Chapter XIII

For a time, Enid stood looking at the sufferer sadly, and wondering where the friends of the poor girl might be. Gradually, as the scene came back to her, she remembered the words of Lucrece, and turned to her. ‘Lucrece, did I hear you say you knew this poor woman?’

‘Indeed, yes, miss. Three years ago, in Paris, Linda and I were great friends—what you English call “chums.” She was an actress at the “Varieties”—a clever player; but she could not rise. Jealousy and a bad husband prevented that. Poor Linda, she has all the talent!’

‘Strange that you should know her; but still fortunate. Perhaps, through you, we may be able to discover where her friends are.’

‘Poor child! she has no friends.—But hush! See! she has opened her eyes.’

The sufferer was looking wildly around. She tried to rise, but the pain and weakness were too great, and she sank back with a deep fluttering sigh. As she collected her senses—‘Where am I?’ she asked faintly. ‘How did I come here?’

‘Do not distress yourself,’ Enid said softly. ‘You are quite safe. You had an accident, and they brought you here.’

For a moment the girl closed her eyes. ‘I remember now. I was knocked down by a cab. But I am better now. Let me get up. Where is my boy?’ she continued—‘what has become of my boy?’

‘Do not trouble yourself about your child,’ Enid said soothingly, marvelling that one apparently so young should be a mother. ‘He shall be well cared for. Tell us where he is, and he shall be brought to you.’

‘You are so good—so good and beautiful! You will find a card in my jacket-pocket where to send for him. Tell me, bright angel of goodness, what is the name they know you by?’

‘My name is Enid Charteris,’ she replied, smiling a little at the theatrical touch, earnest though it was.—‘I must not let you talk any longer. The doctor was very strict about that.’

At the mention of the name, the sick woman became strangely agitated, so much so that Enid was alarmed. ‘Am I in Grosvenor Square? Are you the daughter of Sir Geoffrey Charteris?’

‘Yes, yes. But you really must be quiet now.’

But instead of complying with this request, the stranger burst into a fit of hysterical crying, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Miserable woman that I am!’ she cried, ‘what have I done? Oh, what have I done? O that I could have known before!’

Enid looked at Lucrece in alarm. The outbreak was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a moment they were too startled to speak.

‘She is unhinged by the shock,’ Enid whispered. ‘Perhaps if you were to speak to her, it would have a good effect.’

‘Yes, madam. But if I may be allowed to make a suggestion—I should say it was better if you left the room for a time. She sees some likeness to you, or fancies she does, to some one. She knows me; and if you will leave for a short time, I will try and soothe her.’

‘I think you are right, Lucrece. I will come in again presently, when she has become quieter.’

Directly Enid quitted the apartment, Lucrece’s whole manner changed from the subdued domestic to the eager sympathetic friend. She bent over the bed and looked down in the suffering woman’s eyes. ‘Linda! do you not know me? It is I, Lucrece!’

‘You—and here? What is the meaning of this, and in the dress of a servant? Tell me,’ she continued eagerly. ‘You are not one of his friends in his pay, to help his vile schemes?’

‘I do not know who he is. I am here for a good purpose—to protect my mistress from a great harm.’

‘Ah, then, you are no friend of Le Gautier’s.—Do you ever see him? Does he come here often? Do you know what he is after?’

Lucrece started. ‘What do you know of Le Gautier?’

‘What do I know of him? Everything that is bad, and bitter, and fiendish! But he will not succeed, if I have to sacrifice my life to aid the beautiful lady who has been so kind to me.’

‘You are not the only one who would,’ Lucrece quietly answered. ‘Tell me what you know.’

‘I did not know then how good and noble she is.—My head is queer and strange, Lucrece; I cannot tell you now. To-morrow, perhaps, if I am better, I will tell you everything. I am glad now that they brought me here.’

Meanwhile, Maxwell was pacing about the drawing-room, having entirely forgotten the unfortunate woman in his own perplexity. He had been there perhaps half an hour, when Enid entered. She was not too occupied to notice the moody, thoughtful frown upon his face.

‘What a sad thing for her, poor woman!’ she said.—‘How did it happen, Fred?’

‘Poor woman?’ Maxwell asked vaguely. ‘How did what happen?’

‘Why, Fred, what is the matter with you?’ Enid exclaimed with vague alarm. ‘How strange you look! Surely you have not forgotten the poor creature you brought here not more than half an hour ago?’

Maxwell collected himself by a violent effort. ‘I had actually forgotten. I was thinking of something else.—Enid, dear, I am going away!’

‘Going away! Any one would think, from the expression of your face and the tone of your voice, you were never going to return. Where are you going?’

There was a very considerable chance of his not returning, he felt, and he smiled at the grim idea. ‘I am not going far—at least not very far, in this age of express trains and telegraphs. I wish I could take you with me, darling; for I am going to a place you have often longed to see—I am going to Rome.’

‘To Rome? Is it not very sudden? You never told me before.’

‘Well, it is rather sudden. I have not known it long. You see, I could not tell you a thing I was ignorant of myself.’

‘I wish you were not going,’ Enid said reflectively. ‘I have a feeling that some evil will come of this. And yet I suppose you must go. Is it business of your own, Fred?’

Maxwell hesitated. He could not prevaricate with those clear truthful eyes looking up so earnestly to his own. The soul of honour himself, he could not forgive the want of it in others; but he temporised now. ‘Well, not exactly my own,’ he stammered, trying to make the best of a bad case, ‘or I would not go. It is a secret, which I cannot tell even you; but I shall not be long away.’

‘A secret which you cannot tell even me,’ Enid repeated mechanically. ‘Then it must be something you are very much ashamed of.’

‘Indeed, it is not,’ Maxwell began eagerly, hesitated, and stopped. After all, she was right. It was a secret, a terrible, shameful secret, against which all the manliness in him revolted. For a time he was silent, hanging down his head for very shame, as the whole force of his position came upon him. For the first time, he realised where his rashness had led him, and what he was about to lose.

Enid looked at him in amazement, strangely mixed with a terrible and nameless fear. ‘Fred!’ she cried at length, white and trembling, ‘you are going away upon the mission of that awful League! You cannot deny it.—O Fred! Fred!’

He tried to soothe her as she lay sobbing in his arms, but to no avail. The most fervent promises and the most endearing words she heeded not, crying that he was going from her never to return; and her fears were strengthened when he mournfully but firmly declined to speak of his mission. Presently, when she grew a little calmer, she raised her wet cheeks to him and kissed him. She was pale now, but confident, and striving with all the artifices in her power to persuade him from his undertaking; but tears and prayers, threats even, could not avail.

He shook his head sadly. ‘I would that I could stay with you, Enid,’ he said at length, holding her close in his arms; ‘but this much I can tell you—that I dare not disobey. It is as much as my life is worth.’

‘And as much as your life is worth to go,’ echoed the sobbing girl. ‘What is life to me without you? And now this thing has come between us, parting us perhaps for ever!’

‘I hope not,’ Maxwell smiled cheerfully. ‘I trust not, darling. My time away is very short; and doubtless I shall not be called upon again for a time—perhaps never.’

Enid dried her eyes bravely and tried to smile. ‘Good-bye, Fred,’ she said brokenly; ‘and heaven grant that my fears are groundless! If anything happened to you, I believe I should die.’

‘I shall come back, darling.—And now, good-bye, and God bless you.’

After he was gone, Enid threw herself down upon the lounge and wept.

Le Gautier’s star was in the ascendant. His only dangerous rival would soon be hundreds of miles away on a hazardous mission, out of which, in all human probability, he could not come unscathed, even if he escaped with life; a prospective father-in-law wholly in his power; and a bride in posse, upon whose fears he could work by describing graphically her father’s danger, with the moral, that it would be her duty to her parent to wed his preserver, Le Gautier. This, in fine, was the pretty scheme the wily adventurer had sketched out in his busy brain, a scheme which at present looked like being brought to a successful issue.

Another source of congratulation to this inestimable young man was the progress he was making with the fair stranger, known to him as Marie St Jean. By the time a fortnight had passed, he had been in Ventnor Street more than once, and quite long enough to feel a passion stronger than he had ever experienced before. It was absolutely dangerous to him, he knew, to be with her so often; but like the moth and the candle, the attraction was so great that he found it impossible to keep away—not that he lost his head for a moment, though he well knew that Marie St Jean could turn him round her finger; but he had formed his plans even here. The first step was to betray the League—the scheme was not quite ripe yet, and the news of Maxwell uncertain—and then take Marie St Jean for a tour upon the continent. There would be plenty of time to return and marry Enid afterwards without any unnecessary bother; for he had already made up his mind that Miss St Jean was too proud to show her wrongs to the world.

On the Monday afternoon following Maxwell’s departure, Le Gautier turned his steps in the direction of Grosvenor Square, feeling on good terms with himself and all mankind. His schemes were prospering hugely. It was clearly useless, he determined, now to hesitate any longer; the blow must be struck, and the sooner the better for all parties concerned. With this intention upmost in his mind, he trippingly ascended the steps of Sir Geoffrey’s house and knocked.

He found the baronet in the library, engaged as usual over some volume of deep spiritualistic research; the thing had become a passion with him now, and every spare moment was spent in this morbid amusement. He was getting thin and haggard over it, and Le Gautier thought he looked very old and careworn as he watched him now.

‘You have come just in time,’ he cried, placing a paper-knife in the book and turning eagerly to Le Gautier. ‘I have a passage here that I am unable to understand. Listen to this.’

‘I have something more important to speak of,’ Le Gautier interrupted. ‘I have something more pressing on hand than that attractive subject. Sir Geoffrey, next week I am summoned to Warsaw.’

The baronet began to feel anxious; he knew perfectly well what was coming, and, like all weak men, he dreaded anything like evil. The part that he had to play was a despicable one, and he feared his daughter’s angry scorn. Like a recalcitrant debtor, he began to cry for time, the time that never comes. ‘So you informed me last week,’ he replied, twisting a paper-knife in his hands uneasily. ‘I hope you will have a pleasant journey. How long do you expect to be detained there?’

‘I cannot tell; it depends upon the amount of business to be done. I may be away six weeks; but, at the very least, I do not see how I can get back to England under the month.’

Sir Geoffrey’s face lighted, in spite of his air of regret. Le Gautier noticed this; nothing escaped the ken of those keen black eyes.

‘And when you return, we will complete our little arrangements,’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed cheerfully. ‘No hurry, you know, no haste in such matters as these; and, referring to our previous conversation, we cannot be too careful in treading such uncertain ground. Enid’——

‘Precisely,’ Le Gautier interrupted. ‘With all due deference to your opinion, there is need of action, which is a very different matter from that raw haste which your poet tells us is half-sister to delay. I must have something definite settled before I leave England.’

‘’Pon my honour, you know, you young men are very hasty,’ the baronet fidgeted; ‘there is no controlling you. In my time, things were quite different; men professed a certain deference to women, and did not take so much for granted as you do now’——

‘Sir Geoffrey,’ Le Gautier interrupted again, ‘things change; men alter; but perfect love is the same for all time. I love your daughter, and would make her my wife.’

In spite of the baronet’s feeble-mindedness, there was always something in the Frenchman’s higher flights which jarred upon his nerves, a sense of insincerity, a certain hollow, grotesque mockery, which pained him. The last word struck upon him like some chords played out of tune. Still the spell was upon him; he had nought to do but obey.

‘We perfectly understand that,’ he replied, ‘and therefore need say no more about it. You have my promise; indeed, how can it be otherwise with the memory of that awful manifestation before me? And the word of a Charteris is always sufficient. But I do think, Le Gautier, that you are pushing this thing too far.’

‘Let the depth of my love excuse my impetuosity;’ and again the words struck harshly on the listener’s ears. ‘Surely the excuse is a good one. I am leaving England shortly; and before I go, I must—nay, I will have an answer to the question which affects my happiness so deeply. It is only fair, only just that I should know my fate.’

Sir Geoffrey speculated feebly what he was to do with a man like this. ‘But have a little patience; let me prepare her for your proposal.’

‘Which you will promise to do, and put off day after day, as a man does who has an unpleasant task to perform. No, Sir Geoffrey; I do not wish to conduct my wooing second-hand. There is no time like the present; my motto is “Now.” I do not ask you to help me; but before I leave this house, it is my intention to speak to your daughter.’

In sheer desperation, not unmixed with a little irritation, Sir Geoffrey rang the bell, and desired the servant to conduct Le Gautier up-stairs. The thing must come sooner or later, he knew; and so long as he was not asked personally to interfere, he did not so much mind, though he was not unconscious of sundry twinges of conscience as his arbitrary visitor disappeared.