She was calmer than I had expected, but it was a terrible look which she flashed upon us.
"In how many minutes," she asked, "may I be released?"
Allan whispered in my ear.
"In five minutes, Lady Delahaye," I said. "I regret very much the necessity for keeping you at all. May I offer you a chair?"
"You may offer me nothing, sir, except your silence," she answered swiftly.
She meant it too. I know the signs of anger in a woman's face as well as most men, and they were written there plainly enough. So for a most uncomfortable period of time we waited there until Allan, after a glance at his watch, went and opened the door. She passed out without remark, but from the threshold outside she turned and looked at me.
"I warned you once before, Arnold Greatson," she said, "that you were meddling with greater concerns than you knew of, and that harm would come to you for it. Now you have chosen to shield a murderer, and to use your strength upon a woman. These things will not go unforgotten!"
Mabane closed the door, and threw himself into an easy chair.
"For two easy-going sort of fellows, Arnold," he said to me, "we seem to be making a lot of enemies. Don't you think it would be a good idea if we drew stumps for a bit?"
"Meaning?" I asked.
"Roseleys!"
"We'll go to-morrow," I declared.
CHAPTER V
"I have never seen anything like this," Isobel said softly. I looked up from the writing-pad on my knee, and she met my glance with a smile of contrition.
"Ah," she said. "I forgot that I must not talk. Indeed, I did not mean to, but—look!"
I followed her eyes.
"Well," I said, "tell me what you see."
"There are so many beautiful things," she murmured. "Do you see how thick and green the grass is in the meadows there? How the quaker grasses glimmer?—you call them so, do you not?—and how those yellow cowslips shine like gold? What a world of colour it all seems. London is so grey and cold, and here—look at the sea, and the sky, with all those dear little fleecy white clouds, and the pink and white of all those wild roses wound in and out of the hedges. Oh, Arnold, it is all beautiful!"
"Even without a motor-car!" I remarked.
She looked at me a little resentfully.
"Motoring is very delightful," she said, "although you do not like it. Of course, it would be nice if Arthur were here!"
She looked away from me seawards, and I found myself studying her expression with an interest which had something more in it than mere curiosity. At odd times lately I had fancied that I could see it coming. To-day, for the first time, I was sure. The smooth transparency of childhood, the unrestrained but almost animal play of features and eyes, reproducing with photographic accuracy every small emotion and joy—these things were passing away. Even before her time the child was seeking knowledge. As she sat there, with her steadfast eyes fixed upon the smooth blue line where sea and sky met, who could tell what thoughts were passing in her mind? Not I, not Mabane, nor any of us into whose care she had come. Only I knew that she saw new things, that the rush of a more complex and stronger life was already troubling her, the sweet pangs of its birth were already tugging at her heartstrings. My pencil rested idly in my fingers, my eyes, like hers, sought that distant line, beyond which lies ever the world of one's own creation. What did she see there, I wondered? Never again should I be able to ask with the full certainty of knowing all that was in her mind. The time had come for delicate reserves, the time when the child of yesterday, with the first faint notes of a new and wonderful song stealing into her heart, must fence her new modesty around with many sweet elusions and barriers, fairy creations to be swept aside later on in one glad moment—by the one chosen person. There was a coldness in my heart when I realized that the time had come even for the child who had tripped so lightly into our lives so short a time ago, to pass away from us into that other and more complex world. It was the decree of sex, nature's immutable law, sundering playfellows, severing friendships, driving its unwilling victims into opposite corners of the world, with all the pitilessness of natural law. Nevertheless, the thought of these things as I looked at Isobel made me sad. She was young indeed for these days to come, for the shadows to steal into her eyes, and the song of trouble to grow in her heart.
"Tell me," I asked softly, "what you see beyond that blue line."
"I can tell you more easily," she said, glancing down with a faint smile at my empty pages, "what I see by my side—a very lazy man. And," she continued, crumpling a little ball of heather in her fingers and throwing it with unerring aim at Allan, "another one over there!"
"My picture," Allan protested, "is finished."
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, preparing to rise, but he waved her back.
"In my mind," he added. "Don't misunderstand me. The casual and ignorant observer glancing just now at my canvas might come to the same conclusion as you—a conclusion, by-the-bye, entirely erroneous. I will admit that my canvas is unspoilt. Nevertheless, my picture is painted."
She looked across at him reproachfully.
"Allan, how dare you!" she exclaimed. "Only Arnold has the right to be subtle. I have always regarded you as a straightforward and honest person. Don't disappoint me."
"St. Andrew forbid it!" Allan declared. "My meaning is painfully simple. I build up my picture first in my mind. Its transmission to canvas is purely mechanical. Here goes!"
He took up his palette, and in a few moments was hard at work. Isobel pointed downwards to my writing-pad.
"Can you too match Allan's excuse?" she asked. "Is your story already written?"
I shook my head.
"I have been watching you," I answered. "Besides, for a perfectly lazy person, are you not rather a hard task-mistress? Consider that this is our first day of summer—the first time we have seen the sun make diamonds on the sea, the first west wind which has come to us with the scent of cowslips and wild roses. I claim the right to be lazy if I want to be."
She smiled.
"The poet," she murmured, "finds these things inspiring."
"The poet," I answered, "is an ordinary creature. Nowadays he eats mutton-chops, plays golf, and has a banking account. The real man of feeling, Isobel, is the man who knows how to be idle. Believe me, there is a certain vulgarity in seeking to make a stock-in-trade of these delicious moments."
"That is not fair," she protested. "How should we all live if none of you did any work?"
"For your age, Isobel," I declared seriously, "you are very nearly a practical person. You make me more than ever anxious for an answer to my last question. What were you thinking of just now?"
Her eyes seemed to drift away from mine. A touch of her new seriousness returned. She pointed to that thin blue line.
"Beyond there," she said, "is to-morrow, and all the to-morrows to come. One sees a very little way."
"Our limitations," I answered, "are life's lesson to us. If to-morrow is hidden, so much the more reason that we should live to-day."
"Without thought for the morrow?"
"Without care for it," I answered. "Are we not Bohemians, and is it not our text?"
She shook her head.
"It is not yours," she answered slowly. "I am sure of that."
I looked at her quickly.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say," she answered gravely. "Men and women to whom the present is sufficient surely cannot achieve very much in life. All the time they must concentrate powers which need expansion. I think that it must be those who try to climb the walls, those even who tear their fingers and their hearts in the great struggle for freedom, who can make themselves capable of great things, even if escape is impossible. But I do not think that escape is so impossible after all, is it? There have been men, and women too, who have lived in all times, to whom there have been no to-morrows or any yesterdays. Only it seems rather hard that life for those who seek it must always be a battle!"
I did not answer her for several minutes. It was true, then, that the old days had passed away. Isobel, the child whom we had known and loved so well, had disappeared. It was Isobel the incomprehensible who was taking her place. What might the change not mean for us?...
Later we walked back over an open heath yellow with gorse, and faintly pink with the promise of the heather to come. Isobel carried her hat in her hand. She walked with her head thrown back, and a smile playing every now and then upon her lips. She was so completely absorbed that I found myself every now and then watching her, half expecting, I believe, to find some physical change to accord with that other more mysterious evolution. She walked with all the grace of long limbs and unfettered clothing. Her figure, though perfectly graceful, and with that same peculiar distinction which had first attracted me, was as yet wholly immature. But in the face itself there were signs of a coming change. Wherein it might lie I could not tell, but it was there, an intangible and wholly elusive thing. I think that a certain fear of it and what it might mean oppressed me with the sense of coming trouble. I was more fully conscious then than ever before of the moral responsibility of our peculiar charge.
We crossed a straight dusty road, cleaving the rolling moor like a belt of ribbon. Isobel looked thoughtfully along it.
"I wonder," she said, "when Arthur will come down!"
The folly of a man is a thing sometimes outside his own power of control. A second before I had been wondering of whom and what she had been thinking.
"Not just yet, I'm afraid," Allan answered, stopping to light his pipe. "It is not easy for him to get backwards and forwards, and I believe that he is by way of being rather busy just now."
"What a nuisance!" Isobel declared, looking behind her regretfully. "The roads about here seem so good."
"The roads are good, but the heath is better," Allan answered. "I will race you for half a pound of chocolates to that clump of pines!"
"You are such a slow starter," she laughed, bounding away before he had time to drop his easel. "Make it a pound!"
I picked up Allan's easel and strolled away after them. Was it the motoring, I wondered, which had prompted her half-wistful question, or had I been wise too late? Arthur had been very confident. So much that he had said had carried with it a certain ring of truth. Youth and the temperament of youth were surely irresistible. Like calls to like across the garden of spring flowers with a cry which no interloper can still, no wanderer of later years can stifle. Somehow it seemed to me just then that the sun had ceased to shine, and a touch of winter after all was lingering in the western breeze....
They disappeared round the pine plantation, Isobel leading by a few yards, her skirts blowing in the wind, running still with superb and untired grace. I climbed a bank to gain a better view of the finish, and became suddenly aware that I was not the only interested spectator of their struggle. About a hundred yards to my left a man was standing on the top of the same bank, a pair of field-glasses glued to his eyes, watching intently the spot where they might be expected to reappear. The sight of him took me by surprise. A few moments ago I could have sworn that there was not a human being within a mile of us. There was only one explanation of his appearance. He must have been concealed in the dry mossy ditch at the foot of the bank. It was possible, of course, that he might have been like us, a casual way-farer, and yet the suddenness of his appearance, the intentness of his watch, both had their effect upon me. I moved a few yards towards him, with what object I perhaps scarcely knew. A dry twig snapped beneath my feet. He became suddenly aware of my approach. Then, indeed, my suspicions took definite shape, for without a moment's hesitation the man turned and strode away in the opposite direction.
I shouted to him. He took no notice. I shouted again, and he only increased his pace. I watched him disappear, and I no longer had any doubts at all. He was not in the least like a tramp, and his flight could bear but one interpretation. Isobel was not safe even here. We had been followed from London—we were being watched every hour. For the first time I began seriously to doubt what the end of these things might be.
CHAPTER VI
"Silence and perfume and moon-flooded meadows," Allan murmured. "Arnold, we shall all become corrupted. You will take to writing pastorals, and I—I—"
Isobel, from her seat between us, smiled up at him. Touched by the yellow moonlight, her face seemed almost ethereal.
"You," she said, "should paint a vision of the 'enchanted land.' You see those blurred woods, and the fields sloping up to the mists? Isn't that a perfect impression of the world unseen, half understood? Oh, how can you talk of such a place corrupting anybody, Allan!"
"I withdraw the term," he answered. "Yet Arnold knows what I meant very well. This place soothes while the city frets. Which state of mind do you think, Miss Isobel, draws from a man his best work?"
"Don't ask me enigmas, Allan," she murmured. "I am too happy to think, too happy to want to do anything more than exist. I wish we lived here always! Why didn't we come here long ago?"
"You forget the wonders of our climate," I remarked. "A month ago you might have stood where you are now, and seen nothing. You would have shivered with the cold. The field scents, the birds, the very insects were unborn. It is all a matter of seasons. What to-day is beautiful was yesterday a desert."
She shook her head slowly. Bareheaded, she was leaning now over the little gate, and her eyes sought the stars.
"I will not believe it," she declared. "I will not believe that it is not always beautiful here. Arnold, Allan, can you smell the honeysuckle?"
"And the hay," Allan answered, smoking vigorously. "To-morrow we shall be sneezing every few minutes. Have you ever had hay fever, Isobel?"
She laughed at him scornfully.
"You poor old thing!" she exclaimed. "You should wear a hat."
"A hat," Allan protested, "is of no avail against hay fever. It's the most insidious thing in the world, and is no respecter of youth. You, my dear Isobel, might be its first victim."
"Pooh! I catch nothing!" she declared, "and you mustn't either. I'm sure you ought to be able to paint some beautiful pictures down here, Allan. And, Arnold, you shall have your writing-table out under the chestnut tree there. You will be so comfortable, and I'm sure you'll be able to finish your story splendidly."
"You are very anxious to dispose of us all here, Isobel," I remarked. "What do you propose to do yourself?"
"Oh, paint a little, I suppose," she answered, "and—think! There is so much to think about here."
I shook my head.
"I am beginning to wonder," I said, "whether we did wisely to bring you."
"And why?"
"This thinking you are speaking of. It is bad!"
"You are foolish! Why should I not want to think?"
"If you begin to think you will begin to doubt," I answered, "and if you begin to doubt you will begin to understand. The person who once understands, you know, is never again really happy."
Isobel came and stood in front of me.
"Arnold!" she said.
"Well?"
"I wish you wouldn't talk to me always as though I were a baby," she said thoughtfully.
I took her hand and made her sit down by my side.
"Come," I protested, "that is not at all fair. I can assure you that I was taking you most seriously. The people who get most out of life are the people who avoid the analytical attitude, who enjoy but who do not seek to understand, who worship form and external beauty without the desire to penetrate below to understand the inner meaning of what they find so beautiful."
"That," she said, "sounds a little difficult. But I do not see how people can enjoy meaningless things."
"The source of all beauty is disillusioning."
"Seriously," Mabane interrupted, "if this conversation develops I am going indoors. Does Arnold want to penetrate into the hidden meaning of that cricket's chirp—or is he going to give us the chemical formula for the smell of the honeysuckle?"
Isobel laughed.
"He is rather trying to-night, isn't he?" she declared. "Listen! Is that someone going by?"
The footsteps of a man were clearly audible passing along the dusty little strip of road which fronted our cottage. Leaning forward I saw a tall, dark figure pass slowly by. From his height and upright carriage I thought that it must be the village policeman, and I called out good-night. My greeting met with no response. I shrugged my shoulders.
"Some of these village people are not particularly civil!" I remarked.
Mabane rose to his feet and strolled to the hedge.
"Those were not the footsteps of a villager," he remarked. "Listen!"
We stood quite still. The footsteps had ceased, although there was no other habitation for more than half a mile along the road. We could see nothing, but I noticed that Mabane was leaning a little forward and gazing with a curious intentness at the open common on the other side of the road. He stood up presently and knocked the ashes from his pipe.
"What do you say to a drink, Arnold?" he suggested.
"Come along!" I answered. "There's some whisky and soda on the sideboard."
Isobel laughed at us. She would have lingered where she was, but Allan passed his arm through hers.
"Sentiment must not make you lazy, Isobel," he declared. "I decline to mix my own whisky and soda. Arnold," he whispered, drawing me back as she stepped past us through the wide-open window, "I wonder if it has occurred to you that if any of our friends who are so anxious to obtain possession of Isobel were to attempt a coup down here, we should be rather in a mess. We're a mile from the village, and Lord knows how many from a police-station, and there isn't a door in the cottage a man couldn't break open with his fist."
"What made you think of it—just now?" I asked.
"Three men passed by, following that last fellow—on the edge of the common. I've got eyes like a cat in the dark, you know, and I could see that they were trying to get by unnoticed. Of course, there may be nothing in it, but—thanks, Isobel! By Jove, that's good!"
I slipped upstairs to my room, and on my return handed Allan something which he thrust quietly into his pocket. Then we went out again into the garden. I drew Mabane on one side for a moment.
"I don't think there's anything in it, Allan," I whispered. "It would be too clumsy for any of our friends—and too risky."
"It needn't be either," Allan answered, "but I daresay you're right."
Then we hastened once more to the front gate, summoned there by Isobel's cry.
"Listen!" she exclaimed, holding up her hand.
We stood by her side. From somewhere out of the night there came to our ears the faint distant throbbing of an engine. Neither Allan nor I realized what it was, but Isobel, who had stepped out on to the road, knew at once.
"Look!" she cried suddenly.
We followed her outstretched finger. Far away on the top of a distant hill, but moving towards us all the time with marvellous swiftness, we saw a small but brilliant light.
"A motor bicycle!" she cried. "I believe it is Arthur. It sounds just like his machine."
Arthur it was, white with dust and breathless. His first greeting was for Isobel, who welcomed him with both hands outstretched and a delight which she made no effort to conceal, overwhelming him with questions, frankly joyful at his coming. Mabane and I stood silent in the background, and we avoided each other's eyes. It was at that moment, perhaps, that I for the first time realized the tragedy into which we were slowly drifting. Isobel had forgotten us. She was wholly absorbed in her joy at Arthur's unexpected appearance. The thing which in my quieter moments had begun already vaguely to trouble me—a thing of slow and painful growth—assumed for the first time a certain definiteness. I looked a little way into the future, and it seemed to me that there were evil times coming.
Arthur approached us presently with outstretched hand. His manner was half apologetic, half triumphant. He seemed to be saying to himself that Isobel's reception of him must surely have opened our eyes.
"Your coming, I suppose, Arthur," Mabane said quietly, "signifies——"
"That I accept your terms for the present," Arthur answered, in a low tone. "I had to see you. There are strangers continually watching our diggings, and making inquiries about Isobel. There are things happening which I cannot understand at all."
I glanced towards Isobel.
"We will talk about it after she has gone to bed," I said. "Come in and have some supper now."
He drew me a little on one side.
"You remember the chap who was with the Archduchess at the Mordaunt Rooms?"
"Yes!"
"He was at the hotel in Guildford when I stopped for tea, with two other men. They're in a great Daimter car, and they're coming this way. I heard them ask about the roads."
"How far were they behind you?" I asked.
"They must be close up," he answered. "Listen!"
"Another motor!" Isobel cried suddenly. "Can you not hear it?"
There was no mistaking the sound, the deep, low throbbing of a powerful engine as yet some distance away. I was conscious of a curious sense of uneasiness.
"Isobel," I said, "would you mind going indoors!"
"Indoors indeed!" she laughed. "But no. I must see this motor-car."
I stepped quickly up to her, and laid my hand upon her arm.
"Isobel," I said earnestly, "you do not understand. I do not wish to frighten you, but I am afraid that the men in this car are coming here, and it is better that you should be out of the way. They want to take you from us. Go inside and lock yourself in your room."
She looked at me half puzzled, half resentful. The car was close at hand now. We ourselves were almost in the path of its flaring searchlights.
"Arnold, you are joking, of course!" she exclaimed. "They cannot take me away. I would not go."
The car had stopped. It contained four men, one of whom at once alighted and advanced towards us. I knew him by his voice and figure. It was the Baron von Leibingen!
CHAPTER VII
I made no movement towards opening the gate. The newcomer advanced to within a few feet of me, and then paused. He leaned a little forward. He was doubtful, as I could see, of my identity.
"Can you tell me," he asked, raising his hat, "if this is Roseleys Cottage, the residence of Mr. Arnold Greatson?"
"Do you forget all your acquaintances so quickly, Baron?" I answered. "This is Roseleys, and I am Arnold Greatson!"
"Your voice," he declared, "is sufficient. I can assure you that it is a matter of eyesight, not of memory. In the dark I am always as blind as a bat."
"It is," I remarked, "a very common happening. You are motoring, I see. You have chosen a very delightful night, but are you not—pardon me—a little off the track? You are on your way to the South Coast, I presume?"
"On the contrary," the Baron answered, "our destination is here. Will you permit me to apologise for the lateness of my visit? We were unfortunately delayed for several hours by a mishap to our automobile, or I should have had the honour of presenting myself during the afternoon."
I did not offer to move.
"Perhaps," I said, "as it is certainly very late, and we were on the point of retiring, you will permit me to inquire at once into the nature of the business which procures for me the honour of this visit."
My visitor paused. His hand was upon the gate. So was mine, keeping it all the time fast closed.
"You will permit me?" he said, making an attempt to enter.
"I regret," I answered, "that at this late hour I am not prepared to offer you any hospitality. If you will come and see me to-morrow morning I shall be happy to hear what you have to say."
My visitor did not remove his hand from the gate. It seemed to me that his tone became more belligerent.
"You are discomposed to see us, Mr. Greatson," he said, "me and my friends. As you see," he added, with a little wave of his hand, "I am not alone. I have only to regret that you have made this visit necessary. We have come to induce you, if possible, to change your mind, and to give up the young lady in whom the Archduchess has been graciously pleased to interest herself to those who have a better claim upon her."
"It is not a matter," I answered, "which I am prepared to discuss at this hour—or with you!"
"As to that," the young man answered, "I am the envoy of her Royal Highness, as I can speedily convince you if you will."
"It is unnecessary," I answered. "The Archduchess has already had my answer. Will you allow me to wish you good-night?"
"I wish, Mr. Greatson," the young man said, "that you would discuss this matter with me in a reasonable spirit."
"At a reasonable hour," I answered, "I might be prepared to do so. But certainly not now."
It seemed to me that his hand upon the gate tightened. He certainly showed no signs of accepting the dismissal which I was trying to force upon him.
"I have endeavoured to explain my late arrival," he said. "You must not believe me guilty of wilful discourtesy. As for the rest, Mr. Greatson, what does it matter whether the hour is late or early? The matter is an important one. Between ourselves, her Highness has made up her mind to undertake the charge of the young lady, and I may tell you that when her Highness has made up her mind to anything she is not one to be disappointed."
"In her own country," I said, "the will of the Archduchess is doubtless paramount. Out here, however, she must take her chance amongst the others."
"But you have no claim—no shadow of a claim upon the child," the Baron declared.
"If the Archduchess thinks she has a better," I answered, "the law courts are open to her."
My visitor was apparently becoming annoyed. There were traces of irritation in his tone.
"Do you imagine, my dear Mr. Greatson," he said, "that her Highness can possibly desire to bring before the notice of the world the peccadiloes of her illustrious relative? No, the law courts are not to be thought of. We rely upon your good sense!"
"And failing that?"
The Baron hesitated. It seemed to me that he was peering into the shadows beyond the hedge.
"The position," he murmured, "is a singular one. Where neither side for different reasons is disposed to submit its case to the courts, then it must be admitted that possession becomes a very important feature in the case."
"That," I remarked, "is entirely my view. May I take the liberty, Baron von Leibingen, of wishing you good-night? I see no advantage in continuing this discussion."
"Possession for the moment," he said slowly, "is with you. Have you reflected, Mr. Greatson, that it may not always be so?"
"Will you favour me," I said, "by becoming a little more explicit?"
"With pleasure," the Baron answered quickly. "I have three friends here with me, and we are all armed. Your cottage is surrounded by half a dozen more—friends—who are also armed. We are here to take Isobel de Sorrens back with us, and we mean to do it. On my honour, Mr. Greatson, no harm is intended to her. She will be as safe with the Archduchess as with her own mother."
"If you don't take your hand off my gate in two seconds," I said, "you will regret it all your life."
He sprang forward, but I fired over his shoulder, and with an oath he backed into the road. Isobel meanwhile, now thoroughly alarmed, turned and ran towards the house, only to find the path already blocked by two men, who had stepped silently out from the low hedge which separated the garden from the fields beyond. Allan promptly knocked one of them down, only to find himself struggling with the other. Isobel, whose skirts were caught by the fallen man, tried in vain to release herself. I dared scarcely turn my head, for my levelled revolver was keeping in check the Baron and his three friends.
"Baron," I said, "your methods savour a little too much of comic opera. You have mistaken your country and—us. There are three of us, and if you force us to fight—well, we shall fight. The advantage of numbers is with you, I admit. For the rest, if you succeed to-night you will be in the police court to-morrow."
The Baron made no answer. I felt that he was watching the struggle which was going on behind my back. I heard Isobel shriek, and the sound maddened me. I left it to the Baron to do his worst. I sprang backwards, and brought the butt end of my revolver down upon the skull of the man who was dragging her across the lawn. Then I passed my arm round her waist, and called out once more to the Baron who had passed through the gate, and was coming rapidly towards us.
"You fool!" I cried. "Unless you call off your hired gang and leave this place at once, every newspaper in London shall advertise Isobel's name and presence here to-morrow."
It was a chance shot, but it went home. I saw him stop short, and I heard his little broken exclamation.
"But you do not know who she is?" he cried.
"I know very well indeed," I answered.
Just then Mabane broke loose from the man with whom he had been struggling, and rushed to Arthur's assistance. The Baron raised his hand and shouted something in German. Instantly our assailants seemed to melt away. The Baron stepped on to the strip of lawn and raised his hand.
"I call a truce, Mr. Greatson," he said. "I desire to speak with you."
I released my hold upon Isobel and turned to Mabane. Arthur too, breathless but unhurt, had struggled to his feet.
"Take her into the house," I said quickly. But her grasp only tightened upon my arm.
"I will not leave you, Arnold," she said. "I shall stay here. They will not dare to touch me."
I tried to disengage her arm, but she was persistent. She took no notice of Allan, who tried to lead her away. I stole a glance at her through the darkness. Her face was white, but there were no signs of fear there, nor were there any signs of childishness in her manner or bearing. She carried herself like an angry young princess, and her eyes seemed lit with smouldering fire, as clinging to my arm she leaned a little forwards toward the Baron.
"Why am I spoken of," she cried passionately, "as though I were a baby, a thing of no account, to be carried away to your mistress or disposed of according to your liking? Do you think that I would come, Baron von Leibingen——"
She broke off suddenly. She leaned a little further forward. Her lips were parted. The fire in her eyes had given way to a great wonder, and the breathlessness of her silence was like a thing to be felt. It held us all dumb. We waited—we scarcely knew for what. Only we knew that she had something more to say, and we were impelled to wait for her words.
"I have seen you before," she cried, with a strange note of wonder in her tone. "Your face comes back to me—only it was a long time ago—a long, long time! Where was it, Baron von Leibingen?"
I heard his smothered exclamation. He drew quickly a step backwards as though he sought to evade her searching gaze.
"You are mistaken, young lady," he said. "I know nothing of you beyond the fact that the lady whom I have the honour to serve desires to be your friend."
"It is not true," she answered. "I remember you—a long way back—and the memory comes to me like an evil thought. I will not come to you. You may kill me, but I will not come alive."
"Indeed you are mistaken," he persisted, though he sought still the shadow of a rhododendron bush, and his voice quivered with nervous anxiety. "You have never seen me before. Surely the Archduchess, the daughter of a King, is not one whose proffered kindness it is well to slight? Think again, young lady. Her Highness will make your future her special charge!"
"If your visit to-night, sir," she answered, "is a mark of the Archduchess's good-will to me, I can well dispense with it. I have given you my answer."
"You will remember, Baron," I said, speaking at random, but gravely, and as though some special meaning lurked in my words, "that this young lady comes of a race who do not readily change. She has made her choice, and her answer to you is my answer. She will remain with us!"
The Baron stepped out again into the rich-scented twilight.
"You hold strong cards, Mr. Arnold Greatson," he said, "but I see their backs only. How do I know that you speak the truth? From whom have you learnt the story of this young lady's antecedents?"
"From Mr. Grooten," I answered boldly.
"I do not know the name," the Baron protested.
"He is the man," I said, "who set Isobel free!"
The Baron said something to himself in German, which I did not understand.
"You mean the man who shot Major Delahaye?" he asked.
"I do!"
"Then I would to Heaven I knew whose identity that name conceals," he cried fiercely.
"You would not dare to publish it," I answered, "for to do so would be to give Isobel's story to the world."
"And why should I shrink from that?" he asked.
I laughed.
"Ask your august mistress," I declared. "It seems to me that we know more than you think."
The Baron looked over his shoulder and spoke to his companions. From that moment I knew that we had conquered. One of them left and went outside to where the motor-car, with its great flaring lights, still stood. Then the Baron faced me once more.
"Mr. Greatson," he said, "you are playing a game of your own, and for the moment I must admit that you hold the tricks against me. But it is well that I should give you once more this warning. If you should decide upon taking one false step—you perhaps know very well what I mean—things will go ill with you—very ill indeed."
Then he turned away, and our little garden was freed from the presence of all of them. We heard the starting of the car. Presently it glided away. We listened to its throbbing growing fainter and fainter in the distance. Then there was silence. A faint breeze had sprung up, and was rustling in the shrubs. From somewhere across the moor we heard the melancholy cry of the corncrakes. A great sob of relief broke from Isobel's throat—then suddenly her arm grew heavy upon mine. We hurried her into the house.
CHAPTER VIII
The perfume from a drooping lilac-bush a few feet away from the open casement was mingled with the fainter odour of jessamine and homely stocks. In the soft morning sunshine the terrors of last night seemed a thing far removed from us. We sat at breakfast in our little sitting-room, and as though by common though unspoken consent we treated the whole affair as a gigantic joke. We ignored its darker aspect. We spoke of it as an "opera-bouffe" attempt never likely to be repeated—the hare-brained scheme of a mad foreigner, over anxious to earn the favour of his mistress. But beneath all our light talk was an undernote of seriousness. I think that Mabane and I, at any rate, realized perhaps for the first time that the situation, so far as Isobel was concerned, was fast becoming an impossible one.
After breakfast we all strolled out into the garden. Isobel, with her hands full of flowers, flitted in and out amongst the rose-bushes, laughing and talking with all the invincible gaiety of light-hearted youth, and Arthur hung all the while about her, his eyes following her every movement, telling her all the while by every action and look—if indeed the time had come for her to discern such things—all that our compact forbade him to utter. Presently I slipped away, and shutting myself up in the tiny room where I worked, drew out my papers. In a few minutes I had made a start. I passed with a little unconscious sigh of relief into the detachment which was fast becoming the one luxury of my life.
An hour may have passed, perhaps more, when I was interrupted. I heard the door softly opened, and light footsteps crossed the room to my side. Isobel's hand rested on my shoulder, and she looked down at my work.
"Arnold," she exclaimed, "how dare you! You promised to read your story when you had finished six chapters, and you are working on chapter twenty now!"
Her long white forefinger pointed accusingly to the heading of my last page. Then I realized with a sudden flash of apprehension why I had not kept my promise—why I could never keep it. The story which flowed so smoothly from my pen was a record of my own emotions, my own sufferings. Even her name had usurped the name of my heroine, and stared up at me from the half-finished page. It was my own story which was written there, my own unhappiness which throbbed through every word and sentence. With a little nervous gesture I covered over the open sheets. I rose hastily to my feet, and I drew her away from the table.
"Another time, Isobel," I said. "It is too glorious a day to spend indoors, and Arthur has taken holiday too. Tell me, what shall we do?"
She looked at me a little doubtfully. I had grown into the habit of consulting her about my work, of reading most of it to her. Sometimes, too, she acted as my secretary. Perhaps she saw something of the trouble in my face, for she answered me very softly.
"I should like," she said, "to sit there before the open window on a cushion, and to have you sit down in that easy-chair and read to me. That is how I choose to spend the morning!"
I shook my head.
"How about the others?" I asked.
"Oh, Arthur and Allan can go for a walk!" she declared.
"What selfishness," I answered, as lightly as I could. "Arthur must go back to town to-night, he says. I think that we ought all to spend the day together, don't you? I rather thought that you young people would have been off somewhere directly after breakfast."
She looked at me earnestly.
"Of course," she said, "if you want to be left alone——"
"But I don't," I interrupted, reaching for my hat. "I want to come too."
"You nice old thing!" she exclaimed, passing her arm through mine. "We'll walk to Heather Hill. Arthur says that we can see the sea from there. Come along!"
So we started away, the four of us together. Presently, however, Arthur and Isobel drew away in front. Allan, with a little grunt, stopped to light his pipe.
"Arthur may keep his compact in the letter," he said, "but in the spirit he breaks it every time their eyes meet. You can't blame him. It's human nature, after all—the gravitation of youth. Arnold, I'm afraid you awoke to your responsibilities too late."
"You think—that she understands?" I asked quietly.
"Why not? She is almost a woman, and she is older than her years. Look at them now. He wants to talk seriously, and she is teasing him all the time. She has the instinct of her sex. She will conceal what she feels until the—psychological moment. But she does feel—she begins to understand. I am sure of it. Watch them!"
We kept silence for a while, I myself struggling with a sickening sense of despair against this newborn and most colossal folly. I think that I was always possessed of an average amount of self-control, but my great fear now was lest my secret should in any way escape me. Mabane's words had carried conviction with them. Life itself for these few deadly minutes seemed changed. The birds had ceased to sing, and the warmth of the sunshine had faded out of the fluttering east wind. I saw no longer the heath starred with yellow and purple blooms, the distant line of blue hills. The turf was no longer springy beneath my feet, a grey mist hung over the joyous summer morning. I was back again on my way from Bow Street, threading a difficult passage through the market baskets of Covent Garden, the child stepping blithely by my side, graceful even then, notwithstanding her immatureness, and quaintly attractive, though her deep blue eyes were full of tears, and the white terror had not passed wholly from her face. It was those few moments of her complete and trustful helplessness which had transformed my life for me, those few moments in which the huge folly of these later days had been born. For her very coming seemed to have been at a chosen time—at one of those periods of weariness which a man must feel whose sympathy with and desire for life leads him into many and devious forms of distraction, only to find in time the same dregs at the bottom of the cup. The joy of her fresh childish beauty, her pure sweet trustfulness, at all times a delicate flattery to any man, just the more so to me, a little inclined towards self-distrust, was like a fragrant, a heart-stirring memory even now. I looked back upon these years which lay between her youth and my fast approaching middle-age—grey, weary years, whose follies seemed now to rise up and stalk by my side, the ghosts of misspent days, ghosts of the sickly reasonings of a sham philosophy which lead into the broad way because its thoroughfares are easy and pleasant, and pressed by the feet of the great majority. I kept my eyes fixed upon the ground and I felt that strange thrill of despair pulling at my heartstrings, dragging me downwards—the despair which is almost akin to physical suffering.... And then a voice came floating back to me down the west wind. Its call at such a moment seemed almost symbolical.
"Come along, you very lazy people! Arnold, may I walk with you for a little way? Arthur is not at all brilliant this morning, and he does not amuse me."
"I am afraid," I began, "that as an entertainer——"
"Oh, you want to smoke your pipe in peace, of course," she interrupted, laughing, and passing her arm through mine. "Well, I am not going to allow it. I want you—to tell me things."
So our little procession was re-formed. Mabane, and Arthur with his hands deep in his pockets and an angry frown upon his forehead, walked on ahead. Behind came Isobel and I—Isobel with her hands clasped behind her, her head a little thrown back, a faint, wistful smile lightening the unusual gravity of her face. I looked at her in wonder.
"Come," I said, "what are the things you want me to talk to you about, and why are you tired of talking nonsense with Arthur?"
She did not look at me, but the smile faded from her lips. Her eyes were still fixed steadily ahead.
"I believe you think, Arnold," she said quietly, "that I am still a baby!"
I saw her lips quiver for a moment, and my selfishness melted away. I thought only of her.
"No, I do not think that, Isobel," I said gently. "Only if I were you I would not be in too great a hurry to grow up. It is when one is young, after all, that one walks in the gardens of life. Afterwards—when one has passed through the portals—outside the roads are dusty, and the way a little wearisome. Stay in the gardens, Isobel, as long as you can. Believe me, that life outside has many disappointments and many sorrows. Your time will come soon enough."
She smiled at me a little enigmatically.
"And you?" she asked, "have you closed the gates of the garden behind you?"
"I am nearer forty than thirty," I answered. "I have grey hairs, and I am getting a little bald. I may still be of some use in the world, and there are very beautiful places where I may rest, and even find happiness. But they are not like the gardens of youth. There is no other place like them. All of us who have hurried so eagerly away, Isobel, look back sometimes—and long!"
She shook her head. Perhaps a little of the sadness of my mood had after all found its way into my tone, for she looked at me with the shadow of a reproach in her deep blue eyes, a faint tenderness which seemed to me more beautiful than anything I had ever seen.
"I do not think that I like your allegory, Arnold," she said. "After all, the gardens are the nursery of life, are they not? The great things of the world are all outside."
I held my breath for a moment in amazement. Since when had thoughts like this come to her? I knew then that the days of her childhood were numbered indeed, that, underneath the fresh joyous grace of her delightful youth, the woman's instincts were stirring. And I was afraid!
"The great things, Isobel," I said slowly, "look very fine from a distance, but the power of accomplishment is not given to all of us. Every triumph and every success has its reverse side, its sorrowful side. For instance, the whole judgment of the world is by comparison. A great picture which brings fame to a man eclipses the work and lessens the reputation of another. A successful book takes not a place of its own, but the place of another man's work who must needs suffer for your success. Life is a battle truly enough, but it is always civil war, the striving of humanity against itself. That is why what looks so great to you from behind the hedge may seem a very hollow thing when you have won the power to call it your own."
She looked at me as though wondering how far I were in earnest.
"I think," she said, smiling, "that you are trying to confuse me. Of course, I have not thought much about such things, but when I am a little older, if there was anything I could do I should simply try to do it in the best possible way, and I should feel that I was doing what was right. There is room for a great many people in the world, Arnold—a great many novelists and a great many artists and a great many thinkers! Some of us must be content with lesser places. I for one!..."
I walked home with Allan, and I spoke to him seriously.
"There is a duty before us," I said, "which up to now we have shirked. The time has come when we must undertake it in earnest."
"You mean?"
"We must abandon our negative attitude. Isobel comes, I am very sure, from no ordinary people. We must find out her place in life and restore her to it. She is a child no longer. It is not fitting that she should stay with us."
Mabane, too, was for a moment sad and silent. His face fell into stern lines, but when he answered me his tone was steady and resolute enough.
"You are right, Arnold," he answered. "We had better go back to London and begin at once."
It was perhaps a little ominous that I should find waiting for me on our return a telegram from Grooten:
"I must see you to-night. Shall call at your rooms twelve o'clock."
CHAPTER IX
Isobel interrupted the discussion with an imperative little tap upon the table.
"Please listen, all of you!" she exclaimed. "I have something to say, and an invitation for you all."
We had been dining at a little Italian restaurant on our way home, and over our coffee had been considering how to spend the rest of the evening. Arthur had declared for a music hall; Mabane and I were indifferent. Isobel up to now had said nothing.
"All my life," she said slowly, "I have been wanting to see Feurgéres. He is in London for one week with Rejani, and if we can get seats I am going to take you all. I have twenty pounds in my pocket from that nice man Mr. Grooten, who bought my other miniature, and I want to spend some of it."
Arthur, who understood no French, shook his head.
"Not the slightest chance of seats," he declared. "They've all been booked for weeks."
"They often have some returned at the theatre," Isobel answered. "At least, if you others do not mind, we will go and see."
"Your proposal, Isobel," Allan said gravely, "indicates a certain amount of recklessness which reflects little credit upon us, your guardians. I propose——"
"Please do not be tiresome!" she interrupted. "Arnold, you will come with me, will you not?"
"I shall be delighted," I answered. "I am sure that we all shall. Only I am afraid that we shall not get in."
We paid the bill and walked to the theatre. The man at the ticket-office shook his head at our request for seats. People had been waiting in the streets since morning for the unreserved places, and the others had been booked weeks ago. But as we were turning away the telephone in his office rang, and he called us back.
"I have just had four stalls returned," he said. "You can have them, if you like."
"We are in morning dress," I remarked doubtfully.
"They are in the back row, so you can have them if you care to," he answered.
"What luck!" Isobel exclaimed, delighted. "Arnold, how glorious! Here is my purse. Will you pay for me, please?"
So we went in just as the curtain rose upon the first act of Rostand's great play. The house was packed with an immense audience. One box alone, the stage box on the left, was empty. I leaned over to Isobel, and would have told her the story which all the world knew.
"You see that box?" I whispered. "Wherever he plays it is always empty."
"I know," she answered. "His wife used to sit there—always in the same place; and after her death, whatever theatre he played at, he always insisted upon having it kept empty. They say that on great nights, when the people go almost wild with enthusiasm, he looks into the shadows there almost as though he really saw her still sitting in her old place. It is a beautiful story."
"Done for effect!" Arthur muttered, and was promptly snubbed, as he deserved. They were friends again immediately afterwards, however, and I saw him attempt to hold her hand for a moment. Decidedly it was time that we carried out our new resolution.
I think that from the moment I took my seat I was conscious in some mysterious way of the coming of great things. There was a thrill of excitement in the air, a sort of stifled electricity which one realizes often amongst a highly cultured audience awaiting the production of a great work. But apart from this sensation of which I was fully conscious, I felt a curious sense of nervousness stealing in upon me for which I could in no way account. I knew what it meant only when, amidst a storm of cheers, Feurgéres entered. Then indeed I knew.
I kept silent, for which I was thankful, but the programme in my hand was crumpled into a little ball, and the figures upon the stage moved as though in a mist before my eyes. Isobel noticed nothing, for her whole breathless attention was riveted upon the play. I came to myself with the rich sweet voice of the man, so tender, so infinitely pathetic, ringing with a curious familiarity in my ears. From that moment I followed the movement of the play.
The curtain went down upon the first act amidst a silence so intense that it seemed as though people might be listening still for the echoes of that sad, sweet voice which had been playing so effectively upon their heartstrings. Then came the storm of applause, which lasted for several minutes. I turned towards Isobel. She was sitting very still, and she did not join in the enthusiasm which seemed to find its way straight from the hearts of the men and women who sat about us. But her eyes were wet with tears, her lips a little parted. She gazed at the man whom incessant calls had brought at last a little wearily before the curtain, as one might look at a god. And their eyes met. He did not start or betray himself in any way—perhaps his training befriended him there, but as he left the stage he staggered, and I saw his hand go to clutch the curtain for support. I knew then that, before the night was over, Isobel's history would no longer be a secret to us.
She turned to me with a little smile of apology. There was a new look in her face too. She spoke gravely.
"Was I very stupid? I am sorry, but I could not help it. I have never seen anything like this before. It is wonderful!"
We talked quietly of the play, and I was astonished at the keenness of her perceptions, the unerring ease with which she had realized and appreciated the self-abnegation which was the great underlying motif of the whole drama. And in the midst of our conversation, what I had expected happened. A note was brought to me by an attendant.
"Come to me after the next act, and bring her. An attendant will be waiting for you at your left-hand door of egress."
Mabane and Arthur had gone out to have a smoke. I had still a moment before the curtain went up. I leaned over towards Isobel.
"Isobel," I said, "I am going to tell you something which will surprise you very much. It is necessary that I tell you at once. If you answer me at all do not speak above a whisper."
She only slightly moved her head. I had not any fear of her betraying herself.
"You have seen Feurgéres before. It was in the café. He was my companion when I saw you first."
"Mr. Grooten!" she murmured, so softly that her lips seemed scarcely to move.
I nodded assent.
"You knew?"
"Not until to-night."
She was very pale, but her self-control was complete.
"He wishes us—you and I—to go round to his room after this act. You will be prepared?"
"Of course," she answered simply.
Mabane and Arthur came back, and the latter whispered several times in her ear. I doubt, however, whether she heard anything. She sat through the whole of the next act like one in a dream, only her eyes never left the stage—never left, indeed, the figure of the man from whom all the greatness of the play seemed to flow. As the curtain fell I leaned over to Arthur.
"Isobel and I are going to pay a visit," I said. "We shall be back in time for the next act."
"A visit!" he repeated doubtfully. "Is there anyone we know here, then?"
"Allan will explain," I answered. "You had better tell him," I whispered to Mabane.
Allan was looking very serious. I think that he questioned the wisdom of what I was doing.
"You are going to see him?" he asked, in a low tone.
"He has sent for us," I answered.
We found the attendant waiting, and by a devious route along many passages and through many doors we reached our destination at last. Our guide knocked at a door on which was hanging a little board with the name of "Monsieur Feurgéres" painted across it. Almost immediately we were bidden to enter. Monsieur Feurgéres was sitting with his back to us before a long dressing-table. He turned at once to the servant who stood by his side.
"Come back five minutes before my call," he ordered. "That will be in about twenty minutes from now."
The man bowed and silently withdrew. Not until he had left the room did Feurgéres move from his place. Then he arose to his feet and held out his hands to Isobel.
"I knew your mother, Isobel!" he said simply.
CHAPTER X
Isobel never hesitated. I think that instinctively she accepted him without demur. Her eyes flashed back to him all those nameless things which his own greeting had left unspoken. She took his hands, and looked him frankly in the face.
"All my life," she said softly, "I have wanted to meet someone who could say that to me."
He was dressed in a suit of mediæval court clothes, black from head to foot, and fashioned according to the period of the play in which he was acting. But if he had worn the garments of a pierrot or a clown, one would never have noticed it. The man's individuality, magnetic and irresistible, triumphed easily. Mr. Grooten had passed away. It was the great Feurgéres, whose sad shining eyes lingered so wistfully upon Isobel's face.
"I can say more than that," he went on. "And now that I see you, Isobel, I wonder that I have not said it long ago. You are like her, child—very like her!"
"I am glad," Isobel murmured. "Please tell me—everything!"
"Everything—for me—is soon told," he answered, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, his eyes still fixed upon Isobel's, yet looking her through as though she were a shadow. "I loved your mother. I was the man—whom your mother loved! The years of my life began and ended there."
Their hands had fallen apart a little while before, but Isobel, with an impulsive gesture, stooped down and raised the fingers of his left hand to her lips. I turned away. It seemed like sacrilege to watch a man's soul shining in his eyes. I walked to the other end of the long narrow room, and examined the swords which lay ready for use against the wall. It was not many minutes, however, before Feurgéres recalled me.
"To-night," he said, "I was coming to see Mr. Greatson."
"It is better," she murmured, "to have met you like this."
He smiled very slightly, yet it seemed to me that the curve of his lips was almost a caress. There was certainly nothing left now of Mr. Grooten.
"I think that I, too, am glad," he said. "Your mother suffered all her life because she permitted herself to care for me. We mummers, you see, Isobel, though the world loves to be amused, are always a little outside the pale. I think," he added, with a curious little note of bitterness in his tone, "that we are not reckoned worthy or capable of the domestic affections."
"You do not believe—you cannot believe," she murmured, "that there are many people who are so foolish! It is the dwellers in the world who are mummers—those who live their foolish, orderly lives with their eyes closed, and oppressed all the while with a nervous fear of what their neighbours are thinking of them. Those are the mummers—but you—you, Monsieur, are Feurgéres—the artist! You make music on the heartstrings of the world!"
For myself I was astonished. I had not often seen Isobel so deeply moved. I had never known her so ready, so earnest of speech. But Feurgéres was almost agitated. For the first time I saw him without the mask of his perfect self-control. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were soft as a woman's. He raised Isobel's hand to his lips, and his voice, when he spoke, shook with real emotion.
"You are the daughter of your mother, dear Isobel," he said. "Beyond that, what is there that I can say—I, who loved her!"
"You can tell me about her," Isobel said gently. "That is what I have been hoping for!"
"A little, a very little," he answered, "and more to-night, if you will. I have already written to Mr. Greatson, and I meant in a few hours to tell him everything. But I would have you know this, Isobel, and remember it always. Your mother was a holy woman. For my sake, for the sake of the love she bore me, she abandoned a great position. She broke down all the barriers of race, and all the conventions of a lifetime. She lost every friend she had in the world; she even, perhaps, in some measure, neglected her duty to you. Yet you were seldom out of her thoughts, and her last words committed you to my distant care. I have, perhaps, ill-fulfilled her charge, Isobel. Yet I have been watching over you sometimes when you have not known it."
"You were my saviour once," she said, "you and Arnold here, when I sorely needed help."
"I came from America at a moment's notice," he said, "when it seemed to me that you might need my help. I broke the greatest contract I had ever signed, and I placed my liberty, if not my life, at the mercy of your wonderful police system. But those things count for little. I have been forced, Isobel, to leave you very much to yourself. You come of a race who would regard any association with me as defilement. And there is always the chance that you may be able to take your proper position in the world. That is why it has been my duty to keep away from you, why I have been forced to leave to others what I would gladly have done myself. To-night you will understand everything."
"Nothing that you can tell me of my family or myself," she answered, "will ever make me forget that, whereas of them I know nothing, you have been my guardian angel. It was you who rescued me from the one person in this world of whom I have been miserably, hatefully afraid. It was not my family who saved me. It was you!"
A shrill bell was ringing outside. We heard the commotion of hurrying footsteps, the call-boy's summons, the creaking of moving scenery. Feurgéres glanced at the watch which stood upon his table. His manner seemed to undergo a sudden change. The man no longer revealed himself.
"The curtain is going up," he said. "I can stay with you but two minutes longer. I am coming to see Mr. Greatson to-night, Isobel, after the performance, and I wish to see him alone. This is at once our meeting and our farewell."
"Our farewell!" she repeated doubtfully. "Surely you are not going to leave us—so soon! You cannot mean that?"
"To-morrow," he said, "I leave for St. Petersburg. My engagement there has been made many months ago. But even if it were not so, dear child, our ways through life must always lie far apart. If the necessity for it had not existed, I should not have left you to the care of—of even Mr. Greatson. To be your guardian, Isobel, would not be seemly. That you will better understand—to-morrow."
"Indeed!" she protested, "I would sooner hear it now from your own lips—if, indeed, it must be so!"
He shook his head very slowly, but with a decision more finite than the most emphatic negation which words could have framed.
"I must go away, Isobel," he said, "and you and I must remain apart. I will only ask you to remember me by this. I am the man your mother loved. Nothing else in my life is worth considering—but that. I am one of those with whom fate has dealt a little hardly. I am as weary of my work as I am of life itself. I go on because it was her wish. But I cannot forget. The past remains—a blazing page of light. The present is a very empty and a very cold place. My days here are a sort of aftermath. My life ended with hers. To-night, for one moment—I want you to take her place."
Isobel looked at him eagerly.
"Tell me how," she begged. "Tell me what to do!"
"It may sound very foolish," he said, with a faint smile, "but I have a fancy, and I am sure that you will do as I ask. I want you to sit where she sat night after night. You will find some flowers in her chair. Keep them. They were the ones she preferred."
There was an imperative knocking at the door. Feurgéres caught up his plumed hat and sword.
"I am ready," he said quietly. "Mr. Greatson, my servant will take you to the box, which I beg that you and Isobel will occupy for the rest of the evening. It is a harmless whim of mine, and I trust that it will not inconvenience you."
With scarcely another word he left us, and a moment later we heard the roar of applause which greeted his appearance on the stage. Isobel's eyes kindled, and she moved restlessly towards the door.
"I do hope," she said, "that someone will come for us soon. I want to hear every word. I hate to miss any of it."
The dark-visaged servant stood upon the threshold.
"I have orders from Monsieur Feurgéres," he announced respectfully, "to conduct you to his box. If Mademoiselle will permit!"
We followed him on tiptoe to the front of the house. He unlocked the door of the left-hand stage box with a key which he took from his pocket.
"Monsieur will permit me to remark," he whispered, "that this is the first time since I have been in the service of Monsieur Feurgéres that anyone has occupied his private box. I trust that Mademoiselle will be comfortable."
Then the door closed behind him, and we were left to ourselves.
CHAPTER XI
Isobel, her chair drawn a little behind the curtain, was almost invisible from the house. With both hands she held the cluster of pink roses which she had found upon the seat. Gravely, but with wonderful self-composure, she followed the action of the play with an intentness which never faltered. Occasionally she leaned a little forward, and at such moments her profile passed the droop of the curtain, and was visible to the greater part of the audience. It was immediately after one of such movements that I noticed some commotion amongst the occupants of the box opposite to us. Their attention seemed suddenly drawn towards Isobel—two sets of opera-glasses were steadily levelled at her. A woman, whose neck and arms were ablaze with diamonds, raised her lorgnettes, and, regardless of the progress of the play, kept them fixed in our direction. I changed my position to obtain a better view of these people, and immediately I understood.
I saw the house now for the first time, and I saw something which pleased me very little. We were immediately opposite the Royal box, which, with the one adjoining, was occupied by a very brilliant little party. The Archduchess was there. It was she whose lorgnettes were still unfalteringly directed towards Isobel. Lady Delahaye sat in the background, and a greater personage than either occupied the chair next to the Archduchess. Soon I saw that they were all whispering together, all still looking from Isobel towards the stage, and from the stage to Isobel; and in the background was a man whose coat was covered with orders, and who held himself like a soldier. He looked at Isobel as one might look at a ghost. I stood back almost hidden in the shadows, and I wondered more than ever what the end of all these things might be.
Towards the close of the act that wonderful voice, with its low burden of sorrow so marvellously controlled, drew me against my will to the front of the box. He stood there with outstretched arms, the prototype of all pathos, and the low words, drawn as it were against his will from his tremulous lips, kept the whole house breathless. His arms dropped to his side, the curtain commenced to fall. In that moment his eyes, suddenly uplifted, met mine. It seemed to me that they were charged with meaning, and I read their message rightly. After all, though, I am not sure that I needed any warning.
The curtain fell. There was twenty minutes' interval. Isobel sat back in her chair, and her hand lingered lovingly about the roses which lay upon her lap. I did not speak to her. I knew that she was living in a little world of her own, into which any ordinary intrusion was almost sacrilege. Arthur and Allan had left their places. I judged rightly that they had gone home. So I sat by myself, and waited for what I knew was sure to happen.
And presently it came—the knock at the box door for which I had been listening. I rose and opened it. A tall young Englishman, with smooth parted hair, whose evening attire was so immaculate as to become almost an offence, stood and stared at me through his eyeglass.
"Mr. Greatson!" he suggested. "Mr. Arnold Greatson?"
I acknowledged the fact with becoming meekness.
"My name is Milton," he said—"Captain Angus Milton. I am in the suite of the Archduchess for this evening. Her Highness occupies the box opposite to yours."
I bowed.
"I have noticed the fact," I answered. "The Archduchess has been good enough to favour us with some attention."
The young man stared at me for some moments. I found myself able to endure his scrutiny.
"Her Highness desires that you and the young lady"—for the first time he bowed towards Isobel—"will be so good as to come to the anteroom of the Royal box. She is anxious for a few minutes' conversation with you."
"The Archduchess," I answered, "does us too much honour! I shall be glad, however, if you will inform her that we will take another opportunity of waiting upon her. Miss de Sorrens is much interested in the play."
The young man dropped his eyeglass. I was proud of the fact that I had succeeded in surprising him.
"You mean," he exclaimed softly, "that you won't—that you don't want to come?"
"Precisely," I answered. "I have already had the honour of one interview with the Archduchess, and I imagine that no useful purpose would be served by re-opening the subject of our discussion!"
"The young lady, then?" he remarked, turning again to Isobel.
"The young lady remains under my charge," I answered. "You will be so good as to express my regrets to the Archduchess."
He hesitated for a moment, and then, with a slight bow to Isobel, left us. She spoke to me, and we had been so long silent that our voices sounded strange.
"Thank you, Arnold," she said quietly. "This is all so wonderful that I could not bear to have it disturbed."
"I pray that it may not be," I answered. "The Archduchess's interest is flattering, but mysterious. I for one do not trust her. I wish——"
I broke off in my speech, for I saw that the principal seat in the opposite box was vacant. As for Isobel, I doubt whether she noticed my sudden pause. Her hands were still caressing the soft pink blossoms in her lap, her eyes were fixed upon vacancy. She was in a sort of dream, from which I did not care to rouse her. I knew very well that the awakening would come fast enough.
Another imperative tap upon the door. I opened it, and the Archduchess swept past me. In the darkness of our box her diamonds glittered like fire, the perfume from her draperies was stronger by far than the delicate fragrance of the roses which Isobel still held. Me she ignored altogether. She went straight up to Isobel, and, stooping down, rested her gloved hand upon the girl's shoulder.
"I sent for you just now," she said. "Did you not understand?"
Isobel raised her eyebrows. The Archduchess was angry, and her voice betrayed her.
"I do not know any reason," Isobel answered, "why I should do your bidding."
