s black eyes glistened dangerously.

“It would be easy to change places with her,” she said coldly. “You are
probably as beautiful, and the trifle of breeding you possess might be
considered an asset.”

Pauline smiled, and her face was at once more attractive than ever.
There were little creases about her soft brown eyes, her mouth lost its
discontented curve and became at once tremulous and gentle.

“It is an encouraging thought,” she murmured, “especially as the young
man whom the girl appears to fancy has already endeavoured to make my
acquaintance.”

“It is the worst of this place,” Madame de Ponière declared, a little
viciously. “The men are all _boulevardiers_. _Canaille!_”

“The young man in question happens to be an aristocrat,” Pauline
observed, her eyes fixed upon the adjoining villa.

“The more reason for care,” the woman muttered.

Pauline sighed.

“I might perhaps save him from the peasant girl. They tell me
that these young Englishmen often regard an intrigue of this sort
differently from our own people. He might even be led to marry her. He
looks like a man of weak character.”

The older woman thrust another cigarette into her tube and lit it. She
inhaled with the long, regular breaths of the confirmed smoker. Her
delicately shaped but talon-like fingers were stained with nicotine.

“Zubin arrives this week,” she announced.

Pauline yawned.

“More mysteries,” she murmured, “more false hopes, more exaggerated
stories. Nothing good will come of Zubin’s visit but the money he
brings, unless by any chance he has news of Stepan.--Meanwhile, dear
Madame, I bore myself. I rather wish that I had been born an American.”

The woman showed no sign of anger, yet somehow or other she seemed to
diffuse an atmosphere of contempt.

“It is perhaps a pity,” she admitted, “that you are descended from one
of the greatest rulers the world has ever known. It is perhaps a pity.”

“Give me something to rule over,” the girl declared, “and I will be
repentant--the souls and liberties of a few million people, or the
hearts of a few men. I am twenty-three years old and the sun is warm.
And then there is the music, our one resource when there is no money
to gamble with. What is the use of music, Madame, to one who lives
behind the bars? It simply makes one pull at them a little harder. I am
as badly off as Stepan himself, who loves me from behind the fortress
walls. Sometimes I wish that I were there with him.”

Madame de Ponière reached for an ivory-topped stick and rose to her
feet. Almost as though by magic, from somewhere within the dim, cool
recesses of the room beyond, the grey-haired manservant was by her
side. She leaned upon his arm.

“We drive at four o’clock, Pauline,” she said. “Afterwards, we will
watch the play at the Sporting Club.”

Pauline shrugged her shoulders. It was the same yesterday afternoon,
and every day behind. It would probably be the same to-morrow,--the
same for her, but not for that peasant girl. For her there was no
stereotyped routine. She looked intently across the narrow gorge
towards that other villa. A two-seated car had turned in from the road
and was crawling up the winding avenue. She stretched out her hand for
the field glasses which lay on the table by her side. The young man at
the wheel was the young man at whom the peasant girl had looked.

Pauline rose to her feet. Almost as mysteriously as the manservant had
appeared a few moments before, a black-robed maid hastened towards her.
Pauline shook her head.

“This afternoon I do not wish to rest,” she decided. “I shall walk in
the gardens.”

“Mademoiselle desires that I shall attend her?” the maid asked.

Her mistress hesitated.

“I desire to be alone,” she announced.

Pauline descended the stone steps, crossed the drive, and plunged into
a narrow footpath which wound its way through a plantation of stunted
but sweet-smelling pine trees, downwards towards the sea. The path was
not an easy one, and Pauline’s shoes were scarcely designed for such
an adventure. Nevertheless, she persevered. She had almost to push her
way through a grove of oleanders, and to wrap her skirts carefully
around her as she passed between some spiky cactus trees. As last,
however, she gained her end. She stood upon the little strip of sand,
besprinkled with rocks, which bordered the sea. Only a few yards away
the shimmering blue water rocked towards the land in little wavelets.
She turned and looked back. The villa from which she had come seemed
like a doll’s house shining out of its sheltering clump of cypresses.
More directly above her now was the far more extensive residence of
Lord Hinterleys. She looked towards it searchingly. There were several
people upon the broad verandah, amongst them the slim figure of a young
man at its farther edge, gazing intently in her direction. She smiled
a little as she picked her steps across the yellow sand to the edge
of the sea and clambered on to a rock. There was a breeze here which
she had scarcely anticipated. For the first time she realised that she
was bareheaded, ungloved,--she to whom usualness in all things was
almost an instilled religion. A queer fit of heedlessness, however,
was upon her. She stood upon the top of the slippery rock, finding a
strange pleasure in the salt-laden air and the wind which brought a
thousand ripples of light to the trembling blue sea, which blew her
skirts about, and even brought disarrangement to her smoothly bound
hair. This tempering of the sunshine brought a new joy to its warmth.
She stood there basking in a purely sensuous pleasure, forgetful for a
moment of the depression of the morning. The sound of tumbling stones
in the little gorge behind scarcely disturbed her. It was not until
she heard footsteps upon the strip of beach that she turned her head.
Coming towards her, already only a few yards away, was a young man of
personable appearance and unwontedly determined expression. For once in
his life, Gerald had made up his mind.




CHAPTER VII


Gerald, although he was in reality brimful of confidence in all
his relations with the other sex, had sometimes a not altogether
unattractive appearance of shyness. He stood bareheaded for a moment,
looking up at Pauline.

“I am so sorry if I startled you,” he said. “I was looking for my
sister. I know this is a favourite place of hers, and when I saw you
standing there I rather jumped to the conclusion that you must be she.”

“Really?” Pauline replied. “Are we so much alike, then?”

“Not in the least,” he declared frankly.

“That seems to make your explanation a little insufficient, does it
not?” Pauline remarked.

Gerald settled down to business.

“I know that I ought to have turned back,” he said, “but, after all,
wasn’t it much more natural of me to come on? I have been trying, ever
since I first saw you, to get some one to introduce me--we are, after
all, as I have just discovered, to my great delight, neighbours--and
this is the Riviera, not Berkeley Square. May I tell you that my name
is Gerald Dombey, that my father and sister have the villa up there,
and that, from the moment I saw you, I have been anxious to make your
acquaintance?”

She looked at him in silence for a moment, half critically, half
thoughtfully. There was nothing absolutely discouraging in her
attitude, and yet Gerald somehow conceived the idea that this might
not, after all, be so easy an affair as he had hoped.

“Are you used to enlarging your acquaintance in this manner?” she asked.

“I very seldom feel the desire to do so,” he assured her. “Don’t be
annoyed, please. I am really quite a respectable person. I will call
upon your aunt, if she will give me permission.”

For the first time Pauline smiled. It was rather a cold smile, but the
fact that it was a smile at all was encouraging.

“I fancy that you had better dismiss that suggestion from your mind
altogether,” she said. “My aunt does not receive here, and she
certainly would not welcome you as a caller.”

“Why not?” Gerald enquired, a little perturbed.

“Because you are a young man,” Pauline replied. “There are two things
which my aunt dreads more than anything else in life,--a bad throat for
herself, and young men for me.”

“I don’t see how she can hope to keep young men away from you
altogether,” Gerald declared. “You don’t mind my saying, do you, that
you are the sort of girl whom young men would want to know?”

Her smile returned. She even laughed slightly, showing some very
wonderful teeth.

“Really, you are a most singular person,” she observed. “Do all young
Englishmen talk to casual acquaintances in this unrestrained fashion?”

Gerald was puzzled. Pauline was not altogether falling into line with
the conclusions he had arrived at concerning her.

“I don’t know that I am very different from the others,” he said. “Tell
me, what is your nationality?”

“Why should I tell you anything about myself?” she asked, a little
coldly.

“It appeared to me that it might--er--help our acquaintance.”

“Have I acknowledged the acquaintance?”

“Well, you are talking to me, anyhow,” he pointed out, with a slight
twinkle in his eyes.

“I scarcely see how I could help it,” she replied. “If you are really
curious about my nationality, I will tell you that I have some French
blood in my veins. France, however, is not my native country.”

“And you live--where?”

“Nowhere,” she answered, a little sadly. “At present we are
wanderers--what you call in England adventurers.”

Gerald raised his eyebrows.

“That is scarcely the word,” he murmured.

“My aunt has a curious objection to meeting people upon our travels,”
Pauline continued. “I myself find her aloofness sometimes a little
tedious. That is why I am misbehaving to the extent of letting you talk
to me.”

“Your aunt seems a very difficult person,” Gerald sighed. “I don’t see
why I can’t make her acquaintance and ask you both out to dine.”

“Do not think of such things!” the girl enjoined hastily. “Before I say
another word to you, promise me that you do not present yourself at the
Villa or give any indication of knowing me, if we should meet at the
Club or anywhere.”

“But why on earth not?” Gerald demanded. “If your aunt is such a
stickler for propriety, surely I can find some one to present me?”

“If you do not promise me what I ask,” she threatened, holding her
skirts in one hand and looking as though prepared to jump down from the
rock, “I shall leave you at once.”

“I promise, of course,” he assented. “Meanwhile, may I be allowed to
ask, as between us two,--do I know you or do I not?”

“We are complete strangers,” she declared.

“Accept my profound apologies for addressing you,” Gerald begged, with
a low bow.

Pauline reflected for a moment.

“As a matter of propriety,” she said, “you certainly ought to leave me
at once. As a matter of fact, I was about to propose something else.”

“Let me hear it, at any rate,” he insisted.

“I watched you drive up to your father’s villa in your car. Will you
take me a little way in it?”

“Rather!” he assented eagerly. “Where shall I pick you up?”

“Outside the Villa gates,” she replied. “My aunt is absolutely certain
to sleep for two hours. It is the only liberty I have during the day.
Please go at once and fetch the car.”

She dismissed him with an imperative wave of the hand. As soon as he
was out of sight, she jumped down from the rock, crossed the little
strip of sand, and commenced her leisurely ascent to the Villa. Once or
twice she laughed softly to herself.

It was an excursion which Gerald pondered on many times afterwards.
Pauline had settled down in the low bucket seat by his side and leaned
back with an air of absolute content. She had, in fact, the appearance
of one enjoying a rare pleasure. As soon as Gerald slackened speed,
however, with the idea of entering into conversation, she became curt
and almost rude, and his proposition that they might take the higher
road and have tea at Nice she promptly negatived. When, after an
absence of about an hour and a half, they drew up at the gates of the
Villa, she left him with the merest nod of farewell.

“You will come for another ride soon--perhaps to-morrow?” he asked
anxiously.

She shook her head.

“I can make no plans,” she replied. “I should think it very improbable.
I thank you so much for your kindness. Your car is quite wonderful.”

She walked away with the air of one who has conferred a great favour.
Gerald drove slowly back to the Villa d’Acacia and joined his sister on
the terrace.

“Do you know anything about the two women at the next villa, Mary?” he
asked.

She looked up from her novel doubtfully.

“One never knows one’s neighbours here,” she answered. “I saw them
driving, the other day--a strange-looking old lady and a very
good-looking girl. Isn’t there something queer about them, or is it my
fancy?”

“There is something unusual,” Gerald replied. “They seem curiously
indisposed to forming acquaintances, which is odd in a place like
this. I happened to be talking to the younger woman for a few minutes.
She gave me the impression, somehow, that they were people of greater
consequence than their manner of living here would indicate.”

“I expect I am uncharitable,” Mary observed. “An elderly lady with no
friends, who takes a rather beautiful young woman about with her to
public places, does certainly invite comment, doesn’t she? Tell me
about your little protégée?”

“We lunched with her, Chris and I,” Gerald replied.

“Goodness gracious! Where?”

“At Ciro’s. We bought her some clothes at Lénore’s, this morning.”

Lady Mary lit a cigarette and threw down her book.

“I am not the guardian of your morals, Gerald,” she observed drily;
“a girl, nowadays, has all she can do to look after her own--but I
honestly think you ought to send that child back to her people.”

“Too brutal,” he replied. “They wanted to marry her to some horrible
old man.”

“Whatever the position was, your interference was most uncalled for,”
his sister declared. “As for Christopher, I am really surprised at him.
Where is he this afternoon, by-the-by?”

“I left him with Myrtile,” Gerald replied. “You’d better talk to him.
He’s been lecturing me all the time--kicked up a row, even, because I
wanted to buy the child pretty clothes.”

The butler came out on to the terrace.

“Mr. Rushmore has telephoned from the tennis club, my lord, to know if
you and her ladyship will make up a set. They are waiting now for a
reply.”

Mary rose to her feet.

“I am all for it, if you can, Gerald,” she declared.

“Tell Mr. Rushmore that we’ll be down as soon as we can change,” Gerald
directed the butler. “You needn’t order a car. I’ll run you round in
the coupé, Mary.”

“Shan’t be ten minutes,” his sister promised.

On their way up the hill, they passed Christopher and Myrtile. Gerald
rather enjoyed his sister’s look of amazement.

“Doesn’t she look a topper!” he remarked, as he turned to wave his hand.

“She has an amazing flair for wearing clothes,” Mary admitted drily. “I
think you two young men ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves
for what you are doing, and I shall just look forward to an opportunity
of telling Christopher so.”

Gerald glanced at his sister’s profile and chuckled.

“Good old Chris!” he murmured. “I’ll let him know what’s coming to him!”




CHAPTER VIII


Myrtile was suddenly tired. She seated herself upon the trunk of a
tree, and Christopher followed her example. Below them stretched the
motley panorama of Monte Carlo, the wide bay and the glittering sea.
The hillside and all the country within sight was dotted with villas.
There was one especially, overhanging the sea, towards which she gazed
wistfully.

“Do you know,” she said, “that I have not seen Monsieur Gerald for
three days?”

“He has been busy,” Christopher answered shortly.

“Busy?” she queried.

“He plays golf and tennis every day. Then his father and sister take up
a good deal of his time.”

“You always find time to come and see me every morning,” she said.
“Besides--it was not his sister with whom I saw him motoring yesterday.”

“You must remember,” Christopher reminded her, “that Gerald had many
friends before you came here.”

“I know,” she answered. “I cannot hope to count for very much. But why
cannot he be at least kind like you? If only he knew how long the days
seem when I do not even catch a glimpse of him!”

Christopher braced himself for an effort.

“Myrtile,” he began, “you know that I am fond of you.”

“You have been very kind,” she answered listlessly.

“Because I want to be kind, I am going to say things that may sound
harsh,” he went on. “You are a very foolish girl to waste your time
thinking and dreaming of Gerald. You should only let your thoughts
dwell upon one man continually when there is some chance in the end
that that man may become your husband.”

Her listlessness passed. She settled down to the subject seriously.

“But, Monsieur Christopher----”

“Christopher,” he interrupted.

“Christopher, then--you ask me to do what I plainly see no one else
does. Wherever you have taken me here--wherever we go--there are men
and women together who are fond of one another. One only needs to look
at them to see it. It is so in the restaurants, in the gardens where we
sit, in the cafés. I have seen love in the eyes of many girls since I
have been here. They do not all expect to marry the men they are with.”

Christopher leaned over and laid his hand upon hers.

“Myrtile dear, will you listen to me?” he begged. “Look at me for a
moment. I am twenty-six years old. I have lived in cities as well as
the country. In London I am what you call an _avocat_. I have to use my
brains every day, I have to understand my fellow creatures. Will you
get that into your head?”

“It is not difficult,” she assured him, with a little smile. “I think
you are very clever, and you know many, many things.”

“And as for you, Myrtile,” Christopher went on, “when one thinks of
your upbringing, it is amazing to realise how much you have read, how
much you know. But listen to me. Nothing that one reads can teach one
what life is like. You spent many hours wondering what was at the end
of the road. You think now, because you have passed over the hill, that
you are there. My dear, you are not even at the beginning of the way.”

She plucked some grasses and twined them round her fingers.

“Go on,” she whispered.

“This is not life that you watch day by day. Mostly it is a very garish
imitation of it. And in the same way, that light which you see is not
always love. It is sometimes a very unworthy imitation of it.”

“They seem very happy,” she murmured.

“They are not happy--they are only gay,” Christopher insisted.
“Sometimes they are only pretending to be gay. Sometimes their pretence
comes from very unworthy motives. There are dancing girls who smile
upon a king, but there is no love in the matter.”

“You mean that these people who seem so happy are not in earnest?” she
asked.

“I mean that if they are in earnest,” he explained, “it is only for the
moment. It is a sham earnestness which spoils the real thing when it
comes. What you see here is not life. It is not even a very wonderful
reflection of it. Mostly it is a little company of pleasure-seekers,
come to cast aside for a time the serious side of life and gamble with
their pleasures as they do with their money.”

“But some must be in earnest,” Myrtile protested.

“One of them who is not in earnest is Gerald, and I tell you so,
although Gerald is my friend,” Christopher said. “He is here to amuse
himself, and he would prefer to amuse himself without giving any one
else pain. If that is impossible, however, he is sufficiently reckless
not to count the cost where the other person is concerned.”

She drew a little away.

“That does not sound like the speech of a friend,” she reminded him
reproachfully.

“But I can assure you that I am his friend, although a candid one,”
Christopher declared. “All that I have said to you, I have said to him,
and a great deal more. You will let me finish?”

She made no reply. She had gathered herself up into an attitude which
in any one else would have been ungraceful, her chin resting upon her
hands, her back curved. Her eyes were fixed upon the exact spot where
the sea seemed to melt into the clouds. The grace of her slim body lent
beauty even to the hunch of her shoulders.

“You are like a child who has been let out of a dark room,” Christopher
went on. “Everything seems beautiful, but you don’t see clearly--your
eyes aren’t strong enough yet. What you imagine to be love is a worse
thing. Gerald does not love you. He can never marry you. He belongs to
that world at which you are looking with blurred eyes.--Myrtile, how
old were you when your mother died?”

“Ten years old.”

“I thought so!” Christopher exclaimed, in despair. “I am certain your
mother was a good woman, Myrtile.”

“I know she was,” Myrtile answered.

“I wish to God she were alive!” he groaned. “Myrtile, don’t you want to
be good?”

“I want to be happy,” Myrtile replied. “I shall always be good.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I am all good inside,” she said. “I couldn’t do any of the
things that wicked people do.”

Christopher sat for a moment in puzzled thought.

“Look here,” he went on, “if you love Gerald, and Gerald doesn’t love
you, and you are content with the pretence of his love, and you go on
loving him, and you know that you cannot be his wife, then you are not
good any longer.”

She shook her head.

“There is only once in my life,” she said, “that I have ever come near
sin, and that is when I thought of staying at the farm and marrying
Pierre Leschamps. I love Gerald. All that I need to be happy and good
is that he should love me.”

“But Gerald does not love you and never will,” Christopher declared
bluntly. “He is far too selfish. At the present moment he takes some
one else for a motor ride every afternoon, and doesn’t get up in time
to come and see you in the mornings because he is entertaining the
young ladies of the Russian Ballet at supper every night.”

She looked at him sadly.

“And you are his friend,” she reminded him again.

“Dear, stupid little girl,” he said, “don’t you see that because I
am his friend, and because I am your friend, and because I share the
responsibility of having brought you away, I insist upon your realising
the truth. Gerald, at the present moment, at any rate, is incapable of
a stable affection, and if he were capable of it, his people would not
allow him to marry you.”

“I do not wish him to marry me,” she declared, with a little choke in
her voice.

“Perhaps not,” he replied. “In that case, you should listen to me more
patiently. I want you to leave this place and go to some friends of
mine in England.”

“What, alone?”

“Alone.”

She shook her head.

“Christopher,” she said, suddenly slipping her arm through his,
“I think you want to be kind to me. I believe that you are very
good--perhaps you are better than Gerald. But so long as Gerald wants
me near, I shall stay. Even if he goes about with other people, he
thinks of me. He has told me so, and he has promised to take me to one
of those supper parties this week. I am looking forward to it more than
to anything else in the world.”

Christopher’s face hardened.

“You will not go to one of those supper parties, Myrtile,” he insisted.
“I would rather take you back to the farm.”

She turned her head and looked at him. There was something in her eyes
from which he shrank,--something very much like hate.

“If you try to stop me,” she threatened, “I shall hate you for ever.”

She saw the pain in his face and she was suddenly remorseful. She clung
to his arm again. Her cheek almost touched his.

“Christopher--dear Christopher,” she pleaded, “I did not mean to hurt
you. I know how good you are, but just think how wonderful it would
be for me to go with Gerald, to meet other girls, to laugh and talk,
to sit by his side, his guest, to dance, perhaps--oh, it would be
Paradise! Everybody else goes to parties, Christopher.”

“I will take you to the Opera,” he promised.

Her eyes glowed.

“It would be wonderful,” she murmured, “but you must not prevent my
going to the party.”

“Myrtile,” he pointed out, “the young women whom you would meet there
are not fit for you to know.”

“But what harm can they do me?” she persisted. “I know that they are
not nice. I went to the hotel for a few minutes with Annette last
night--she had to go and give her keys to her aunt--and in the distance
I saw Gerald, and I hated the people he was with. But what does it
matter? Gerald will take care of me.”

Christopher rose to his feet. There was a certain hopelessness about
his task that he was slowly beginning to realise.

“Come,” he said, “it is time we went back. I am playing tennis with
Gerald’s sister this afternoon.”

She took his arm as they scrambled down into the road.

“You are not cross with me, Christopher?” she ventured, a little
timidly.

He shook his head.

“No, I am not cross.”

“You look so gloomy--even a little miserable,” she went on, clinging
to his arm and looking up into his face. “I am a very great trouble to
you, I fear. Are you not sorry that you ever brought me away?”

“I am not sorry yet, Myrtile,” he answered. “I only hope that I never
may be.”

Her mood suddenly changed. She laughed gaily.

“Oh, là, là!” she cried. “If you look so glum, I shall sing and dance
to you, here in the road, as we do at festival time. Gerald says that I
must have dancing lessons. He is going to send me to a woman here.”

She pirouetted lightly on one foot, a miracle of buoyancy and grace.
Then she went suddenly rigid, took her place by his side and clutched
at his arm. An automobile whizzed past them, on its way up the hill:
Gerald was leaning back in the low driving seat, the sun gleaming on
his dark, closely brushed hair, his head bent towards his companion;
Pauline sat a little aloof, haughty, unbending, her beautiful face
cold, unrelieved by any light of sympathy or interest. Her eyes swept
carelessly over Christopher and his companion, as they passed. Gerald
did not even see them.

“Who is she?” Myrtile whispered.

“No one knows much about her,” Christopher replied. “She and her aunt
have the next villa to Gerald’s father. She calls herself Mademoiselle
de Ponière.”

Myrtile laughed quietly. She was already herself again.

“Mademoiselle is a very stupid girl,” she declared. “Gerald was looking
at her and she looked only at the road. She does not care. Gerald will
find that out.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Gerald came to the tennis courts, an hour or so later, and played
several sets almost in silence. He had lost for the moment all that
light-hearted gaiety which made him, even amongst the foreigners who
frequented the place, easily the most popular of the tennis-playing
fraternity. He played brilliantly at times, but with obvious
carelessness. He had the air of a man whose thoughts are busily engaged
elsewhere. He took Christopher on one side, during one of the periods
of rest, and flung his arm around his shoulder.

“Chris, old man,” he confided, “that girl is driving me mad.”

“Myrtile?” Christopher asked, with wilful obtuseness.

“Don’t be an ass,” was the impatient reply. “You know very well that
I mean Pauline de Ponière.--Tell me, are you dining at the Villa
to-night?”

“Not to-night. Your people are dining with the Prince.”

“I am engaged to Carruthers but I shall throw him over,” Gerald said
eagerly. “I want to talk to you.”

“And I have a few words I want to say to you,” Christopher rejoined.

“We’re in this set,” Gerald pointed out, rising to his feet. “Let’s be
alone somewhere, then--Ciro’s Grill at eight-thirty.”




CHAPTER IX


Gerald and Christopher were a little disappointed with their
rendezvous, so far as regards its possibilities for intimate
conversation. Although it was twenty minutes to nine when they entered
the place, there was still a fair number of loungers around the bar,
drinking cocktails, and many of the little tables around the room
were already taken. They chose as remote a one as possible, however,
and seated themselves side by side, with their backs against the
wall. Gerald ordered the dinner and the wine. Then he started the
conversation with a somewhat abrupt question.

“Chris,” he asked, “exactly what do you think of Mademoiselle de
Ponière?”

“I don’t know her,” Christopher reminded him.

“As a matter of fact, neither do I,” Gerald declared, a little
bitterly. “She permitted me to introduce myself down on the sands
below the Villa, and she has been for a ride with me in the car every
afternoon since; yet she does this secretly, and if I meet her with her
aunt I am not allowed to speak to her or to expect recognition. I am
not permitted to call at the Villa, I don’t know where they come from,
I don’t know even her nationality. Furthermore, they do not appear to
know a soul in Monte Carlo, nor have we ever stumbled across a single
mutual acquaintance.”

“The situation seems peculiar,” Christopher admitted. “I can’t see the
faintest reason why she shouldn’t introduce you to her aunt.”

“Neither can I,” Gerald agreed. “I flatter myself that for my few but
well-spent years I have seen something of the world and its snares, but
I honestly cannot place these two women.”

“What is mademoiselle’s attitude towards you when you are alone?”
Christopher asked.

“Ridiculously reserved,” Gerald answered. “I once touched her fingers
and I thought she would have struck me. Humiliating though it may be,
I am half inclined to believe that it is the motoring alone which
attracts her in the slightest degree, and that I represent very little
more to her than the man who is driving the car.”

“Do you wish to represent more?” Christopher asked bluntly.

“I don’t know,” Gerald answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “She
attracts me horribly. She has done so from the first.”

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by the arrival in the
place of a newcomer, a stranger to both the young men. He was tall
and broad-shouldered, sallow-skinned, with a mass of black hair, good
features, but with hard, almost brutal mouth. Although the night was
warm, he wore a huge overcoat, from which he seemed to part with some
reluctance. He was in morning clothes of fashionable cut, and he wore
a singular number of rings upon his massive fingers. Immediately he
had been relieved of his coat, he made his way to the bar, drank two
cocktails in rapid succession and lit a cigarette. Then he wandered
to the table adjoining the one at which the two young men were
seated, and, having given his order for dinner, busied himself making
calculations upon some scraps of paper which he tore up as soon as they
were filled with figures. Gerald spoke to the waiter who served them,
with whom he was well acquainted.

“A stranger here, Charles?”

The man glanced over his shoulder and lowered his tone.

“A Russian gentleman, milord,” he announced, “staying at the Hôtel de
Paris--Monsieur Zubin, he calls himself. They say that he has been
playing very heavily.”

“Russians who play high are no great novelty here,” Gerald remarked,
under his breath. “There are not so many of them with money, nowadays,
though.--Chris,” he went on, as the man left them, “you asked yesterday
what was the matter with me. I’ll tell you. It’s this uncertainty about
Mademoiselle de Ponière. It’s an absolute torment to me. It’s getting
on my nerves.”

“Define the exact nature of your uncertainty?” Christopher suggested.

“Define it? What the devil do you mean?” Gerald answered gloomily.

“Is it the character and reputation of these ladies concerning
which you cannot make up your mind, or is it mademoiselle’s lack of
reciprocation to your overtures which you find distressing?”

“For God’s sake, chuck that legal tosh!” Gerald begged. “It’s both!”

“Has she ever mentioned the subject of money, directly or indirectly?”
Christopher asked.

“Not once,” Gerald replied. “She always has the air of having plenty,
and her clothes are quite wonderful. Furthermore,” he went on, helping
himself to wine, “she doesn’t encourage me in the slightest. I wish to
God she would! She really seems to look upon me just as a chauffeur.”

Christopher laughed quietly. There were people who called Gerald the
most spoilt young man in London, and his present predicament had its
humourous side. Gerald himself made a little grimace.

“It’s all very well, Christopher,” he said, “but I am a great deal too
near being in earnest over this. Pull yourself together and suggest
some way of getting hold of the truth.”

“If the girl herself won’t help you,” Christopher replied, “how can any
one else?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Gerald assented gloomily.

“Ask her pointblank where she was brought up and how it is she knows no
one here,” Christopher went on.

“I’ll try it,” Gerald agreed. “The worst of it is, she has such a
terrible way of looking at you when you ask anything she doesn’t
approve of; she makes you feel as though you’d been guilty of an
impertinence. Only yesterday, I suggested Mary’s calling on her. I’m
not at all sure that Mary would have played up, but I risked that. ‘My
aunt is not receiving here,’ was her only reply. Hang it all, you know,
Chris, I’m not a snob, but that does seem a trifle offhand, considering
all things.”

“I should call it a little ominous,” Christopher pronounced. “If she
and her aunt really are wrong ’uns, she’d be jolly careful not to put
you in a false position by letting your sister call upon her. She knows
quite well that’s the sort of thing a fellow doesn’t forgive.”

The place had become very crowded indeed. A small orchestra was playing
in the far corner. Several unattached young ladies, who preserved an
air of haughty indifference towards the company generally, but seemed
to be on remarkably good terms with the head waiter, had brought
colour into the little assembly. The large man who was reputed to be a
Russian had called for pen and ink, and between the courses was writing
a letter. The _maître d’hôtel_, who knew Gerald, stooped and whispered
in his ear.

“Monsieur Zubin, the large gentleman you asked me about, milord,” he
announced, “has just won two million francs over at the Casino. Some
of these people have followed him over. He must have the money in his
pocket.”

To Christopher the scene was a novel one, and he leaned forward in
his seat. Two young ladies had seated themselves at the next table
to the Russian, and the nearest was glancing tentatively at him now
and then, without, however, evoking the slightest response. A rather
seedy-looking individual, seated upon a stool before the bar, had made
one or two moves in the same direction and was apparently only waiting
for the Russian to finish his letter before he addressed him. On every
side were signs of a sort of parasitical hero worship. People from
all quarters were whispering together and glancing towards him. The
object of all these attentions continued to write his letter unmoved.
Presently he called for a _chasseur_, thrust his letter into an
envelope and addressed it. The boy made a prompt appearance and stood,
cap in hand, waiting for his orders. The man who had just won two
million francs handed him the letter, gave him some brief directions
and a handful of coins. The _chasseur_ saluted and hurried off. Gerald
gripped his companion by the arm.

“Did you hear that, Chris?” he whispered.

“I heard nothing,” Christopher replied.

“I saw the address, too,” Gerald continued eagerly. “The letter is to
Madame de Ponière, Villa Violette!”

The dispatch of the letter was the signal for certain almost
imperceptible advances on the part of those who had been watching
the great man. The young lady at the next table leaned over and
congratulated him on his good fortune, an overture which was received
a little gruffly and without enthusiasm. Mademoiselle smiled, however,
and did not take the rebuff to heart. A bottle stood in ice by her
neighbour’s side, and she judged that a more propitious moment would
arrive. The seedy-looking stranger slid from his stool, leaned over
the table and whispered a few words in the Russian’s ear. He was a
sandy-haired man, with puffy cheeks and a nervous manner. His clothes
had once been well enough but were now shabby. He had the gambler’s
restless air.

“Sir,” he began, “forgive my addressing you.”

“What do you want?” was the blunt rejoinder.

“I stood behind your chair in the Rooms. I flatter myself that I
brought you fortune, as I have brought it to many others. I have been
an immense loser at the tables, but, in proportion to my own losses, my
friends have always won.”

“What of this?” the other asked brusquely.

“The fortunes which control winning or losing are strange ones,” the
sandy-haired man continued. “There are many who contend that they are
influenced by the good or evil will of a bystander. I admired your
courage, monsieur. I willed you to win. I have lost as much at the
tables as you have won. Will you grant me the loan of a meal?”

“Go to hell!” was the brutal reply. “I have nothing to do with cadgers.”

The man staggered as though he had received a shock. He was used to
rebuffs, but not such rebuffs as this.

“Monsieur!” he stammered.--“Perhaps five hundred or even two hundred
francs----”

“Not a sou, and be off. Do you want me to complain to the manager?”

The sandy-haired man went back to his stool, a little dazed. He held
out his hand as though for a drink, which the bartender forgot to
serve. A young man dressed in the height of fashion rose from his
place at the other side of the room, and came over to talk to the two
girls for a few moments. Then he turned to the Russian, addressing him
courteously and with an air of respect.

“I congratulate you, monsieur,” he said, “upon your splendid gambling.
I watched you for an hour this afternoon. It is not often that one sees
the bank broken four times.”

The Russian looked at the newcomer with his bushy eyebrows drawn
together. His champagne had been served and he had drunk a couple of
glasses of the wine. His expression, however, seemed colder and more
menacing than ever.

“My gambling is my own affair, sir,” he said. “I do not discuss it with
strangers.”

The young man smiled. He was not in the least offended.

“There is a freemasonry here,” he explained, “which sometimes dispenses
with introductions. All of us visitors who measure our wits and our
pockets against those of Monsieur Blanc are in a sense allies. When one
triumphs, it is permitted to the others to congratulate him.”

“My experience is,” the Russian declared, unmoved, “that, after the
congratulations are over, a little request usually follows. I do not
acknowledge the alliance you speak of. I play for myself, my own
pleasure and my own profit.”

“It is your right,” the young man acknowledged, his tone still
good-tempered, although there was a malicious twist at the corners of
his lips. “Since my congratulations offend you, I withdraw them. May
you lose back again your two millions, and may some of it flow into our
pockets.”

The Russian laughed mirthlessly.

“Whatever of my two millions flows into your pockets,” he replied,
“will come via Monsieur Blanc--I can promise you that! I am a stranger
here, and I desire no acquaintance. Your table, I think, is on the
other side of the room.”

The young man edged away. The smile remained upon his lips but his
expression was curiously malevolent. Gerald smiled as he saw him cross
the floor.

“Horribly bad character, that,” he remarked to Christopher. “I missed
him here last season and asked where he was. They told me that he was
in prison for stabbing his mistress.--I suppose I shall get it in the
neck, Chris, but I’ve got to talk to the old brute. I can’t afford to
miss an opportunity of speaking to some one who knows Pauline.”

“I shouldn’t, if I were you,” Christopher advised. “You see he isn’t in
the humour to talk to anybody, and if there really is any mystery about
the De Ponières, he won’t care about being asked questions about them.”

Gerald was, for him, however, determined.

“Those others were all wrong ’uns, and he probably knew it. The
fellow’s manner is brutal, but I believe he’s a personage. I shall try
my luck in a moment or so.”

Mademoiselle returned to the attack. She leaned once more towards her
neighbour.

“Monsieur’s wine appears to be excellent,” she ventured.

The Russian, who had begun to eat seriously, summoned a waiter without
raising his head.

“Serve two bottles of wine,” he directed, “to mademoiselle and her
friend, and bring me another.”

“Monsieur is a prince,” the girl murmured.

The big man flashed a sudden look at her. Then he went on with his
dinner.

“You are welcome to the wine,” he said. “It does not please me, for the
moment, to converse. Besides, I am hungry.”

Mademoiselle murmured another word of thanks and turned back to her
companion. She knew her world and she was content.

“Monsieur must not be interfered with,” she declared. “He has been
playing since the Rooms opened, and he is weary. The fortune of some
people is marvelous,” she went on, watching the coming of the wine. “If
I were to win a mille, I should be crazy with delight.”

Gerald waited for several minutes, until his neighbour had entered upon
another course. Then he leaned a little towards him.

“A trifle communistic, the ideas of the world about here,” he remarked.

The Russian looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.

“I come from a country where I have learnt to hate that word,” he
said. “Be so good as not to repeat it in my hearing.”

“You are a Russian?” Gerald ventured.

“It is entirely my business of what nationality I am,” was the cold
reply.

“Naturally,” Gerald agreed. “At the same time, we are all human. The
man who wins a couple of millions here is a public character. You will
probably find old ladies rubbing their five-franc pieces against your
coat sleeves, as you enter the Rooms.”

“So long as they do not attempt to talk to me, I shall be content,” was
the curt retort.

“You are not exactly looking for acquaintances, I perceive,” Gerald
remarked.

“I have none here, nor do I desire any.”

Gerald smiled. He had reached the point at which he had been aiming.

“That,” he observed, “is not strictly true. You have just dispatched a
note to some ladies of my acquaintance.”

Monsieur Zubin had so far met Gerald’s tentative overtures with the
cold rudeness of one who recognises an equal. At his last words,
however, a look almost of fury flashed into his face. He struck the
table with his fist.

“I ought to have remembered the sort of people by whom I was likely to
be surrounded here,” he declared. “One comes to beg for alms, another
to tout for a loan or to pave the way for a robbery, and you, who
look as though you ought to know better, cast sneaking glances over
my shoulder to read the superscription of a private letter. What a
riffraff!”

Gerald bit his lip. He kept his temper perfectly.

“I saw the address, I assure you, entirely by accident,” he said. “I
happen to be acquainted with one of the ladies or the name would not
have attracted my notice. Madame and mademoiselle occupy the next villa
to my father’s.”

“Acquainted? That is a lie!” the Russian exclaimed. “The ladies of whom
you have spoken have no acquaintances in Monte Carlo.”

Gerald shrugged his shoulders.

“At least,” he said, “I will agree with you so far as to admit that
this is no place in which to discuss them.”

Monsieur Zubin rose deliberately to his feet. One realised then his
extraordinary height. He must have been at least six feet, four inches,
and broad in proportion. Gerald, although he himself was considerably
over average height, seemed like a child by his side.

“If you mention their names again,” he threatened, “I shall throw you
out of the place.”

Gerald looked him over for a moment, unmoved but intensely curious. The
mystery of Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière had only been increased
by this chance meeting.

“Pray sit down,” he begged. “You are making every one uneasy. I have
no wish to quarrel with you. I simply took you for an ordinary human
being.”

The Russian resumed his seat. Mademoiselle raised her glass and laughed
into his eyes. Gerald called for his bill.




CHAPTER X


During their short walk to the Sporting Club, where the two young men
had arranged to spend the rest of the evening, Christopher endeavoured
to bring the conversation round to the subject of Myrtile.

“It is time,” he insisted, “that we did something a little more
definite about Myrtile.”

“What can we do?” Gerald replied carelessly. “She’ll find a job
presently.”

“She won’t unless we help her,” Christopher replied, “and meanwhile
this life is horribly bad for her. She is all the time unsettled and
uneasy, and I don’t wonder at it. You don’t take her seriously enough,
Gerald.”

“In what way?”

“She told me this afternoon that you had promised to take her to one of
your supper parties.”

Gerald was not altogether at his ease.

“It was rather a rash promise,” he admitted, “but after all, why not?
She’d create quite a sensation.”

“That child’s immediate future is a charge upon our honour,”
Christopher said sternly. “You and I know the class of young women you
invite to your parties. They’re smart enough--the best of their sort,
without a doubt. At the same time, they’re not fit companions for
Myrtile. She’s full of hysterical impressions, as it is. She mustn’t
come near them. She mustn’t breathe the same atmosphere.”

“Are you in love with Myrtile?” Gerald asked curiously.

Christopher loathed the question but he remained outwardly unperturbed.

“Myrtile is a child,” he said. “It will be time enough to think of
such things when she has become a woman. The one deadly and pernicious
certainty is that she is in love with you. Be careful, Gerald. You
don’t want to walk on the floor of hell.”

They had reached the steps of the Sporting Club. Gerald ran lightly up.

“My dear Chris,” he said, turning around as he prepared to divest
himself of his overcoat, “don’t be a melodramatic ass. We’re in the
wrong atmosphere for that sort of thing. Jupiter! Here is the family!”

“Well, you might appear a little more pleased to see us,” Mary
declared. “Dad and I looked in here on our way back from the dinner
party. Dad met an old friend there--Sir William Greatwood--and he
insisted upon our coming. It seemed so ridiculously early to go home.
They’ve hurried in to make sure of places at the first roulette table.”

“Let’s find a corner in the bar and have some coffee,” Christopher
suggested. “Gerald is too electric to-night for a man of my staid
temperament.”

“I’m not so sure of your staid temperament as I was,” Mary rejoined.
“However, I’d like some coffee. We’ll take those two easy-chairs.”

Gerald soon drifted away and the two were left alone. Mary leaned back
in her corner and studied her companion thoughtfully.

“Christopher,” she began, “I am not at all sure that you two young men
are behaving nicely in Monte Carlo. Father was saying this afternoon
that we scarcely saw you at all except at tennis.”

“Will you play golf and lunch with me to-morrow morning, Lady Mary?” he
begged.

“With pleasure,” she replied. “And now that you have made your peace,
do tell me about Gerald. He seems to have an extraordinary craze
for taking the mysterious young woman next door out motoring every
afternoon. Who is she?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Christopher confessed. “Neither has he.
That, I think, is part of the attraction.”

“Does any one know her?” Mary asked, a little doubtfully. “She looks
all right, but, after all, ours is such a very small world that it
seems odd no one knows anything about her.”

Christopher shook his head.

“I believe that Madame Lénore--the woman from whom we bought the things
for Myrtile--knows something about them, at any rate.”

Lady Mary played with the pearls which hung from her neck.

“To leave the subject of our mysterious neighbours, then, have you
succeeded in finding any employment for your little protégée yet?” she
enquired, looking up at her companion.

“Not yet,” Christopher replied. “I have written to a cousin of mine in
London, who goes in for that sort of thing, to see if she can find her
a post as nursery governess. The housekeeper at the hotel would take
her as a chambermaid, but for once I agree with Gerald--I think she is
far too good for anything of that sort.”

“I can’t imagine what you two young men think you know about it,” Mary
remarked. “The girl has lived all her life as a peasant, and I am still
old-fashioned enough to believe that it is exceedingly unwise to
pitchfork any one into a position to which he is unaccustomed.”

“The girl is altogether unusual,” Christopher pointed out. “Her father
and mother were both school-teachers. Sometimes I feel inclined to
regret that we ever discovered her, but so long as we did, and brought
her here, we must try and start her properly.”

“In Monte Carlo?” his companion observed, a little drily.

“I shall send her to England, if my cousin agrees to take her,”
Christopher declared.

“And, in the meantime, the poor little fool is hopelessly in love with
Gerald. Well, you both know what you are doing, I suppose. I should be
sorry to have your responsibility.--I think I ought to go and see how
dad is getting on with his mille.”

“Wait one moment,” Christopher begged, laying his hand upon her arm. “I
want you to watch this.”

She looked up curiously. Gerald had just entered the crowded little
room, and, at the same moment, Mademoiselle de Ponière and her aunt
appeared on the other threshold. Madame was dressed in black clothes of
old-fashioned but distinctive cut. A wonderful black lace shawl drooped
from her shoulders. Her ears and fingers blazed with gems. She leaned,
as she walked, upon an ivory-topped stick, and her eyes had their usual
trick of wandering around the room as though she saw no one. Pauline’s
wonderful figure seemed sheathed in a black net gown, which fitted
her with almost magical perfection. From the curve of her large hat,
which framed her pale face and heavily-fringed eyes, to the tips of
her black and white patent shoes, she seemed to represent a perfection
unobtrusive but inevitable. Gerald, who had been on his way to join
his sister and Christopher, paused at their approach, as though bent on
challenging some recognition, however slight, from the girl. In this,
however, he was disappointed. Without any appearance of avoiding him,
without even turning her eyes away from his direction, she passed by as
though in complete unconsciousness of his presence, and followed her
companion through the other door. Gerald stood for a moment in silent
fury after they had left. The cigarette which he had been holding
between his fingers slipped on to the carpet, crushed to pieces. He set
his heel upon it and crossed the room. Lady Mary recognised the sense
of disturbance in him and welcomed him with the tactful smile of one
who has noticed nothing unusual.

“Tell me whether to play _trente et quarante_ or roulette to-night,
Gerald?” she said. “Or shall I go and play baccarat? If only the people
there weren’t so alarming!”

Gerald looked across at Christopher. He seemed as though he had
scarcely heard his sister’s words.

“Did you see that?” he asked, in a low tone.

Christopher nodded.

“Personally,” he admitted, “I should find it intolerable, but then, as
you know, I hate all mysteries. I should feel inclined to go up to the
young woman and ask her if she were tired after her motoring.”

“I believe I have an average amount of pluck,” Gerald declared, “but I
tell you honestly I couldn’t face it. I believe I should get the most
colossal snub which has ever been inflicted upon a human being.”

“The girl is extraordinarily attractive,” Mary observed. “Shall I
really be brave and call, Gerald? One doesn’t do that sort of thing
abroad, but she must be lonely. If they aren’t what they should be, it
won’t hurt me.”

“No good, old dear,” Gerald groaned. “I’ve suggested something of the
sort already, but she only threw cold water on the idea.”

Lady Mary laughed softly.

“After all,” she decided, “there is something humourous in the
situation. I always look upon Gerald as being the most woman-spoilt man
I know. Quite a new experience for you, dear, isn’t it? I can’t think
how you ever progressed so far as you have done.”

“Sheer British pluck,” Gerald declared. “I can assure you I never
shivered so much during my three years in France, as I did when I
walked up to the rock where the girl was standing. I don’t remember,
even now, how I made the plunge.”

“You probably asked her if her name wasn’t Smith and if you hadn’t met
at the Jones’ ball,” Mary remarked. “After all, there have been other
people in the world who haven’t wished to make acquaintances. They are
both in half-mourning, too.”

“I should cheer up, old fellow,” Christopher advised. “They won’t hold
out for ever. You will probably find that to-morrow afternoon the young
lady will shyly invite you in to meet her aunt.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gerald growled. “There! Did
you see that?”

Through the open doorway, Madame de Ponière and her younger companion
were plainly visible, making their way towards one of the roulette
tables. They had come face to face for a moment with a little
Frenchman, who stopped and bowed with every mark of respect. Both of
the women acknowledged his salutation graciously. Gerald sprang to his
feet.

“That’s Henri Dubois, Monsieur Blanc’s representative there!” he
exclaimed. “He knows them! Thank heavens, I’ve come across some one at
last who does!”

He crossed the room in half a dozen strides, and accosted Monsieur
Dubois in the private way leading to the Hôtel de Paris. The usual
civilities were exchanged.

“Monsieur Dubois, you can do me a favour,” Gerald confided, as he drew
him towards the bar and ordered two liqueur brandies.

“If it is possible, it is done,” Dubois declared. “If it is impossible,
it shall be done.”

“I want you to tell me,” Gerald continued, “who the two ladies in black
were, to whom you just bowed--Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière, they
call themselves?”

The courteous smile faded from the lips of the little man. He was
watching intently the pouring of the brandy into his glass.

“Milord,” he regretted, “I cannot tell you anything about those two
ladies.”

Gerald was a little staggered. Monsieur Dubois was a well-known gossip,
to whom he had been indebted for the history of many of the visitors to
the place.

“You, too!” he exclaimed. “What on earth is the mystery about them?”

The Frenchman looked at him in bland surprise.

“Mystery, milord?” he repeated. “Is there one?”

Gerald avoided a fruitless discussion. He laid his hand on his
companion’s shoulder in friendly fashion.

“Look here, old fellow,” he said, “I will ask you one question, and one
question only. What are their real names?”

Monsieur Dubois smiled. His difficulties were at an end.

“Milord,” he declared, “you wrong those very respectable ladies in
imagining that they would present themselves here under names to
which they had no right. Both ladies, who are, as you have doubtless
surmised, related, are entitled to the name of De Ponière. The first
Christian name of the older lady is Anastasie, of the younger--Pauline.
I am happy to be able to satisfy milord. A thousand excuses. They call
me from the baccarat room.”

Gerald returned dejectedly to the room where his sister and Christopher
were waiting expectantly.

“It appears that there is no mystery at all,” he announced. “Dubois
assures me that they are related and that their names are indeed De
Ponière.”




CHAPTER XI


Myrtile rose in the morning, as was her custom, at a little after
seven o’clock, carefully made her bed, dressed, and walked for an hour
upon the Terrace. These early diurnal wanderings were tempered with a
certain sadness, although she was always finding something new--new
beauties or new sores--in this amazing spot to which she had been
transported. She saw the mists which wreathed the hilltops before
the sun had power to burn them away,--mists grey some mornings and
opalescent on others, but always of wonderful shape, always fantastic,
dissolving sometimes at unexpected moments to reveal unexpected
beauties, hanging down the hillsides at times in long, ghostly arms, to
sever the pine woods, the strips of pasture and the small vineyards.
The little town itself had the air of being in déshabille, of somewhat
resenting this early riser’s curious gaze. Where the coloured lights
had burned last night, and the music of violins made sad and sweet the
throbbing atmosphere, was a desert waste,--tables piled on one another,
chairs turned over, the débris of cigars and cigarette ends and
burned-out matches still littering the ground. There were water carts
in the streets and sweepers upon the pavement. The beshuttered and
becurtained shops looked with blank eyes upon this scene of renovation.
It was too early, as yet, even for the mannequin or the seamstress; the
streets were filled only with the ghosts of last night’s giddy throngs.
The Casino itself, closed and silent, seemed brooding over that hive
of passion, of disappointment and strident joy of a few hours ago. The
villas on the hill were barely opening their eyes. A ragpicker stole
along the Terrace, making his furtive collection. To Myrtile, whose
life as yet was composed mainly of externals, everything was still
beautiful. The sun warmed her with the promise of love. She was never
tired of watching the little waves breaking upon the sandy strip, and
the million scintillating lights upon the bay. She looked up with a
glad smile at the silent hotel where Gerald was sleeping. Perhaps he
was dreaming of her at that very moment. Love had crept into her life
and found her very ignorant. As yet it was a beautiful and simple
thing. That it was capable of change and division never even occurred
to her. She loved Gerald, and, although he sometimes disappointed her,
it must be that Gerald loved her. She had few doubts about it all. All
her confidence, all her will, went freely with that warm, sweet impulse
which filled her heart and thoughts, and which seemed to her the
sweetest and most wonderful thing in life. She was intelligent, almost
brilliantly intelligent, and, even in those few days, the sordid and
ugly side of other people’s lives and aspirations had sometimes been
revealed to her, only to be brushed aside as something very remote,
something from which love made her forever free. Gerald’s attitude
often puzzled, sometimes even distressed her, but she put his vagaries
down to her own lack of understanding. She was convinced that all would
be well when she saw more of him, and she harboured a dull sense of
resentment against Christopher, who she believed was always working for
some unknown reason to keep them apart.

At half-past eight she returned to her rooms and deliberately attacked
a great mass of sewing, which was sent to her daily from the hotel,
and the payment for which, by arrangement, provided her with board
and lodging. From that time onwards, she sat in the window with but
one hope,--the hope of seeing Gerald. Once or twice he had come and
taken her out to luncheon, but Christopher was unfailing in his
visits. He presented himself every morning at about the same time,
and even if Gerald appeared, he always accompanied him. Gerald once,
obeying a curious impulse, had sent her a great box of roses, over
which she had wept with delight, and which she kept alive by every
known artifice. Christopher brought her, day by day, the little
things she needed,--gloves, stockings, handkerchiefs, and often
a few simple bonbons and flowers. Despite her resentment against
him, it was always a pleasure to hear his firm tread and to watch
his tall, broad-shouldered figure and good-humoured, intelligent
face as he crossed the road, invariably with some small parcel in
his hand. He seemed to have much more time to spare than Gerald, a
fact which, womanlike, she half resented, ignorant of the fact that
Gerald sat up half the night enjoying himself in his own fashion, and
that Christopher often gave up his morning round of golf to be her
companion. She found an evil counsellor, too, in Annette, the maid at
the hotel, who occupied the other bedroom in the little cottage and
generally looked in for a few minutes on her way to work. Annette,
who was thoroughly French, was completely puzzled by the situation.
She could account for it in her own mind only from the fact that the
two young men were English and therefore presumably mad. Of her own
preference she made no secret.

“But how mademoiselle is industrious!” she exclaimed, looking in at the
door soon after Myrtile had returned from her early morning walk and
settled down to her sewing. “I hope my stingy old aunt pays you well
for all that sewing.”

“She gives me my board and lodging here,” Myrtile replied, with a
smile. “That more than contents me.”

“Board and lodging! Oh, là, là!” Annette declared, sinking into her
accustomed chair. “That would not content me. Even one’s salary at the
hotel is not sufficient. It is the tips from which one can buy one’s
clothes.”

“Soon I shall have to think of clothes,” Myrtile confided. “At present
Monsieur Gerald has given me all that I need.”

“It is a very chic costume and doubtless expensive,” Annette admitted,
“but for evening clothes mademoiselle has nothing.”

“I do not go out in the evenings,” Myrtile replied, a little wistfully.
“Monsieur Christopher took me once to the Opera, but we sat in a box.”

“Monsieur Christopher!” the maid repeated, with a little shrug of the
shoulders. “He is well enough but he is heavy. He speaks French like
an English schoolboy. But Milord Dombey--ah, he is superb! He speaks
French like a Parisian, he dances divinely, he is gay all the time. Oh,
if he were on my floor, that I could see him sometimes, I should be
happy!”

Myrtile said nothing. She had learnt that the best way to make Annette
talk was just to listen.

“It amazes me,” Annette continued, “that mademoiselle does not ask
Milord Dombey for some evening frocks and attend one of his supper
parties. Charles, the head waiter, brings me news often of them. They
are of the most amusing. There are artistes there, and all manner of
wonderful people. Has mademoiselle no curiosity to see life?”

Myrtile threaded a needle carefully before she replied.

“Milord Dombey,” she said, “would, I believe, take me, but Monsieur
Christopher does not think it well that I go to those parties. He
declares that they are for people whom I should not meet.”

Annette threw herself back in her chair, revealing to the full her
silk-stockinged legs. She clasped her hands behind the back of her
head. She was vastly amused.

“Oh, là, là!” she exclaimed. “That is so like Monsieur Bent! What does
he make of life, that young man? Does he think it well for a girl as
beautiful as mademoiselle to sit here alone at night and creep into
bed, while monsieur who adores her spends his time with other women?
Pooh! Mademoiselle should have courage.”

Myrtile laid down her work. Her heart was beating fast.

“Tell me, Annette,” she begged, “who are these guests of Milord Dombey?
Why do they keep me away from them?”

“It is not Milord Dombey’s fault,” Annette declared. “He is a _beau
garçon_, that. It is the stupid Monsieur Bent who should have stayed
at home in his dull London. They are all well enough, these guests of
Milord Dombey’s. Some sing at the Opera; others, perhaps, have seen
life in Paris, but for that what are they the worse--what harm can they
do? It is perhaps Monsieur Bent’s idea that he keeps you away from
Milord Dombey, who is so attractive, and takes you back to his stodgy
England and marries you there himself. Oh, if I were mademoiselle, I
should submit no longer!”

“What should you do, Annette?” Myrtile asked, half fearfully.

“I should put on all my prettiest clothes,” Annette replied, entering
into the matter with animation, “and I should come to the hotel.
I should find my way to Milord Dombey--that would be for me to
arrange--and I should just tell him that I had come, that I was tired
of being left at home. Then I would whisper one or two of the nicest
little things I could think of into his ear, and I would put my arms
around his neck, and--well--I know Milord Dombey--he would not send me
away--not if I were mademoiselle.”

The work had fallen from Myrtile’s hands. She was sitting up in her
chair, her eyes very bright, her lips a little parted. How fortunate
it was that Annette had come! Without a doubt, she would do this. Only
one must beware of Monsieur Christopher. He was full of droll ideas. It
was, perhaps, as Annette had suggested. He must be made to understand.
Presently Annette departed, and when, a little later on, Christopher
arrived to pay his morning call, Myrtile was seated as usual at her
work, her manner unaltered except that she was a little gayer than
usual, perhaps a little more kindly. Christopher, on the other hand,
was inclined to be serious.

“Myrtile,” he announced, “I have heard from my cousin in England. She
thinks that she will be able to find you a place in about a month’s
time.”

“That is very kind of her,” Myrtile answered, without enthusiasm. “What
does Gerald say about it?”

“I have not mentioned it to Gerald yet,” Christopher replied. “He was
dining out last night and had a supper party afterwards at the Carlton,
and as a matter of fact he was fast asleep when I came out. I have no
doubt, however, that he will be glad.”

The girl made a little grimace.

“He may not be so glad to get rid of me as you,” she remarked.

“We shall neither of us be here in a month’s time,” Christopher
reminded her. “Certainly I shall not, and Gerald, I believe, is due to
go on to Biarritz before then.”

Myrtile sewed industriously for a moment.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “he may want me to go on to Biarritz with
him.”

“You must not talk like that, Myrtile,” Christopher said sternly. “You
must not say such things. If Gerald goes, it will be with some other
young men to play polo. There would be no possible place for you in
such a company.”

Myrtile proceeded calmly with her sewing. She was beginning to be sorry
for Christopher. He understood so little.

“We must tell Gerald about it,” she conceded. “You understand that I
should not do anything without his approval?”

“Quite,” Christopher acquiesced. “We are both equally your guardians,
Myrtile. Gerald is just as fond of you, I am sure, as I am.”

She smiled without looking up. Some day he would know the truth, this
kindly but rather foolish Englishman. He would know that she and Gerald
loved one another. He should always be their friend, though. He was
very good, in his way, only he would not understand.

“What about a short walk before lunch?” he suggested.

Myrtile dropped her work at once.

“We will go along the Terrace,” she proposed, “and while I sit upon a
seat, you shall go in and wake up that lazy Gerald. You shall tell him
that I am waiting, and I am sure that he will hurry out.”

Christopher assented, a little sadly. Once or twice before they had
carried out the same programme, and he was wondering whether it would
not have been better to have told Myrtile the truth,--that on two
occasions Gerald had absolutely refused to join them, and that on the
third he had been brought out almost by force. There was a little pang
in his heart as he watched Myrtile’s gay preparations. Life was so
wonderful to her that it seemed a shame to destroy a single illusion.

“We’ll try and rout him out, at all events,” he promised.




CHAPTER XII


Myrtile was seated alone at the far end of the Terrace, outside the
Hôtel de Paris, when the tragedy happened. Her first impression
was that some very unusual people had found their way on to the
promenade,--a fête-day excursion, perhaps, from one of the neighbouring
villages. And then the colour seemed slowly drained from her cheeks.
She would have got up and fled but her limbs absolutely refused their
office. Her slight movement, however, had attracted the attention of
the two men. With exclamations of incredulity, they hurried towards
her. The incredulity turned swiftly to joy. Myrtile, in such clothes,
represented, without a doubt, boundless wealth. It was a morning of
good fortune, this!

“Myrtile, thou little rascal!” her stepfather cried, gripping her
pearl-coloured gloves in his horny fist. “Pierre, thou seest. It is she
indeed. Amazing! It is veritably amazing!”

Pierre Leschamps was not so fluent. His narrow, covetous eyes looked
over Myrtile’s slim body lasciviously. What he had lost! He was filled
with self-pity.

“It is an escapade, this,” he said. “Thou art ready to return, Myrtile?”

“Never!” the girl declared passionately.

“Oho!” her stepfather exclaimed. “We shall see about that. There is
the law, little one. The law does not allow an honest man to be robbed
of his daughter--ay, stepdaughter, if you will,” he went on, checking
a passionate protest on Myrtile’s lips. “Now, then, out with it, my
child. Where did those clothes come from? Who brought you here? Who is
supporting you?”

“I am supporting myself,” Myrtile answered. “I sew all the mornings and
most of the afternoons.”

The two men laughed unpleasantly. Her father laid his hand upon her
shoulder.

“Listen,” he said, “you were carried away from home by two Englishmen
in a motor car--rich Englishmen, by all accounts, with much luggage.
Where are they?”

“What do you want with them?” Myrtile demanded.

“That is not for thy silly head, little one.”

“There is a matter of compensation,” Pierre growled. “Tell us where to
find these Englishmen?”

Myrtile looked wildly around. She scarcely knew whether she prayed
for or dreaded Christopher’s return. Then suddenly she saw him close
at hand, accompanied, to her infinite relief, by Gerald. She gave a
little cry of joy. Now, indeed, all would be well. Gerald would arrange
everything.

“So these are they?” her stepfather muttered, as the two young men
approached.

“They look like gentlemen of wealth,” Leschamps echoed.

“The stepfather of Myrtile, as I live,” Gerald muttered, under his
breath. “Heaven grant that we may escape a brawl out here! Must we----”

“Of course we must,” Christopher answered curtly. “Can’t you see
that the child is frightened to death? We’ll have them in the police
station, if they make any trouble. The police here haven’t much
sympathy with their class.”

Myrtile called to them softly.

“This is my stepfather,” she said, “and his friend, Pierre Leschamps.”

“Mon Dieu!” Gerald exclaimed, in frank horror. “Are you the man whom
Myrtile was to marry?”

“I am he, indeed, monsieur,” the innkeeper acknowledged. “I have gone
to great expense in the matter. My house was painted and whitewashed
and my bedroom papered. The neighbours were all bidden. I had even laid
in wine for the feast.”

“Then you ought to have been ashamed of yourself,” Gerald declared.
“Why, how old are you, my friend?”

Leschamps patted his stomach.

“I am but fifty years old,” he replied, “a man in the prime of life.
Myrtile was promised to me. There is no one else like her. I am without
a wife. It is a very serious position for a man with an inn to look
after.”

“And what about me?” her stepfather intervened, his voice rising with
the recollection of his wrongs. “For many years I have kept that child.
I have fed her and clothed her all that time. Now that she is eighteen,
now that she is of some use in the world, how does she show her
gratitude? What can I do without her, I ask? I was to marry the good
Widow Dumay. Now she says ‘no!’ She declares that, without Myrtile, the
care of the children is too much for her. She refuses to allow me to
arrange for the wedding, unless either Myrtile returns or she has at
least five hundred francs with which to arrange for help.”

“Five hundred francs!” Leschamps groaned. “What is that for a wife like
Myrtile! It is a blow to me, this. My health has suffered. I am gloomy.
My business decreases. The neighbours will no longer drink a bottle
of wine with a man who cannot sing a song or smile once during the
evening. They go elsewhere. My connection tumbles to pieces. And there
are my rooms all painted and my bedroom papered, and I have no wife.”

“It appears to me,” Gerald proposed, “that we had better discuss this
matter in my rooms over a bottle of wine--a bottle of champagne, eh?
What do you say, gentlemen?”

“Let it be this moment,” Myrtile’s stepfather insisted. “Let us know
where we are without further delay. This matter makes me sad. I cannot
sleep or eat. I have dug deep into my savings to come here. Oh, it has
cost me much money, this journey!”

“And I,” Leschamps declared, “I who have never been in a train before,
who have never spent ten sous on my own pleasure, it is ruin, this
journey. And I have been sick of the stomach.”

“Follow me, gentlemen,” Gerald invited.

He led them into the hotel, much to the amazement of the liveried
servants, took them up in the lift, in which both nearly collapsed
upon the floor, and ushered them into his sitting room. For a few
moments, effrontery and avarice were alike powerless. They were dumb
with amazement. They looked around them, muttering inarticulate words.
Leschamps dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with a bright,
cherry-coloured handkerchief. Her stepfather looked helplessly across
the room to where Myrtile was seated side by side with Christopher.
Gerald ordered champagne, which was brought in by a servant dressed in
knee breeches and silk stockings. Leschamps secretly pinched himself.
Gerald, the central figure of the little party, towards whom every one
turned and on whom Myrtile’s eyes were unswervingly fixed, began to
rather enjoy the situation.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, after he had moved them up to the table and
placed the bottle of wine between them, “let us deal with this question
in a few words. Your stepdaughter, Myrtile, is not coming back to you,
Monsieur Sargot; neither will she become your wife, Monsieur Leschamps.
She will be well taken care of and that is all that concerns you. We
would like, if possible, to arrange this matter pleasantly, although
we admit no claim. At what price do you, Monsieur Sargot, place your
daughter’s services? And you, Monsieur Leschamps, at what figure do you
put your expenses in preparing for your wedding which will never take
place?”

“It is a hard question,” Myrtile’s stepfather declared, seizing the
bottle and pouring himself out another glass of wine.

“It will be a great loss for me,” the innkeeper groaned.

“Myrtile did all the cooking,” Jean Sargot continued. “There was no one
made such a ragout, and the children with her were like angels.”

“That is not true,” Myrtile intervened calmly. “The children were
always bad-tempered and difficult to manage.”

“She has lost her head, the little one,” her stepfather lamented.

“There is not another girl in the valley one would marry by the side of
her,” the innkeeper muttered.

Gerald waited until they had finished. He was leaning against the back
of a sofa, smoking a cigarette which he had just lit.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “it is for you to name a sum. All that I
ask is that Myrtile be left in peace.”

“The Widow Dumay,” Myrtile’s stepfather said, watching Gerald closely,
“declared that I ought to have in the stocking another two thousand
francs, if I am deprived of Myrtile.”

Gerald opened his pocketbook.

“Will the same sum content you, Leschamps?” he asked.

Pierre Leschamps tried to sigh. His eyes, however, betrayed his greedy
satisfaction.

“I will accept it,” he said. “May Myrtile be happy!”

Myrtile’s stepfather struck the table with his fist.

“Look here, all of you,” he expostulated, “this is all very well, but
why should Pierre Leschamps have as much as I--I who have lost my
daughter----”

“She was to have been my wife,” Leschamps growled.

“It was I who was to give her to you,” the other retorted. “You have
lost nothing because she never belonged to you. Five hundred francs
would pay you many times over for all the expense you have been to in
your miserable little house. The rest of your two thousand should come
to me.”

The faces of the two men were aflame. Pierre Leschamps was tugging
viciously at his little black moustache. There was a purple flush on
Sargot’s cheeks. They seemed about to fall on each other. Gerald struck
the table with the flat of his hand.

“Look here,” he enjoined, “unless you both want to be ordered out of
the room without a sou, hold your peace.”

No threat could have been more effective. They stood looking at him
like dumb animals. He silently filled the glass of each with more wine.

“Now remember that you are friends and comrades,” he begged. “There
is, after all, something in what Jean Sargot has said. To lose a
stepdaughter is more than to lose a promised wife. I will add a
thousand francs to your amount, Jean Sargot.”

“And I shall have my two thousand?” Leschamps cried.

“You shall have your two thousand,” Gerald promised.

Their eyes hung upon his pocketbook like the eyes of sick animals.
Gerald counted out the money but retained it in his hand.

“You, monsieur,” he said, addressing Myrtile’s stepfather, “will sign
a paper which my friend here will write out, promising to resign all
claim to Myrtile and never to attempt to see her again.”

“I will sign it,” the man agreed.

Christopher sat at the desk and wrote out a few brief sentences. Jean
Sargot signed it without even confessing his inability to read. They
stood up to receive the money. Myrtile, and even Christopher, watched
them, fascinated. Their brown, nailless fingers clutched and trembled
as they counted the notes. Each in turn buttoned them into the inside
pocket of his coat. It was more than they had dreamed of, this.
Myrtile, a village child, to be worth a fortune!

“It is finished, then, this affair,” Sargot declared, as he drained his
glass.

“It is finished,” Gerald agreed. “I will ring for a page to show you
out.”

“You need have no anxiety about Myrtile,” Christopher said. “She will
be found a suitable home and she will lead a suitable life.”

Jean Sargot suddenly remembered that he was her stepfather. He brushed
his coat sleeve across his eyes.

“Little one,” he cried, “embrace me. This is, then, farewell.”

Myrtile rose to her feet but she remained at the other side of the
table.

“I wish you farewell and I wish you good fortune,” she said. “I would
rather not embrace you. You have been hard and cruel to me, as you have
been to others. Try and be kinder to your own children. And as for
you, Pierre Leschamps,” she went on, “do not dream for a moment that I
would ever have married you. I would sooner have thrown myself into the
quarry.”

“The little one was always strange,” Leschamps muttered, almost
apologetically.

They stumbled out of the room after the page who presently arrived.
Gerald broke into a shout of laughter as they disappeared. Myrtile’s
eyes, however, were filled with tears. Christopher, too, was grave, but
it was to Gerald the girl turned.

“I have cost you a great deal, I am afraid,” she said. “Now I belong to
you.”

She leaned towards him. Christopher intervened almost harshly.

“To us,” he declared, throwing down a little bundle of notes upon the
table. “You and I are Myrtile’s joint guardians, Gerald. That was our
understanding. I shall hold you to your promise.”

Myrtile’s head was buried on Gerald’s shoulder. Gerald himself was
for a moment half embarrassed, half carried away by Myrtile’s calm
assumption. He looked into Christopher’s grey eyes, however, and he
pulled himself together.

“That’s all right, old chap,” he promised. “We’ll steer clear of
trouble--somehow.”




CHAPTER XIII


Gerald found Pauline waiting for him at the accustomed spot, after
luncheon that afternoon. As he slowed down his car to pick her up, he
was conscious of a return of that feeling of irritation which had been
growing stronger with him, day by day,--an irritation based upon her
obvious desire to escape recognition when with him and to keep their
acquaintance as far as possible a secret. She was waiting in the shadow
of a great magnolia shrub, dressed in inconspicuous grey, with a veil
thicker even than the exigencies of motoring necessitated. In the
background was the same black-gowned maid who always attended her as
far as the avenue and took her silent leave at his approach.

Pauline stepped lightly into the place by his side, without waiting for
him to vacate his seat.

“Turn round, please,” she directed. “We will go the other way. I do not
choose to pass through the town.”

Gerald obeyed, although her request only added fuel to the smouldering
fire of his resentment. He turned away towards the mountain road and
maintained a silence which was not without its significance. His
companion, after a few minutes, glanced towards him indifferently. He
was leaning back in his place, his eyes, as usual, fixed upon the road,
his left hand firmly grasping the steering wheel. The humourous twitch,
however, had gone from his mouth. There was a distinct frown upon his
forehead.

“You are perhaps weary to-day?” she suggested. “You would like to
shorten our drive?”

Gerald turned and looked at her.

“I am not weary,” he replied. “I am puzzled. I hate mysteries.”

“The old complaint,” she yawned.

“With a new reading,” he retorted. “I have shown myself ready, as you
must know,” he went on, “to study your rather peculiar whims in every
way, but when it comes to meeting you face to face at the Club and
receiving nothing but the stoniest of stares, I must admit that the
situation grows beyond me. You could surely find a hundred reasonable
excuses for the most formal sort of recognition. I am not--well, I am
not a disreputable acquaintance, am I?”

She laughed quietly.

“Not in the least. You belong to what they call in England the
middle-class aristocracy, do you not,--two or three centuries old,
with a damp house in a park and an armful of undistinguished titles?
I suppose that sort of thing counted for something before your
tradespeople and lawyers and bankers were all admitted into the magic
circle.”

“Are you a socialist?” Gerald enquired, a little taken aback.

“Not at all,” she replied curtly. “I am an aristocrat.”

“Are you afraid to present me to Madame de Ponière?” he asked, after a
moment’s pause.

“Terrified,” she admitted frankly.

“Because my quarterings are insufficient? I might remark that my father
is the ninth Earl and that I am his only son.”

“It is not that at all,” she assured him indifferently. “There is
really no reason why we should not meet in a place like this on equal
terms, but my aunt is a woman with only one idea in her head, and for
the successful development of that idea it is advisable that we make
no acquaintances whatever here. There, my Lord Dombey, have I not been
kind to you? I would see more of you if I could, because in a place
like this the escort of a man is an advantage. As it is, I can assure
you that I risk a good deal in taking these afternoon rides.”

“You have explained nothing,” he insisted, a little doggedly. “I still
do not see why I may not be recognised in public, why it would not be
in order for my sister to call and invite you to tennis, why you and
your aunt should not allow me to entertain you at dinner. I am just as
far from understanding you as I ever was.”

She sighed.

“Well, do not be cross with me, please,” she begged. “If you knew how
wearisome my life was and how grateful I really am to you for these few
hours of escape, you would feel more kindly towards me. See, I give you
my hand. Let us be friends.”

It was the first time during all their acquaintance that she had
accorded him the slightest mark of favour. The touch of her fingers
thrilled and surprised him. He held her hand unresistingly for several
moments. Then she drew it quietly but firmly away.

“Well, that is settled,” she said. “Now talk to me about other things.
Is there no news at the Rooms? Has no one been breaking the bank?”

“There was something I was going to tell you,” Gerald replied, with a
sudden flash of recollection. “I sat next to a man at dinner last night
in Ciro’s Grill, who they say broke the bank several times during the
afternoon. I believe they said that he was a Russian. I suppose you
know all about him, however.”

“I?” she exclaimed. “Why should I?”

“Because, between the courses of his dinner, he wrote a letter and sent
it off by messenger. He was at the next table and it was impossible for
me to avoid seeing the envelope. It was addressed to Madame de Ponière.”

She looked at him, amazed.

“To my aunt?” she repeated. “But we received no letter from any one
last night.”

“I saw it sent off about twenty minutes to ten,” Gerald assured her.

“We left for the Club at half-past nine,” Pauline reflected, “but I am
quite sure that there was no note waiting for us when we got back. What
was this man like?”

“They said that he was a Russian and that his name was Zubin,” Gerald
replied. “They also said that he had won two million francs in the
afternoon.”

“Zubin!” she exclaimed, with a little start. “Describe him at once, if
you please.”

“That is easy,” Gerald acquiesced. “He must have been at least six
foot three or four, and he had tremendous shoulders. He was one of the
most powerful looking men I have ever seen in my life. He had a sallow
complexion, a lined face, black eyes and a mass of black and grey hair.”

She put her hand upon his.

“Stop the car, please,” she begged. “Turn round as quickly as you can.
I must go home.”

Gerald ran on to an adjacent widening of the road, reversed the car,
and headed back for Monte Carlo.

“If I had known that my news was going to shorten our drive,” he
grumbled, “I shouldn’t have mentioned the fellow at all.”

“My friend,” she said earnestly, “what you have told me may be of
immense benefit for me to know.”

“You recognise the man, then?”

“He is probably my aunt’s steward,” she confided, after a moment’s
hesitation. “There, you see I am telling you secrets. Do you know
whether he played last night?”

“I was only at the Club,” Gerald replied. “He did not come there. Is
there anything I can do? Would you like me to go and look for him?”

“Yes, you might do that,” she said thoughtfully. “When you have dropped
me, drive down to the Rooms. If you find him there, touch him on the
shoulder. Say that Madame de Ponière awaits him. You will not forget
this?”

“I’ll drive there at once,” Gerald promised.

He set Pauline down, as usual, at the gates of her villa. She scarcely
stayed to say good-by, but her smile was more gracious and her manner
a little kinder. It was obvious, however, that she was disturbed by
his information. Gerald, incurious though he was at most times, felt a
growing interest in his mission.

Arrived at the Rooms, he walked straight through to the Cercle Privé,
visited each Roulette and _trente et quarante_ table, and strolled
round the baccarat room. There was no sign here of the man of whom
he was in search. He was already on his way out to the Sporting Club
when it occurred to him that the Russian might be playing at one of
the ordinary tables at the Casino. He turned back and visited them one
by one. Towards the end of his quest, he was rewarded. Seated next
to the croupier, at the most remote table, with a little crowd of
people behind his chair, and with a great pile of notes before him, sat
Monsieur Zubin.

The Russian was betting in maximums, apparently on some system, and
with varying success. To all appearances, he had not changed his
clothes, bathed or shaved since the evening before. There was an
untidy growth of beard upon his chin, a bloodshot streak in his eyes;
his collar and tie were crumpled; his hair, over-luxuriant at the
best of times, was unkempt and disordered. He had a card in his hand,
upon which he marked the numbers as they came up, and from which his
attention never wandered until the final word of the croupier was
spoken, when he turned his attention to the board. Gerald leaned
towards the attendant seated behind the croupier’s chair, under
pretence of handing him a small stake.

“Monsieur gambles?” Gerald remarked, with an inclination of his head
towards the man who was the centre of interest.

The attendant turned around with an expressive little nod.

“Yesterday he broke the bank,” he whispered. “To-day he can do nothing
right.”

“He is losing, then?”

The man’s grimace was significant. Gerald watched his own stake swept
away and crossed to a place behind the Russian’s chair. In one of the
intervals, he leaned over and touched him on the shoulder. The man took
no notice. Gerald whispered in his ear.

“Madame de Ponière awaits you at the Villa.”

Zubin for a moment remained perfectly still. When at last he turned
around, his face was ghastly. With his strong arm, he pushed back some
one who intervened.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am merely a messenger,” Gerald replied. “I know no more than that I
was asked to give you that word if I saw you at the Casino.”

The Russian rose slowly to his feet, left one of the plaques to guard
his place, thrust a great pile of notes into his pocket, and led Gerald
into a corner.

“You sat next to me last night at Ciro’s Grill,” he said.

“Quite true,” Gerald assented.

“You have been spying on me.”

“That is, on the other hand, a falsehood,” Gerald replied coldly.

“It is through you that Madame knows I am in Monte Carlo.”

“On the contrary,” Gerald reminded him, “you yourself wrote a note to
her and dispatched it by messenger from Ciro’s.”

“The note was brought back--Madame was out,” the man declared. “It was
an accursed accident, that.”

“One gathers that you have not been fortunate to-day,” Gerald remarked,
after a brief silence.

“That is my own affair,” was the grim reply. “What I desire to know is
how you became acquainted with these ladies to such an extent that they
should appoint you as their messenger.”

“I do not recognise your right to ask me questions,” Gerald asserted,
“but, as a matter of fact, my knowledge of them is of the slightest.
Actually, I do not know them at all. I happened to have a few minutes’
conversation with Mademoiselle de Ponière, and I mentioned your
winnings. You will remember that I saw a letter from you to Madame last
night.”

Monsieur Zubin sat for a moment deep in thought.

“Are you charged to deliver a reply to this message?” he demanded.

“Certainly not,” Gerald answered. “I have not the privilege of visiting
at the Villa.”

“I should think not,” the other growled. “I wondered only whether you
had been told to take a message to the back door.”

“You are a very impertinent fellow,” Gerald told him calmly. “You
appear to have come from a country where manners have ceased to exist.”

The man laughed brutally.

“One puts off manners when one deals with spies and meddlers,” he
declared. “Get on about your business.”

He walked back and took his place at the table. Gerald gazed after him
in blank astonishment. Then he heard a little murmur of laughter from
the couch behind, and, turning around, found seated there the girl who
had been the Russian’s other neighbour on the previous night.

“Monsieur grows no more amiable,” she remarked, moving her head towards
where Zubin had reseated himself. “To-day, one perhaps excuses. Last
night he was like all his countrymen--savage, drunken with the lust of
gambling.”

“And to-day?” Gerald observed.

“To-day he loses all the time,” the girl replied. “Sometimes he leaves
the table and comes back here and mutters to himself. Then he makes
calculations and returns. One wonders sometimes whether he is playing
with his own money.”

Gerald left the Rooms a few minutes later and strolled out into the
Square. He was in some doubt as to what he ought to do. Pauline had
absolutely forbidden him to communicate with her in any shape or form,
yet he had a conviction that Zubin’s exploits in the Casino should be
made known to her. He strolled across to the establishment of Madame
Lénore. Madame greeted him with a peculiarly knowing smile. He drew her
on one side.

“Madame,” he said, “you make gowns for Mademoiselle de Ponière.”

The smile disappeared from Madame’s lips. Her face became impassive.

“It is true, milord,” she admitted. “What of it?”

“Just this. You are doubtless in frequent communication with her?”

“Without a doubt,” Madame assented. “I shall telephone her within a
quarter of an hour. Some lace she desired has just arrived.”

“Then you can do me and her a great service,” Gerald continued. “I have
some slight acquaintance with mademoiselle but I am not permitted to
communicate with her. It is important that she should know that the
Russian, Zubin, is gambling in the Casino, not in the Cercle Privé, and
losing heavily.”

“A big man?” Madame asked quickly,--“almost a giant?”

“That is he,” Gerald assented.

Madame turned towards the telephone.

“Demand the Villa Violette,” she told the operator. “Say that I wish to
speak to Mademoiselle de Ponière without delay.”

Gerald turned away. Madame laid her fingers upon his arm.

“My congratulations, milord!”

“I don’t know what on,” Gerald replied, a little ruefully. “I am rather
out of luck.”

“The little peasant girl,” she whispered. “She is adorable. Such
a figure I have never seen, such an air, such simplicity and yet
such grace. With her hair done _à la Madonne_, and those eyes, under
milord’s tutelage she would turn the heads of half the men in Europe.”

Gerald sighed. The memory of the little scene earlier in the day was
once more before him.

“You must remember that I have a co-guardian of the strictest
principles, Madame,” he said, “and besides, that isn’t exactly what we
are planning for her.”

Madame, steeped in the philosophy of her environment, shrugged her
shoulders in genuine mystification. Gerald took his leave a little
hurriedly, to avoid the comment which he felt was imminent.




CHAPTER XIV


Madame de Ponière dismissed the servants with a little wave of the hand
and looked thoughtfully for a few moments into the fire of pine logs
which had been kindled in the grate. The dinner table at which she and
Pauline were seated was piled with dishes of expensive fruits, and
there was wine still in their glasses. Nevertheless, Madame de Ponière
had not the air of one who has enjoyed her meal.

“Pauline,” she said, “Zubin is already four days late.”

Pauline made no immediate reply. Her aunt pointed to an escritoire
which stood in a corner of the room.

“These people,” she continued, “become abusive. Even Lénore has sent an
account. You dispatched the telegram?”

“I dispatched the telegram,” Pauline assented, “but it was needless.
Zubin is here.”

“Here in Monte Carlo?” Madame de Ponière demanded quickly.

“I have heard so,” Pauline replied. “My information is very scanty, but
I understood that he had sent you a letter last night.”

The pallor of the older woman’s face seemed suddenly deepened. Her eyes
glittered ominously.

“Jean spoke of a note that had been brought and taken away,” she
muttered. “Tell me at once what you know, Pauline?”

“I have no definite information,” Pauline reiterated, “but I understand
that he has been seen at the Casino.”

Madame de Ponière sat like a woman who has received a shock. The shadow
of fear was upon her face.

“You do not know Zubin,” she groaned. “If he once smells the atmosphere
of that place, it is like a deadly drug to him. And he loses! He always
loses!”

She leaned over and struck a bell which stood upon a table.

“The car in a quarter of an hour,” she ordered. “Pauline, get ready. We
must seek Zubin. If he has begun to gamble, he will go on to the end.”

They drove first to the Casino, where they explored only the Cercle
Privé. From there they went to the Sporting Club, where there was still
no sign of him. Madame de Ponière became more hopeful.

“He is perhaps resting in his hotel,” she said, “preparing to visit us.”

“He would never come without sending word beforehand,” Pauline reminded
her. “Besides, there are the ordinary tables at the Casino. We ought to
have looked there.”

Madame de Ponière gave a little shudder.

“One sees too much of them as one passes through,” she declared. “The
people and the atmosphere are intolerable.”

They sat side by side on one of the settees, two rather lonely and
disheartened women face to face with tragedy. Pauline saw Gerald in the
distance and determined upon a bold step.

“Aunt,” she said, “there is a young man standing by the easy-chair
there, whose father lives at the adjoining villa to ours. He has once
or twice offered me some small courtesies. He is alone and I am sure he
would be glad to be useful. Let me send him to the Casino.”

“Show him to me,” Madame de Ponière demanded.

Pauline pointed him out. Her aunt sighed.

“One breaks a cherished tradition,” she said, “but it must be done. I
leave the matter in your hands.”

Gerald and Christopher, strolling round the room, came presently to
within a few feet of them. Gerald, bitterly though he resented it, was
passing on after one swift glance at Pauline. She leaned over, however,
and touched him on the arm.

“Lord Dombey,” she said, “my aunt permits me to present you. Lord
Dombey--Madame de Ponière.”

Gerald, taken by surprise, bore the shock well. He bowed low and
murmured a few polite words.

“I am afraid you will think that we are very mercenary,” Pauline
continued, “but we are going to ask a favour.”

“It is granted,” Gerald assured her swiftly.

“There is a Russian gentleman in Monte Carlo named Zubin.”

“I know him by sight,” Gerald declared. “Besides----”

“Then the rest is easy,” Pauline interrupted, with a warning look. “Our
request is that you search the Casino for him, and, if he is there,
that you bring him to us.”

Gerald bowed.

“Mademoiselle,” he promised, “if he is there, I will bring him to you
within a quarter of an hour.”

Gerald, on entering the Casino, made his way at once to the table at
the farther end. The seat which had been occupied by Zubin, however,
was vacant, though the table itself was crowded. He was on the point of
continuing his search in one of the other rooms, when he suddenly saw
the man of whom he was in search seated on one of the sofas against the
wall. He made his way thither at once.

“Sir,” he said, “I have brought you a message from Madame de Ponière.”

The Russian lifted his head, and for a moment Gerald was afraid that he
had had a stroke. His eyes were horribly red, the flesh about his cheek
bones seemed to have become drawn tight, and his cheeks to display new
hollows. His hands were trembling. All his truculence of manner had
departed.

“From Madame de Ponière?” he repeated. “Where is she?”

“She is waiting now in the Sporting Club,” Gerald replied. “I will take
you to her if you will accompany me.”

The Russian rose to his feet and the two men left the place. Many of
the bystanders gazed after them, and Gerald heard something of their
whispers.

“I’m afraid you’ve been having rather a bad time,” he remarked.

His companion took no notice. He walked, indeed, like a man in a
nightmare. Not only was he unshaven, but his clothes were creased and
tumbled. He was altogether a dishevelled-looking object.

“Might I suggest,” Gerald said, as they descended the steps of the
Casino, “that you visit your hotel and freshen up a little before you
come to the Club?”

Zubin seemed suddenly to step down from another world. He looked
vacantly at Gerald for a moment, at his smoothly brushed hair, his
well-cut dinner coat, his faultless linen. Then, with a little start,
he glanced at himself and shrugged his shoulders ponderously.

“You are right, monsieur. Come this way.”

He crossed the street with great strides and entered the Hôtel de
Paris. He turned once more to Gerald as he entered the lift.

“A quarter of an hour, monsieur,” he said. “I give you my word that I
will not keep you longer than twenty minutes.”

“I will be waiting here,” Gerald promised.

After the departure of the lift, Gerald made his way by means of the
private passage to the Sporting Club. Madame de Ponière and her niece
were seated where he had left them, the elder lady sipping some coffee,
Pauline looking around her with a languid air of half-amused interest.
Save for the fact that Madame de Ponière’s lips tightened a little as
she saw Gerald alone, there was not the slightest indication in their
manner or expression that they were confronted in any way with an
exceptional situation.

“I have found our friend,” he announced. “He is making some alterations
to his toilet. I am meeting him in a few minutes and shall bring him
here.”

“Was he playing?” Pauline enquired.

“Not when I arrived,” was the cautious reply.

Madame de Ponière stirred her coffee negligently.

“Had he,” she asked, “the air of a man who has been losing?”

“I fear,” Gerald admitted, “that he rather gave me that impression.”

Pauline smiled up at him.

“It is very good of you to give yourself so much trouble,” she said.
“My aunt and I are greatly indebted to you. Please do not lose any time
in bringing Monsieur Zubin here.”

The words were almost a dismissal. Gerald made his way back through
the passage and took a seat in the lounge of the hotel. Within the time
promised, a transformed Monsieur Zubin made his appearance. Gerald
found it difficult to restrain his surprise. His dinner suit was
faultlessly cut, his black pearl studs were marvellous. He had been
carefully shaved and his hair had been trimmed. He carried white kid
gloves in his hand, a glossy silk hat, and a malacca cane crowned with
malachite. He came over at once to Gerald and signed to a waiter who
was hovering about with a bottle upon a tray.

“You will give me three minutes,” he begged. “I was interested in a
series of numbers, and I forgot to dine. I have ordered a bottle of
wine. You will perhaps join me.”

“Very good of you,” Gerald replied. “It is rather between times for me.
I’ll have a _fine champagne_, if I may.”

Monsieur Zubin bowed gravely and the brandy was brought. Without
turning a hair, he drank two tumblerfuls of the wine. Then he turned
courteously to his companion.

“If you have no objection,” he proposed, “we will walk outside to the
Sporting Club. The distance is the same and the air is fresher.”

Gerald assented readily, and they started off side by side. The Russian
was walking with his shoulders back, like a man on parade, and Gerald
suddenly felt that his own stature had become insignificant. All the
way his companion seemed to be reciting to himself in some foreign
tongue, reciting something which now and then seemed to have the swing
of blank verse. As they reached the steps which led up to the Sporting
Club, he came to a full stop and glanced around.

“Young man,” he said, facing Gerald, “you are probably a little curious
about me. This is the truth. Let those know it who may be interested.
I am the steward of Madame de Ponière and the trustee of as much as
is left of her revenues. I came here ashamed of their scantiness,
and the wild idea of enlarging them at the tables occurred to me. I
have failed. There is a _voiture_ here, you see, by my side, and the
commissionaire is there to help you. I apologise for the trouble I am
giving. I charge you to deliver the expression of my undying devotion
to Madame and Mademoiselle.”

His right hand, which had been fumbling in the pocket of his dinner
coat, shot out like lightning. A small revolver, flashing in the
electric light, was pressed to his temple. There were two almost
simultaneous reports. The last conscious action of the man was to half
throw himself through the door of the carriage.

Rumours were already floating about the Club when Gerald hurried in,
five minutes later. Both women looked at him in half-fearful enquiry.
Gerald was very grave.

“Madame,” he announced, “I bring bad news.”

Madame unfurled her black lace fan and fanned herself slowly.

“One hears that a man has shot himself outside,” she said. “It is,
perhaps, the man whom I sent you to seek?”

“It is he,” Gerald acknowledged.

Madame de Ponière rose to her feet. She was an ugly woman whom, up to
that moment, Gerald had detested. He found himself now admiring her
profoundly. She leaned a little upon the stick which she carried in her
left hand. Her right she extended towards Gerald.

“If you will give me the support of your arm downstairs, Lord Dombey,
I shall be glad,” she continued. “I am an old woman, and these shocks
become more poignant with the years. Zubin was a faithful servant of my
house. I am much affected.”

They made their slow progress from the room. Madame held her head high.
Mademoiselle was a little paler than usual, but her good night to the
commissionaire was as clear and gracious as ever. No signs of any
disturbance remained outside,--Monte Carlo knows how to deal with these
things. Their automobile was already in attendance, and the two women
took their places at once.

“We are much obliged for your assistance, Lord Dombey,” Madame
declared. “I regret that we should have given you so tragical an
errand.”

“You will permit me to call, perhaps, at the Villa?” Gerald begged.

“I shall not be receiving for several days,” Madame replied. “If you
are so gracious as to leave a card, my servants will tell you when I am
disposed to see friends.”

The car glided off. Madame leaned back with closed eyes. Gerald caught
just a faint glimpse of Pauline’s profile, ivory pale, a gleam of
terror in her eyes, as though she knew that they were passing over the
spot where Zubin had died.




CHAPTER XV


It was after dinner at the Villa Acacia, and Lady Mary and Christopher,
hardiest of the little gathering, were strolling back and forth on the
terrace in the violet darkness. Arc-like, at their feet, stretched
the lights of the Bay of Mentone. The whole hillside seemed dotted
with little points of fire from the distant villas. Out at sea, sheet
lightning sometimes parted the dense clouds and spread a broad,
phantasmal glare upon the rocking waves. The two were old enough
friends to speak intimately on many topics. They were talking to-night
of Gerald.

“Gerald, as a rule,” his sister declared, “is almost over-candid about
his love affairs. This is certainly the first time I remember him to
have been mysterious.”

“I don’t think he has seen anything of Mademoiselle de Ponière since
the tragedy at the Sporting Club,” Christopher remarked.

“It isn’t for want of trying, then,” the girl replied drily. “He’s
called there every afternoon since. I’ve been mean enough to watch him
up the drive with my glasses, but he hasn’t been allowed in once. They
must be queer people.”

“There was a distinct suggestion at first,” Christopher observed, “that
they were adventuresses. Their present attitude doesn’t seem like it.”

Lady Mary leaned over to gather a sprig of the trailing oleander. She
was very becomingly dressed in a gown of deep rose taffeta, one which
Christopher remembered that he had admired on a previous visit. She
had completely lost her slight brusqueness of manner. Her tone and eyes
were soft, as though the magic of the night had had its effect upon her.

“Really,” she sighed, “you young men who should be our greatest comfort
are actually our greatest responsibility. First of all you pick up a
peasant girl on the road, over whom you both seem to have lost your
heads more or less, and now Gerald is behaving like a lunatic about
this young foreign woman.”

“Has Gerald told you of the latest developments with regard to
Myrtile?” Christopher enquired.

“Good gracious, no!” Mary replied. “Have you found a post for her, or
something?”

“Her father and fiancé turned up,” Christopher declared,--“perfect
brutes, both of them. We bought the child between us for five thousand
francs.”

Lady Mary frowned.

“Exactly what do you mean, Christopher?” she asked.

“Crudely put, but a statement of fact, nevertheless,” was the prompt
reply. “Her stepfather and this other man came and made the dickens of
a row; Gerald took the matter in hand and soon discovered that they
were the usual covetous type of grasping peasant. We paid down five
thousand francs between us, and they signed a paper giving up all claim
to her.”

“So now she is on your hands permanently,” Mary remarked.

“I imagine so,” Christopher acknowledged. “On the other hand, I do not
think that she will be a serious charge. I have some friends in London
who have promised to take her for a nursery governess.”

“Are either of you in love with her?” Mary asked, raising her eyes and
looking her companion in the face.

Christopher hesitated for several moments before answering. Mary began
to tear into small pieces the sprig of oleander which she was holding.
Her face seemed suddenly to have become very white and tired.

“I am sure that Gerald is not,” Christopher answered. “As for me--well,
that sort of thing is a little out of my line, isn’t it? The most
serious part of the situation is that I am afraid the child is in love
with Gerald.”

“She will get over that,” Mary said drily. “Most of the girls I know
have been in love with Gerald at some time or another. Sooner or later,
the wise ones find him out and the butterfly ones flit away somewhere
else. It may seem unsisterly, but I am more concerned about you,
Christopher, than Gerald.”

He passed his arm through hers, an action which their increasing
intimacy seemed to render perfectly natural.

“Mary,” he began, “you are just the one person in the world to whom
I could confess an impulse of folly, and this is, I suppose, the one
place I could do it in. I frankly don’t understand what you mean
by being in love. When I have thought of marriage, it has been in
connection with some dear woman friend who would make a home for me and
be a companion. Of course, I expected to care for her and all that,
but--promise you won’t laugh at me?”

“I shall not laugh,” Mary promised.

“For the first time in my life, that child has made me think of other
things,” Christopher acknowledged simply. “I don’t know that it amounts
to anything, I dare say really it is an unsuspected vein of kindness
which she has touched; but there it is. I have an absurd feeling of
fondness for her. The idea of her becoming a plaything for Gerald or
anybody makes a madman of me.”

“And she?”

“Looks upon me as a kind person but an intolerable nuisance. She dreams
of nobody but Gerald. If he lifts his little finger, she is his.”

“Really!” Mary drawled coldly.

“Please don’t judge her too harshly,” Christopher begged. “Myrtile is
temperamentally incapable of a mean or an immoral action. She is just a
child of nature, only instead of being swayed by the lower instincts,
she is swayed by the higher ones. She loves Gerald, and nothing else
counts with her. She would have thrown herself into the river sooner
than have given herself in marriage to the innkeeper. She is equally
capable of giving her life and her soul to Gerald, if he requires the
sacrifice.”

Mary turned her head towards the window.

“I think that father wants his game of backgammon,” she observed. “We
had better go in, I am afraid. We must talk of this again sometime.
Will you go first and say that I shall be there directly?”

Christopher stepped obediently through the window, and Mary passed on
to the farther end of the terrace, where the shadows were deeper. For
a moment her self-control slipped away. Her fingers gripped the ivy
stalks fiercely. There were tears in her eyes, her rather firm but
sensitive little mouth quivered passionately. It seemed so many years
since Christopher had first represented to her all that she desired
in manhood,--a man of character, a worker, a sportsman when the time
came, always ambitious, always ready to pit his brain against others.
She had fancied him in Parliament, a Cabinet Minister later in life,
perhaps. She had thought with happiness of the many ways in which she
could further his career; had dreamed with pleasure of playing hostess
for him in a joint establishment.--She had pictured to herself, for
weeks before their arrival, the coming of these two young men, had
speculated joyfully as to the reason for Christopher’s unexpected
holiday. She had told herself that he, too, had seen the things she
had seen, had felt what she had prayed he might feel. Womanlike, she
had taken note of the signs. She had known that the consummation of
her wish was inevitable, unless something should come between. And
something had most unexpectedly come between--this peasant girl,
this birth of a spurious sentiment--nothing, in a man like Gerald,
but very much to be dreaded in a person of Christopher’s poise and
steadfastness. She was a proud young woman, for all her gracious ways,
and, although she refused to find anything final in his attitude, the
pain that she suffered in those few moments was not only of the heart.

Christopher and his host, in the intervals of their game, talked of the
latest suicide. With the usual amazing secrecy of the local Press, not
one word had appeared in any paper published in the vicinity.

“I feel a great deal of sympathy for our neighbours,” Lord Hinterleys
remarked. “Old Colonel Huskinson, whom I met on the Terrace this
morning, told me that the man was bringing them money for some estates
he had sold, which were practically their only means of subsistence.”

Gerald looked up from the sofa where he was lying. He had complained of
a bad headache earlier in the evening.

“I suppose, sometime or other,” he said, “the true story of that
man will be known everywhere, and his actual connection with the De
Ponières. The magistrate or coroner, or whatever he was, knew it this
morning, but he wasn’t giving anything away.”

“There seems to be a great deal of needless secrecy about the matter,”
his father observed. “You were present in court, I suppose, Gerald?”

“I was fetched by a small army of gendarmes,” Gerald told them. “They
escorted me there in a carriage, although the court house was only
about half a mile away. It was the quaintest scene. They were simply
out for hushing the whole thing up in the most extraordinary manner.
They summoned us there, but they apparently didn’t want anything from
us in the shape of evidence. All that they were anxious about was to
get rid of us as soon as they could.”

Lord Hinterleys had paused in his game.

“This is really a most extraordinary procedure,” he declared. “Do you
mean to say, Gerald, that no witnesses at all were called?”

“Not a soul,” Gerald replied. “The whole affair, from our point of
view, was a farce. One was led to believe that he committed suicide for
family reasons or because he had an incurable complaint. I saw Pritili,
the manager of the hotel, just as I was coming out this evening, and I
asked him pointblank who the man really was and whether the story he
had told me himself were true. I was interested in knowing, because it
was I who had fetched him away from the Casino at the request of the
lady whose steward he was supposed to be. Pritili answered me as I have
never been answered by a hotel manager in my life. He drew himself up
and looked like an archbishop. ‘It is one of those things, milord,
into which one does not enquire,’ he said. So that was an end of me.”

Lord Hinterleys picked up his hand. Mary came in from the terrace and
seated herself by Gerald’s side. The quietness of the evening, however,
was almost immediately disturbed. The butler threw open the door,
announcing guests.

“The Ladies Victoria and Millicent Cromwell, Mr. James Cromwell, Lady
Esseden.”

They all trooped in--intimates of the young people of the house.

“We want you to come down to the Club for an hour or two,” Lady
Victoria, who was always the leading spirit, suggested. “Dad’s just
paid my dress allowance, and I’m dying to lose it, and Jimmy’s going to
give us supper and take us to dance somewhere afterwards.”

“Added to which,” her sister, Lady Millicent, went on, “we have brought
you news.”

They were all suddenly attentive. Gerald, who had risen to his feet,
leaned a little forward.

“News?” Christopher repeated. “From England?”

“No, you idiot!” Lady Victoria declared. “What news should there be
from England? There’s no polo or cricket or tennis yet, and most of the
people we know have already run away with some one, so there’s not even
scandal left. We know all about the man who committed suicide the other
night.”

There was a dead silence, a most effective background for Lady
Victoria’s announcement.

“They tried hard to keep it secret,” she said, “but an English
journalist discovered the truth. The man’s name was Zubin, and he was
the steward of two unfortunate ladies who live near you. He had just
arrived from Russia with a large sum of money for them, went into the
Rooms, gambled with it and lost the lot. They say that it was nearly
three million francs and that it was every penny those poor women had
in the world.”




CHAPTER XVI


Christopher and Gerald were taking an early morning stroll and
displaying an almost feminine partiality for the shop windows, when the
former suddenly felt his friend’s hand tighten upon his arm. They had
paused to look through the plate-glass window of a jeweller’s shop in
the Rue de Paris.

“What is it, old chap?” Christopher asked.

Gerald pointed to a pearl necklace which hung in the window.

“You see that?” he exclaimed tragically. “That belonged to Pauline--to
Mademoiselle de Ponière. And that marquise ring below--I am perfectly
certain her aunt was wearing it. Wait a moment, old fellow.”

Gerald entered the shop hastily. A very suave Frenchman came forward to
meet him.

“Can you tell me anything about that pearl necklace and the rings
below?” Gerald enquired.

“But certainly, sir,” the man replied. “One moment.”

He unfastened the window and brought out the stand on which the
necklace rested. The colour of the pearls was wonderful. They were not
large, but they had an almost pink glow.

“I have no doubt monsieur is a judge and I need say little about these
pearls,” the shopman began. “I would point out to you, however, that
they were matched for royalty itself, and the quality of each one is
superlative. If monsieur is a purchaser, I could quote him seven
thousand pounds, and for that sum there is not such another necklace in
the world.”

“I recognise the necklace,” Gerald admitted. “I might, under certain
circumstances, be induced to buy it. I came in, however, to ask you how
you obtained possession of it, and the rings below?”

The man’s manner changed.

“Monsieur,” he said, “I am not able to explain exactly how this
jewellery came into our hands. There are certain confidences which, in
the interests of our clients, we are forced to respect.”

“Quite so,” Gerald agreed, “but I can assure you that I am not an
impertinent enquirer. This is my name,”--he handed the man a card--“and
I was an acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Ponière, from whom you must
have obtained this necklace. I last saw Madame and Mademoiselle de
Ponière under very tragical circumstances, and I understand that they
have now left Monte Carlo. I am most anxious to obtain word as to their
whereabouts.”

“As regards that, milord,” the jeweller said, with a measure of
increased respect but with no signs of yielding, “I regret that I am
unable to help you. The transaction, such as it was, is finished. I was
entrusted with no address.”

“You would not buy jewellery of such value,” Gerald persisted, “unless
you knew something of your clients. You can probably tell me whether De
Ponière is their real name, and you can at least give me a hint as to
where they are to be found.”

“I regret deeply that I am entirely powerless in the matter, milord,”
the man replied.

Gerald held up the pearls and let them slip through his fingers. He
remembered something which Pauline had once said to him,--“Pearls are
the maidens’ children. They love and care for them as such.”

“I have reason to surmise,” Gerald went on, “that a misfortune has
befallen these ladies. If they had confided in me, it would have given
me the greatest pleasure to have offered them assistance.”

The jeweller smiled inscrutably.

“I fear that it would have been useless, milord,” he said. “I have had
the privilege of knowing the elder of these ladies for some thirty
years, and I supplied the first string of pearls which the younger lady
ever wore, at the time of her confirmation. I would willingly have
undertaken the payment of such debts as were owing in Monte Carlo,
without security, but I should never have had the courage to suggest
it. You will see an announcement in the evening paper, milord, that all
claims against the ladies will be settled by me on demand.”

“If I buy the necklace,” Gerald proposed bluntly, “will you tell me how
and where to find Mademoiselle de Ponière?”

The jeweller’s bow was almost frigid.

“My word is passed to these two ladies, milord. I have no information
whatever to give you.”

“You cannot even tell me what relation they were to Monsieur Zubin?”

“Monsieur Zubin?” the jeweller repeated, a little vaguely.

“The man who committed suicide a few nights ago outside the Sporting
Club.”

The jeweller shrugged his shoulders.

“There is no question of relationship, milord. Monsieur Zubin was,
I understand, the steward entrusted with the realisation of certain
properties belonging to Mademoiselle. I do not know whether I
have a right even to say so much,” he continued, after a moment’s
hesitation, “but it suggests itself that it was owing to Monsieur
Zubin’s embezzlements--he is reported to have lost several millions at
the tables here--that the ladies whom we have been discussing found
themselves temporarily embarrassed.”

Gerald laid down the pearls.

“If you care to keep these for me for a week,” he proposed, “until I
get the money from London, I will have them.”

The man bowed.

“Milord can take them with him,” he said, “or permit me to send them to
the hotel. Payment can be as desired.”

“You can send them round to the Hôtel de Paris,” Gerald directed. “If
you are as loyal to all your clients, you deserve to prosper in your
business.”

The man bowed lower than ever as he showed Gerald out.

“Perhaps some day,” he said, “it will be my privilege to explain to
milord that loyalty.”

“I have committed an extravagance,” Gerald confessed, as the two young
men continued their stroll.

“You have bought the presents for your supper party?” Christopher
suggested.

“I never thought of them,” was the candid reply. “I have given seven
thousand pounds for a pearl necklace.”

“Great Scott! Why?”

“Because I was right in my surmise. It was Pauline’s necklace, left
there so that they could pay their bills. Madame’s rings are there,
too. Pretty sort of adventuresses, Christopher!”

“But what are you going to do with the necklace?” Christopher, always
intensely practical, demanded.

“I am going to keep it until I meet Mademoiselle de Ponière again,”
Gerald replied. “Then I shall beg to be allowed to present it to her.”

“Have you found out who she is?”

“I have not, but I have found a loyal and honest tradesman. If I had
asked him another question, I should have felt a cad.”

Christopher looked up towards the hills.

“It’s too misty for golf,” he said. “Shall we go and see Myrtile?”

“I suppose so,” Gerald agreed, without marked interest. “Any news from
your nursery governess friends?”

“They can’t take her for a month or so,” Christopher replied. “I don’t
quite know what to do about it. I must leave on Thursday week.”

Gerald laughed.

“And you daren’t trust her here with me, old chap, is that it?”

“Something like it, I’m afraid,” the other admitted frankly.

Gerald sighed.

“What a Lothario you must think me!” he declared. “As a matter of fact,
Chris, I don’t think that the ingénue does attract me very much. I
am too young and unsophisticated myself. It is hardened sinners like
you who are bowled over by rusticity and morals. I prefer something a
little more advanced in the world’s ways.”

“Then, for heaven’s sake, leave the others alone!” Christopher enjoined
curtly. “We have a difficult task before us with Myrtile, especially
as, for once in her life, Mary doesn’t seem inclined to help us. Treat
the child sensibly, for heaven’s sake.”

“What do you mean by ‘sensibly’, old chap?”

“Well, remember that she has to be a nursery governess and not a
Parisian demi-mondaine. It’s idiotic to take her to these smart
restaurants and dancing places. It’s outside her life. It gives her
false ideas.”

“This from the man who took her to the Opera on a gala night!” Gerald
scoffed.

“I took her to the Opera in a small box and in her ordinary clothes,”
Christopher retorted. “I took her for the sake of the music, and she
didn’t think of a thing except the music from the beginning to the end.”

“Frankly, you bore me about Myrtile,” Gerald declared. “You ought to
have been born in the days of dear old Oliver Cromwell. My idea is that
girls were made to live like butterflies, to be happy just in the few
hours when the sun shines.”

“You have not even the philosophy of the pagan,” Christopher retorted.
“You forget that the butterfly enjoys the supreme advantage of being
unencumbered with a soul.”

The street door was suddenly opened in their faces. They had arrived at
Myrtile’s lodgings, to find her issuing into the street. She seemed to
look through Christopher at Gerald, who was a pace or two behind. Her
smile was wonderful.

“I knew that something pleasant was going to happen this morning!” she
exclaimed. “I felt it when I got up.”

“You were quite right,” Gerald assured her. “Something very pleasant
is going to happen. I am going to take you over to Nice in the car to
lunch.”

Myrtile clapped her hands.

“Wait one moment,” she begged. “I must go and get some different
gloves. I’ll catch you up before you get to the corner of the street.”

The two young men strolled slowly on. There was a serious expression on
Christopher’s face.

“I am lunching with your people to-day, Gerald--at least I promised to
if there was no golf,” he observed.

“I heard Mary say so,” was the indifferent reply. “Good luck to you!”

“And you are taking Myrtile to Nice--Mademoiselle de Ponière having
left,” Christopher continued thoughtfully.

Gerald frowned.

“That was rather my idea,” he admitted. “Have you anything against it?”

Christopher passed his hand through his friend’s arm. They had reached
the end of the street and turned slowly back again.

“Look here, old fellow, don’t be shirty,” he begged. “You know I’m
right. We can only look after this girl decently in one way, and that
is by finding her some sort of a situation not too far removed from the
way she has been brought up, in which she can earn an honest living.
I’m on my way to secure this for her, but if you go turning her head by
taking her about to these smart restaurants, and developing her taste
for the gaieties of life, you’ll only unsettle her terribly and spoil
her chances of contentment.”

“You’ve taken her out yourself once or twice,” Gerald reminded him.

“I never take her to the very fashionable places,” Christopher insisted
earnestly, “and I try all the time to impress upon her the necessity
of work and the fact that life out here is merely a holiday existence.
Take her to Nice, by all means, if you want to, Gerald, but don’t turn
her head.”

Myrtile came down the street towards them. Gerald’s face cleared--as he
watched her, it was lit with a wave of admiration.

“She is like a piece of floating sunshine,” he declared enthusiastically.
“Chris, I’m not at all sure that she ought to be a nursery governess.
She’s going to be beautiful enough to turn the heads of half the men in
Europe.”

“It will be very largely our responsibility,” Christopher said,
lowering his voice a little as Myrtile drew near, “whether that beauty
is going to be a curse or a happiness to her. Don’t you forget that,
Gerald--or our bargain.”




CHAPTER XVII


Gerald was absolutely amazed as he led Myrtile back to their seat in
the palm court of the hotel. They had lunched, wandered about the town,
and afterwards made their way back to the hotel lounge, where a Thé
Dansant was in progress.

“Why, where on earth did you learn to dance like that, Myrtile?” he
demanded.

She laughed softly.

“Learn?” she exclaimed. “Why, there has never been any one to teach me.
I have never had a lesson in my life. I just listened to the music and
watched the people, and then I saw that it was quite easy. Oh, how I
love it!”

“What a pity I can’t have you to my supper party to-night!” Gerald
sighed.

She leaned towards him. She was still a little out of breath. Her
cheeks were pink, her eyes aglow.

“Mayn’t I come, please, Gerald?” she begged. “I should be so happy.”

Gerald looked doubtful.

“There would be the devil to pay with Christopher,” he pointed out.
“And, besides, it really isn’t the place for you.”

“What do you mean?” she persisted.

“Well, it’s a Bohemian sort of affair,” Gerald explained, a little
awkwardly. “The girls aren’t all of them just what they should be.”

Myrtile laughed again.

“But what does that matter?” she protested. “They will not hurt me or
I them. When I am not dancing with you, I can sit alone and talk to no
one.”

Gerald shook his head.

“Can’t be done, little girl,” he decided regretfully. “Christopher is
quite right when he says I ought not to encourage the taste for that
sort of life in you at all. These girls all drink a lot of champagne,
and smoke furiously--lead rotten lives, most of them--and their
conversation sometimes--well, it wouldn’t be fit for you to listen to.
Some evening or other I’ll have quite a small party--just one or two
who I know are all right.”

“That isn’t what I want,” Myrtile declared. “I want to go to the party
to-night. You will dance with other girls if I am not there. I don’t
want you to--not to-day, at any rate. You have danced with me, and it
was wonderful.”

“I begin to think that I don’t want to dance with any one else myself,”
Gerald confessed, looking at her admiringly. “I’ll think it over on the
way back.”

“Must we start now?” she asked wistfully.

“This moment,” Gerald insisted. “I have to dine with the family. It’s
their last night. They are off to England to-morrow. I tell you what
we’ll do, though, if you like. We’ll take the mountain road.”

“Is it longer?”

“About half an hour,” he replied. “There won’t be nearly so much
traffic, though, and I love putting the old ’bus at the hills.”

They made their way out to the open space in front of the hotel,
where Gerald had left the car, and very soon they were on their way
homeward. Driving, for the first half-hour, absorbed Gerald’s whole
attention, and Myrtile leaned back in the low seat by his side,
filled with the joy of their rapid ascent, the smooth, birdlike motion
which seemed to be taking them, with scarcely an effort, up into the
clouds. Soon all the signs of over-population which spoil the effect
of the coast road became blurred and undistinguishable. The natural
beauties of that wonderful line of coast reasserted themselves. Up
here in the mountains were no cafés with flamboyant invitations, or
jerry-built villas. One had the sensation of being lifted out of the
tawdriness and artificiality of a region over-abundant in tourists,
a little over-anxious to display for their benefit its charms.--Once
Myrtile turned her head as they were about to round the last corner of
the ascent, and looked backwards. Gerald, with quick comprehension,
understood her thoughts and spoke for the first time.

“This is the real road, Myrtile,” he said. “It comes straight from
Cannes, straight from the gate over which you leaned. The other we only
took that night for safety.”

Her beautiful eyes sought for his and were rewarded with a momentary
glance of sympathy. Gerald was at his best when driving. The slight
weakness of his face disappeared in the concentration of watching the
road. He drove always with his head a little thrown back, not in any
way the action of a poseur, but simply the fixed desire of the born
motorist to see as far as possible ahead of him.

“I think,” Myrtile whispered, “that this is the real road which leads
to happiness. The road down there is tangled and twisted. Here one
seems to breathe more wonderfully, to come nearer to the things one
feels but does not understand. It is more like the air around the farm,
when I used to get up sometimes before the sunrise and walk through
the violet patch and the cypresses to the gate. The sun rose at the end
of the road.”

“You are a quaint child, Myrtile,” Gerald reflected. “I wonder what
would have happened to you if we had not passed along that night.”

She shivered.

“I know,” she answered. “I am quite sure that I know. I felt it in my
heart when I leaned over the gate and looked to the end of the road.
There was the mystery there towards which I seemed always to have
groped. That night it was the mystery of life or the mystery of death.
You came, and it was life.”

They were travelling more slowly now, crawling along the level stretch
of ledge-like road at its extreme summit. Gerald had never before felt
the fascination of the girl by his side as he felt it in those moments.
He stretched out his left hand and she gripped it in hers, tearing off
her gloves so that her fingers could clasp his.

“And since it is life,” he asked, “is the mystery passing?”

Her eyes were swimming with the desire of happiness.

“There is no mystery any longer,” she told him. “I know what lies at
the end of the road, where the sun used to rise. I know now.”

He moved a little uneasily. The descent was commencing, and he needed
his left hand. There were portents already of the short twilight. Here
and there, an early light glimmered out amongst the hills. The air was
cool and crisp. Gerald, impressionable as ever, felt the spurious glow
of exaltation, spurious because its influence was wholly external. His
face became graver, his tone was almost stern.

“What we hope you will find there,” he said, “is happiness.
Christopher has explained to you about this post in England?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“You will like it?”

“No!”

He rounded a difficult corner and brought the car to a standstill in a
wall-encircled arc of the road, a little space thrown out like a bay
window, where one may pause for a moment from the strain of driving.
Below lay the wonderful bay, the rock of Monaco, the white Casino
standing over the dark blue sea. More lights were flashing out now. The
blurred landscape seemed to gain in beauty of outline what it lost in
colour.

“But you must be happy, Myrtile. We want you to be happy,” Gerald
declared.

“If you want me to be happy,” she whispered, “I shall always be happy
because it is you--you----”

Gerald, a moment ago, had been full of good intentions, of good advice.
Myrtile leaned towards him. Her slim body, sweet but throbbing with
eagerness, prayed for his embrace. Her left arm stole out towards his
shoulder, as though to turn his head.

“Gerald!” she whispered.

“Myrtile!” he begged, “you must not----”

Then all Gerald’s good resolutions crumbled for the moment. Her lips
were pressed to his, warm and sweet, passionate with the fervour which
comes from the soul alone, which takes no count of lesser things than
the Heaven where, to the innocent, love only dwells. She rested in his
arms, tumultuously happy. Somewhere in the field below was a bonfire
of fallen pine boughs, and for years afterwards the smell of burning
wood, fragrant and aromatic, brought back to Gerald the memory of those
few seconds.--There was a flash of lights below from an approaching
automobile. Gerald drew away, pale and a little remorseful. Myrtile’s
face was like the face of a child who has seen Heaven.

“We must get on,” he said hoarsely.

She lay back in her place without moving until they began the last
descent into the town.

“May I come to your party to-night, Gerald--now?” she whispered.

“No!”

She laughed quietly to herself. There was no longer any shadow of
disappointment in her face.

“But you are very foolish,” she remonstrated. “How can you think that
it would not be well for me to be where you are? Besides, I want you to
dance with me. They are very beautiful young ladies who come to your
parties--Christopher showed me some of them at the Opera.”

“There is not one of them so beautiful as you,” he declared.

She smiled happily.

“Will you think so to-night?” she asked.

“I shall think so all the time--and I shall miss you horribly,” he
assured her.

“Perhaps you will, perhaps you will not,” she replied enigmatically.
“You must put me down here. This is my corner.”

She jumped lightly down, with only a touch of his fingers for farewell.
Gerald, although he had set a stern face against the rush of ideas and
anticipations which were crowding into his brain, felt a little pang of
disappointment as she left him without further protest. He would never
have allowed her to come, he told himself, as he drove slowly off. Yet
at that moment he had a vision. He escaped a taxicab by a few inches.

Myrtile waited until Gerald was out of sight. Then she crossed the
Square, walked a few steps along the Rue de Paris, paused before the
curtained door of Madame Lénore’s little establishment, and pushed it
open. Madame Lénore herself came forward. There was something sinister,
though not unfriendly, in the smile with which she greeted her visitor.

“What can I do for mademoiselle?” she enquired.

“Can I have the clothes for the evening which you showed me when I
first came here?” Myrtile asked, a little anxiously.

“But certainly, Mademoiselle,” the Frenchwoman answered graciously.
“Mademoiselle desires them for this evening?”

“I want to wear them to-night,” was the happy reply.

Madame studied the slim figure before her, followed its beautiful
lines, yielding her half grudging, half cynical admiration to its
undeveloped perfection. Then she studied the girl’s face. She had not a
doubt in her mind as to what this visit meant. She decided that, if she
were properly handled, this peasant child might bring fame even to her
establishment.

“There are some other things mademoiselle will require,” she said
thoughtfully, “and it will be necessary for mademoiselle to have the
coiffeur. Mademoiselle will place herself in my hands for the evening?
I will promise that there is not a girl in Monte Carlo who will be half
so beautiful.”

“I want to look as nice as it is possible for me to look,” Myrtile
confided. “I will do just as you say, Madame.”

“Is it a party which mademoiselle desires to attend?”

“A supper party,” Myrtile replied. “It is at half-past eleven.”

“At the Hôtel de Paris?”

“Yes!”

Madame glanced at the clock.

“If mademoiselle will return at eight o’clock,” she said, “I will have
a coiffeur here and give him instructions myself. Afterwards, we will
dress her. I live here--my assistant and I--on the floor above. It will
not incommode us.”

“I shall be quite punctual,” Myrtile promised. “You are very kind,
Madame.”

The unwilling admiration shone once more in Madame’s beady eyes as
Myrtile turned and walked lightly away.

“It is a pity,” she sighed, “that the girl is such a fool!”




CHAPTER XVIII


Once more Christopher and Lady Mary braved the night air on the terrace
of the Villa Acacia. The latter pointed across the gorge to the villa
on the other side, a shadowy-looking building, unlit, and without any
sign of habitation.

“I wonder what Gerald does without his little play-fellow in the
afternoons,” she observed.

Christopher frowned.

“I know what he did this afternoon. He took Myrtile over to Nice.”

“Myrtile?” Lady Mary repeated coldly. “Your little protégée?”

“Yes,” Christopher assented.

“The young lady you purchased from a sordid stepfather and an amorous
suitor,” Lady Mary continued, the irony of her tone merging almost into
bitterness. “You young men will end by getting into trouble with the
police or your own consciences.”

“I am not in the least afraid of either contingency,” Christopher
assured her.

“Then why do you look so disturbed every time the girl’s name is
mentioned?” Lady Mary asked him, pointblank.

They were passing one of the long, high windows. Christopher paused
for a moment to look inside. Gerald and his father were playing
chess,--Gerald slim, handsome, obviously a little bored with the game;
his father keenly interested by a somewhat audacious move which had
just been made.

“If I do,” Christopher said, “as I tried to explain to you before, it
is not on my own account.”

Lady Mary laughed.

“You can’t imagine that Gerald is likely to find her dangerous!” she
scoffed. “Why, he was head over ears in love with that strange girl
over at the Villa Violette yesterday, and, besides, Gerald isn’t
vicious--you know that.”

“Gerald is very weak sometimes,” Christopher said bluntly. “He has
a man’s conscience where men are concerned, but with regard to
women--well, he sees things differently. He has been terribly spoilt,
of course, and in this particular instance the trouble is that the
child fancies herself in love with him.”

“In love with Gerald! How ridiculous!”

“You don’t quite appreciate her, if you don’t mind my saying so,”
Christopher declared, a little timidly. “She is extraordinarily
ignorant and she is also extraordinarily innocent. All her life she has
been starved for kindness and beauty. I don’t think there was ever a
human being in the world who needed help and counsel more than she does
to-day.”

“Shall I remove her from temptation?” Mary enquired, after a moment’s
reflection. “My maid has just broken it to me that she is going to stay
here and get married. Shall I take your protégée back to England in her
place?”

“If only you would!” Christopher exclaimed eagerly. “You needn’t keep
her. My cousin is going to find a place for her as nursery governess,
but she isn’t quite ready yet.”

Lady Mary considered the matter, leaning over the balcony, her head
a little thrown back as though to enjoy the perfume of the pines. Her
profile was luminously sweet against the dark background, but there was
rather a tired droop at the corners of her lips. Her thoughts wandered
for a moment from the subject of discussion.

“I wonder whether I am glad to go home,” she ruminated.

“We shall miss you,” Christopher declared.

She turned her head and looked at him.

“Will you?”

“Immensely,” he assured her. “I shall miss our tennis more than
anything. To tell you the truth,” he went on, “except for the tennis
and the rather amazing golf, I don’t think Monte Carlo appeals to me
very much.”

“You are no gambler,” she observed.

“I haven’t the faintest inclination towards it,” he confessed. “I hate
the things in life which I cannot control.”

“Isn’t that a little rash?” she ventured. “You might have to hate your
own affections.”

He was silent for a moment. She watched him curiously.

“I don’t think I am the sort of person,” he said, “who would be likely
to be led very far by his affections alone.--What about the child,
Mary?”

“I will take her if you wish it,” she decided. “She must be at the
station at eight o’clock. You know that we have to make an early start.
There will be nothing for her to do. Janet has packed and will arrange
all my things for the journey.”

Christopher drew a long breath of relief.

“You are a dear!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “You can’t imagine
what a weight this is off my mind.”

“I am doing it for your sake,” Lady Mary told him. “I do not like the
child. I disapprove most strongly of the whole situation. However, I
will do what I have promised. We are going straight to Hinterleys. She
can remain there until your cousin is ready for her.”

Gerald came strolling out to them, pausing on the way to light a
cigarette. The game of chess was over and his father was buried in the
_Times_, which had just been brought in.

“What are you two conspiring about?” he enquired.

“I have been saying good-by to your sister,” Christopher replied.

Gerald passed his arm around her affectionately.

“We shall miss you, dear,” he said.

“I think I am really rather sorry to go,” Mary confessed. “Father is
getting quite restless, though. He never cares to stay in one place too
long.”

Gerald glanced at his watch.

“I must be off,” he announced. “I’ve a few of my frivolous friends
coming in to supper after the Opera. Are you coming, Christopher?”

“I don’t think so, if you don’t mind, Gerald,” was the apologetic
reply. “I dance very badly, and none of those little lady friends of
yours seems to understand my French. I shall stay and talk to your
father for half an hour and then walk down.”

For some unaccountable reason, Gerald felt relieved. He took his leave
of his father and sister, started up his car, and drove through the
scented darkness back to the hotel. All the time he was conscious of a
little quiver of excitement for which he could not account. The Villa
Violette, at which he gazed as he turned out of the avenue, was dark
and empty. He thought of Pauline and sighed. The ghost in the empty
seat by his side faded away. He was for a single moment a man, angry
with himself, bitterly regretful.

“I was a cad to kiss her like that,” he muttered. “All the same, a
child has no right to such lips.”

Gerald was met in the hall of the hotel by Charles, the _maître
d’hôtel_ to whom he had left the arrangements for his supper party.

“If milord will be so kind as to ascend with me,” the latter suggested,
“I can show him the preparations I have made.”

Gerald nodded and ascended to the first floor. The man threw open
the door of a large apartment with smoothly polished floor. A round
table, arranged for sixteen, stood in the middle of the room under a
glittering chandelier. A heavily laden sideboard stood in a recess.
At the farther end, on a slightly raised dais, three musicians were
seated, looking through their music.

“This is the most convenient suite for milord,” Charles explained,
“because the door at the left-hand there communicates with milord’s own
suite of apartments, where his friends, if they like, can leave their
hats and coats. I shall serve the supper myself. Everything will be as
commanded. The supper table can be moved into a corner of the room at
any time desired,--as soon, in fact, as milord cares to start dancing.
Monsieur Léon presents his compliments, and, although he has no desire
to impose anything in the way of restrictions, he begs that the party
may finish at half-past three, in order to avoid complaints.”

Gerald nodded and dismissed the man. He stood for a moment in the
centre of the waxed floor, his hands behind him and a freshly lit
cigarette between his lips. The sight of these preparations for the
night’s festivities had left him curiously unmoved. He could picture
the whole affair,--a little cosmopolitan crowd of giggling, shrieking
girls, half French, half Russian, with a dash, here and there, of the
Egyptian and the Italian. It was a surge of femininity with which the
room would presently be assailed, and he was conscious of a sudden
sense of revulsion. Nadine, with her pale cheeks, her eyes half green,
half yellow, like the eyes of a cat, her alluring smile. Somehow or
other she would find her way to his side, she would whisper to him
in corners, brazenly ignoring the fact that she was the guest of the
American whose yacht was moored in the harbour, but who had gone to
Paris for a week. Then there were Chlotilde and Phrynette, Parisians to
the rosy tips of their fingers, more blatant still in their desires,
frank and unashamed of the silken net they trolled. It was, after
all, a dull game to play. The finesse of refusal had never seemed
so flat, the ignominy of consent so repulsive. He moved impatiently
to the window and stood looking across the strip of garden to the
bay. The violinist behind was playing something very softly, nothing
to do with the dance, a little fragment of music made for himself.
Gerald leaned towards the cool darkness. The music helped him to a
momentary escape. He thought of Pauline, cold as the snows, proud and
indifferent, yet with the charm of hidden things in her clear eyes and
delicate aloofness. Her indifference had hurt--how much he realised
when he thought of the coming evening. And then, like a flash, his mood
changed. There was the other type, as beautiful in its way, as serene,
as wonderful in its strange, virginal passion, the lips that had clung
to his with the frank offer of supreme, unselfish love.--Christopher
was right. There was no pleasure amongst the herds.

He turned away, and, crossing the room, opened the door leading into
his own suite. A wondrous--an amazing--vision confronted him. For
a moment he was aghast. Myrtile, transformed as though by the wand
of an artist, her gown, simple and unadorned, retentive of all the
grace of her girlhood, yet exquisitely suggestive of the woman to
come,--Myrtile, her hair drooped low on either side of her oval face, a
robed lily, unspoilt and untarnished by the cunning fingers which had
produced a veritable triumph. Her bosom was rising and falling quickly,
her lips were parted. Then she began to laugh softly. Everything was
right with the world. Gerald’s look of transfixed admiration told her
all that she needed to know.




CHAPTER XIX


“Will I do?” Myrtile asked demurely.

“You are wonderful!” Gerald exclaimed. “But--what does it mean?”

“I have come to your party,” Myrtile announced, “and even Monsieur
Christopher shall not send me away. I went to Madame Lénore. She
dressed me and she had my hair arranged. It was so droll. When I looked
in the glass I scarcely knew myself. You are pleased?”

“I am more than pleased,” Gerald answered, taking her hand. “But about
this party. I am not sure----”

“You don’t want me?” she whispered.

He could no longer resist the invitation of her lips. After a moment,
however, she sprang away. The violinist in the room beyond had
commenced a waltz. She dragged Gerald through the open door and gave a
little cry of delight when she saw the room.

“Dance with me,” she begged, “just you and I, all alone. Dance with me,
Gerald!”

They moved off to the music. The violinist smiled with pleasure. The
other instruments took up the strain. Myrtile was as light as a feather
in her partner’s arms, her feet flashed or lingered upon the floor like
flecks of sunlight upon a wave-stirred sea. She closed her eyes, half
fainting with the joy of the music, the smooth floor, Gerald’s arms.
Presently he stopped. He was unaccountably out of breath. He took one
of the gold-foiled bottles from the sideboard, opened it and filled
two glasses with the foaming wine. Myrtile’s eyes shone like stars as
she drank.

“Oh, I am happy!” she murmured. “This is wonderful! Promise, Gerald,
that you will never send me away. Promise?”

There was a shriek of voices as the room was invaded. Nadine came
through the door which led from his own suite.

“Gerald,” she cried, “there is a cloak already upon your bed! I am on
fire with jealousy. Who is your early guest?--Ah! A thousand pardons!”

Gerald’s movement had disclosed Myrtile. Nadine, daringly, almost
shamelessly dressed, raised her bare arms.

“Heaven!” she exclaimed. “Gerald has robbed a convent!”

Some men followed, accompanied by a little crowd of girls. Every one
was curious about Myrtile. She shook hands shyly with those whom Gerald
presented to her. When they asked for her name, however, he shook his
head.

“Mademoiselle is our guest for this evening,” he announced. “She is
not, alas! of our world. Let us call her Mademoiselle X.”

“Mademoiselle the Spirit, rather!” a Frenchman exclaimed. “I think that
you have dragged her down from the skies. Present me, Gerald, or I
shall be your enemy for life.”

“The Marquis Chantelaine,” Gerald murmured, “Mademoiselle X. The
Marquis is a shameless fellow, Myrtile, and you must not believe a word
he says.”

“I am shameless or not according to my surroundings,” the Frenchman
declared. “No one could look into the eyes of Mademoiselle and speak
other than the truth.”

Chlotilde pouted.

“Is no one going to say nice things to us others?” she complained.
“Gerald, you ought to have warned us. I would have worn my new gown. It
is exactly the colour of the sky. Even my maid declared that I, too,
slipped down from heaven.”

There was a little chorus of laughter. Cocktails were brought in and
cigarettes lit. Every one gathered around and talked to Myrtile.
She answered them naturally enough, but every now and then with
embarrassment.

“Mademoiselle X may be asked no questions,” Gerald insisted. “Where
she comes from I shall not tell any of you. Whither she goes after
to-night, you will none of you know.”

“Mademoiselle is of the _haut monde_, perhaps?” Nadine whispered
maliciously, under her breath.

“Mademoiselle belongs to a world we are none of us privileged to
enter,” Gerald answered. “It is the one favour I ask, as your host.
Please accept my guest as a butterfly, born this evening, passing away
to-morrow.”

“Oh, là, là!” Chlotilde exclaimed. “We are all like that. Give me
another cocktail, Charles. I have not had a drink all the evening, and
my sylph dance was twice encored.”

They made their way presently to the supper table. Myrtile sat at
Gerald’s right hand, and next her, on the other side, was the Marquis
de Chantelaine. Any form of tête-à-tête conversation, however, was
impossible from the first. They all seemed to be talking together
at the top of their voices in an almost incomprehensible argot, a
jumble of personal quips and sallies. Myrtile listened sympathetically
but understood little. Occasionally she laughed when the others
laughed, but as a matter of fact she needed nothing to complete her
happiness. She was next to Gerald, who whispered every now and then
little words of encouragement in her ear. The Marquis, too, murmured
occasional compliments, but he was man of the world enough partially
to understand the situation, and he restrained his natural instincts
towards unbridled gallantry. Presently Chlotilde jumped up and danced.
Phrynette followed suit and executed a wonderful _pas seul_. There was
a good deal of boisterous applause. Myrtile felt the colour burning in
her cheeks. She glanced towards Gerald. He was laughing, so it must be
all right. Nevertheless, she was relieved when at last Phrynette sat
down.

“I will show you,” Nadine suggested, “how they dance in Algiers.”

There was a little chorus of applause. Gerald alone for a moment looked
doubtful. He glanced towards Myrtile at his side.

“Don’t overdo it, Nadine,” he begged.

Nadine laughed subtly.

“Is it for your ingénue you fear, or yourself?” she asked. “Very well,
I will give you both something to think about.”

She danced at first with all the quivering grace of restrained but
passionate movements. Myrtile watched her with fascinated eyes. Then
she suddenly broke loose. Myrtile looked down at her plate and gripped
Gerald’s hand.

“Remember I warned you, dear,” he whispered. “Don’t watch.”

“Mademoiselle would perhaps care for a little stroll upon the
balcony?” the Marquis whispered in her ear.

Myrtile shook her head.

“Thank you,” she murmured, “I do not wish to leave Gerald. As for the
dancing, it is foolish of me but I have never seen anything like it. It
never seemed to me possible that women could do such things. That is
because I have not lived in the world. I shall progress.”

The dance came to an end amidst uproarious applause. Nadine,
dishevelled and breathless, pirouetted towards the door leading to
Gerald’s suite.

“I shall go into your bedroom and make myself tidy,” she called out.
“You can come and fetch me when you want me,” she added, looking over
her shoulder at her host.

The corks began to fly faster still. Presently, couples stood up and
danced. Then, indeed, happiness began for Myrtile. She danced with
Gerald again and again, danced to music which was indeed of the best,
for Gerald was somewhat of an epicure in such matters, until she forgot
the loud voices, the haze of cigarette smoke, the slightly unsteady
condition of one or two of the guests. To her, so long as it was
Gerald’s arm which controlled her, it was all beautiful. By degrees
she seemed to slip into her place, however incongruous it might be,
in the little company. The first impulse of resentment against her
presence, shown most clearly by Nadine after her prolonged but useless
wait before Gerald’s looking-glass, soon passed away. She was accepted
as one of the kaleidoscopic pictures of Monte Carlo flirtations. She
had come, and there was an end of it. There were other hosts besides
Gerald, other Englishmen crowding all the time into the place. The
very singleness of her devotion made her to some extent a rival to be
accepted philosophically. She at least made not the slightest response
to the advances which were offered her freely enough by the other men
of the party.

It seemed incredible that four o’clock had arrived when Louis presented
himself with many apologies. There was a ball that night at the
Carlton, however, so every one was resigned. They invaded Gerald’s
rooms for their coats and wraps. Myrtile remained talking with the
Marquis, with whom she had been dancing. Her body was still swaying a
little to the rhythm of the music.

“So this is your first night, Mademoiselle?” her companion said softly.
“I shall hope that we may meet many more times.”

“If you are a friend of Gerald’s, I hope that we may,” Myrtile replied.

“You have enjoyed yourself, on the whole?” he asked, looking at her
curiously.

Her ears were straining for Gerald’s voice. She could hear all the time
the shrill laughter of Nadine and her friends.

“I have enjoyed the dancing,” she said.

“But not the dancing of Mademoiselle Nadine?”

Her cheeks were suddenly hot. There was a look of trouble in her eyes
which he had noticed before and wondered at.

“No, I did not like that,” she acknowledged. “I cannot believe that
Gerald liked it, really. It was not beautiful.”

“She is very famous,” the Marquis remarked.

“It was not beautiful,” Myrtile repeated. “It frightened me a little.”

The Frenchman, a little intrigued, smiled.

“I begin to believe,” he said, “that you are really as young as you
look.”

“I am eighteen,” she told him.

“For that moment I was not thinking of your actual years,” he
explained. “How long have you known Lord Dombey?”

“Gerald?” she queried. “Only a very short time. I have never danced
with him before to-day.”

“It seems easy to believe,” he said, “that you slipped down from the
skies, only nowadays Heaven does not part with its children so easily.
Tell me, where did you come from, really?”

“A little farm on the other side of the mountains,” she said. “Gerald
and Monsieur Christopher brought me here. Monsieur Christopher wants me
to go to England, but I hope that Gerald will not let me go.”

“But what shall you do if you stay here?” he asked.

“Gerald will take care of me,” she answered. “I shall be very happy if
he lets me stay.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. He was inclined to be a disbeliever, the
accepted pose towards women at his age, but a little flicker of genuine
feeling disturbed for a moment his placid and cultivated cynicism.

“I am not at all sure,” he said, “if you are what you seem to be, that
it would not be better if you went to England.”

They all came trooping out. Myrtile got up to fetch her own cloak, but
Gerald detained her. She stood by his side, bidding good night to his
guests with him. The Marquis frowned slightly as he made his adieux.
The look in his eyes haunted her for a moment as he turned away.
Then she was conscious of a curious sense of disturbance. Throughout
the dancing she had been soothed into a state of ecstatic happiness.
Suddenly there was a change. She was alone with Gerald and he was
looking at her strangely. Two of the musicians were packing up their
music. Once more the violinist was playing softly, as though to himself.

“You have been happy, Myrtile?” Gerald asked, and his voice seemed to
come from a long way off.

“Wonderfully,” she answered. “I--there is my cloak.”

She moved towards the open door leading into Gerald’s suite. She seemed
suddenly torn by a strange medley of sensations and memories. She saw
Nadine pass through it, dishevelled and indecent, with that backward
glance at Gerald which, even to her ignorance, seemed ugly. She heard
the voices of all of them laughing stridently. Little half-understood
sentences puzzled her. She passed into the sitting room. Gerald
followed, closing the door. The sound of the music came more quietly.
Myrtile felt suddenly faint.

“You are tired!” Gerald exclaimed, bending anxiously over her.

She put her arms around his neck like a child.

“Gerald,” she whispered, “take care of me. I am afraid. Be good to me,
Gerald.”

Their lips met, but there was something absent from the warm joy of
that first kiss. Side by side with her happiness came the feeling of
discordant music all around her. Rank perfumes seemed to hang in the
air. A ribbon from one of Nadine’s discarded garments lay upon the
sofa. Yet when Gerald leaned towards her and his eyes sought for hers,
a strange content seemed to creep like a flood over all these other
things.

The door of the sitting room was suddenly opened and closed.
Christopher stood there, a little breathless, as though he had run up
the stairs, pale, and with a look in his eyes from which both Gerald
and Myrtile quailed,--Gerald with fuller understanding. His arms
dropped. He was nearer fear than ever before in his life. Christopher
spoke with marvellous calmness.

“Gerald,” he said, “were you thinking of breaking your trust?”

“Yes!” Gerald answered hoarsely. “Drop this Don Quixote business,
Christopher. I’m sick of it.”

Christopher came a step nearer.

“Myrtile is coming back to her lodgings with me,” he announced. “She is
going to England to-morrow morning. Your sister has promised to take
her.”

“But it is impossible!” Myrtile cried passionately.

“It is arranged,” Christopher declared. “I went to your rooms to-night,
Myrtile, to tell you. I received Annette’s lying message. I was told
that you were in bed and asleep. I left a note. Then, for the first
time since I have been here, I went to the Club and stayed late. I
heard your guests downstairs speak of your good fortune, Gerald.”

Gerald laid his hand upon Myrtile’s wrist.

“Well,” he said, “what are you going to do about it?”

“I am going to take Myrtile home,” Christopher insisted.

“I refuse to let her go,” Gerald declared.

Christopher looked for a moment away at Myrtile. She clung to Gerald
like a frightened child.

“Listen,” Christopher went on, “you and I have been friends all our
lives, Gerald. We know one another pretty well. You know of me that I
am a man of my word. I know of you that, though you are selfish and
worship pleasure, you are white enough when the hour strikes. The hour
has struck, Gerald. Let me take Myrtile home.”

“Myrtile shall choose,” Gerald proposed.

“Myrtile shall do nothing of the sort,” was the prompt reply. “You
might as well ask her to choose the right path through a strange city.
Gerald, old chap, don’t take this hardly. I am not here to sling abuse
at you. And Myrtile--just doesn’t understand. Thank God I was in
time!--Myrtile, take your cloak.”

She clung to Gerald’s arm, looking anxiously into his face. Something
else discordant had come into the room, something unbeautiful,
something to be feared. She looked from one to the other of the two
men. Gerald’s fist was clenched. For all his calm, there was a subtle
threat in Christopher’s attitude.

“I don’t want to quarrel,” Christopher went on. “Don’t let it come to
that, Gerald, but you see it is inevitable that Myrtile should leave
with me to-night. I shall not go without her. You know what that means.”

“I am to remember, I suppose,” Gerald said thickly, “that you were the
Varsity boxing champion?”

“Please don’t,” Christopher begged. “Myrtile must come. I can’t always
be in the way. To-night I am. To-night, at any rate, you have a
reprieve.--Myrtile!”

She stooped for her cloak. Christopher arranged it around her
shoulders. His fingers shivered at the touch of the filmy laciness, as
though he loathed it.

“You are ready, Myrtile?” he asked.

She looked once more at Gerald. He seemed so far away. And was it her
fancy, or was there something in his face which she had seen in the
faces of those others?--He lit a cigarette almost ostentatiously.

“You had better go, Myrtile,” he said. “Christopher has the whip hand
of us. We can’t have a row here.”

“Good-by, Gerald,” she faltered. “It isn’t my fault.”

“Of course not,” Gerald answered. “We are all a little overstrung, I
think. Good-by, little one!”

He kissed her almost carelessly and nodded to Christopher. The two left
the room. The music had ceased.

They walked through the empty streets in silence. When they arrived
within a few yards of Myrtile’s lodgings, Christopher slackened his
pace. Myrtile was crying quietly.

“Myrtile,” he begged, “please listen to me.”

“I am listening,” she told him drearily.

“This morning at eight o’clock I shall be here to take you to the
station. Please leave behind the clothes you are wearing, and I will
return them to Madame Lénore. You will go to London, and Lady Mary will
take care of you. Lady Mary is Gerald’s sister. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“Please don’t think of me as an executioner,” Christopher went on, with
a note of unusual feeling in his tone. “Love is a very wonderful thing,
Myrtile, but it is also a very dangerous paradise. If you care for
Gerald, and he cares for you, believe me, some day, you will belong to
one another and you will be happy, but the love which brings happiness
is not of a moment’s growth. It is not a matter of feeling only. To-day
you love Gerald with your whole soul. Gerald has simply a little
affection for you. You are a whim to him, a child whose softness and
prettiness attracts him. The kingdom of love is a wonderful place, but
no two people who are in the position of you and Gerald can enter it
by the lower gates. If you are faithful, remember this. A year or two
of life will bring womanhood to you, and you will understand just what
was lacking to-night, just what, in a corner of your heart, Myrtile,
I believe that you guessed was lacking. That something would have
poisoned even your wonderful happiness. You must wait, dear. Nothing in
the world will keep you and Gerald apart if your love for one another
becomes the love that endures.”

Myrtile crept away without a word. For an hour Christopher waited,
unseen, at the darkened corner of the street. He waited until he saw
the light go out in Myrtile’s room. Then he went back to the hotel,
changed his clothes and rested for a couple of hours. When he returned
to her room, she was waiting for him, dressed in her little blue serge
suit, pale, mutely pathetic. Christopher carried her small bag and they
made their way to the station.

“Myrtile,” he said, as they stood together, watching the train come
round the bay, “this morning I think that you are hating me. You think
me very cruel. Try and not judge me for a year.”

“I think that you mean well,” she sighed, “but you do not understand.”

Christopher put money into her purse and took her up to where Lady
Mary was standing with her little array of dependents. She spoke a few
kindly words to Myrtile, who answered her politely but without any
trace of feeling in her tone. Myrtile sat down on one of the trunks and
looked steadily across at the sleeping white-fronted hotel. Christopher
and Lady Mary walked for a moment apart.

“I don’t know why I am doing this thing for you,” Mary said. “If you
want to know the truth, I dislike the young woman intensely.”

“If you can’t feel that you are doing it for my sake,” Christopher
replied, “think that you are doing it for Gerald’s.”

Lady Mary stared at him for a moment, and Christopher fancied that he
could read in her somewhat haughty look some trace of that patrician
superstition which claimed for its people the bodies and souls of their
satellites.--The train thundered in.

“You will come and see me in London?” she asked, a little softened.

“Directly I return,” he promised. “I shan’t forget this, Mary,” he
added, a little awkwardly. “You’ve been a brick.”

She smiled, curiously gratified at his hesitating words. Christopher
leaned towards Myrtile.

“Good-by, Myrtile,” he said.

She removed her eyes from the window for a moment.

“Good-by, Christopher,” she answered--and looked back again at the
white building, with its irregular front and close-drawn curtains.
Behind one of them Gerald was sleeping. With a cloud of black smoke and
a succession of hoarse, sobbing pants, the long train steamed slowly
out of the station.




BOOK TWO




BOOK TWO




CHAPTER I


Gerald had been lunching at the Hyde Park Hotel and was on his way to
pay a call in Curzon Street. Hence his progress through the sun-baked
and dusty park at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in August.
Christopher, who had been his fellow guest, caught him up just as he
had reached the shelter of the trees. The two young men were apparently
still on the same friendly terms. No one but themselves realised the
slight cloud which had never wholly passed away from between them since
the night in Gerald’s sitting room at the Hôtel de Paris, eighteen
months ago.

“Couldn’t get near you at lunch,” Christopher remarked. “What a squash!”

“Hideous!” Gerald agreed.

“Every one all right at Hinterleys?” Christopher enquired.

“Haven’t heard for over a week. Aren’t they rather expecting you down
there?”

“I’m going to-morrow. Can’t take you, I suppose?”

Gerald shook his head.

“I can’t stand Hinterleys when there’s nothing to do,” he confided. “I
shall be there on the 31st. all right.”

“You’re not going to stay in town till then?”

“I’m off to Bourne End this afternoon,” was the unenthusiastic reply.
“I shall probably stay there a day or two. I ought to have gone up to
Scotland this week, but I have put it off until the end of September.
The Governor forgives a good deal, but he wouldn’t forgive me if I
weren’t at Hinterleys for the 1st.”

Christopher took his friend’s arm lightly. He had made several attempts
to break through the slight restraint that existed between them, and
Gerald’s appearance these days rather troubled him. He was thinner,
his eyes were restless, his manner a little nervous. He was still fit
enough, for he had had a great season at polo, and had played cricket
half a dozen times for his county with almost startling success. Yet
he had not the appearance of being the spoilt child of fortune that he
certainly was.

“I wonder you don’t get fed up with that Bourne End crowd,” Christopher
remarked.

“I very nearly am,” Gerald confessed. “They were much more amusing in
the old days, before they took up marriage as a hobby. Now the most
flagrant little hussy begins to talk about her people in the country
and St. George’s, Hanover Square, if you hold her fingers. It’s all the
fault of these callow youths--Christopher--Great Heavens!”

They had passed the Achilles Statue and were making towards Stanhope
Gate. The crowd here seemed more spiritless than ever. There was a
sprinkling of ladies’ maids, sitting demurely alone, waiting patiently
for the coming of romance; a few young men of doubtful types, a certain
number of loafers pure and simple, and a few reasonable people,
driven out by the craving for air which had some of the qualities of
freshness. In chairs a little way back and apart from the others, two
women, dressed in plain black, were seated. One was elderly, the other
young. Both were weary, both sat there with the air of wishing to
avoid observation. To Christopher they were entirely unfamiliar. His
whole attention was absorbed by Gerald’s strange demeanour. Gerald’s
long fingers had gripped his arm almost painfully. For the first time
for many months, there was real feeling in his face.

“It’s Pauline!” he exclaimed. “Wait for me, Chris.”

Without hesitation, Gerald turned and threaded his way among the
chairs. The two women watched his approach, the older one with stolid
indifference, Pauline apparently with some faint resentment. Gerald,
however, in these last few seconds had become a very determined person.
He stood before them with his hat in his hand. His bow was lower than
is customary amongst English people. His manner could scarcely have
been more respectful if he had been paying his homage at Buckingham
Palace.

“May I be permitted to recall myself to the recollection of Madame de
Ponière?” he begged.

The woman looked at him with unrecognising eyes. The last eighteen
months had dealt hardly with her. The flesh had sagged a little from
her cheek bones, her mouth had become bitter, her throat was thin, her
eyes cold and glassy.

“You do not succeed in doing so, monsieur,” she said coldly.

Pauline intervened. There was some faint note of courtesy in her
manner, nothing whatever of kindliness.

“This young gentleman,” she explained to her aunt,--“Lord Dombey, I
believe his name is--was kind enough to be of assistance to us at Monte
Carlo, on the night when Zubin met with his unfortunate accident.”

Madame de Ponière inclined her head.

“I trust that we tendered our thanks on that occasion,” she observed
icily.

Gerald held his ground. Pauline was paler than ever, and thin, but
perhaps he fancied that there was a shade of encouragement in those
soft, weary eyes.

“Madame,” he said, “there was some slight previous acquaintance between
your niece and myself, some trifling service I had been able to render
which gave me the right to perform this further one. It gives me great
pleasure to see you again in my own country.”

The older woman laughed hardly.

“It is difficult to believe,” she scoffed, “that the sight of us could
give pleasure to any one; apart from which fact,” she added rapidly,
“it is not our wish to make or renew acquaintances whilst we are here.”

“Madame,” Gerald replied, “that was your attitude in Monte Carlo, an
attitude which I may say occasioned me the deepest regret. I venture to
hope that I may be able to induce you to modify it.”

“And why should I?” she asked, almost insolently.

“Because I have the sincerest and most profound admiration for
mademoiselle,” Gerald declared stoutly, “and because, in my own
country, there is the possibility that I may be of service to you.”

Madame de Ponière opened a plain pair of lorgnettes and looked for a
moment at Gerald.

“For an Englishman,” she remarked coolly, “you seem to have some
manners. Who is this, Pauline?”

There was the faintest possible indication of a smile on Pauline’s lips.

“His name is Lord Dombey,” she answered demurely. “He is the son of the
Earl of Hinterleys.”

“Dear me!” Madame de Ponière murmured.

“The Earl of Hinterleys,” Pauline continued, “is one of the lesser
English noblemen.”

Notwithstanding his anxiety, Gerald’s sense of humour was touched. If
only his father could have been standing by his side to assist in the
conversation with these two shabbily dressed ladies!

“Our titles are, at any rate, not unduly modern,” he pleaded
deprecatingly. “Besides, is this of any real consequence?”

“What precisely do you want of us?” the older lady asked, after a
slight hesitation.

“The privilege of renewing my acquaintance with you both,” Gerald
replied.

“You have done so,” Madame de Ponière reminded him.

“With permission to pay my respects at your London residence,” he urged.

“We do not receive in London,” was the curt reply.

“I trust,” Gerald persisted, “that you will make an exception in my
favour.”

Pauline suddenly intervened. There was a shade of hauteur in her
manner, but some frankness.

“My dear aunt,” she said, “there are certain things which it is
impossible to conceal. My aunt and I,” she went on, addressing Gerald,
“are living in some impossible rooms in an impossible hotel in South
Kensington. I see no reason, however, why we should not receive you
there, if you are in earnest in your desire to call. We are without
acquaintances in this city.”

Madame de Ponière closed her lorgnettes with a little snap.

“We are staying at Number 28, Erriston Gardens, South Kensington,” she
said. “I believe they call the place the Erriston Gardens Hotel.”

“If you will permit me,” Gerald suggested, “I will bring my sister
to call upon you when she is in town. In the meantime, may I venture
upon a daring suggestion? You are without acquaintances in town; so,
for these few days, am I. Will you do me the great honour of dining at
Ranelagh to-night with me? We shall escape this insufferable heat and
be able to listen to music out of doors.”

“I regret that it is impossible, sir,” Madame de Ponière replied.

Gerald was naturally quick-witted. There were many little things he had
already noted.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, turning to Pauline, “I beg you to intercede
with your aunt. I do not invite you to one of the established
restaurants. The great charm of Ranelagh is its informality. The people
who have been playing tennis and golf stay on to dine, with some
trifling change in their attire. I myself should have to ask you to
excuse my remaining in morning dress. It is a convention of the place.”

“Milord Dombey doubts our wardrobe,” Pauline remarked, with a faint
smile. “No,” she went on hastily, “please do not think we are offended.
I think your discretion is admirable. And, aunt, I beg of you, let us
accept Lord Dombey’s invitation. Think how much we are suffering from
the heat. Think of our stuffy room, our unspeakable dinner! In short, I
insist.”

“If you will allow me, I will call for you at a quarter to eight,”
Gerald proposed, turning to Madame de Ponière.

Madame de Ponière hesitated for another moment. Perhaps it was
something in the almost boyish quality of Gerald’s eagerness which
decided her. This Englishman was at any rate no _boulevardier_.

“We will await you at that hour,” she replied. “I trust,” she added,
after a moment’s pause, “that you will not consider my hesitation in
any way discourteous. There are reasons which make it difficult for my
niece and myself to accept hospitality.”

Gerald bowed low, and, acting on a momentary impulse, raised Madame’s
fingers to his lips. She yielded them naturally enough, but with a
little glance around, almost of fear. Mademoiselle also extended her
finger tips. He took his leave and was received by Christopher, who was
waiting for him, with a gaze almost of astonishment. Gerald was holding
himself differently, his eyes were filled with a lustre which they had
lacked for months, he was smiling again in his old manner.

“My dear fellow,” Christopher exclaimed, “what on earth has happened?”

“That old devil has recognised my existence at last,” Gerald declared.
“I had almost to force myself upon her. Chris, they’re dining with me
to-night!”

“Before you say another word,” Christopher enjoined, “I want you to
look at the man on that seat by the side of the tree. Look at him
carefully, please.”

The two young men slackened their pace. The person whom Christopher had
indicated was a man of medium height, dressed, notwithstanding the heat
of the day, in sombre black clothes, and wearing a black bowler hat. He
was dark, and he was, or affected to be, reading a book. His complexion
was sallow and he wore a slight black moustache. His hair was unusually
long and even covered a portion of his ears.

“Well, I see him,” Gerald admitted. “Not much to look at. Looks like
one of the chaps who go in for this tub-thumping up at the far end.”

“He came from that way,” Christopher said, “but the reason I am
pointing him out to you is because he appeared to recognise your two
friends at the same instant that you did. He was walking down between
that last row of chairs. Directly he saw them, however, he stood quite
still for a moment. He seemed almost as knocked over as you were. Then
he slunk back into that chair and he has been watching them ever since.”

Gerald attached no undue importance to the affair.

“I’ll tell them about it this evening, if I can remember,” he
promised.--“Chris, did you ever know such luck! She is more wonderful
than ever. No wonder I could never get the feeling of her out of my
blood, the thought of her from my brain! Her eyes--Chris, did you ever
see such eyes in your life!”

“Kind of hazel, aren’t they?” Christopher hazarded.

“You ass!” Gerald declared contemptuously. “They’re brown--the most
glorious shade of brown I ever saw. I’m going to call for them in
South Kensington at a quarter to eight, Chris. We’re going to dine at
Ranelagh.”

“So you told me,” Christopher observed, smiling. “What about Bourne
End?”

Gerald’s radiant happiness was not for a moment disturbed. He took
Christopher’s arm.

“Bourne End,” he confided, “has, allegorically speaking, vanished into
the blue horizon. Chris, I know now what has been the matter with me
all these months. I knew it directly I saw her sitting there, tired and
miserable, under the trees. I came up against the real thing and never
knew it. I am in love with Pauline!”




CHAPTER II


Pauline leaned back in her chair with a little murmur of content.
Through the drooping branches of the great plane tree was a fascinating
little vista of scarlet-clad orchestra, of the terrace with its curving
rows of lights, the little groups of people sitting about, the waiters
in their quaint liveries. And beyond, the smooth lawn, the picturesque
front of the house; up above, the deep blue sky, pierced here and there
with an early star. Even the little murmur of conversation seemed to
blend with the strains of the music. A breeze rippled in the tree tops.
After the heat of London, it was a wonderful respite.

“You are very kind,” she murmured to Gerald, “to bring us here.”

“I was very fortunate to meet you,” he declared. “Don’t you think,
after all the discouragement I have received, I was very brave to come
and beard your aunt?”

“Not so very,” she answered. “We were two defenceless women, very sad
and weary with life.”

“I wish,” Gerald said deliberately, “that you would tell me more about
yourselves.”

Pauline glanced across at her aunt, who was leaning back in her chair,
also with the appearance of deep content, her eyes closed, her air of
isolation complete.

“My aunt does not approve of such questions,” she said quietly.

“We speak in English,” Gerald reminded her, “and your aunt does not
understand.”

“My aunt understands English better than you would believe,” Pauline
replied. “There is the fact, also, that I have confidence in her. I
believe that she knows what is best.”

“The best thing for you,” Gerald said firmly, “is to believe in me.”

She looked at him with a slight smile. Her face, however, remained
unsoftened.

“Really? And why should I believe in you? And what is there to believe?”

“That I am deeply interested,” Gerald replied promptly, “in everything
that concerns you; that I wish to be your friend; that I wish----”

She stopped him with a little gesture instinctively mandatory.

“Neither my aunt nor I,” she interrupted, “are in a position to accept
more than the simplest acts of good will from any one. I have tried to
make that clear to you.”

“You have,” Gerald admitted, “but before I accept your decision
finally, I shall expect some further explanation.”

“We do not belong to your world,” Pauline said. “We are what you call,
I think, adventuresses.”

“Of a unique type, then,” Gerald declared, smiling. “It is not the
usual action of such people, having met with a great loss, as you did
at Monte Carlo, to sell their jewellery to pay their bills, and leave
without owing a penny.”

“You are well informed,” Pauline remarked coldly.

“I saw your pearl necklace in Desfordes’, the jeweller’s.”

“I cannot believe that Desfordes----” Pauline began, in some agitation.

“The man told me nothing,” Gerald interrupted. “I recognised the
necklace and I bought it.”

“You bought my necklace?” she repeated incredulously.

“Hoping,” Gerald ventured, “that some day it would be my privilege to
return it to you.”

She was distinctly taken aback.

“You are apparently a rich young man, Lord Dombey, as well as an
impertinent one,” she said. “Are you often subject to these whims?”

“I am well off,” Gerald replied, “that is to say that I have an income
apart from my allowance. For the rest, I have never done anything of
the sort before, because I have never felt the same inclination.”

“I thought that you were rather by way of being the support of the
ladies of the ballet at Monte Carlo,” she observed. “Did you not
entertain them at supper and that sort of thing?”

“I entertained them at supper occasionally,” Gerald admitted, “but that
is the extent of my acquaintance with them.”

“Then there was a child whom you and your friend found at a mountain
farm--she became your ward, did she not?--a pretty child, with large,
affectionate eyes?”

“My family has relieved me of my responsibility in that direction,”
Gerald replied. “She is living down at Hinterleys with my people. My
father will allow no one else to read to him, my sister is devoted to
her, and my friend is in love with her.”

“I still do not understand what made you buy my pearls,” Pauline
remarked, after a moment’s thoughtful silence, “or under what possible
conditions you contemplated returning them to me.”

“I bought them because I am in love with you,” Gerald declared.

She turned her head and studied him deliberately. She was still
lounging in her chair, but she gave him the impression that she was
looking down at him.

“That,” she said quietly, “is a style of conversation which you must
keep for your dancing ladies or your village maidens.”

“It happens to be the truth,” he insisted doggedly.

Once more she looked at him, still puzzled, but this time a little more
leniently. His dark eyes were aglow. He was obviously in earnest.

“You must forgive me if I find your methods a little unusual,” she
said. “Do I understand that you are proposing an alliance?”

“I ask you to do me the honour of becoming my wife,” Gerald replied.

Pauline turned to her aunt.

“Aunt,” she said in French, “Lord Dombey desires to marry me. He has
just told me so most eloquently.”

Madame de Ponière’s expression was, for her, almost tolerant.

“Never mind, my dear,” she rejoined, “he is a very amiable young man
and he has given us an excellent dinner.”

Pauline turned back to Gerald, smiling.

“You see, my aunt is quite reasonable about the matter,” she remarked.
“Order some more cigarettes, will you? And some coffee, I think.”

Gerald obeyed promptly. Then he leaned forward.

“Madame de Ponière,” he said, “do I understand that I have your
permission to pay my addresses to your niece?”

“You must not be foolish,” she replied soothingly. “We are exceedingly
obliged to you for giving us dinner in this charming place. It is
really quite a revelation to me. The _suprême de volaille_ reminded
me--but that is not of any import.”

“Mademoiselle de Ponière,” Gerald continued, appealing to Pauline,
“will you be my wife?”

“Monsieur Lord Dombey,” was the prompt but not unkindly reply, “I will
not.”

“Then may I become your suitor,” he pleaded, “hoping that you will
change your mind when you find that I am very much in earnest?”

“It appears to me,” she answered, “that the office would be a thankless
one.”

“I am content to take my chance,” Gerald pronounced. “I can command all
the usual resources which might make life more endurable for you. My
personal devotion you are already assured of.”

“You had better not tempt us too far,” Pauline warned him, a little
bitterly. “The good folk at Monte Carlo were only guessing when they
called us adventuresses, but we are down on our luck just now--we might
accept your offer.”

“I will take my risk,” Gerald declared eagerly. “You have given me no
encouragement. You have no responsibility. As for the rest, we are all
adventurers or adventuresses, more or less. I am in quest of happiness,
and I have met no one else except you who could give it to me.”

There was a touch of real feeling in her eyes as she glanced towards
him, feeling, however, composed of varying elements,--some curiosity,
a tinge of scorn, an iota of compassion. She shrugged her shoulders
slightly beneath her wrap of black lace.

“How long do you remain in London, Lord Dombey?” she enquired.

“As long as I can be of service to you,” was the quick reply. “I was
going down to Hinterleys soon, for want of something better to do. A
day’s visit there will suffice. I shall remain at your service.”

“I am in love with another man,” Pauline assured him.

Gerald considered the matter for a moment.

“I do not believe it,” he declared.

Pauline sighed.

“Nevertheless, it is true,” she reiterated. “He is very bad-tempered,
and if he knows that I am accepting all these attentions from another
man, he will certainly quarrel with you.”

“I will risk it,” Gerald decided.

“How am I to get rid of this persistent young man?” Pauline asked her
aunt.

Madame de Ponière had a great deal to say about the subject in a rapid
undertone. When she had finished, Pauline turned back to her companion.

“My aunt was very much against a renewal of our acquaintance,” she
told him, “but, as she justly remarks, one must live. This evening has
turned our heads a little--a return to the fleshpots, you know, and
that sort of thing. You shall be my suitor if you will, Lord Dombey,
but of one thing you may be very sure--I shall never marry you.”

“There is another thing of which you may be equally sure,” Gerald
rejoined. “I shall never leave off trying to persuade you to.”

“Gallant but pig-headed,” Pauline murmured. “You can judge of my
aunt’s newly found tolerance when I tell you that she permits us to
walk in the rose garden. I want to see whether those delphiniums are
really as blue as they seem to be.”

Gerald sprang eagerly to his feet and they moved off together across
the lawn. He was obliged continually to half pause, to return the
greetings of his many friends. Pauline walked steadily on, looking
neither to the right nor to the left, composed and stately, her
clothes, although they were not in the very latest style, individual
and obviously the creation of an artist. People put their heads
together and whispered. The same question must have been asked a score
of times before they left the little crowd behind them, but no one
knew, no one could even hazard a surmise as to whom Gerald’s companion
might be.

The walk in the rose gardens, although Gerald welcomed with intense
satisfaction this new phase in his relations with Pauline, was in some
ways a disappointment. Pauline looked around her all the time with
serene pleasure. She was fond of flowers, she knew them all by name,
and paused often to admire some wonderfully fine bloom. She acceded
without demur to his suggestion that they should take one of the small
boats moored against the bridge and lay back amongst the cushions
whilst he lazily sculled round the small stretch of water. On the far
side of the island he let the boat drift and laid the oar across his
knees.

“Pauline,” he said, leaning a little forward, “you are adorable.”

“I suppose it goes without saying that you should find me so,” she
answered composedly. “I suppose, also, that I must permit you the
privilege of my Christian name. On the other hand, do not try to get
on too quickly, will you? I must warn you that you have reached the
extreme limit of my complaisance.”

His eyes flashed for a moment. He was much too spoilt to regard her
indifference as anything more than part of the game. It was a duel
between the two, the result of which he scarcely doubted, but with his
usual impetuosity he resented delay.

“You will accept me some day,” he said. “Why not now? We could spend
the honeymoon in Paris and go on to the Italian lakes. Or we could be
married at the Embassy in Paris, if you liked. Enthoven, the first
secretary, is my cousin, and would see things through for us.”

“You are taking base advantage of this lonely spot,” she murmured,
dipping her hand in the water. “I have told you that I am in love with
another man.”

“You will forget him in a week,” Gerald assured her. “I am a most
companionable person.”

“I have no doubt that you have given many people the opportunity of
finding you so,” she replied drily. “However, I am not prepared just
yet for such an experiment.”

“Pauline, do you like me a little?” he asked earnestly.

She looked him in the eyes.

“Not very much,” she admitted frankly. “You see, the nicer part of
me--the part with which I should care--is numb--numbed with misfortune.
The most that I can say is that if you are very kind, I may change--to
some extent. Personally, I think it hopeless.”

“You wouldn’t consider, I suppose,” he suggested, “telling me your
history now that we are on a slightly different footing?”

“Nothing would induce me to do anything of the sort,” she replied. “I
think that we have left my aunt alone quite long enough.”

He took up the scull and dug it into the still, stagnant water. He did
not speak again until they reached the landing stage.

“Where is this other man?” he asked, as he handed her out.

She thought for several moments before she answered. Then she turned
towards him with the air of one who has arrived at a decision.

“The other man,” she declared, “is my brother. He is in prison,
condemned to what you call, I believe, penal servitude.”




CHAPTER III


Lord Hinterleys leaned back in his chair and prepared to enjoy his
greatest treat during the day,--his one glass of vintage port.

“So you did not go to Scotland after all, Gerald?” he remarked, on the
evening of the latter’s arrival at Hinterleys.

“No, I didn’t go, sir,” Gerald replied. “Some old friends of mine
turned up in town. I have been spending a good deal of time with them.”

“I would have preferred hearing that you had been on the moors,” his
father observed, with a glance at his son’s pallid face and careworn
expression. “London in August always seems to me intolerable.”

“It was certainly very hot,” Gerald admitted. “I was on the river a
great deal of the time, though.”

There was a short silence. Lord Hinterleys was, as a rule, a reserved
man, and he very much disliked the task which he had set himself. He
dallied with it for a few moments, looking through the high window,
across the terrace to the gardens below. His face softened as he
glanced at the two girlish figures seated under the cedar tree, where
coffee was being served.

“You have been guilty, I suppose, Gerald,” he said drily, “of the usual
number of indiscretions, but one action of yours which threatened
to come under that heading, I shall always remember with gratitude.
Myrtile is the most wonderful child who ever came to brighten a
somewhat dull household.”

“I am glad you approve of her, sir,” Gerald replied indifferently.

“The more I study her,” Lord Hinterleys went on earnestly, “the more
she fills me with amazement. It seems as though she must be some sort
of a spiritual changeling. I have always been, as you know, rather a
stickler for race. Myrtile is one of those marvellous exceptions which
upset all argument. She is an aristocrat to the finger tips in every
way, small or great, that counts. It seems as though it were absolutely
impossible for her to do an ungracious or ungraceful thing. She has
destroyed every prejudice I ever possessed.”

Gerald was interested at last. It was many years since he had known his
father so enthusiastic.

“I am very glad you kept her here, sir,” he remarked.

“I am more than glad--I am thankful,” was the fervent reply. “I look
forward with a pleasure which I can scarcely describe to the hours
she gives up for my entertainment. When I think that nothing but an
outbreak of scarlet fever in the household to which she was bound was
responsible for her staying here long enough for us to appreciate her,
I can never feel sufficiently thankful. To watch her development, too,
during the last year, has been like watching a beautiful flower.”

“She’s made a conquest of you, at any rate, dad,” Gerald remarked. “I
thought myself that she looked perfectly sweet to-night at dinner time.”

“She has made a conquest of me to an extent which I should never have
believed possible,” Lord Hinterleys admitted, glancing across at his
son. “I have had an elderly man’s desire, Gerald, to welcome home to
Hinterleys the woman whom you might decide to choose for a wife. I
have kept a little list in my mind of the young women at present known
to Society, whom it would give me pleasure to see here. I have never
for one second contemplated the addition to that list of an unknown
person. And yet----”

“There is no question of anything of that sort between Myrtile and me,
sir,” Gerald declared, breaking a somewhat embarrassed pause.

Lord Hinterleys sipped his port and looked once more out of the window.
Gerald, a little startled by his father’s unexpected suggestion, was
suddenly conscious of that one wild moment after his supper party at
the Hôtel de Paris, of Christopher’s stern figure, of that strange
medley of sensations, the flare of passion which seemed to have
perished in the shame of Christopher’s triumph. He, too, looked out of
the window. Myrtile had been a child then. She was a woman now, more
wonderful, more gracious, just as completely virginal. Yet to him she
existed at that moment only as the picture of something that had passed.

“I am afraid,” his father said, a little sadly, “that Myrtile does not
look at it in quite the same way. However, that is nothing. It may
be only a sort of hero worship with her. It was you, I understand,
who took the initiative in bringing her away from her home. Her
indifference to your sex is a little abnormal for her years. Doubtless
it will pass when the right man arrives. I envy that man more than any
other living.”

Lord Hinterleys slowly finished his wine. Gerald produced his cigarette
case.

“You are ready, sir?” he asked. “Will you take my arm?”

“Not for a moment,” was the quiet reply. “You perceive, from my
references to Myrtile, that I am in a confidential frame of mind. I
shall go even further to prove it.”

“You won’t mind my cigarette, sir?”

“Not in the least.--Gerald, I do not, as a rule, interfere in such
matters, as you know, but I take a certain natural interest, I think,
in your associates and your affairs generally. It has come to my
knowledge through various channels that you have spent the greater part
of the last month with two ladies bearing a French name--an aunt and a
niece, I believe--both unknown to English Society.”

“That is true, sir,” Gerald admitted.

“Furthermore,” Lord Hinterleys continued, “although again I am a little
outside my province, I must confess that I was somewhat disturbed to
hear from Mr. Bendover that you had offered for sale a portion of the
Lutsall property and were considering a mortgage upon Rhysalls.”

“I do not know why Mr. Bendover should have troubled you with these
details,” Gerald said, a little uneasily, “but in the main they are
correct.”

“I make you an allowance, as you know,” his father continued, “as my
only son and the heir to Hinterleys, of five thousand a year, which
I can well afford to do. You have yourself something like the same
amount, I believe. You occupy a portion of Hinterleys House in town,
and you have the use of my servants there. Your polo ponies, by express
arrangement, have always been charged to my own stable expenses. You
must forgive my feeling some surprise, therefore, at the fact that you
have found it necessary to raise these large sums of money.”

Gerald was silent for a moment, conscious of and inwardly resenting his
father’s anxious scrutiny. Something of the bitterness which he was
feeling showed itself, perhaps, in his tone.

“I needed the money, dad,” he said. “It will probably all come back to
me, or its value.”

“If the necessity is occasioned by your losses at cards or on the
turf,” Lord Hinterleys continued, “I should prefer making you some
advance myself, to having you part with land which belonged to your
great-grandmother, or executing a mortgage upon any part of your
property.”

“I have needed the money for quite a different purpose,” Gerald
explained, “a purpose which precluded my applying to you. There are
other people involved.”

“I see,” Lord Hinterleys concluded drily. “We will leave the matter
where it is, then, for the present.--If you will give me your arm now,
we will take our coffee in the gardens.”

“Sorry, dad, to seem mysterious and uncommunicative, and that sort of
thing,” Gerald apologised, with an attempt at levity. “I’m not quite
off my head, I can assure you.”

“You have never presented yourself to my mind, Gerald,” his father
admitted, “as being a likely tool for the adventurers or harpies of
the world. I shall continue to believe that you are able to take care
of yourself, although I am bound to say that I regret your lack of
confidence.”

“I shall be in a position to tell you the whole story very shortly,”
Gerald promised. “The element of secrecy about it at present has
nothing to do with me.”

They made their way through the window, on to the terrace, down the
steps and across the lawn to the cedar tree. Myrtile was standing
behind the coffee tray, and Gerald, remembering his father’s recent
words, gazed at her with a new, though somewhat languid interest. She
was wearing a simple frock of grey muslin, her hair was parted in the
middle and drooped low over her ears. The thinness of a year ago had
given place to the slender perfection of early womanhood. She had the
air of being wholly and gracefully at her ease, yet the sweetness of
her smile, a certain ever-present but unobtrusive desire to please,
seemed like the hallmarks of her constant but unexpressed gratitude.
Lady Mary, sunburnt and amiable, lolled in a hammock, with a cigarette
between her teeth. There was a telegram upon her knee. She seemed
content with life.

“Have you heard the news?” she asked. “Christopher has been invited to
stand for West Leeds. It is a certain seat and he has accepted. He is
coming down to-morrow afternoon.”

“Good old Chris!” Gerald murmured. “Though what on earth he wants to
spend half his time pottering about the House of Commons for, I can’t
imagine.”

“Your friend Christopher Bent,” Lord Hinterleys observed, “finds his
pleasures, without a doubt, somewhat interfered with by the possession
of some out-of-date principles. He will be very welcome here.--My
coffee and the evening paper, if you please, Myrtile.”

Myrtile’s attention had momentarily wandered. Her eyes were fixed upon
Gerald, who was looking paler and more tired than ever in the clear
evening twilight.

“You found it hot in the city?” she asked softly, as she poured out the
coffee.

He frowned impatiently. There is nothing which irritates a selfish man
more than the evidences of an affection which he does not covet.

“If it was, I don’t deserve any sympathy,” he replied. “I was only
there because it amused me.”

He threw himself into a chair, declined coffee with unnecessary
abruptness, and asked for brandy. Myrtile, with a little pain at
her heart, no infrequent visitor there, took her place apart from
the others, near Lord Hinterleys, and, spreading out the newspaper,
commenced her evening task.




CHAPTER IV


The world seemed a very good place to Lady Mary as, from the depths
of her chair under the cedar tree on the following afternoon, she
watched Christopher, conducted as far as the terrace by the butler,
descend the steps lightly and move across the lawn towards her. He had
been away for a holiday earlier in the summer and was still healthily
tanned. His grey tweeds became him. He walked with the dignity and
assurance of a man whose life is being worthily lived. It was a long
way across the lawn, and the girl who waited for his coming had time
for a crowd of pleasant thoughts as she watched the approach of the
man on whom she had set her heart. Everything that he did and had
done in life appealed to her. She even appreciated now the reticence
which he had shown in their many conversations, the absence of any
indications of more than ordinary interest in her. He had sentiment
enough,--that was proved by the tenderness for Myrtile to which he
had confessed that night at Monte Carlo, a night which she had always
remembered as one of the unhappiest of her life. She had long since
been convinced, both by his manner and Myrtile’s, that the tenderness,
such as it had been, had become merged in a purely fraternal and kindly
regard. Of his reticence towards herself she thought nothing. He was
possessed, as she well knew, of a very high sense of honour, and she
had always felt that, however greatly she might have desired to hear
his declaration, he would say nothing until he had passed definitely
out of the somewhat miscellaneous category of rising young men into the
position of one whose future is assured. To-day he was the youngest K.
C., and a seat in Parliament was almost within his reach. She thought
of her own fortune with a deep sense of pleasure. It was larger than he
imagined, larger than any one else except herself and her father knew.
Christopher would be free to make the best of himself, free for all
time from any shadow of financial worry. How well he looked, how strong
and eager! She held out both her hands as he drew near, and her smile
of welcome made her for a moment radiantly beautiful.

“How delightful to see you, Christopher!” she exclaimed. “And what
wonderful news! It’s just what you wanted, isn’t it, and just what we
all wanted for you.”

He took her hands and stood smiling down at her. Her heart was
beginning to beat more quickly. She hoped that he would suggest walking
in the gardens.

“It is a wonderful stroke of fortune, isn’t it?” he agreed. “It all
came about through going down to help Andrew Hodgson at the Darlington
election. I knew I’d got on pretty well with the speech-making down
there, but I never thought it would lead to this.”

He did not sit down, nor did he suggest the gardens. He had looked
around for a moment, almost as though disappointed to find her alone.
Still her heart did not misgive her. She thought him a little nervous,
and she smiled tolerantly.

“You were a dear to telegraph to me at once,” she said. “I can’t tell
you how interested and flattered I was.”

“I wanted you all to know,” he declared, looking around once more. “How
is every one?”

“In excellent health, thank you,” she answered. “Father is having
his usual afternoon sleep. Gerald has been here, but, as I dare say
you know, he went away this morning. We must talk about him later,
Christopher. I am rather worried--but that can wait. Will you sit down,
or would you like to see how wonderful the gardens are?”

He looked at her a little apologetically, yet without the slightest
idea of how great an apology was needed.

“I wondered,” he said, “if I could see Myrtile.”

“Myrtile?” Mary repeated.

He assented a little sheepishly, yet with a rather engaging smile.

“I wanted to see her and tell her about it,” he confided. “She won’t
understand just what it means, perhaps, but she’s so much more of a
woman now.”

His voice seemed to come from a long way off. It seemed all part of a
horrible nightmare, something unreal, some black thought, the figment
of a nocturnal fancy.--Then she was conscious of his standing before
her, waiting, expectant, with the eagerness of a lover in his eyes.

“Myrtile went down to gather some roses,” she told him. “You will find
her at the end of the pergola.”

He was gone almost before the words had left her lips, gone with some
sort of mumbled excuse, unconscious of the tragedy he had created,
clumsily oblivious of the fierce struggle which had kept her calm and
collected. She turned her head and watched him go, watched his long,
eager footsteps, saw his tall figure stoop as he entered the pergola.
Her fingers tore at the sides of her chair. She looked at the distance
between her and the terrace steps. If only she could escape! Her limbs
for the time seemed powerless. She sat there with all the healthy
colour drained from her cheeks, her fixed eyes seeing nothing but
the ruin of her confident hopes. There were three old ladies in the
family of Hinterleys--one her father’s sister, the others a little more
distantly related--prim beings, full of the weaknesses and prejudices
evolved by their unlived lives. She remembered now how she had shrunk,
even in her school days, from the thought of ever finding herself in
a similar situation. But she was suddenly face to face with it now.
She could see herself growing old, marching down the avenues of time,
preserving in a certain measure, perhaps, her dignity, but growing day
by day a little more jealous and narrow, a little more captious of the
happiness of others. There was only one Christopher, and he was there
at the bottom of the pergola with Myrtile. Even in her bitterness she
did not blame him for a moment. There were a hundred different ways
in which she might have misunderstood him. She had made the foolish
mistake of many ignorant young women. She had mistaken companionship,
and the desire for companionship, on his part, for the subtler and
rarer gift which she herself had been so ready to offer. Christopher,
she remembered, had even warned her, more than a year ago, at the villa
in Monte Carlo that night when they had paced the terrace together. She
had refused to take him seriously, and he had never once reverted to
the subject. It had seemed to her, indeed, that he had almost avoided
Myrtile during his visits to Hinterleys, and she had commended him for
his discretion. Myrtile was sweet and full of charm, but what use could
she be as a wife to an ambitious man like Christopher? How she herself
could have helped with her sympathy, her social influence, her tact,
to say nothing of her great fortune! It was amazing what follies a man
could commit for the sake of a fancy! She could call it nothing else.

Presently she rose calmly to her feet and walked towards the house.
Soon it swallowed her up, the key was turned in the door of her room,
the long minutes that passed were her own. She never counted them then,
she never dwelt on them afterwards. The period of her agony was, in
fact, short enough. Her pride came to her rescue. When her maid tapped
on the door she had already bathed her eyes, and there remained nothing
to denote her suffering but a little tired look about her mouth and a
slight weariness of gait. She opened the door at once.

“Mr. Bent is obliged to go back to town almost immediately, your
ladyship,” the maid announced. “He has asked specially whether he could
see you for a moment.”

“Tell Mr. Bent that I shall be down in five minutes,” her mistress
enjoined.

The maid departed, and Mary turned once more anxiously to the mirror.
This was a trial which she had scarcely expected. Her fingers passed
over her face, anxious to smooth out its lines. Her lips moved, as
though she were uttering a prayer. She was, indeed, appealing to
herself, to the strength and pride of her young womanhood. When she
entered the library where Christopher was waiting for her, she knew
that she was free from all trace of disturbance.

“Christopher, you don’t mean that you are going to leave us at once?”
she protested. “And where is Myrtile? I expected to see you both
together.”

“I left Myrtile where I found her,” Christopher answered, a little
harshly. “Will you keep my secret, please, Mary, and forget my visit?”

“Forget your visit?” she repeated wonderingly.

“Myrtile does not care for me,” Christopher explained, “not in the way
I want her to. It is the same with her now as from that first moment. I
thought it was a fancy of which she might have been cured. I find it is
nothing of the sort.”

At that moment Mary hated herself, hated the joy which swelled up in
her heart, hated the sudden passionate rush of blood through all her
veins, the sense of grotesque, immeasurable relief. She hated the lying
words she spoke.

“Oh, Christopher, I am so sorry!” she said. “I do not understand, but I
am very, very sorry.”

“Myrtile loves Gerald,” he continued. “She will love him all her days.
She is one of those strange creatures who will never change, to whom
love is just one final thing for good or for evil. She loved Gerald
when she stepped into the car and we carried her with us along the road
around the end of which she had woven all her dreams. She cares for him
so much that I am not sure whether, at the bottom of her pure heart,
she does not hate me because I once kept them apart.”

She laid her hand upon his arm. That sense of sickening joy had gone.
She was a woman again, feeling nothing but sorrow for the suffering of
her man.

“Christopher dear,” she begged, “Myrtile will see the truth in time.
Gerald cares nothing for her, nothing for anybody except himself and
his own pleasures. She will understand this presently. Remember,
although she has grown so sensible and so gracious in her attitude
towards life, she is really only a child.”

“In one way she will always be a child,” he answered sadly. “Her love
will last her time, whether Gerald ever returns it or not.”

“There is still your work,” she went on, “great, wonderful work waiting
for you. And your friends. Don’t take this so hardly, Christopher.”

He looked down at her with a very forced smile.

“Oh, I shall get over it,” he assured her. “I am not the first man who
has had to face this sort of thing. It is odd, though, that it should
have happened to me. Whatever thoughts I may have had in the past about
marriage were so different.”

“Isn’t it just possible, perhaps,” she ventured, “that those other
thoughts were the wisest?”

“Wisdom has so little to do with life, really,” he answered drearily.
“I should have planned it differently if I could.--Well, I had to see
you, Mary. You’ve been perfectly sweet, as I knew you would be. I want
to get off without seeing a soul now, if I can. You won’t mind?”

“Of course not! You wouldn’t like me to speak to Myrtile?”

“Absolutely useless,” he replied. “She was really shocked when she
knew why I had come. I believe it seems to her a trifle irreligious to
discuss the possibility of her caring for any one except Gerald. No,
I’m not going to encourage any false hopes, Mary. I’ve had my answer
and there’s an end of it. What I want to do is to get away.”

“That you can do and shall,” she assented. “I did so want to hear about
Leeds, but that must be another time. You won’t keep away from us
because of this, Christopher?”

“Of course not,” he promised half-heartedly. “I’ll write, if I may.
There are heaps of things I want to tell you. You won’t mind?”

She smiled and let him open the door, taking him by a devious way to
the courtyard where his car was still standing.

“There,” she directed, “you can go out by the south drive, across the
deer park, and you won’t meet a soul.”

He held her hand tightly for a moment at parting.

“God bless you, Mary!” he said. “You’re a wonderful pal.”

“Thank you,” she answered simply.




CHAPTER V


“Well, thank heavens you haven’t forgotten how to hold your gun
straight!” Lord Hinterleys remarked, a few days later, laying his hand
affectionately upon his son’s shoulder. “It is always a treat to see
you shoot, Gerald. I used to fancy myself when I was your age, but I
could never have touched your performance to-day.”

“You mustn’t forget the difference in the guns, dad,” Gerald reminded
him, “and the powder. You were pretty useful yourself at those last two
drives.”

Lord Hinterleys mounted his pony.

“I brought down a beautiful high one at Smith’s corner,” he
admitted.--“Are you sure, you people, that you wouldn’t like to have a
car sent down? I shall be home in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour,
and Oliver could be here with the shooting brake whilst you are having
a cup of tea with Mrs. Amos.”

No one, it appeared, was tired. Gerald shouldered his gun and passed
his arm through Myrtile’s.

“Come along,” he invited, “we’ll go home through the forty-acre wood.
It isn’t more than a mile. It seems to me we’ve been standing about all
day.”

“I should like it very much,” Myrtile assented joyfully.

“We are all coming presently,” Mary remarked. “Amos is just making up
the bag. Dad wants the exact figures. Don’t you want some tea, Myrtile?
Lady Hadley and I are going to have some.”

Myrtile shook her head.

“I do not care for tea very much, as you know,” she said, “and I should
like to walk with Gerald.”

“Showing thereby your good taste, my child,” Gerald observed, as they
strolled off, “and also a wise regard for your digestion.”

“One sees so little of you nowadays,” Myrtile sighed. “You are all the
time in London.”

“You’re not going to lecture me?”

“That would not be for me,” she said gravely. “If you think it well to
be there, it is well. I am only glad that you are here to-day. It has
made your father so happy.”

They crossed the meadow and entered the little wood. The path here
was so narrow that Gerald took Myrtile’s arm again. He was quite
unconscious that at his touch she shivered with emotion.

“Myrtile,” he confided, “I saw Chris yesterday.”

“Yes?”

“Poor old chap,” Gerald went on, “he looked absolutely done in. I made
him come and have some dinner with me. I don’t think he meant to tell
me, but it all came out in time. He told me about his visit here.”

She walked on, her head uplifted, her face a little tense.

“Yes?” she murmured.

“I’d no idea,” Gerald continued, “that he was seriously in love with
you, Myrtile. He’s such a sober sort of chap really--no lady friends,
you know, or anything of that sort. When he takes a fancy to any one,
it’s a serious affair.”

“He is not like you, Gerald,” she said quietly.

“You’re quite right, he isn’t,” Gerald acknowledged frankly. “We all
have our different hobbies. I candidly admit that the society of your
sex has been one of mine. Christopher has never been like that, though.
You are his first love, Myrtile.”

“It is a great pity,” she declared.

“You used to seem very fond of him,” Gerald hazarded, “and he certainly
looked after you jolly well at Monte Carlo.”

“Do you mean,” Myrtile asked calmly, “when he came to your room in the
Hôtel de Paris, after the supper party?”

Gerald was completely taken aback. She had turned and was looking at
him with her large, serious eyes. She was deliberately forcing upon him
the memory of an episode which he had slurred over in his mind.

“I wasn’t thinking of that altogether,” he replied, with a certain rare
awkwardness. “All the same----”

“All the same, what, please?” she insisted, after a moment’s pause. “I
should like you to finish your sentence.”

“Well, from old Chris’s point of view, he was doing the chivalrous
thing, and all that,” Gerald explained clumsily. “He must have thought,
of course, that I was going to be a perfect brute.”

“Were you not?” she asked.

He was amazed at her coolness. She, whose purity seemed rather to
increase with her larger knowledge of the world, seemed to be forcing
him to speak of those very ugly moments.

“I am afraid that I can’t say what would have happened,” he admitted.
“I was very much attracted by you, and you hadn’t the faintest idea
what it all meant. So, you see, you do owe him a very great debt of
gratitude, Myrtile.”

“I do not think so,” she replied.

Gerald was more startled than ever. Her deliberate speech seemed to him
almost a challenge.

“You are about the only person in the world who would say that,” he
observed.

“Perhaps so,” she admitted. “Perhaps, too, I am the only one who is in
a position to know.”

Gerald was poignantly interested. He looked down at her face, calm
and serious. There was no added colour in her cheeks, no sign of any
confusion.

“You mean that you are sorry that Christopher interfered? That you
would have risked my forgetting--all that I ought to have remembered?”

“I am sorry that Christopher interfered,” she said distinctly. “At
that moment I loved you, and I did not know that it was wicked for me
to love you. If afterwards you had got tired of me, as you would have
done, then I should have killed myself when I understood. But I should
have been happy first.”

“But aren’t you happy now?” he asked.

“I am very contented,” she answered, “and I am very, very grateful.
I think that no one in the world has ever received such wonderful
kindness as I have. But happiness, it seems to me, is a thing apart.
It is a great and a wonderful and a rare gift. I do not think that
very many people possess it, although they think they do. I should
have possessed it, for however short a time, if Christopher had not
interfered.”

Gerald was staggered. It seemed to him that this girl, walking so
sedately by his side, had suddenly become his monitress; was trying to
explain to him, as though he were a pupil, great and elemental things.

“Myrtile,” he declared, “you surprise me very much. I never dreamed
that you would feel like that. Supposing, then, I were to say to
you--‘Come away from here with me to-morrow; come up to London and be
my companion there’?”

“You could not do that,” she said simply. “You could not offer me so
terrible and so ugly an insult. Surely you understand that then I did
not know that you did not love me?”

“I see,” he murmured.

“I loved you,” she went on, her eyes lifted a little to the interlacing
boughs of the trees under which they were passing, “when you came like
a prince to the gate where I stood shaking with terror, and laughed
at my fears. I loved you when you pointed to the end of the road and
promised to take me there. I loved you in those first few moments, and
just as it seemed to me then that I had loved you before I was born,
so I know that I shall love you after I die. That is just the kind of
wisdom which even children have. Where I was simple and ignorant was
that I did not understand that love could be one-sided. I thought that
love belonged to two people. Now I know very differently.”

“Myrtile----” he began.

She checked him gravely.

“To-day,” she continued, “there is more for me to say than for you,
because I am rather glad that you should understand. Only you must not
talk to me about Christopher. I am very sorry, but I think that he is
foolish. I was a peasant child and I knew nothing. But a wise, clever
man like Christopher should understand. It seems to me absurd that he
should think it possible that I might love him. It is so absurd that
I do not believe his love is a real thing. I think that he will soon
forget.”

“What is to become of you, then, Myrtile?” Gerald demanded.

She looked up at him with a smile.

“What happens to all those others,” she asked, “who go through life as
I shall go through it? They are very content. Very many pleasant things
come their way. They are spared a great deal of suffering. So it will
be with me. Now that we have had this talk, Gerald, I can speak to
you, perhaps, a little more frankly. I watch you so closely that I see
things which others might not notice. You were without actual happiness
before because you did not understand what happiness was. Now you are
unhappy. That is so sad.”

“Yes,” Gerald admitted, “I am unhappy.”

“There is some one for whom you care?”

He had no idea of evading the issue. He replied at once, simply and
directly.

“It is Mademoiselle de Ponière, whom I met at Monte Carlo, and who used
to go out with me in the car. I have met her again.”

“And yet you are not happy?”

“I am not happy,” Gerald acknowledged, “because I have not the least
idea whether she cares for me or not. She is very mysterious. She has
troubles which she will not let me share.”

It seemed to him that Myrtile smiled. They were out of the wood now and
crossing the park.

“All that you tell me is very strange,” she confessed. “I do not
pretend to understand it. One hears, Gerald, that in your way you have
cared for very many women. That is rather a pity, but, if it is true,
you perhaps do not know your own mind. Are you sure that you love this
young lady?”

“I only know that she makes me feel and suffer as no one else in the
world has ever done,” he answered a little drearily.

They were approaching the house now. Myrtile laid her fingers timidly
upon his arm.

“It seems to me, Gerald,” she said, with a rather pathetic smile, “that
we have changed rôles. You asked me to walk home with you that you
might talk to me about Christopher, and now we have finished all that
and it is your own affairs only which remain.”

“There is nothing about my affairs which even lends itself to
discussion,” Gerald sighed.

“Not at present,” Myrtile assented, “but in the end there must come
happiness, because where there is love there is always happiness.--May
I say one word more?”

“Go ahead,” he answered.

“It is of your father. Why is he so troubled about you?”

Gerald frowned.

“I am afraid, Myrtile,” he said, “that that is a matter which I cannot
altogether explain to you.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted. “I must dare to say this,
though, because, you see, I am with your father many hours in the day,
and he is not so strong as he was and so he shows his mind more easily.
Something about you is worrying him. That is not right, is it?”

Gerald was silent for a moment. A telegraph boy, who had been riding
down the drive which curved through the park, seeing them, had
dismounted from his bicycle and was crossing the turf towards them with
an orange-coloured envelope in his hand. Gerald took it from him, tore
it open, and read the few lines which it contained. Then he gave the
boy a coin and dismissed him. He looked once more at the message.

“It is good news?” Myrtile enquired gravely.

“Good enough,” Gerald answered. “I have been living in a miserable
state of uncertainty. Now it will all be cleared up.”

“There will be no more trouble, then?”

“I cannot say that,” he replied, “but at least there will be action.
Next week will see the beginning of the elucidation. I leave for Russia
on Tuesday.”




CHAPTER VI


The change in Pauline’s manner, when Gerald was ushered by an
untidy-looking waiter into her sitting room on the following afternoon,
was almost electrifying. In place of her usual languid greeting, she
sprang lightly to her feet and gave him both her hands. The slight
sullenness had all gone from her face. There was no living person just
then who would not have found her beautiful.

“You received my telegram?” she demanded eagerly.

“And I came to you at once,” was the prompt reply.

She drew him down to her side upon the sofa. Her manner and tone
displayed an animation entirely new to her.

“Reusser returned the night before last,” she said. “He seems to
have had a comparatively easy journey, and he reports conditions
over there very much more lenient in many ways. He had no difficulty
in landing, or in making his way wherever he wished to go. On the
other hand, the stories he brings back as to the distress and misery
everywhere are simply shocking. The country bleeds to death. There are
few trains running, no order, no discipline, despotic and arbitrary
police surveillance everywhere. But there is also corruption. People,
especially the official classes, are looking everywhere for the means
to live. A merchant who was imprisoned only a month or so ago on a
charge of murder, to which he actually pleaded ‘Guilty’, was set free
the day before Reusser left. It cost him little more than five thousand
roubles.”

“Did this man Reusser discover where your brother was?” Gerald asked.

“For ten thousand roubles,” she answered, “he could have searched every
police register in Russia. Paul is at the Fortress of St. Maria, at a
small town called Sokar, about three hundred miles south of Petrograd.
It is a bad journey, of course, but the place is accessible. The
Governor of the prison is a Major Krossneys. He is half an Austrian and
half a Pole. When he is sober, he is simply greedy. When he is drunk,
he is reckless. He is to be managed with ease, but always it is to be
remembered that Paul is his chief prisoner. If Paul were to escape,”
she went on thoughtfully, “he would, without a doubt, lose his post,
certainly his promotion; he might even have to flee the country. To buy
him would probably cost a sum of money sufficient to support him for
the rest of his life. There are still people who would tear Paul to
pieces if they knew who he was.”

“This Major Krossneys,” Gerald enquired, “does he speak French?”

“Fortunately, yes,” was the eager assent. “Tell me, Gerald, what do you
think of it all?”

“Just this,” he replied. “I shall sail on Tuesday. There is a steamer
from Hull. In less than two months I will bring your brother back.”

Her eyes shone. She seemed to be trembling in every limb. There was
ecstasy in her face, passion on her quivering lips. Yet even as he drew
a little nearer to her, Gerald was drearily conscious that she had
almost forgotten his presence. It was the thought of her brother which
had wrought this transformation.

“If I bring him back to you, Pauline----” he began.

She suddenly seized him by the shoulders.

“Bring him back!” she interrupted passionately. “I make no bargain. I
give no promise--you should know better than to ask for any such. All
that I can tell you is that I would give my soul to see him again.”

Gerald clenched his hands almost in pain.

“Pauline,” he pleaded, “for heaven’s sake, soften just a little. You
keep me all the time in torment. Paul shall be set free--I swear it. If
it costs me my fortune, my liberty, even my life, he shall be set free.
But I’m doing it for love of you. My love is choking me. Soften for one
moment. Remember what you will be to me some day. Give me at least a
memory to take with me.”

She laid her hand upon his. It seemed to him that it was as cold as the
snows. Her eyes looked into his. They were soft and beautiful, full of
colour and sweetness, yet they looked him through as though he were a
denizen of some other world.

“When I give, I give all,” she said. “You do not understand the people
of my race. We cannot give in driblets--a kiss here, a caress there,
the promise of more to-morrow. God never made us Russians like that.
When I give, it will be the full glory of love. Bring Paul back to me
and you may know what that can mean.”

Gerald rose to his feet.

“I should go to my task a stronger man,” he complained, a little
bitterly, “if you could throw me the dole one might give to a beggar.”

She gave him her finger tips. She was standing by his side, so near
that the desire to hold her in his arms and take from her lips the one
kiss he craved was almost irresistible. At that moment he almost hated
her.

“Haven’t you even the grace to pretend?” he muttered.

She laughed, wringing her fingers slightly as though his lips had
seared them.

“You have been spoilt,” she murmured. “The women you have played with
have been your too willing slaves. A trifle of homage, a trifle of
philandering, a few shadowy caresses--that is all you have known of
love.--Wait!”

Gerald spent that afternoon in the City, the next few days in making
restless preparations for his absence from London. On the afternoon of
the last day, he was permitted to see Reusser, and he recognised in
him at once the man whom he had seen watching over Madame de Ponière
and her niece in Hyde Park. The meeting took place in the sitting room
of the South Kensington hotel. Reusser, who leaned heavily upon two
sticks, was brought thither by a tall youth, his son, who waited for
him outside the door. He was as thin as a skeleton, his cheeks were
sunken, and every now and then his voice seemed to die away.

“It is my first day out of the hospital,” he told Gerald
apologetically. “I caught cold on the way back, and my lungs are not
good. Please ask what questions you desire. I am subject to attacks of
weakness.”

“I understand,” Gerald said, “that you reached Sokar?”

“I reached it,” he admitted, “but, alas! I was powerless to act. I
took with me every penny of money we could scrape together, but by
the time I reached the city I was penniless. I lodged at the house of
a saddler, whose name you will find in the book I have given you.
He took me to look at the fortress. He showed me the room where the
brother of Mademoiselle lies. He told me much about Major Krossneys,
the commandant of the fortress. But of what avail was it? We had not
enough money between us to pay for a bottle of wine.”

“How do you propose,” Gerald enquired, “that I approach Krossneys?”

“The way is arranged,” Reusser replied eagerly. “There is a woman
living in the town, half German, half English. Her name is Elsa
Francks. To-day Krossneys is her slave. You go first to her. Her
address is in the little book you have. She speaks English and French,
besides her own language; even some Russian. Talk to her frankly. She
will bring you to Krossneys. There is one thing, though. You must go as
an American. No one will do anything to help you, although they are all
greedy for money, if they think that you are English. It will be quite
easy, that. There are many Americans in Russia, prospecting. There is a
great oil field on the plains south of Kreussner. Some say there is oil
there; others deny it. That is how your bribes must be worked. You will
buy property. It will be worth nothing. You will find that Krossneys
has land to sell; so has Elsa.”

“I understand,” Gerald said.

“You leave to-morrow?”

“At ten o’clock from King’s Cross,” Gerald assented. “The boat leaves
at night.”

Reusser raised his right hand.

“The Father of God speed you!” he said. “Speed is very necessary. The
Government has kept that young man alive, hoping that some day he would
be useful as a bribe or a hostage, but there are still many fanatics
in Russia, haters of his race, who would tear him limb from limb if
they knew.”

“I shall be in Petrograd in a fortnight,” Gerald declared, “and at
Sokar, I hope, a few days later.”

Reusser once more raised his hand and muttered inaudible words.
Nevertheless, though his strength seemed departed, he tried to kneel
when Pauline came into the room. She raised him to his feet and called
to his son.

“All is well,” she said, dismissing them. “Take care of your strength,
Reusser. You must be one of the first to welcome him.”

The man bowed his head and prayed silently. Then his son led him away.

Gerald also rose to his feet. He had nerved himself for this interview.

“I shall have the pleasure of wishing Madame farewell?” he asked.

“My aunt sends you her excuses and her prayers,” Pauline replied. “She
is too agitated to risk a meeting. You do not quite know what this
means to us.”

“I know,” Gerald said, “what its results may mean to me.”

She looked at him a little sadly.

“My unhappy country,” she sighed, “is to-day only a furnace of woe
and suffering, yet in the jumble of it there are a few millions still
who would kneel through the night and pray for you, if they knew your
mission. I bid you farewell, Gerald, and every throb of my body will
live with you. I have sworn that no word of love shall pass my lips,
nor any feeling of love linger in my heart, so long as my brother lies
in that fortress. But I am here. I would give you anything that would
speed you on your journey. It is for you to choose.”

She stood perfectly passive, her arms hanging by her sides. Her eyes
looked sadly into his, her lips were composed and still. For a moment
the fires burned in his blood. He took a quick step forward. She
waited, unmoved, yet without shrinking. So they faced one another for a
moment. She extended her hand. Gerald seized it, then dropped it.

“I shall do my best,” he promised hoarsely. “Good-by!”

She listened to his departing footsteps; she even moved to the window,
watched him leave the hotel and step into his waiting automobile. He
was well enough to look at, good-looking as ever in his slim, lithe
way, and with his fine carriage. Nevertheless, there was neither love
nor pride in her eyes as she watched him. There was something else,
which seemed to point back down the avenues of the history of her
family, something, perhaps, which had sounded the knell of their doom,
generations before. It was there in her lips, in her eyes, spelled out
in her fixed stare,--the cruelty of a race whose heart is given only to
passion.




CHAPTER VII


Christopher was warmly welcomed at Hinterleys when he made his promised
appearance there, about a fortnight after Gerald’s departure. He would
have preferred postponing his visit altogether but for Gerald’s urgent
request, made on the night before he had started for abroad. It all
seemed very natural, however. Myrtile welcomed him without a shade of
embarrassment, Lady Mary with her usual delightful friendliness, and
Lord Hinterleys with more than his usual hospitality.

“Any news from the traveller?” Christopher asked, as they sat round the
fire in the hall, before going up to change.

“Just a telegram yesterday from Petrograd,” Mary replied,--“‘_Arrived
safely. Love._’”

“Satisfactory so far as it goes,” Christopher remarked.

“So far as it goes,” Lord Hinterleys grumbled, “but what on earth
Gerald wants to go over to that barbarous country for, at this time of
the year, I can’t possibly imagine. Who are these friends of his, Bent?
Do you know anything about them?”

“Very little,” Christopher admitted. “I gather that they are Russian
_emigrées_, but really I don’t know a thing more about them. Gerald
seems to have made their acquaintance at Monte Carlo, when they were
occupying the next villa to yours.”

“I saw them out driving once or twice,” Lord Hinterleys ruminated.
“The girl was beautiful and looked well-born. The aunt might have been
any one.”

“I think there is no doubt that they are aristocrats,” Christopher
pronounced.

“Wasn’t there something rather strange about the way they left Monte
Carlo?” Mary enquired, from the depths of her easy-chair.

“Strange but not discreditable,” he hastened to assure her. “Their
steward had brought them out a large sum of money, which appears to
have been all that they possessed in the world, and instead of handing
it over, he gambled at the tables, lost it and committed suicide. The
two women apparently sold all their jewellery, scrupulously paid their
debts and disappeared. I believe Gerald discovered them living at a
cheap hotel in South Kensington.”

“Don’t like the type,” Lord Hinterleys muttered.

“The girl is very attractive,” Myrtile ventured. “I used to see her
driving sometimes with Gerald.”

“All the same, I can’t see why Gerald wants to go mixing himself up
in their affairs,” his father observed pettishly, “especially in the
middle of the shooting season.”

“He expects to be back before you shoot the coverts,” Mary reminded
him. “I don’t know the reason for his journey to Russia any more than
you do, but I don’t imagine he’ll want to stop there any longer than he
can help.”

“I should think not,” Lord Hinterleys grumbled,--“a country of madmen
and anarchists. I expect he’s there on some fool’s errand.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mary declared, laying down the book which
she had been studying at intervals, “if Gerald didn’t know perfectly
well what he was doing--if he hadn’t, in fact, stumbled upon some
sort of a romance. The only time I have ever seen these two women,
except in the distance at Monte Carlo, was at Ranelagh on a quiet day
after the season was over; I expect Gerald had given them vouchers.
They were walking about the gardens, and I was with Susan Armitage.
Lord Armitage, as you know, was on the Staff at Petrograd in the
old days. We met them crossing the lawn and I heard Susan give a
little exclamation. Then she stopped quite short and stood almost to
attention, looking steadfastly at the girl. I am perfectly certain that
she was going to curtsey. I could see it in her eye. And I am perfectly
certain, too, that this Madame de Ponière and her niece knew who she
was. They took not the slightest notice, however, so Susan unbent and
came along.”

“But surely you asked her who they were?” Lord Hinterleys enquired.

“Of course I did,” Mary assented. “Susan, however, was exceedingly
mysterious. Since Jack began to fancy himself a diplomatist, she apes
all his little ways. ‘I may be mistaken, my dear,’ she said. ‘In any
case, the ladies did not desire to be recognised.’ I pressed her hard,
but she wouldn’t even tell me who she thought they were. Before that I
had asked Gerald if he would like me to go and see them, but he told me
they were in great trouble and were not receiving anybody at present.”

“This is all very well and charitable and that sort of thing,” her
father remarked, “but I don’t quite see why Gerald should have had to
raise thirty thousand pounds within the last few weeks.”

“Frankly, I cannot think that these two women are responsible for it,”
Mary declared. “Gerald told me, the day before he left, that they were
still living in that poky little South Kensington place.”

“Young men are much better married, anyway,” Lord Hinterleys growled.
“Why don’t you get married, Christopher? You could afford to, and a man
like you, with a political future, needs a wife.”

Christopher smiled imperturbably.

“Give me time, sir,” he begged. “It’s different with Gerald. He has the
estates, and very little else to think about.”

“Gerald’s an ass,” was the irritable reply. “He’s too fond of women
to understand them, or even to realise when he comes across the right
thing.”

“Gerald may have his faults,” his sister observed, “but at least he has
spared us the usual musical comedy infliction. There goes the gong.
Christopher, come into my room for a moment and I’ll show you those
photographs.”

They trooped up the great oak staircase, and Mary led their guest into
her own little boudoir. She closed the door carefully behind them.

“Christopher,” she said, “I am so glad you came. Honestly, I am anxious
about Gerald. He came to see you, didn’t he, the night before he
sailed?”

“He did,” was the cautious admission.

“He must have told you a little more than he told us,” she went on.

“Very little,” Christopher assured her. “He mumbled something about
Russia being an uncertain country just now, and got me round to his
rooms to witness his will. Of course, I don’t think there was any
secret that he was going over on business connected with these two new
friends of his. What that business is, though, I haven’t the slightest
idea.”

“Honest?”

“Honest! If I were to make a guess, I should say he was going over to
see if he could do anything about their estates, if they have any. On
the other hand, if he’d been doing that, I should have expected him to
have taken a lawyer.”

“Gerald in matters of business,” his sister sighed, “is a perfect
idiot. I hope he isn’t going to get himself into trouble.”

“Well, they can’t eat him,” Christopher declared consolingly, “and
they seem to have left off murdering people, at any rate for the
present. Besides, they have common sense enough to know that molesting
Englishmen is an expensive amusement, even in Russia.”

“You’re a dear, cheering-up sort of person,” Mary said gratefully.
“And, Christopher, I haven’t had an opportunity of saying so before,
but I am still very sorry.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

“You’ll have another try, I suppose? You’re a tenacious person.”

He shook his head.

“Never,” he answered firmly. “Myrtile is a strange little creature, but
she was cast in the mould of all good women. She loves Gerald, and so
long as she lives she will never love anybody else.”

“And Gerald----” Mary murmured.

“Gerald will never love any one,” Christopher interrupted, “not unless
something changes him--trouble or some great disaster. It’s quite
hopeless, Mary, and I know it. I have sealed the chamber down tight,
and here I am, as you see, very much as usual.”

She pressed his arm.

“Dear old Christopher!--You’ll find you’re in the oak room at the end
of the corridor, as usual. Howson, Gerald’s servant, is down here doing
nothing. He will look after you. After dinner you must tell me about
the election. I am so interested, and so is dad, when he can spare a
moment from thinking about his pheasants. He is certain to insist upon
Myrtile’s reading to him after dinner, and you and I will knock the
balls about in the billiard room.”

Christopher would have been less than human if he had not realised the
pleasure of having a very charming and attractive young woman, who was
also his hostess, keenly interested in the one subject which was just
then absorbing the whole of his time and attention. Mary knew a great
deal about politics, and her shrewd comments were not only sympathetic
but at times fairly helpful. They were left undisturbed throughout
the whole of the evening in the billiard room, and Christopher was
surprised at the ease with which he forgot that slim, frail figure
with the haunting eyes and tremulous smile, who had sat opposite him
at dinner. There is something about inevitability which sets its mark
upon all enterprise and sensation. He knew perfectly well that Myrtile
would never alter. She was as far removed from him as though she had
become a beautiful picture or an exquisite piece of statuary. The
conviction itself had a certain soothing effect. No man was ever known
to sigh his heart out for the unattainable. With the merest chance
of some alteration in her feelings, he would have been a persistent
and unchanging lover. There was no chance, and he knew it. The
disappointment was there, a dull pain in his heart whenever he thought
of certain chambers in the building of that house of his future. But it
was a pain of the past, a pain from which frequent escape was at least
possible. He found the coming of the footman with whisky and soda that
night unwelcome and surprising.

“Eleven o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Why, what has become of the evening?”

“Flatterer!” she laughed. “Never mind, I was just thinking the same
myself. One game of billiards, and then to bed. You’ll have a long day
to-morrow, for you’re walking in the morning, at any rate, and dad
always relies upon you to do the outsides.--Here’s Myrtile come to wish
us good night.”

“Haven’t you people played yet?” Myrtile enquired, looking at the
unused table in surprise.

“Not yet,” Christopher replied. “Lady Mary and I have been talking
politics.”

Myrtile made a little grimace.

“Politics!” she sighed. “Lord Hinterleys has tried to explain English
politics to me, but I think that I am stupid. I do not think that I
have ever heard of anything quite so dull.--Good night to you both. I
am going to bed.”

She waved her hand and disappeared. Mary looked after her thoughtfully.

“Sometimes,” she said, “Myrtile presents herself to one as a problem. I
wonder whether it is really for their happiness to transplant any one.”

“Don’t you think that Myrtile is happy?” Christopher asked.

Mary shook her head.

“No girl is really happy without love in her life,” she declared. “You
can realise for yourself how little chance Myrtile has of ever being
rewarded for her devotion.”

He frowned.

“Poor child!” he said. “But aren’t you a little sweeping, Mary? There
are lots of girls who seem to get everything they want in life, and
to be perfectly happy without a man--without caring for any one in
particular, that is. Yourself, for instance?”

Mary selected a cue with great care.

“I suppose I am an exception,” she admitted. “Come along, I’ll play you
one fifty up before I go to bed.”




CHAPTER VIII


Gerald, worn out with long and comfortless travel, pulled the long,
iron bell outside the closed door of Elsa Francks’ house in Sokar, with
a sense of relief that the first part of his quest was accomplished.
The street was one which formerly had been possessed of some
pretensions. The houses were tall, solidly built, and had apparently
been occupied by a wealthy class of merchant. They were now mostly let
out in tenements. Exactly opposite where Gerald stood waiting, men
and women--shrunken-looking creatures, most of them--were continually
passing in and out of a broad entrance, from which the gates had been
done away with altogether, with sacks or baskets of partly finished
boots, and the sound of fitful hammering seemed to denote a factory
devoid of machinery. In the centre of the road were some rusty rails,
around which some grass was growing,--the remains of an electric car
service. Most of the houses seemed empty or over-full,--locked and
barred, with broken window frames and closed shutters, or converted
into tenement houses. The long street, full of holes and strewn
with all manner of refuse, ended in a steep hill. Way beyond it,
the so-called fortress, a sinister, grey building of many stories,
glittered in the afternoon sun.

The door in front of which Gerald was standing was suddenly opened.
A dark-visaged, corpulent woman, dressed apparently in nothing but a
petticoat and shawl, thrust out her head. Gerald handed her a card, on
which, through the friendly offices of the hotel porter, was inscribed
his desire to see Madame Francks. The woman turned it over, looked
Gerald up and down with wide-mouthed astonishment, and finally motioned
him to enter. As soon as he had done so and stepped into the little
cobbled courtyard, she drew the bolt and muttered something which he
understood as an invitation to follow her. She pushed open a heavy door
on the right, and they ascended a gloomy staircase. The atmosphere was
close, almost stifling. There seemed to be no window, or any means of
giving light or ventilation. Arrived on the first floor, she threw open
the door of a room and departed, with a wholly incomprehensible grunt.
Outside, she began to shout, apparently through the door of another
apartment. There was a vigorous duet, the other voice shriller but
scarcely more pleasant. Then there was silence, followed by the sound
of some one moving about in the adjoining room.

Gerald took a seat upon a couch, upholstered in stained purple velvet,
over which several soiled coverings of imitation lace had been thrown.
The room itself was large and lofty, but scantily furnished. There was
a huge undecorated stove in one corner, which, notwithstanding the
heat of the day, already exuded fumes of burning coke. The polished
floor was innocent of any rug or carpet, and covered with stains
and fragments of cigarettes and cigars. There was a piano, littered
with soiled and torn copies of music, in a distant corner, a small
gramophone with black enamel mouthpiece, blistered by the continual
heat of the room. The walls were hung with the faded remains of some
former attempt at decoration. The windows were covered with a sort of
wire netting, which kept out alike light and air. There was everywhere
an odour of stale tobacco smoke, mingled with a strange smell of cheap
incense or crude perfume of some sort. Gerald, exceedingly sensitive to
surroundings, felt a momentary faintness as he sat and waited for the
woman whom he had come to visit. He began to fidget in his place. He
walked up and down. He was even meditating an attack upon one of the
window fastenings, when he was aware of the sound of heavy footsteps
outside. The door was opened. A woman entered and came towards him with
an enquiring expression upon her face.

It seemed to Gerald that the newcomer alone was needed to complete the
squalour of his surroundings. She was a big woman, coarsely built,
and with indications of obesity. She wore a dressing gown of some
red material, trimmed with soiled white fur and fastened round her
waist with a girdle. Her hair was a bright yellow, abundant but badly
arranged. It lay in loose coils upon the top of her head, fastened
with some flamboyant ornament. Her features were not ill-shaped, but
were partly concealed under a thick coating of powder. She had eyes of
a peculiarly light blue shade, large and saucer-like when she first
entered the room, but with a habit of narrowing at intervals. She spoke
in English, with a strong German accent.

“You wish to see me, sir? I am Elsa Francks.”

Gerald rose to his feet and bowed.

“Madame,” he said, “I have found my way here under the name of Harmon
P. Cross. I have told every one that I am an American, looking for an
opportunity to invest money. That story is not true. It is my wish, if
you will allow me, to be perfectly candid with you?”

“You can sit down,” she invited, regarding Gerald with suspicion not
unmixed with favour. “I will hear what you have to say.”

She threw herself in a lump at the far end of the sofa, and pointed to
a battered horsehair easy-chair.

“Bring that to the side of me,” she continued. “I do not hear very well
and it is some time since I listened to English. Tell me what you want?”

“I have a further confession to make,” Gerald began. “I am an
Englishman.”

“There are Englishmen and Englishmen,” she said indulgently. “Some are
different from others. You are not like those whom our officers have
had to correct in the streets and cafés of Berlin. Now what is your
business, please?”

“It is very difficult to state,” Gerald admitted frankly, “and I am
only emboldened to approach you because in these difficult times, and
in Russia especially, one needs money. If you will do me a service, I
can find you a great deal of money.”

Gerald’s methods had at any rate succeeded in exciting the interest of
the woman he had come to visit. Her becarmined lips were parted; her
pale eyes were filled with the light of cupidity.

“There is not much we would not do for money, nowadays, over here,” she
declared, laughing hardly. “You are a very interesting man. Go on.”

“Major Ivan Krossneys is a friend of yours,” Gerald said.

“Ho, ho!” the woman laughed. “So you dabble in politics, eh? Never
mind, Krossneys is my friend. What of it?”

“He is the Governor of the fortress here,” Gerald went on. “He has a
great number of prisoners under his care.”

“One hundred and thirty-seven,” Elsa Francks replied promptly. “I see
some of them exercising when I am at the fortress. What he keeps them
alive for, I cannot imagine. They crawl about the yard like lice. What
about these prisoners?”

Gerald moved his chair a little nearer. The woman smiled at him
graciously.

“If one of them should escape,” he remarked significantly, “there would
be a great deal of money.”

“What do you call a great deal of money?” she asked.

“I do not bargain,” Gerald replied. “I know very well that the escape
of a prisoner is a serious thing. I have at my disposal the sum of ten
thousand pounds.”

The woman started so that she nearly rolled off the sofa. She sat
suddenly upright. She was too stupefied for emotion.

“Ten thousand pounds?” she almost shrieked. “Why, it is two million
roubles! Ivan Krossneys would sell you his whole batch of prisoners
for that, and throw the fortress in! Why, if it rested with me,” she
went on, “you could have Krossneys as well, for a quarter of that. Talk
sense, please! There is not an Englishman there. Of that I am certain.”

“The prisoner whose liberty I desire to buy,” Gerald confided, “is a
Russian. I do not know under what name he passes, but his number is
twenty-nine.”

Elsa Francks rose to her feet, opened the door and shouted to her maid
in Russian. Then she took up a battered telephone instrument.

“I will speak with the Major,” she said. “I am the only civilian in
the town with a telephone. It is a great favour. You can wait whilst I
speak with him.”

There was a good deal of delay before she was connected, and a further
delay before the person with whom she desired to speak arrived. In
time, however, the conversation was finished, apparently to her
satisfaction. She set down the instrument.

“The Governor is on his way down,” she announced triumphantly. “Come,
we will see to this little affair quickly. You can remain.”

The maid entered the room, carrying a tray on which were bottles of
beer and glasses. The woman eyed them with satisfaction.

“You are not Russian,” she said, “so I do not offer you the samovar.
Beer every one drinks--the English especially. That is so, is it not?”

“That is so,” Gerald admitted. “I shall drink to your good health,
Madame.”

“You may call me Elsa,” she invited graciously, coming over to his
side with a glass in her hand. “We will drink to the success of our
enterprise.”

Gerald accepted the glass and exchanged courteous amenities with his
hostess. She eyed him with growing favour.

“It is a pity that you are not staying longer,” she observed. “We might
become friends. Who knows?”

“In that case,” Gerald replied gallantly, “I might have to quarrel with
Major Krossneys, and that would not do at all.”

She snapped her pudgy fingers. A man who had ten thousand pounds to
dispose of! What was Krossneys!

“Do you think,” she scoffed, “that I shall stay here with him if I
can get hold of half that sum you spoke of? Not I! I shall choose a
different companion. I shall go to Monte Carlo. I shall never enter
this accursed country again. Even to think of leaving it makes me
giddy with happiness. It will be you who will be my deliverer. Let us
drink again together.”

“Perhaps,” Gerald suggested, “the Governor will not give up his
prisoner.”

Her exclamation of contempt was almost a shout. The very idea, while
she scouted it as ridiculous, seemed to infuriate her.

“Give him up? Of course he will give him up!” she declared. “If he
refused--why, I would take him by the beard--I would kill him!”

Her eyes were lit with cruelty. The snarl of an animal of prey twisted
her lips. Then she burst into a fit of laughter.

“Why do I make myself furious?” she exclaimed. “Why, Ivan would sell
every one of his hundred and thirty-seven prisoners for a tenth part of
the money you speak of! Come, let us be gay. I will put something on
the gramophone. You shall dance with me, yes?”

“What about His Excellency the Governor?” Gerald asked.

The woman made a little grimace.

“You are perhaps right,” she acquiesced. “One must wait--wait until
everything is arranged. After that I shall snap my fingers at Ivan. He
wearies me, and he is an old man. Will you take me out of the country,
my friend? We might go into Poland--I have friends at Warsaw.”

There were heavy steps outside. She held up her hand as though to warn
him.

“It is the Governor,” she announced. “It is Ivan Krossneys who arrives.
Mind, he is very jealous. Be careful.”

Gerald, with all his nerves on edge, was yet able to indulge for a
moment in a grim smile. The door was opened. The maid poked her head
in and muttered something unintelligible. Close behind her entered the
Governor of the fortress.




CHAPTER IX


The Governor was a large, corpulent, untidy-looking man in an
ill-fitting uniform, with coarse features and a straggling beard. He
clicked his heels together and made some pretence at a military salute,
as Elsa introduced her visitor. She whispered a word or two apart
with him in Russian, and then continued in French, which she spoke
apparently with less ease than English.

“This gentleman,” she declared, “has a great affair of business to
discuss with you. He was sent here by a friend of mine whose name I
may not give. He is an Englishman pretending to be an American, but
that makes for little. He is entrusted with a great sum of money for a
certain purpose.”

Into the Governor’s eyes flashed for a moment some reflection of the
cupidity which had gleamed in the woman’s. Money was scarce in Russia;
pay was small and irregular in coming. The thought of money whetted his
interest.

“Let me hear what this gentleman has to say,” he invited.

“I have come with a very bold proposition,” Gerald began, “but it is
one which I hope you will consider carefully. You have many prisoners
in your fortress who are detained largely through misfortune. There are
many there whose offences are trivial, who will probably be released
shortly in any case, and who might just as well be free as remain a
charge upon the Government.”

“You seem to know a great deal about my prisoners,” the Governor
remarked ungraciously. “Many of them are criminals of the worst order.”

“It is not one of these whom I wish to discuss with you,” Gerald
assured him. “It happens that you have a young man there who is not of
the criminal class at all. He has very wealthy friends.”

“Ha!” the Governor exclaimed. “How wealthy?”

The woman broke into the conversation. She gripped her friend by the
arm.

“Ivan,” she cried, “it is incredible! Do you know the sum which
monsieur speaks of? It takes one’s breath away! He speaks of ten
thousand pounds! It is two million roubles! What do you think of that?”

“Holy mother of God!” Krossneys muttered. “A prisoner of mine?”

“A prisoner of yours,” Gerald repeated. “I will be quite frank with
you, sir. I speak, I know, to a man of honour, but I will ask you to
remember that this young man is unconvicted of any crime, and that the
Government by whom he was sent to you is tottering. This is not a bribe
which I am offering you. It is the price of an act of justice. The
money is to be paid in cash.”

Krossneys was showing now as much agitation as the woman had displayed.
Mingled with his emotion, however, was a fear, signs of which were at
once manifested in the anxiety which distorted his face, the eagerness
of his demand.

“The number?” he cried. “Tell me the name or the number of the prisoner
you desire?”

“Number twenty-nine,” Gerald replied.

The Governor struck the table with his clenched fist, so that the
glasses rattled.

“A million devils curse and blast you both!” he shouted.

He kicked a footstool which was close at hand across the room. Then he
flung himself into an easy-chair and sat there with his arms crossed,
glowering at Elsa. The woman gazed at him as though he had suddenly
gone mad.

“Are you out of your senses, Ivan?” she asked. “Twenty-nine or
thirty-nine--what does it matter? Is not one prisoner like another? Who
comes to visit them? Who knows which cell is empty? Bah!”

“So you thought you were rich for life, did you, Elsa?” the man in the
chair muttered. “Well, you can just rid yourself of the idea. And as
for you, sir,” he went on, with a malicious glance at Gerald, “you may
think yourself fortunate if you leave this country as easily as you
entered it.”

The woman drew a little nearer to him. There was the look of a wild
animal in her face.

“Listen, Ivan!” she cried. “Are you mad? It is a fortune which this
man carries in his hand! What is there amongst the scum that infests
your prisons of account against that? You terrify me. The money is for
us, to be divided. Cash, Ivan! Money to spend--to-morrow--the next
day--every day!”

“You fool!” the Governor retorted. “Of what use is money when your feet
dangle in the air and your neck is broken? That for you, and a dozen
rifle bullets in my heart! You are a bold man who came to Russia on
such a mission,” he added, glowering at Gerald.

She turned to her visitor.

“What does this madman mean?” she demanded. “Who is this prisoner whose
freedom you seek?”

“I do not know,” Gerald replied. “I am only an emissary.”

The Governor sat up in his chair.

“I will tell you,” he declared hoarsely. “Number twenty-nine is all
the fortress records say of him, but his name is Paul, Grand Duke of
Volostok, Prince of Tamboff, hereditary Grand Duke and Ruler of all
the provinces of the Dvina, nephew of Nicholas, the late Tsar, head
of the House of Romanoff,--himself, if the people changed their fancy
to-morrow, Tsar of all the Russias! There, my woman, now you know the
secret of my fortress! You can guess where we might be if I traded with
this lunatic!”

The woman flopped upon the sofa. She was pale through all her rouge and
powder. Her yellow hair had broken loose from its band of ribbon. Her
dressing gown had fallen away a little from her ample bust. She sat
breathing heavily for several moments. Gerald, of the three, was the
only one who kept his head.

“All that makes for nothing,” he said calmly. “You excite yourself
greatly for nothing. The Romanoff dynasty is past. There will never be
another Tsar in Russia. This young man has rich friends and they want
him out of the country. I should think your Government would be glad to
be rid of him.”

Gerald’s words were not without their effect, especially upon the woman.

“After all,” she muttered, “this man speaks sense. Who cares about
Grand Dukes, nowadays? There are plenty of them who have already
escaped. What does one more or less matter?”

“But this one--I have told you who he is!” the man growled.

The woman was beginning to pluck up spirit. She scoffed at him openly.

“When the people of Russia want the days of Tsardom back again,” she
said, “they will find one of the brood fast enough. But that day will
not come yet. This young man in your fortress is of no account. You
are a fool, Ivan. You cannot see the truth. You have not thought to
yourself what ten thousand pounds may mean.”

Krossneys sat back in his chair, biting his finger nails.

“Who are you?” he demanded suddenly. “And where does this money come
from?”

“My name is Dombey,” Gerald replied. “I have admitted to Madame Francks
that I am an Englishman. This money has been collected in London by
friends and relatives of the young man. The desire for his release has
not the slightest political significance.”

“And what the devil excuse can I make for letting him go?”

“I should put one of your less important prisoners into his cell and
say nothing about it,” Gerald suggested.

“There is an inspector of State prisons,” Krossneys muttered. “He does
not often come, but who knows when he might take it into his head to
pay us a visit?”

“The last time he was here,” Elsa Francks reminded him, “you met him at
the station and took him to the hotel. Afterwards, you brought him on
here and he was so drunk that he had to stay for two days. He did not
even go near the fortress. Your papers and books were brought down here
for him to sign.”

“It is true,” Krossneys assented, “yet next time another man might
come. And again, how will this number twenty-nine get safely out of
Russia?”

“Think less of these difficulties and more of what one could do with
ten thousand pounds,” the woman insisted. “You are not asked, Ivan, to
run a risk for nothing. I say that it is worth it.”

“For you, yes,” Krossneys sneered, “because you risk nothing and you
have the spending of the money. For me it is different. I have an
official position. I am Governor of the fortress; I wear the uniform of
the Russian Republic.”

Elsa Francks laughed loudly and scornfully. She pointed jeeringly at
Krossneys.

“Uniform of the Russian Republic!” she exclaimed. “A pity they didn’t
make it to fit you! Official position, indeed! What do you get out of
it, I should like to know? Would you not starve if it were not for the
contributions of the prisoners themselves?”

“It is true,” Krossneys assented gloomily. “It is a dog’s life.”

“And a dog’s country to live it in!” the woman proclaimed. “Listen to
me, Ivan.”

She sat upon the arm of his chair and talked to him in Russian. Soon it
was evident that he was yielding. She fetched him beer and then spirits
of some sort from a cupboard. Once or twice she turned and winked
stealthily at Gerald. At last she turned towards him in triumph.

“It is arranged,” she announced.

“Not so fast,” Krossneys intervened. “Let us hear how this money is to
be paid?”

“In cash,” Gerald replied. “I have drafts upon your own banks.”

“Well, well,” Krossneys muttered, “the money is right enough, then. At
ten o’clock to-morrow morning,” he went on, “present yourself at the
fortress. Enquire for me. I shall give you an audience. The affair may
be concluded at once. Get back to your hotel now and be careful not to
speak of your real business.”

Gerald rose blithely to his feet. The idea of leaving the horrible
atmosphere of that room was undiluted joy to him. He bowed to the
Governor. Elsa took him to the door and, under pretext of calling the
servant, passed out with him into the passage.

“You can come back later if you like to talk with me again,” she
whispered. “Be careful, though, for he is very jealous.”

She shouted something to the Russian maid and stepped back into the
room with a meaning smile. Gerald put money into the hand of the woman
who opened the postern gate and stepped into the street with a gasp of
relief. The clear air was wonderful. He drew in great gulps of it as he
made his way along the uneven pavements, stared at by every passer-by.
He could scarcely believe that his task was coming so easily to an end.
If all went well, in twenty-four hours he might be on his way back to
England.




CHAPTER X


Gerald, after a weary climb out of the town, stood at last, at the
appointed hour on the following morning, before the rusty iron gates
of the fortress. Untidy and neglected though the whole place seemed,
there was still something sinister about the various crude precautions
against the escape of a prisoner. For a quarter of a mile, on the
outside of the walls, not in themselves formidable, everything in the
shape of trees, shrubs or dwellings had been razed to the ground, and
every fifty paces around the walls, on the top of a buttress, was
mounted a machine gun, from which an iron ladder led to the ground.
The walls themselves were about eight feet high, of stone covered with
white plaster. The fortress itself was built of a kind of grey-coloured
brick, a square, solid building, with a curiously unexpected pointed
top. The barred windows were no more than slits. The space of open
ground by which the main building was surrounded was inches deep in
dust.

A porter in stained and ill-fitting uniform admitted Gerald to the
building, escorted him across the yard, and passed him on to a
duplicate of himself, to whom Gerald once more presented the card which
had obtained him admittance. He was led down a stone passage, which had
apparently neither been cleaned nor swept for months, into a lofty but
bare apartment at the farther end. Krossneys, who was sitting before
a wooden table, apparently expecting him, dismissed the attendant and
motioned Gerald to sit down. He looked at his visitor in unfriendly
fashion.

“Why did you not come to me direct instead of going to Elsa Francks?”
he demanded.

Gerald was not unprepared for the question.

“I knew your reputation as a soldier and a man of honour,” he replied.
“I feared that unless this matter was put to you in the proper light,
tactfully, as a woman can put it, you would have nothing to say to me.”

The Governor grunted.

“It was a mistake,” he declared sourly. “The woman is greedy. She will
demand her full share of the money. It is scarcely justice.”

“I am sorry,” Gerald said. “I acted as I was advised.”

“Supposing I accede,” Krossneys went on, after a short pause, “how do
you propose to get Number Twenty-nine out of the country?”

“I was hoping,” Gerald admitted, “that you might have been able to help
with some suggestion.”

The Governor stroked his beard.

“Suggestions,” he muttered, “are worth money.”

Gerald acquiesced.

“I have not command of much more than the amount I spoke of,” he
said, “but if you can show me how to get our friend safely out of the
country, I will add a thousand pounds to your share.”

“Which sum,” the Governor insisted quickly, “will not be mentioned to
Elsa Francks and will belong to me alone.”

“Agreed,” Gerald acquiesced.

“Show me your papers,” the Governor demanded.

Gerald produced them without hesitation,--his passport, an urgent
letter of recommendation by the one statesman who was in good odour in
both countries, banker’s drafts, which needed only his signature to
produce a never-ending flow of cash. The Governor’s eyes glittered as
he turned them over in his hand. It was horrible that a share of these
treasures must go to the woman! She was well enough under his thumb,
the slave of his command, but with money in her pocket--they were
neither of them in their first youth, but, so far as looks went, in his
eyes she still had charm--if she were independent of him, all sorts of
things might happen. He threw down the documents with a little oath.
The passport, however, he kept in his hand. His manner, as he looked at
Gerald, changed. He became almost servile.

“You, too, are an aristocrat, then,” he remarked.

“I am of the English aristocracy,” Gerald admitted. “I have another
passport in my pocket, which proclaims me an American citizen.”

The Governor nodded. He pushed a box of black cigars across to his
visitor. The latter contented himself, however, with accepting a
cigarette. Then he touched a bell. The attendant brought in beer, which
was poured into two glasses. As soon as they were alone, Krossneys
motioned Gerald to draw his chair close to the desk.

“Now here is my scheme,” he said. “Number Twenty-nine is of your height
and build. You shall see him for yourself and judge. Number One Hundred
and One, also a young man, died yesterday afternoon of malarial fever.
His death has not yet been officially reported. Very good! I take you
to the cell of Number Twenty-nine. You exchange clothes with him. You
give him your American passport. You go in with me to his cell. He
comes out with me. You remain.”

“The devil I do!” Gerald muttered.

“Do not be a fool!” the Governor exclaimed impatiently. “I beg your
pardon, Excellency,” he added a moment later, as he remembered his
visitor’s identity. “Your stay there will not be long. I shall explain
in a moment. I drive Number Twenty-nine to a small station on the
line, eleven miles off. I take leave of him there. He is an American
who has bought my oil concessions. The station is in the middle of the
district. My presence with him will remove all suspicions and prevent
their examining the passport too closely. He will travel through to
Petrograd. There, I take it, you have made arrangements.”

“I have a ship waiting,” Gerald replied.

“That is my scheme, then.”

“So far, I approve of it,” Gerald declared, “but what about me?”

“You will bore yourself for twenty-four hours,” the Governor replied.
“I will see, though, that you have beer and newspapers. If you will,
Elsa can come and see you.”

“For heaven’s sake, no!” Gerald begged. “I mean,” he added hastily, “I
shall need no society. I am very tired. I shall sleep.”

“As you will,” the Governor acquiesced. “In the morning, Number One
Hundred and One--I should say his remains--will be carried secretly
down to your cell. You will be moved up to the cell of Number
One Hundred and One. I shall at once report the death of Number
Twenty-nine. He will be buried in the cemetery here before intervention
is possible. Now the question comes how to dispose of you.”

“I was getting interested in that myself,” Gerald admitted.

“Number One Hundred and One’s time was up,” the Governor explained.
“He could have gone home last week if he had been strong enough. I
have his papers of release here, signed by myself. To-morrow morning
early, I shall provide you with suitable clothing, and I shall drive
you to the railway station. I myself have leave of absence in my
pocket, granted to me a fortnight ago, but, to be honest with you,
I have not used it because I have had no money with which to enjoy
myself. I shall travel with you myself to Petrograd. You will have
acted as my clerk in the prison, and I take some interest in you. In my
company you are absolutely secure. No one will venture even a question.
Arrived at Petrograd, I will drive with you to the docks, you shall
take me on board your ship, and we will drink a bottle of champagne
together.--What do you think of my plan?”

“Capital!” Gerald replied.

“I will conduct you now,” the Governor announced, “to Number
Twenty-nine. We will lock ourselves in his cell. You shall explain
the scheme to him and change clothes. I will bring pen and ink with
me, also the deeds which will put Harmon P. Cross in possession of my
oil properties. You shall pay over the drafts. After that you must be
patient.”

“I am ready,” Gerald declared, rising to his feet.

Krossneys unlocked a drawer and took out a bunch of keys which shone
like silver,--the only clean thing, it seemed to Gerald, that he had
seen in the prison. They tramped up two flights of stone steps.

“I am a humane man,” the Governor said, “and it does not please me to
turn my prisoners into vermin. I have cells underground, without light
or air, which were used by my predecessors. I have had them blocked up.
You will find it not so terrible here.”

They had reached a long, whitewashed passage with arched roof. The
Governor dismissed the attendant who had followed them, inserted the
key into the lock of the door over which “29” was painted in black
letters, and entered himself, motioning Gerald to follow him.

In the sudden sombre twilight of the cell, Gerald’s first impressions
were that a man opposite had hanged himself against the wall. At their
entrance, however, the figure dropped to the ground, releasing his
clutch of the rusty bars to which he had been clinging. A tall, thin
young man, with sunken cheeks, long, unkempt hair, and eyes a little
more than ordinarily bright, stood gazing at them. His clothes seemed
to be the remains of a prison uniform. The trousers, always too short,
had worn away at the bottom of the legs, and he wore neither socks nor
shoes. He stared at the two men--at Gerald especially--in wonder, but
remained silent.

“You speak English?” Gerald enquired.

Number Twenty-nine shook his head.

“I speak French better,” he replied.

“What were you doing when we came in?” the Governor asked.

Number Twenty-nine smiled wanly.

“For an hour every day,” he told them, “sometimes for more, I spring
till I catch those bars, and I hang on until I am tired. I can always
see the sky; sometimes, if I am feeling strong, I can lift myself so
that I see a little of the country.”

“Well, you have something better to do now,” the Governor declared.
“You were a man when you were brought in. I have seen you play a
man’s part. Remember, if you faint or do anything foolish, you spoil
everything. Set your teeth and take off your clothes. You are going to
be set at liberty.”

Number Twenty-nine scarcely faltered.

“I am to be shot, I suppose,” he said coolly. “I trust that your
warders are better marksmen than they are soldiers.”

“There is a long story,” Gerald intervened, “of which the Governor
will tell you as much as he chooses. I am an Englishman, sent here by
relatives of yours. I have been able to arrange for your freedom. In a
few days’ time, you will be steaming for England.”

“Cut it short,” the Governor interrupted. “I will do all the
explaining.”

Gerald took a letter from his pocketbook.

“Read that letter,” he invited. “It is from Pauline. She is my friend.
I am Lord Dombey, an Englishman. We shall meet at Petrograd later.
On the steamer I will explain everything. Meanwhile, take off your
clothes. You will have to wear mine for a couple of days.”

The young man took off his coat almost mechanically. His shirt was
ragged. He had apparently no underclothes. His fingers began to shake.

“I cannot,” he faltered.

“But it is necessary,” Gerald assured him. “See, I am half undressed
myself.”

He took off his coat and waistcoat. At the sight of his silk
underclothes, the other man began suddenly to sob.

“I--I have had no water here for a fortnight,” he groaned.

Gerald looked him in the eyes.

“We’ve done campaigning, both of us,” he said. “I read of you when you
led your regiment into Germany. I was in a trench myself for five days
at a stretch. Those things don’t really matter. Five days was quite
long enough there in the mud. We didn’t worry about soap then. Get on
with it, please.”

Number Twenty-nine closed his eyes as he shed his last garments. Then
he drew on Gerald’s. Presently the Governor laughed.

“Upon my word,” he declared, “it is better than I thought. I have
ordered the barber into the next cell. He is a prisoner himself, so
there is not much chance of his blabbing. Come along. We will be back
in five minutes,” he added, turning to Gerald. “In time to take your
orders for lunch, eh? Give you time to settle down.”

They passed out. Gerald felt a queer sense of loneliness as the door
closed behind him. He looked around him half fearfully. Everything was
worse than he had feared. The floor was of concrete, and there was not
a single article of furniture of any description in the room except
a straw mattress already full of holes. The floor had apparently not
been swept for weeks. While he sat there, however, there was the click
of a key in the door and a burly Russian entered. Without a word he
commenced some effort at cleansing the place. When he had finished,
he threw in a rug and disappeared. Gerald breathed a little more
freely. Then he heard footsteps outside again. The Governor and Number
Twenty-nine entered, the latter curiously changed in appearance.

“By all the Saints,” the Governor chuckled, “I never realised that the
barber was so wonderful a person! This little scheme of mine marches
well. Now, then, for your share.”

He handed a fountain pen to Gerald, who endorsed the drafts he had
brought, wrote out a further cheque for a thousand pounds, and handed
them, together with his American passport, to Krossneys. The latter
thrust a document into Number Twenty-nine’s pocket.

“You may not know it,” he said, “but you are now the owner of five
hundred acres of forest where oil may some day be found.”

He roared with laughter. Neither of the young men moved a muscle.

“Now, listen, both of you,” he went on, “the only automobile in the
town awaits me outside. We depart in a minute. Say your farewells,
you two. At one o’clock to-morrow morning,” he concluded, turning to
Gerald, “you will be moved into cell ‘101,’ and later you will go to
attend your own funeral. From now until one or perhaps half-past one
to-morrow morning, you will have to make the best of it. I will come
and superintend your removal myself and let you know that all is well.”

“I shall try to sleep until then,” Gerald announced. “I am very tired.”

“You shall have a little meal in my office in the intervals of being
changed,” the Governor promised him. “I shall lock the door and no one
will know.--Now, Mr. Harmon P. Cross, please, American speculator who
has bought my oil fields, come with me. I am going to drive you to the
train.”

Number Twenty-nine held out both his hands to his deliverer. There was
a simple dignity in his few words.

“Sir,” he said, “I know nothing of you, but my life will not be long
enough for me to express my gratitude. The day after to-morrow----”

“The day after to-morrow there will be much for us to talk about,”
Gerald interrupted. “What I have done, I have done joyfully. So far,
it has been much easier than I expected.”

The Governor and his charge took their leave. The door closed behind
them. Gerald heard their footsteps die away on the paved floor. He
threw himself down on the mattress and tried to sleep. It was an
impossible task but there was plenty to think about.--At one o’clock
the same burly Russian entered, bearing a bowl of something which was
half stew, half soup. Gerald smelt it, looked at it, and set it in a
distant corner of the room. Then he walked back and forth, counting
how many paces it took him from wall to wall. Presently, with a throb
of joy, he remembered his cigarette case. He smoked two cigarettes.
Afterwards, he dozed for a little time. Towards evening, he amused
himself trying to make his predecessor’s daily jump. It was not until
the seventh attempt that he succeeded, and then the rust of the bars
cut so deeply into his palms that he let go almost at once. At eight
o’clock, the Russian appeared again with a bowl of soup similar to the
last. Gerald waved it away.

“Not hungry?” the man asked in German.

Gerald shook his head. Somehow or other, it was a relief to find that
he was not shut out altogether from communication with the outside
world.

“You speak German, eh?” he asked.

The man shook his head.

“Few words.”

“Bring me something better to eat,” Gerald begged. “Can’t I have some
beer?”

The man held out his hand and Gerald filled it with silver. He
disappeared and returned presently with two bottles of beer concealed
in his baggy trousers, and a loaf of bread.

“Not understand this,” he said, shaking his head. “Where Number
Twenty-nine gone?”

Gerald shook his head.

“Better ask no questions until the Governor comes back,” he enjoined.

“No fear talk,” the man declared with a laugh. “Governor given me
twenty marks. If talk, I get twenty lashes instead. Good night!”

He departed finally, closing and locking the door behind him. Gerald
ate some bread hungrily and drank the beer. Then for a time he dozed.
When he woke up and looked at his watch, it was twelve o’clock. Very
soon he would begin to expect the Governor. He sat up on the mattress
with his back to the wall. Between twelve and one o’clock he looked
at his watch twenty times. One o’clock came and passed; half-past
one. Then he rose to his feet and began pacing the cell restlessly.
Two o’clock came; half-past. He held his watch in his hand now, to
save himself the continual dragging it out from his pocket. Every few
minutes he stopped to listen. The great fortress apparently slept.
There was no sound anywhere. Only time went on. Three o’clock arrived
and passed--four!--five! Presently streaks of daylight began to appear.
At six o’clock at last there were footsteps outside. The warder entered
once more. This time he carried a jug of hot liquid.

“Tea,” he announced, “from kitchen. Give me something.”

Gerald gave him more silver. The tea was the colour of straw and water,
but the faint smell of it was refreshing.

“Where is the Governor?” he asked.

The warder shook his head.

“Not ask questions,” he begged. “Governor not here.”

Gerald pulled himself together and dismissed the man. He drank the
tea slowly. Once more he sat down on the mattress. The room now was a
little lighter. He could see as far as the opposite wall. He sat down
and waited. Every nerve in his body seemed tingling. He tried to keep
his mind off the subject of what could have happened to detain the
Governor, to turn his thoughts back to England.--He suddenly found
himself by the roadside, watching the mending of the puncture, looking
impatiently along the white ribbon of road which led to Cannes, and,
beyond, to Monte Carlo, where the lights were burning and the violins
were playing their pagan overture. He saw Myrtile’s pale, terrified
face gleaming out against the background of the cypress trees, heard
her pathetic story throbbing in the pine-sweetened stillness. He
remembered their drive. All those things seemed part of another world.
He remembered those few furious moments when Christopher had taken her
from his arms. A faint feeling of shame crept over him as he sat there,
huddled up. Then, with a rush, came the memory which swept everything
else out of his mind. He saw Pauline, felt the disturbance of her
presence, remembered the slow ebbing away of her pride, her first few
kind words, the half-spoken promise. What was there about her, he
wondered vaguely, which had brought him, with all his experience, so
completely to her feet? She had shown him no kindness. She had not even
been gracious. He had read dislike in her eyes more often than any
other feeling. There remained, too, the pitiless truth that all the
favours he had won from her he had bought, indirectly if not directly.
Yet there she was, ruling over his life, the one sweet, dominant
figure, for whose sake he sat in these miserable clothes, a forgotten
figure,--perhaps, even, in danger.--He took out his watch with
trembling fingers. It was ten o’clock. His thoughts mocked him now. He
could find no escape by means of them. He could think of nothing but
the present. Something had gone wrong with their plans. What would it
mean for him? Not a soul in the world knew where he was. If he had a
name at all here, it was the name of the man whom the people of Russia
had once threatened to tear limb from limb.

At last there came a little stir, an unaccustomed sound of voices.
Presently he heard footsteps outside, the key turned in the lock.
His heart turned sick with disappointment--it was the warder alone!
Gerald dug his hand once more into his pocket. This time he brought
out a note. For some reason or other he was terrified. Even the stolid
features of his visitor seemed disturbed.

“Where is the Governor?” Gerald demanded. “See, there is this note if
you will go and fetch him.”

The man returned to the door and shook it to be sure that it was
fastened. Then he came back to Gerald.

“A strange thing has happened,” he said. “There is a German woman in
the town. Last night the Governor spent at her house. They were both
drunk. They quarrelled. Elsa killed him. The Governor is dead.”




CHAPTER XI


The telegram was brought in to Lady Mary as she sat alone in her little
sitting room, in the hours between tea and the dressing bell,--hours
which, so far as possible, especially during the last few months, she
tried to keep to herself. It had been handed in at a branch office
in the north of London and contained the news for which she had been
waiting:

  Elected majority two thousand heartiest thanks for good wishes.

                                                     CHRISTOPHER.

Her first impulse was one of genuine pleasure. She started to her
feet, meaning to take it to her father, who was with Myrtile in the
library. Then she stopped short and slowly resumed her seat. That
little orange-coloured form might have meant so much more, so much
food for her ambitions, her natural and proper ambitions for the man
she loved. It might have been such a pledge for the interest of their
life together, such a wonderful life, brimful of movement and colour
in which she, too, might well hope to take a part. In her quiet way,
she had for years looked upon her marriage with Christopher, sooner
or later, as a certainty. Without the slightest desire in any way to
mislead her, Christopher had subconsciously encouraged the idea. She
knew perfectly well that, as soon as his position was a little more
assured, he had intended to ask her to be his wife. It was one of
those pleasant yet wonderful arrangements which seemed to develop
automatically. Christopher was well-born, his friends were her friends,
his disposition accorded with hers. She could never have married an
idle man. Christopher had many a worthy ambition. She was precisely
the wife to further them. Her money and her social influence would
save him years of fruitless labour. He could leave the Bar whenever he
liked, and turn his whole attention to politics.--And now the dream
had crumbled. This slip of paper was nothing but a friendly message,
telling her of the success of a friend with whose career she had no
intimate concern. Her disposition was too kindly not to feel a certain
amount of pleasure at his success, but that very pleasure brought its
shadow of personal grief. She sat looking into the fire, twisting
the little slip of paper in her hands. She knew very well that she
was cursed with that one terrible and self-mortifying virtue, the
unalterable fidelity of the woman who permits in her mind the thought
of one man only and who can never replace him. The very thought of
marriage with any one but Christopher was revolting. It seemed to her,
as she sat there, that she was doomed to a career of lovelessness and
inutility. She might labour in good works till her hair was streaked
with grey and her face lined, and she knew very well the fruitlessness
of all that she would accomplish. The best work of a woman, as she well
knew, is the work done for the man she loves.

It was perhaps natural that her thoughts should turn to Myrtile. She
wondered for a moment, slowly and painfully, at the instinct which
had warned her of coming trouble when the two young men had told her
of their adventure. She had felt it when first she had seen the
frightened child, whose unspoken appeal for protection had met with so
cold a response from her. She had been conscious of a cruelty wholly
foreign to her nature, in those days at Monte Carlo, whenever the name
of Myrtile was mentioned. She had puzzled Christopher and her brother
alike by her lack of sympathy. Well, she was punished now. The child
had justified all that she had felt. She had robbed her, unconsciously
and unwillingly, of the greatest thing in life. As she sat there, the
telegram crumpled up in her fingers, all that old hardness came back
to her. It seemed to her a bitter thing that this unknown child should
have been brought into the august household in which her own serene
days had been spent, to rob her, the benefactress, of the crown of her
life, to draw the sunshine from her days and send her down to a joyless
grave. For a moment she was on the verge of a passion. She hated
Myrtile, hated the sight of her gentle movements, the thought of her
and all to do with her. She rose to her feet with an unaccustomed fire
in her eyes and swung round--to find that the slight noise which had
disturbed her meditations had been caused by the entrance of Myrtile
herself.

There are moments when revelation is self-illuminative. This was
one of them. Myrtile, gazing almost in terror into the face of her
benefactress, knew that she was hated, and, with an extraordinary
insight, she knew why. She saw the crumpled up telegraph form; she
guessed at everything which had lain unspoken between them. She closed
the door firmly behind her, came across to Lady Mary’s chair, fell on
her knees and struggled with her sobs.

“I know! I know!” she cried. “I am very miserable!”

Mary looked at her coldly and critically. All the natural impulses of
her heart seemed dried up. Even her pride refused to come to her aid.
The truth lay naked between the two.

“I was a fool not to realise what bringing you here meant,” she said.
“It is too late now. Here is the telegram. Christopher is elected.”

Myrtile brushed it away. It was a thing of no account.

“I care nothing for Christopher and you know it,” she declared
passionately. “I do not care whether he is elected or not. Nothing
about him makes any difference to me, or ever will.”

Myrtile was speaking the truth. To Mary it seemed amazing, but she knew
that it was the truth.

“It is only a fancy which Christopher has for me,” Myrtile went on. “It
will pass--oh, I am sure that it will pass! Deep down in his heart I
know that there is another feeling.”

“There was,” Mary agreed. “But for your coming, he would have known it
himself before now.”

Myrtile shook with the pain of it.

“But for my coming!” she repeated. “And I have prayed that I might
bring a little happiness to you who have been so good to me!”

Her anguish was apparent. There was something almost unearthly in the
sorrow which shone out of her eyes. Mary’s heart began to fail her. Her
fingers rested on the top of the other girl’s head. A gleam of coming
kindness shone mistily in her eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

“It is my fault that I am alive!” Myrtile moaned. “But listen, please.
I have my plans. I am going away.”

“What good would that do?” Mary asked doubtfully.

“It would do great good,” Myrtile declared. “I shall remove myself
altogether. Christopher’s fancy will pass. And besides--I must go.”

“My father would never spare you,” Mary said, ashamed of the joy with
which the thought filled her.

“I have thought of everything,” Myrtile insisted. “Lord Hinterleys
has been very kind to me, but he will forget. If he chooses to see me
sometimes, it will be possible. Let me tell you, please. I have a plan.
Only yesterday I heard from the curé. He is back again in the valley.
He is at the church there now. He says, if I need ever to go back, I
can teach at the school. All my people have gone away many, many miles.
My stepfather has a larger farm. I shall go back. I should never have
come away.”

Mary looked at her searchingly. All the suffering in the world seemed
to be quivering in Myrtile’s sensitive face. She leaned a little
forward towards the kneeling girl.

“Myrtile,” she whispered, “there is pain in your heart, too.”

“Oh, God knows it!” Myrtile sobbed. “There will be for ever and ever.
It is for my own sake that I must leave. I thought that love was a
toy, and I laughed to find it in my heart. And now I know that it is a
torment. I want to go back along the road I have come and hide.”

“We have both been a little foolish,” Mary said kindly. “You looked out
into life, expecting to find happiness, just as children go into the
meadows to pick flowers. And I, too, forgot that happiness only comes
when it is earned.--Now let us try and be sensible. I think that yours
is a very good idea. We shall miss you very much here, but perhaps it
will be best for you to go away for a little time.”

“I must go,” Myrtile insisted fervently.

“But teaching?”

“There is no need for me to teach,” Myrtile declared. “This letter
that I have from the curé, it was written to tell me that my mother’s
brother, who went to Geneva many years ago, has died and left me some
money. An _avocat_ at Toulon has it for me. It is quite a great deal.
I thought that I would buy a small farm and work in the fields there,
work and work until I got brown and hard and grew like those other
peasant girls there, lumps of the earth to which they stoop all the
time. In a way I used to love the farm,” she went on, “when I was
alone--those first few mornings when the fields began to show purple
with the budding violets, and the still evenings when the cypress trees
looked as though they had come out of a box of children’s toys--and the
colours the sunset used to draw out of the mountains, the magentas and
purples, and the pink glow coming in such unexpected places.”

“Why, you’re positively homesick!” Mary exclaimed.

“No, I am not homesick,” Myrtile assured her gravely, “but I am like an
animal that has been hurt and wants to limp back to its home. A little
time ago it was different. Every fibre of me longed for escape, to be
where life was. Now I would like to go where I can forget it.”

Mary sighed.

“Fortunately,” she said, “you are very young. You will learn soon that
there are many men of Gerald’s type, and that they are not to be taken
too seriously. They have the trick of making you believe what they
want you to believe, and they use it because they must. They are never
quite honest. They are never quite bad. They certainly are not worth a
broken heart.--Now we must take this message down to my father and send
a reply. He does not altogether approve of Christopher’s politics, but
he will be glad to know that he is elected. Afterwards, I will talk to
him about you. I shall have to be very eloquent, for I know he will
hate your going.”

“If it could be before Gerald comes back,” Myrtile pleaded.

Mary had even more trouble with her father than she had expected. At
the first mention of Gerald’s name in connection with Myrtile’s desire
to return to France, he stiffened.

“Mary,” he insisted, “I shall require you to tell me the exact truth as
to this matter.”

“I will do so,” Mary promised.

“How much blame is to be attached to Gerald, and precisely what are his
relations with Myrtile?” Lord Hinterleys asked sternly.

“Gerald is to blame only for thoughtlessness,” she assured him. “He
is a born philanderer, just as Myrtile was born to be a ready victim.
Myrtile loves him, and I am afraid she will never care for any one
else. Other women have to bear their hurts, though, and I dare say she
will get over it.”

“Gerald is a fool,” his father declared. “Marrying in one’s own class
is well enough in an ordinary way, but--well, there isn’t another woman
like Myrtile in the world. Gerald is an ass not to realise it instead
of going to Russia, risking his life and liberty for the sake of this
Russian girl. I don’t like Russians--never did. You are a person of
common sense, Mary. If you say Myrtile must go, go she must, but I’d
much rather Gerald came to his senses and married her.”

“Men are rather difficult in that way,” Mary rejoined, a little
bitterly.




CHAPTER XII


The butler made his announcement to his mistress a little doubtfully.

“There is a person here, your ladyship, who desires to see you.”

“What sort of a person?” Lady Mary enquired.

The butler coughed.

“A woman, your ladyship. She struck me as being some sort of a
foreigner. She assured me that her business was urgent. I have shown
her into the morning room.”

Mary rose to her feet at once.

“A foreigner?” she repeated, with suddenly aroused interest. “Perhaps
she has news of Lord Dombey.”

Nevertheless, when she entered the little room where Elsa Francks was
waiting, it scarcely seemed likely that news of so fastidious a person
as her brother could come from such a source. Her doubts, however, were
soon set at rest.

“Are you Lord Dombey’s sister?” the woman asked bluntly, without
offering to move from her chair.

“I am,” Lady Mary acknowledged at once. “Have you brought news of him?”

“I have brought him home,” was the unexpected reply.

“You?” Lady Mary exclaimed.

The woman laughed coarsely.

“Yes, me!” she declared. “I have saved his life a dozen times over, as
I dare say he will tell you some day. Even now I do not know why.”

“But where is he?” Lady Mary demanded.

“He is safe in the Charing Cross Hospital,” the woman replied, “and if
you want to know all about him, you will give me some wine quickly.”

Mary, scarcely conscious of what she did, rang the bell. This woman was
certainly the strangest visitor who had ever penetrated the portals of
Hinterleys House. She seemed larger and coarser than ever. Her clothes
were showy, but unbrushed and crumpled as though she had slept in them
for nights; her hair was yellow but untidy. The rouge and powder were
distributed upon her face in ungainly daubs. She breathed an atmosphere
of stale scent. Notwithstanding all these things, she had news of
Gerald, Gerald who for seven months had been lost! Lady Mary waited
eagerly for the butler, who entered the room, full of the confident
anticipation that he would be asked to remove this incongruous visitor.

“This lady would like some wine,” Lady Mary announced. “Do tell me what
you would prefer?” she added, turning towards her guest.

“Champagne, if you have it,” was the prompt reply.

“Bring champagne, Richards,” his mistress directed. “Perhaps you had
better tell his lordship. This lady has brought us news of Lord Dombey.”

The woman held out her hand.

“Don’t bring any lordships here,” she begged. “I will tell my story to
you, ma’am. I am very near hysterics myself. To reach here from Sokar
has taken us a month. We tried at seven places on the frontier before
we could get into Poland.”

“Poland?” Mary exclaimed. “But here is the wine. Do, please, help
yourself.”

The woman was served with champagne and dry biscuits, which latter she
scornfully rejected. She drank three glasses of champagne, however.
Then she filled a fourth glass for herself and began to talk.

“How much do you know of your brother’s visit to Russia?” she asked.

“Only that he went there on some mysterious errand at the instigation
of two ladies, who are, I believe, Russians.”

“One of them was called Pauline--his sweetheart, eh?”

“I suppose so,” Mary admitted.

“Well, here is my story,” Elsa Francks said, draining the contents of
her glass and refilling it. “Remember it, for I shall never tell it
again. It is a story I would like to forget.”

“I will certainly remember it,” Mary promised.

“Twelve months ago I went to live at Sokar,” Elsa Francks began. “It
is a miserable place, but I went there to be near my friend Ivan
Krossneys, the Governor of the fortress. In that fortress was confined
a man whom your brother went to Russia to rescue. He came to me to ask
me to help him bribe the Governor. That was in the month of October
last year. He was a very different person then, and I thought that I
liked him very much.”

The woman sipped her champagne. The warmth of the room, and the wine,
had moistened her face. A little streak of rouge had spread upon her
left cheek. There were black lines under her eyes. Her voice, however,
was stronger.

“He offered a great deal of money and I agreed to help. I sent for Ivan
and, although he made difficulties, he was easy to persuade. It was
all arranged. The prisoner--Number Twenty-nine, we called him--walked
out of the fortress in your brother’s clothes and with his American
passport. Your brother was to take his place for twenty-four hours.
Then he was to leave the prison in the funeral coach of another
prisoner who had died.”

“This was seven months ago,” Mary faltered.

The woman wiped her lips, shivered at the sight of the colour upon her
handkerchief, closed her eyes for a moment and recovered herself.

“That seven months,” she said deliberately, “has seemed like seven
years, and each year like a lifetime in hell!--Listen. I go on with the
story. Your brother entered the fortress as arranged, changed clothes
with Number Twenty-nine, who walked out of the place and came, without
doubt, to London. Your brother was to spend that night in the fortress.
Krossneys came down to me. We were both excited. It was a great sum of
money which we had been paid, and life in Russia is a horrible burden.
We drank a great deal of wine. The more we drank, the more quarrelsome
Ivan became. He resented having to part with so large a share of the
money to me. We quarrelled. Once or twice we made it up. Then Ivan’s
anger flared out again. In the end, he declared that he would take away
a part of my share. We had a struggle. Somehow or other, his revolver
went off. He went backwards with a groan. He was dead.”

The woman dabbed at her face. Mary could find no word of any sort. Her
visitor’s eyes seemed fixed in a rigid stare. It was as though she were
living through the scene again.

“The police came,” she went on. “I was arrested. I told my story. There
were no witnesses. After four days they had to let me go. The moment I
was free I went to the fortress. Ivan’s deputy was taking his place.
He was a man of a different type, a politician, a Bolshevist from
conviction. Every time he mentioned Number Twenty-nine, he spat. I had
much trouble with him.”

“Go on,” Mary begged, glancing at the clock.

“You need not worry about your brother,” Elsa Francks said. “He
will not know you when you go to see him. He has forgotten most
things.--This man’s name was Ahrensein. I told him the whole truth. I
am quite sure that if he had come into charge of the prison whilst the
real Number Twenty-nine had been there, he would have found some excuse
for having him shot within twenty-four hours. He even told me so. He
was furious at the trick which had been played,--‘But,’ he declared,
‘the Englishman who has put himself in Number Twenty-nine’s place shall
suffer for him!’ I was allowed to see your brother. He had got over
the first shock of what had happened and I found him full of courage.
We discussed several plans for his escape, which, however, we never
carried into effect. I do not believe that any one could have bought
the life of Number Twenty-nine from Ahrensein for a million pounds.
With your brother, however, it was different. In the end, I made
over to him one of your brother’s drafts--one I took back from Ivan
Krossneys after he was dead--cashed one of the smaller ones, and one
dark night we drove away from the fortress.”

“But this is all so long ago!” Mary exclaimed wonderingly.

The woman nodded.

“We were in the train for Petrograd,” she went on, “when I had a
message from Ahrensein, telling me that he was superseded. His
successor had arrived, and was holding an enquiry into the escape of
Number Twenty-nine. He advised me not to go near Petrograd. We left the
train just as a company of soldiers from the fortress arrived on the
platform. The train was held up and searched. We took a carriage and
drove away, anywhere, away into the plains. We had money but nothing
else. We bought the carriage and horses, bought the driver, body and
soul. Driving by night, resting the horses and hiding ourselves by day,
we travelled a hundred miles southeastwards.”

“You must tell me the rest another time,” Lady Mary suggested.

“What I am going to tell you, I shall tell you now or never,” Elsa
Francks answered fiercely. “It won’t be much, I can promise you. When I
leave this house, the story of these months is coming out of my mind,
whether I have to dull it by drink, or even cut it out of my brain.--We
were always in danger, always being tracked. We went short distances by
train. Sometimes we hired carriages. We even travelled for the whole of
one day in an electric car which crawled between two small towns. Seven
times we tried to cross the frontier into Poland, and each time we were
turned back. Once they had heard of us and we were placed under arrest.
Your brother shot two of the guard and we escaped. After that it was
life or death with us. We were passed across the frontier at last in
a spot where the war zone had been. We were scarcely in Poland before
half a regiment of Russians was after us. We were in Poland, however.
We left them fighting. We heard afterwards that the Russians who had
crossed the frontier were wiped out.--We got across Poland, somehow
or other, into Germany. The rest was all discomfort and misery, but
most of the danger was past. Your brother fell ill in Warsaw. Since
then he has been dazed and weak, with a high temperature, and with
fits of unconsciousness. How I got him here, I don’t know. We arrived
at Fenchurch Street this morning. I drove to Charing Cross Hospital
and they took him at once. He was shouting like a madman. Then I drove
here.”

She poured out the last glass of wine from the bottle and drank it.
Then she rose to her feet.

“It is a wonderful story, this!” Mary exclaimed. “You must not go away
yet, or, if you do, you must come back again. My father will want to
thank you.”

“I do not want thanks,” the woman scoffed. “I started out on this
adventure because your brother had paid a great sum of money and
because I had a fancy for him. I have lost that fancy, but I made up my
mind that I would bring your brother home, and I have done it. I do not
wish for any further payment. I have spent your brother’s money freely,
but I have enough left to give me all that I need in life. I do not
like England and I am going away to-day. Is there any further question
you wish to ask?”

“None that I can think of for the moment,” Lady Mary admitted. “I think
that it was very wonderful of you to run all these risks. You might
have left my brother there and gone away with the money.”

“I very nearly did,” the woman confessed bluntly. “Many a time, on the
way home, I wished that I had done it. Your brother has a fine courage
at times, but he is a weakling in the ugly places of life. Often when
I dragged him along through the mud, and he had to sleep on a stone
floor, with coarse food to eat, and no wine, he would rather have come
out into the open and fought for his life and ended it. I dare say,
when he recovers, he will be grateful to me. There have been many
times when he has hated me.--Now I will go.”

She rose to her feet, dabbed more powder on her face and looked at her
hostess a little defiantly. Lady Mary rang the bell. Then she held out
her hand.

“Thank you very much for bringing Gerald home,” she said.

Elsa Francks laughed hardly. She refused the hand.

“You have no need for gratitude,” she said. “I started on the job
because I had a fancy for your brother. When I lost that, I went on
because I am an obstinate woman. As for recompense, I still have a
fortune, but I am glad that these months are over. You can tell your
brother that I took Krossneys’ share of the money as well as my own.
When he comes to think it over, I think he will say I earned it.”

She followed the butler out of the room. Mary watched her from the
window with fascinated eyes, saw her hail a passing taxicab with her
outstretched umbrella, watched her fling herself into it, put up her
feet on the opposite seat and light a cigarette. She had the air of a
woman who has accomplished a great task.

Lady Mary rang the bell.

“The car at once, Richards,” she ordered. “Lord Dombey is in London. I
am going to fetch him home.”




CHAPTER XIII


Christopher had taken his seat--had already, indeed, made his maiden
speech--when Gerald left the nursing home into which he had been moved
from the hospital. The doctors, however, were far from satisfied with
his condition. He was still thin, listless in manner, with long periods
of absent-mindedness. He seemed, in a way, to have lost self-control.
Mary, as they drove home together to Hinterleys House, made up her mind
to break the long silence which had existed between them on the subject
of Pauline.

“Gerald,” she asked, “have you seen or heard anything of the De
Ponières?”

Gerald turned and looked at her out of his hollow eyes.

“Nothing,” he confessed. “I wrote from the nursing home six times. I
have had no reply. They must have left the hotel in South Kensington.”

“Would you like me to try and find out?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “I have made up my mind to go there
myself this afternoon.”

“May I come with you?” she begged.

“If you like,” he answered half-heartedly. “They won’t be there,
though. I am just hoping that I may hear of them.”

The hope, however, was not realised. Madame and Mademoiselle had left
the hotel many months ago, and had left no address behind. The hall
porter, encouraged to tell what he knew by Gerald’s liberal tip, showed
a great sheaf of letters which he had been unable to forward.

“Can’t understand their leaving no address, sir,” he confided. “They
paid their accounts well and regular, gave notice in the usual way, and
just drove off. I asked if they wouldn’t leave an address in case there
should be any letters, but the young lady replied that she would call
round for them when she was in town again.”

“And she hasn’t been here since?” Lady Mary enquired.

“Never a sign of her,” the hall porter replied.

Gerald handed the man his card.

“It will be worth a five-pound note to you at any time if you should
discover their address,” he said.

“I’ll let you know within ten minutes, if I can get hold of it, sir,”
the man promised. “I’ve a sort of an idea, though, that we shan’t set
eyes on those two ladies again. The manageress,” he went on, dropping
his voice to a confidential whisper, “wasn’t too sorry to see them go.”

“Why?” Gerald asked.

“Well, she don’t like foreigners, to start with,” he explained,
“besides which we were always getting queer sorts of people here asking
about them. Might have been detectives or anything. I’m not saying a
word against them--they always paid their way right and generously--but
there was a queer lot of people watching them all the time.”

Gerald and his sister drove away from the hotel in silence.

“You are disappointed?” Mary asked him anxiously.

“I thought they might have left a message for me,” he admitted.

“You’ll come down to Hinterleys to-morrow?”

He shook his head.

“I must find her,” he announced, in a tone curiously devoid of
enthusiasm or hope.

Mary said nothing then, but she took him to task that evening. They
had dined tête-à-tête, Lord Hinterleys having already gone down to the
country. For the first time Gerald showed some interest in Myrtile’s
absence.

“What did you say had become of Myrtile?” he enquired.

“She has gone back to France,” his sister told him. “She had a little
money left to her, and she wanted to go. I had a letter from her this
morning. She has bought the old farm where you first saw her and is
growing violets.”

“Why did she want to go back?” Gerald persisted. “You were all kind to
her, I hope?”

“We all tried to be,” Mary answered. “Dad misses her terribly.--Why,
here’s Christopher!” she broke off suddenly. “Whatever are you doing,
neglecting your duties in this manner?” she asked, as Christopher,
still in morning clothes, was shown in by the butler.

“I’ve come to beg for some dinner,” was the smiling reply, “and
incidentally to welcome Gerald back.”

Mary coloured a little with pleasure. The butler was already arranging
another place.

“It’s awfully nice of you, Christopher,” she said.

“Very good of you to take me in like this,” he replied. “There’s
nothing doing at the House, and I felt sure you two would be alone. I
should think you must have been about fed up with that nursing home,
Gerald.”

“I’m fed up with everything,” Gerald replied, a little wearily. “The
doctors say I’m all right again, but I don’t know. I can’t sleep, and
there seems to be an empty place in my head, somehow. If I begin to
think, I get the jim-jams. Give me some champagne, Richards.”

“The country for you, my boy,” Christopher declared. “If I were Mary,
I’d take you down to-morrow.”

Gerald shook his head.

“I’ve something to do first,” he said. “By the bye, you know about
Myrtile, I suppose? She’s gone back to the little farm.”

Christopher nodded. Mary, who was watching him closely, fancied that
his indifference was almost natural.

“Queer thing,” he observed, “to think that she should end up there,
after all. I wonder whether she blesses or curses us, Gerald, for
taking her to the end of the road.”

Gerald sighed a little wearily.

“Curses us, I should think,” he replied. “All knowledge is pain; so is
memory. Last night I woke up suddenly and I remembered fighting with
that great brute on the Polish frontier.--Did Elsa tell you about the
man I killed there?” he asked, frowning.

Mary rose abruptly to her feet.

“Remember the doctor’s orders,” she insisted. “The last twelve
months are taboo. There are worse things in the world than killing
Bolshevists, anyhow.”

“The chap had some one who was fond of him, I suppose,” Gerald said
gloomily. “You ought to have seen that woman who brought me home,
Christopher. I can’t get the thought of her out of my brain. The first
time I saw her, I went to persuade her to bribe her lover, Krossneys. I
thought her the coarsest, most brutal, most ungainly creature who ever
abused the name of Woman. Then I saw her month after month, playing
a man’s part. She lied, she swore, she fought,--fought with her fists
if there was nothing else handy; she drank; once she almost carried me
over a mile of marshland, with some outpost sentries sniping at us all
the time. She was a hideous, glorious, epic figure. There was a man
whom we both knew to be a spy and on my tracks. I saw her wheedle him
into her room. Two minutes afterwards, his blood was streaming out from
under the door.”

“Gerald!” his sister entreated.

“All right,” he muttered. “I’m not sure that it doesn’t do me good to
talk of these things. They’ve been a silent horror with me for so long.”

Later, the doctor called to see Gerald, and Christopher led Mary across
the hall into the billiard room.

“Mary,” he confided, as soon as he had closed the door, “I had a reason
for coming round to-night. I have seen the girl.”

“Where?” Mary asked breathlessly.

“Here in London. They were opening the gates of Marlborough House as I
came along Pall Mall, and I was stopped for a moment on the pavement.
A small brougham came out. The windows were closed, but I was within a
few feet of it. The girl was inside with a young man.”

“If only you could have found out where they went to!” Mary exclaimed.
“Gerald will never be better until he has seen her.”

“He can do that when he likes, then,” Christopher replied. “I jumped
into a taxi and followed the carriage. It drew up before quite a small,
detached house at the back of Roehampton Lane. I jumped out of my taxi
quickly, and I was just in time to stop her as she was entering the
gate.”

“Go on,” Mary begged. “This is exciting.”

“She recognised me at once,” Christopher went on, “and she made no
attempt to get away. I told her that I was Gerald’s friend and that he
was looking for her. ‘You can tell him,’ she replied, ‘that he can find
me here.’”

“What did the young man say?”

“Nothing at all. He was very good-looking in his way, a great strong
fellow, but he looked as though he had been ill.--What are you going to
do about this? Are you going to tell Gerald?”

She nodded.

“I think so. I don’t believe this girl means to marry him. It is much
better, however, that he knows the exact position.”

“I wrote down the address and here it is,” Christopher said, handing
her a card. “If I can be of any use----”

“You dear man!” she exclaimed. “We must leave it to Gerald. I hope that
he will let me go with him. I think he ought to find out just where he
stands at once.”

“I am not going back to the House,” Christopher remarked. “Could we
have one game of billiards?”

“I should love it,” she answered. “Gerald will come and look for us as
soon as he has finished with the doctor. You used to give me fifteen,
wasn’t it?”

Gerald came in presently and sat watching them a little listlessly.
When the game, which Mary won with some ease, came to an end, she went
over and seated herself by her brother’s side.

“Gerald,” she said, “Christopher has discovered Pauline’s address. It
is quite close by here. You must go and see her to-morrow. Would you
like either of us to come with you?”

Gerald began to tremble.

“She is here--in London--all right?” he demanded.

“Absolutely,” Christopher declared. “She was looking quite well. Her
brother was with her.”

“I will go alone,” Gerald decided. “I will go to-morrow. Now you have
told me something worth hearing. Perhaps to-night I shall sleep.”




CHAPTER XIV


Gerald, after all, derived small satisfaction from his visit on
the following day. He found his destination easily,--a small,
detached house in a retired back street, with a bell at the front
gate and spiked railings. He was admitted without undue delay by an
ordinary-looking parlour maid and conducted into a small sitting room.
After waiting a minute or two, the door was opened and Madame de
Ponière entered.

“You have come to see my niece, Lord Dombey?” she enquired, after a
word of conventional greeting.

“Is it very surprising that I should come?” Gerald rejoined, a little
bitterly.

“Perhaps not from your point of view,” was the equable reply. “My niece
has, in fact, been anticipating your visit.”

“It would have been kinder of her,” Gerald ventured, “if she had let me
know her whereabouts. I have been in the hospital and afterwards in a
nursing home for some time.”

“My niece had other matters to consider,” Madame de Ponière declared
drily. “She is living in the utmost retirement, through force of
circumstances.”

“Can I see her now?” Gerald asked bluntly.

“She will grant you an audience,” Madame de Ponière replied. “I have
her permission to disclose her whereabouts, on one condition.”

“She is not here, then?” Gerald exclaimed.

“She is not here.”

“But she was here yesterday.”

“She was forced to come to London on a certain matter,” her aunt
explained. “She left at nightfall. If you wish to make the journey, you
can go and see her.”

“Where is she?” Gerald asked.

“I shall require,” Madame de Ponière said, “your word of honour that
you will not divulge her whereabouts to any living person.”

“I think that the dangers you conjure up are entirely imaginary,”
Gerald remarked, a little impatiently, “but I will give you that
promise.”

“My niece is to be found at Duvenny Castle in Scotland,” Madame de
Ponière announced. “It is a somewhat inaccessible place. Particulars of
how to reach it are here.”

She handed him a slip of paper.

“In Scotland?” Gerald repeated, a little wearily. “But she was here
yesterday.”

“She left at night,” Madame de Ponière reminded him.

Gerald folded the slip of paper and put it in his pocket.

“Very well,” he said, “I will go to Scotland.”

Madame de Ponière looked at him through her lorgnettes for a moment
thoughtfully.

“You have been ill,” she remarked.

“I have been ill,” he assented.

Madame de Ponière lowered her lorgnettes and closed them with a little
snap.

“If I thought that you would accept it,” she said, “I would give you a
word of advice.”

“I can at least hear it,” he suggested.

“Go back to the manner of life you were living before you met
Pauline--and forget her. Your visit to Scotland will be of no service
to you. It will only end in disappointment.”

Gerald shook his head.

“That,” he said obstinately, “I must discover for myself.”

Gerald, following in the main the directions on the slip of paper given
him by Madame de Ponière, reached his destination on the afternoon of
the third day. He was in the car which he had hired at the last town on
the railway route, a town which seemed to him, unacquainted with this
corner of Scotland, almost an outpost of civilisation. After miles of
moorland, unbroken except for huge boulders, the way had led around a
range of smaller mountains until he had suddenly encountered, when he
had been least expecting it, the tang of the sea. Many hundreds of feet
below, he saw at last his destination, a dwelling of stone as ancient
and rudely fashioned, it seemed, as the massed-up boulders on every
side. The road by which it was approached was precipitous, in places
almost impassable. The last quarter of a mile was along a narrow bank,
unprotected on either side, with the spray from the waves leaping up
into his face. The road ended in a circular sweep, surrounded by a
high wall. In front of him was a massive gate, closed and barred. The
porter who appeared in answer to the bell kept him waiting while he
communicated with the house. Finally the gates were pushed open and the
car allowed to proceed up a steep, stone-paved ascent to a courtyard
also flagged with stones and also surrounded by a high wall. In front
was another massive door, which, however, already stood open. Two
men servants, both foreigners, awaited his arrival. One attended to
the closing of the door and remained with the chauffeur; the other
silently beckoned Gerald to follow him across the stone floor of the
bare, circular hall into a room at the further end. He stood aside to
let Gerald precede him.

“The gentleman will please be seated,” he said.

Gerald found himself alone in an apartment not unduly large but
exceedingly lofty. It was simply but magnificently furnished, but only
a single rug lay upon the floor. The windows looked sheer over the sea,
and the thunder of the waves against the jagged rocks seemed almost
at his feet. The windows themselves were narrow--the windows of a
fortress--and the depth of the window seat showed the thickness of the
walls. Gerald had little time to take note of these things, however.
Within a moment or two of his being left alone, the door opened and
Pauline entered.

Speech of any sort, it seemed to Gerald, must be pitifully inadequate.
He stood looking at her, wondering if anything in her expression
would give him the clue to her mysterious behaviour. She came towards
him, however, as composed and unresponsive as ever. There was nothing
whatever in her manner to indicate the fact that she was greeting the
man who had risked his life in a mad enterprise for her sake.

“You have had a long journey, Lord Dombey,” she said.

He bowed over the hand which she had extended to him.

“A long journey, indeed,” he assented, “a journey down into hell and
back.”

“Sit down,” she invited, “and I will give you the explanation I owe
you.”

“Thank you,” he answered, “I do not feel at home in this house. Let me
remain standing until after you have told me what it all means. I have
done your bidding. I have come to beg for my reward.”

Her eyes looked at him coldly.

“I promised no reward,” she reminded him.

“Not in words,” he admitted, “yet you know what I desire.”

“What you desire is absurd,” she declared. “That is what I wish to
explain. You have discovered, perhaps, who I am.”

“I learned who your brother was.”

“My brother!” she smiled. “Well,” she went on, “listen. I am the Grand
Duchess Pauline of Russia, Princess and hereditary ruler of the Caspian
Provinces, and nearest in kin amongst living women to Nicholas, who was
murdered by the people. The man whom you rescued is Paul, Grand Duke of
Volostok, hereditary ruler of seventeen provinces, and nearest in the
male line to the Crown of Russia. He is my cousin.”

“Your cousin?” Gerald exclaimed.

“And my husband,” she answered calmly.

Gerald was extraordinarily cool. The situation began slowly to shape
itself in his mind.

“It has been the province of royalty,” Pauline continued, “to make
use of their courtiers, without explanation, in whatever way may seem
good to them. I have made use of you. I did not seek your acquaintance
or your friendship. I have made you no promises. I have kept you
much farther away even from hope than would many of my illustrious
ancestresses. Yet, in these days, you will probably think that you have
been ill-treated. I cannot help it. I and others of my race have been
ill and mercilessly treated. Yours has been a small wrong. I made use
of you and your devotion to free my cousin, to whom I was affianced.
So far as my thanks can satisfy you, I tender them.”

“You are very gracious,” Gerald acknowledged, forgetting all his
weariness and holding himself like a man. “May I ask, were you married
to the Grand Duke when I fetched him from his prison?”

“I was not,” Pauline assured him. “I was married a month after his
return to England, with the consent and the approbation of my relatives
here. Paul and I have but one hope and one desire--to live until the
time when the people of Russia return to their allegiance, and to
reëstablish the Romanoff dynasty in Russia, either through ourselves or
our children. For that reason we are living here with an unseen guard
provided by the English Government. When you first met us, we lived in
seclusion because already four times my life had been attempted. There
are still men pledged to destroy us root and branch. Here they will
not succeed. We are surrounded by faithful guards, and our lives are
consecrate. Not until the children live and flourish who shall carry on
our name, will I or my husband take the slightest risk. The world may
see something of us later. For the present we have only one thought.”

Gerald stood amongst the wreck of his dreams. He seemed to be listening
to the thunder of the sea, to be watching the queer-shaped shaft of
sunlight which stretched across the floor. He found speech almost
impossible. The silence lasted so long, however, that he was compelled
to break it.

“Your Highness’ explanation is complete?” he asked.

“It is complete,” she replied. “You will understand that your--shall
I call it admiration?--was, in a sense, an offence to me. In Monte
Carlo I will admit that through sheer weariness I was perhaps a little
indiscreet. The situation then seemed hopeless.”

“I understand,” Gerald murmured.

“The Grand Duke, my husband, will wish to offer you some hospitality,”
she said, touching a bell.

“It is quite unnecessary,” Gerald replied.

“Be so good as to await his coming,” she enjoined.

Prince Paul entered the room a moment or two later, a touch of sunburn
on his cheeks, erect and handsome, a very different person from the
broken prisoner of a few months ago. He advanced towards Gerald with
outstretched hand.

“It gives me great pleasure,” he said, “to welcome you in my very bad
English to our home. You see, I reached England safely.”

“I was glad to hear of it,” Gerald remarked.

“Some day you must tell me your own adventures,” the young man
continued. “Perhaps you will give us the pleasure of your company to
dinner to-night?”

Gerald shook his head.

“I have promised the owner of the car which I hired,” he said, “to
return it to him to-night. I must, in fact, be leaving at once.”

A servant entered with a tray bearing wine and whisky. Paul served his
guest himself.

“They tell me that this is the most hospitable country of the world,”
he observed. “Even in Russia we should not let you depart without a
toast. You will wish us those things for which Her Highness and I live.”

Gerald bowed and raised his glass to his lips.

“I shall drink to you and to your country,” he said, “and to the good
of both.”

He set down his glass empty. Pauline smiled her good-by, but
they handed him over to the care of servants with the air of
royalty.--Gerald drove through the opened gates, heard the bars grind
behind him, and, looking around for a last view, was dimly conscious
of men who watched. Years afterwards, this strange visit, with all
its trifling events, assumed its proper proportions in his mind. That
night, however, he drove over the moors and around the mountains
absolutely without any direct emotions. It was impossible to believe
that his visit had not been the phantasy of an afternoon’s slumber.




CHAPTER XV


After they had left Toulon, the two men seemed almost to change
places. Gerald, who for the last four days had been in much the same
mentally comatose state as he had been since his return from Scotland,
sat up and for the first time began to look about him with interest.
Christopher, on the other hand, who during the whole of their journey
had been continually endeavouring to amuse and entertain his companion,
gradually relapsed into a rare fit of thoughtfulness. They had passed
through Hyères, however, and were winding their way around the Forêt
du Dom, before any direct allusion was made to the subject which in
varying degrees was foremost in the minds of both of them.

“About an hour and a half beyond this, wasn’t it?” Gerald asked.

Christopher nodded. It was significant that he made no comment upon the
fact that Gerald had caught up with his own train of thought.

“Just about this time of the year, too,” Gerald went on, ruminatingly.
“I remember these orchards were just showing a little pink. And you say
she’s back again there, Chris. I wonder why? There wasn’t any trouble
at home, was there?”

“Not the slightest,” Christopher assured him. “In fact, all the time
you were in Russia your father seemed to rely upon her absolutely. It
was a great blow to him when she made up her mind to go back.”

“But what made her want to leave?” Gerald persisted.

Christopher did not hesitate for a moment. He meant to take every
possible advantage of this, the first sign of any real interest in life
which Gerald had shown for months.

“Because she is very finely strung,” he said, “and the situation was
becoming impossible for her. She was very much in love with you, and
you were crazy about some one else. I was very much in love with her,
as I always had been, and I was ass enough to try and persuade her
to marry me. Of course,” he went on, “I ought to have realised the
unconquerable fidelity of a nature like hers. An ordinary woman,” he
went on, leaning back in his corner and discussing the matter very much
as he would have done a legal point presented for his opinion, “might
select and prefer one man to all others, but if, for some reason or
other, he did not return her affection, she would be able, in course of
time, to feel practically the same thing for another man. Myrtile could
never do that. She has that saint-like fidelity which is the joy and
the curse of the best women. You are a very dear fellow, Gerald, and I
am very fond of you, but I sometimes get fed up with your nerves, your
blindness, your Grand Duchesses and your stark idiocy.”

Gerald sat up in his place and stared at his friend in amazement.

“How long have you been keeping that bottled up, Chris?” he asked.

“Ever since Myrtile turned me down,” was the prompt reply. “She was as
kind as she could be about it, but she did her job like a surgeon. She
hurt, but I knew it was no use ever thinking about her again that way.
I am a dispassionate observer now and I can see the truth.”

“I suppose I have been rather an ass,” Gerald acknowledged, “but you
must remember, Chris, I didn’t quite know what I was in for when I took
on that visit to Russia, and I don’t think any one could go through
what I had to go through without getting bowled over. Fancy being taken
care of like a baby by that amazing woman, Elsa Francks!--Having to
owe her your life half a dozen times over! Seeing that great coarse
creature, with her hank of yellow hair, and her breath smelling of
drink and patchouli, standing up one moment and defying death, and
lying the next without a tremor to guards who would have set us up
against the wall and shot us on sight if they had known the truth!”

“She was an epic figure,” Christopher declared. “I wonder what has
become of her.”

“Heaven knows!” Gerald answered. “We may meet her queening it at Monte
Carlo, or she may have married a respectable German tradesman and
buried the past. She is wealthy enough. She got that fellow Krossneys’
share of the money I took out, as well as her own.--How these pine
trees smell, Chris! And what sunshine! One could sleep here.”

Gerald leaned back in his place with half-closed eyes, and Christopher
was well content to leave him alone. This was the first time he had
spoken naturally of his journey to Russia and the terrible experience
through which he had passed. All through the summer months he had
lain about the gardens at Hinterleys, accepting life as an inevitable
burden, gaining no strength, sleeping little, all the time engaged
in a morbid struggle with the tyranny of his nerves. Nothing had
moved or interested him. These last few sentences of his were the
first evidences of his return to a natural outlook. Physically he had
shrunken almost to a shadow. There was very little left of the gay and
debonair young man who had passed his arm round Myrtile’s waist and
drawn her into the car, mocked at Christopher’s remonstrances, and,
with a few careless words, built up in Myrtile’s heart the fairyland at
the end of the road. Yet, as they drew near the place where they had
found her, he seemed to shake off some of his torpor. He sat up and
looked about him with reminiscent eyes. One more bend and they would
see the gate!

“Would you like to stop for a moment?” Christopher asked. “Myrtile is
almost certain to be here.”

This was most assuredly a changed Gerald. He was almost diffident.

“If you think she would like to see us,” he assented.

He sat upright now, leaning a little forward. They were round the
corner, in sight of the little grove of cypresses. And there at the
gate--Myrtile!--Gerald gave a little exclamation which sounded almost
like a sob. His incredulous stare had something in it alike of pain and
fear.

“I wrote her days ago and said that we should be passing,” Christopher
hastily explained.

She stepped out into the road to greet them. Even to Christopher, her
coming was almost like a vision. The small differences of clothing and
circumstance seemed scarcely to exist. It was Myrtile who welcomed
them, shyly but joyfully. Her eyes were fixed upon Gerald, and there
was a touch of sublime pity in them as she realised the change. But
from her face shone the same things.

“You will come in and see my home?” she begged. “The car can turn in
here. The road is better than it used to be.”

“I am tired of the car,” Gerald said. “I would rather walk.”

They moved slowly down through the cypress avenue, Gerald leaning a
little on Myrtile’s arm, Christopher loitering behind. On one side were
the formal lines of the closely pruned vines, protruding from the rich
brown earth; on the other a flush of purple from the field of violets.
Myrtile answered some half intelligible question from Gerald.

“I am very happy here,” she assured him. “There is so much to do. I
have broken up some more of the land for growing violets, and presently
I will show you my carnations. The vineyards, too, needed a lot of
attention; they had been very much neglected. I hope you like the
colour of the house? I had it painted pink because of the background.
And you see what a lovely verandah I have had built? By moving a few
yards one gets the sun all day.”

“It is the most restful and the most beautiful place I have ever been
in,” Gerald murmured. “Tell me, Myrtile,” he added, “do you know all
that has happened to me?”

“Everything! Christopher has written, and I had a long letter, too,
from your father. Please do not speak of those things which are
finished. You are here to forget.”

Involuntarily he looked away towards the road and turned back with
a shiver. Whatever his thoughts might have been, he said nothing. A
little French maid, in spotless white cap and apron, came out on to the
verandah in reply to Myrtile’s call.

“A bottle of our own wine and glasses,” Myrtile ordered, “some fruit,
and the sandwiches I told you to have ready, Marie. Come, we have
another half-hour of sunshine. Gerald, you must take the sofa chair.”

Gerald sank into a sea of cushions. Myrtile, bending over him, arranged
them more comfortably. Her eyes were soft with the shadow of tears.
Gerald, more weary than he had confessed, seemed for a moment almost to
doze.

“He is very weak,” Myrtile whispered, looking anxiously across towards
Christopher.

Christopher nodded.

“It is the journey,” he answered. “I wish that it were over.”

The wine was brought, but Gerald was now in a deep sleep. Christopher
and Myrtile sat at the other end of the verandah and talked in an
undertone. Presently the sun began to sink behind the forest-crowned
hills, westwards. A cool breeze came stealing across the valley.
Myrtile rose suddenly to her feet.

“He must not sleep any longer,” she said firmly. “He ought not to be
out at all as late as this.”

They tried to rouse him. Three times Christopher laid his hand upon
his shoulder and called him by name. There was no response. Gerald was
sleeping heavily, his breathing was regular, the lines seemed to have
faded from his face.

“It is the first time he has slept like this for weeks,” Christopher
declared. “It seems a shame to wake him.”

“Don’t,” she begged eagerly. “You see the chair has castors. Wheel it
into the sitting room, and if he doesn’t wake, leave him here. Marie
and I can look after him, and Pierre, my head man, is a treasure. He
could carry him upstairs if it were necessary.”

“We’ll move him in and see if he wakes, anyhow,” Christopher agreed.

They wheeled him into Myrtile’s sitting room, sweet and flower-scented,
without his showing the slightest sign of being disturbed. Myrtile
closed the outer doors and lit the fire of pine logs and cones which
was already prepared upon the hearth. Then she and Christopher stole
from the room.

“This may be his salvation,” Christopher declared hopefully.

There were tears in Myrtile’s eyes. All the time she seemed to be
listening.

“Leave him with me, Christopher,” she begged. “He needs rest.”

Christopher nodded.

“I’ll send two of his bags down from the car,” he proposed, “and some
of us will come and have a look at him in a few days. His servant can
stay here if you like, so that you have help if you want it.”

She smiled through her tears.

“I shall need no help,” she promised. “I will cure Gerald. Tell Lady
Mary and Lord Hinterleys that I promise it. Only leave him alone with
me. Do not come, any of you, until I send. If he wishes to leave, I can
hire a car from San Raphael--he can be with you in a few hours. But I
think he will be content. I think he will get better here.”




CHAPTER XVI


“And now,” Christopher said, as their car crawled up the last ascent,
“to see if Myrtile has kept her word!”

“Personally,” Lord Hinterleys declared, “I am confident. That young
woman has powers beyond the ordinary human being’s. Besides, our
telegrams every day have assured us that all is well.”

“It seems curious to me that Gerald should have been so content,” Mary
remarked. “Is this the place, Christopher?”

Christopher nodded. The car was slowing up. On their right was the
little grove of cypress trees and the gate.

“Here they are!” Mary exclaimed. “Why, just look at Gerald!”

The two young people came down the cypress grove, arm in arm. Gerald
was walking with much of his old swagger. Once more his head was thrown
back; once more there was all the joy of wild spirits in the abandon of
his enthusiastic greeting. Myrtile, on the other hand, seemed quieter
than usual.

“Something deuced odd about the look of both of them,” Lord Hinterleys
remarked. “Gerald, you rascal, how are you?”

“Sane and sound, sir,” Gerald answered, stretching out his hand,
“thanks to Myrtile.”

Lord Hinterleys looked at her curiously. Her eyes suddenly fell. She
had been laughing a little hysterically a moment before. Now a fit of
trembling seemed to have seized her.

“Gerald, what have you been up to?” his father demanded.

Gerald laughed.

“Listen to that, dad,” he said, “and see if you can’t guess.”

The bell from the little white church was tinkling away crazily. Gerald
passed his arm around Myrtile.

“She’s terrified to death,” he declared. “Please every one tell her
that they’re glad.”

Myrtile was easily persuaded. Her father-in-law dispossessed Gerald as
they turned towards the house. Mary walked on the other side.

“You have now arrived in time for the celebrations,” Gerald continued.
“The feasting tenantry are in view on the far side of the house. You
will presently have the opportunity of hearing me make a little speech
in my most perfect French, which I have just learnt by heart.”

“So you are really married!” Mary exclaimed incredulously.
“Gerald--Myrtile--how wonderful it all seems!”

“Amazing!” Gerald agreed. “Matrimony was evidently my predestined
Mecca. I am no longer ill. I have never been so happy in my life. I
was ploughing for four hours yesterday, and practising approach shots
over the road to get rid of a little superfluous energy after tea. What
I really covet is the job of Pierre, the head man, but Myrtile won’t
listen to it. She says I don’t understand the soil.”

As they reached the house, the old curé came shuffling out, beaming
with smiles, delighted to find that every one spoke his own language
and that he could talk to them about Myrtile.--Luncheon was spread
out on the verandah, and Marie and a young friend from the village,
with great bunches of white carnations fastened to their frocks, were
waiting to serve. Gerald himself uncorked the wine.

“I propose to make a speech,” Lord Hinterleys announced, holding out
his foaming glass.

“It must be a short one,” Gerald insisted. “The omelette won’t wait.”

“Then, as an omelette is my favourite dish and that one appears to be a
_chef-d’oeuvre_, I drop the speech,” his father assented. “I will only
say, Gerald, that you have made Mary and me very happy, and that no
bride in the world was ever more welcome than Myrtile to our home and
lives.”

Every one began to talk at once. By and by, that curious sense of
unreality, the feeling that the whole thing was a scene out of an
old-fashioned comedy, passed away. Gerald, who was shamelessly holding
Myrtile’s hand under the tablecloth, raised his glass and looked into
her eyes.

“It was I, after all,” he whispered, “who had no idea what lay at the
end of the road. You were the wise lady and I the fool. You climbed, I
pushed my way through the slough--but we found out.”

All through the afternoon the villagers came and went, and the young
people danced in the field at the back of the farm. Many toasts were
exchanged. Every one was extraordinarily happy. Then the time came for
Christopher, who was on his way back to England, to leave. Mary, who
was spending the night with her father at Cannes, walked with him to
the road. They paused for a moment at the gate.

“And it was really here that you found Myrtile?” Mary remarked,
looking around her with interest.

“We found her on this very spot,” Christopher answered, “gazing along
the road to the hills. All her life she had wondered what lay on the
other side. Many of us never find out. I think that Gerald has been
very fortunate.”

“I am glad that you are happy about it,” she said, with quiet but
tactful significance.

“It is because I am happy about it,” Christopher rejoined, turning
towards her, “that I am going to venture--that, Mary--well, I think I
feel a little like the man who walked for a few minutes of his life in
the moonlight and fancied that it was day. I honestly thought that I
was in love with Myrtile. I know now that there is no one I ever really
cared for but you, Mary.”

She raised her head and looked at him, yielding unresistingly to the
arm which was drawn around her.

“I am quite sure,” she murmured, “that this is an enchanted land.”


THE END




NOVELS _by_ E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

“He is past master of the art of telling a story. He has humor, a keen
sense of the dramatic, and a knack of turning out a happy ending just
when the complications of the plot threaten worse disasters.”--_The New
York Times._

“Mr. Oppenheim has few equals among modern novelists. He is prolific,
he is untiring in the invention of mysterious plots, he is a clever
weaver of the plausible with the sensational, and he has the necessary
gift of facile narrative.”--_The Boston Transcript._

  A Prince of Sinners            The Way of These Women
  A Maker of History             The Kingdom of the Blind
  The Man and His Kingdom        The Pawns Count
  The Yellow Crayon              The Zeppelin’s Passenger
  A Sleeping Memory              The Curious Quest
  The Great Secret               The Wicked Marquis
  Jeanne of the Marshes          The Box with Broken Seals
  The Lost Ambassador            The Great Impersonation
  A Daughter of the Marionis     The Devil’s Paw
  Havoc                          Jacob’s Ladder
  The Lighted Way                The Profiteers
  The Survivor                   Nobody’s Man
  A People’s Man                 The Great Prince Shan
  The Vanished Messenger         The Evil Shepherd
  The Seven Conundrums           The Mystery Road

Boston LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY Publishers




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY ROAD ***


    

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