The Great Impersonation

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Dominey did as he was bidden. The furthermost corners of the room, with its many wings of book-filled shelves, were illuminated. She nodded.

  “Now turn them all out again except this one,” she directed, “and wheel me up an easy-chair.—No, I choose this settee. Please seat yourself by my side.”

  “Is this going to be serious?” he asked, with some slight disquietude.

  “Serious but wonderful,” she murmured, lifting her eyes to his. “Will you please listen to me, Leopold?”

  She was half curled up in a corner of the settee, her head resting slightly upon her long fingers, her brown eyes steadily fixed upon her companion. There was an atmosphere about her of serious yet of tender things. Dominey’s face seemed to fall into more rigid lines as he realised the appeal of her eyes.

  “Leopold,” she began, “I left this country a few weeks ago, feeling that you were a brute, determined never to see you again, half inclined to expose you before I went as an impostor and a charlatan. Germany means little to me, and a patriotism which took no account of human obligations left me absolutely unresponsive. I meant to go home and never to return to London. My heart was bruised, and I was very unhappy.”

  She paused, but her companion made no sign. She paused for so long, however, that speech became necessary.

  “You are speaking, Princess,” he said calmly, “to one who is not present. My name is no longer Leopold.”

  She laughed at him with a curious mixture of tenderness and bitterness.

  “My friend,” she continued, “I am terrified to think, besides your name, how much of humanity you have lost in your new identity. To proceed, it suited my convenience to remain for a few days in Berlin, and I was therefore compelled to present myself at Potsdam. There I received a great surprise. Wilhelm spoke to me of you, and though, alas! my heart is still bruised, he helped me to understand.”

  “Is this wise?” he asked a little desperately.

  She ignored his words.

  “I was taken back into favour at Court,” she went on. “For that I owe to you my thanks. Wilhelm was much impressed by your recent visit to him, and by the way in which you have established yourself here. He spoke also with warm commendations of your labours in Africa, which he seemed to appreciate all the more as you were sent there an exile. He asked me, Leopold,” she added, dropping her voice a little, “if my feelings towards you remained unchanged.”

  Dominey’s face remained unrelaxed. Persistently he refused the challenge of her eyes.

  “I told him the truth,” she proceeded. “I told him how it all began, and how it must last with me—to the end. We spoke even of the duel. I told him what both your seconds had explained to me,—that turn of the wrist, Conrad’s wild lunge, how he literally threw himself upon the point of your sword. Wilhelm understands and forgives, and he has sent you this letter.”

  She drew a small grey envelope from her pocket. On the seal were the Imperial Hohenzollern arms. She passed it to him.

  “Leopold,” she whispered, “please read that.”

  He shook his head, although he accepted the letter with reluctant fingers.

  “Leopold again,” he muttered. “It is not for me.”

  “Read the superscription,” she directed.

  He obeyed her. It was addressed in a strange, straggling handwriting to Sir Everard Dominey, Baronet. He broke the seal unwillingly and drew out the letter. It was dated barely a fortnight back. There was neither beginning nor ending; just a couple of sentences scrawled across the thick notepaper:

  “It is my will that you offer your hand in marriage to the Princess Stephanie of Eiderstrom. Your union shall be blessed by the Church and approved by my Court.”

  “Wilhelm.”

  Dominey sat as a man enthralled with silence. She watched him.

  “Not on your knees yet?” she asked, with faint but somewhat resentful irony. “Can it be, Leopold, that you have lost your love for me? You have changed so much and in so many ways. Has the love gone?”

  Even to himself his voice sounded harsh and unnatural, his words instinct with the graceless cruelty of a clown.

  “This is not practical,” he declared. “Think! I am as I have been addressed here, and as I must remain yet for months to come—Everard Dominey, an Englishman and the owner of this house—the husband of Lady Dominey.”

  “Where is your reputed wife?” Stephanie demanded, frowning.

  “In the nursing home where she has been for the last few months,” he replied. “She has already practically recovered. She cannot remain there much longer.”

  “You must insist upon it that she does.”

  “I ask you to consider the suspicions which would be excited by such a course,” Dominey pleaded earnestly, “and further, can you explain to me in what way I, having already, according to the belief of everybody, another wife living, can take advantage of this mandate?”

  She looked at him wonderingly.

  “You make difficulties? You sit there like the cold Englishman whose place you are taking, you whose tears have fallen before now upon my hand, whose lips—”

  “You speak of one who is dead,” Dominey interrupted, “dead until the coming of great events may bring him to life again. Until that time your lover must be dumb.”

  Then her anger blazed out. She spoke incoherently, passionately, dragged his face down to hers and clenched her fist the next moment as though she would have struck it. She broke down with a storm of tears.

  “Not so hard—not so hard, Leopold!” she implored. “Oh! yours is a great task, and you must carry it through to the end, but we have his permission—there can be found a way— we could be married secretly. At least your lips—your arms! My heart is starved, Leopold.”

  He rose to his feet. Her arms were still twined about his neck, her lips hungry for his kisses, her eyes shining up into his.

  “Have pity on me, Stephanie,” he begged. “Until our time has come there is dishonour even in a single kiss. Wait for the day, the day you know of.”

  She unwound her arms and shivered slightly. Her hurt eyes regarded him wonderingly.

  “Leopold,” she faltered, “what has changed you like this? What has dried up all the passion in you? You are a different man. Let me look at you.”

  She caught him by the shoulders, dragged him underneath the electric globe, and stood there gazing into his face. The great log upon the hearth was spluttering and fizzing. Through the closed door came the faint wave of conversation and laughter from outside. Her breathing was uneven, her eyes were seeking to rend the mask from his face.

  “Can you have learned to care for any one else?” she muttered. “There were no women in Africa. This Rosamund Dominey, your reputed wife—they tell me that she is beautiful, that you have been kindness itself to her, that her health has improved since your coming, that she adores you. You wouldn’t dare—”

  “No,” he interrupted, “I should not dare.”

  “Then what are you looking at?” she demanded. “Tell me that?”

  His eyes were following the shadowed picture which had passed out of the room. He saw once more the slight, girlish form, the love-seeking light in those pleading dark eyes, the tremulous lips, the whole sweet appeal for safety from a frightened child to him, the strong man. He felt the clinging touch of those soft fingers laid upon his, the sweetness of those marvellously awakened emotions, so cruelly and drearily stifled through a cycle of years. The woman’s passion by his side seemed suddenly tawdry and unreal, the seeking of her lips for his something horrible. His back was towards the door, and it was her cry of angry dismay which first apprised him of a welcome intruder. He swung around to find Seaman standing upon the threshold—Seaman, to him a very angel of deliverance.

  “I am indeed sorry to intrude, Sir Everard,” the newcomer declared, with a shade of genuine concern on his
round, good-humoured face. “Something has happened which I thought you ought to know at once. Can you spare me a moment?”

  The Princess swept past them without a word of farewell or a backward glance. She had the carriage and the air of an insulted queen. A shade of deeper trouble came into Seaman’s face as he stepped respectfully on one side.

  “What is it that has happened?” Dominey demanded.

  “Lady Dominey has returned,” was the quiet reply.

  Chapter XVII

  It seemed to Dominey that he had never seen anything more pathetic than that eager glance, half of hope, half of apprehension, flashed upon him from the strange, tired eyes of the woman who was standing before the log fire in a little recess of the main hall. By her side stood a pleasant, friendly looking person in the uniform of a nurse; a yard or two behind, a maid carrying a jewel case. Rosamund, who had thrown back her veil, had been standing with her foot upon the fender. Her whole expression changed as Dominey came hastily towards her with outstretched hands.

  “My dear child,” he exclaimed, “welcome home!”

  “Welcome?” she repeated, with a little glad catch in her throat. “You mean it?”

  With a self-control of which he gave no sign, he touched the lips which were raised so eagerly to his as tenderly and reverently as though this were some strange child committed to his care.

  “Of course I mean it,” he answered heartily. “But what possessed you to come without giving us notice? How was this, nurse?”

  “Her ladyship has had no sleep for two nights,” the latter replied. “She has been so much better that we dreaded the thought of a relapse, so Mrs. Coulson, our matron, thought it best to let her have her own way about coming. Instead of telegraphing to you, unfortunately, we telegraphed to Doctor Harrison, and I believe he is away.”

  “Is it very wrong of me?” Rosamund asked, clinging to Dominey’s arm. “I had a sudden feeling that I must get back here. I wanted to see you again. Every one has been so sweet and kind at Falmouth, especially Nurse Alice here, but they weren’t quite the same thing. You are not angry? These people who are staying here will not mind?”

  “Of course not,” he assured her cheerfully. “They will be your guests. Tomorrow you must make friends with them all.”

  “There was a very beautiful woman,” she said timidly, “with red hair, who passed by just now. She looked very angry. That was not because I have come?”

  “Why should it be?” he answered. “You have a right here— a better right than any one.”

  She drew a long sigh of contentment.

  “Oh, but this is wonderful!” she cried. “And you, dear— I shall call you Everard, mayn’t I?—you look just as I hoped you might. Will you take me upstairs, please? Nurse, you can follow us.”

  She leaned heavily on his arm and even loitered on the way, but her steps grew lighter as they approached her own apartment. Finally, as they reached the corridor, she broke away from him and tripped on with the gaiety almost of a child to the door of her room. Then came a little cry of disappointment as she flung open the door. Several maids were there, busy with a refractory fire and removing the covers from the furniture, but the room was half full of smoke and entirely unprepared.

  “Oh, how miserable!” she exclaimed. “Everard, what shall I do?”

  He threw open the door of his own apartment. A bright fire was burning in the grate, the room was warm and comfortable. She threw herself with a little cry of delight into the huge Chesterfield drawn up to the edge of the hearthrug. “I can stay here, Everard, can’t I, until you come up to bed?” she pleaded. “And then you can sit and talk to me, and tell me who is here and all about the people. You have no idea how much better I am. All my music has come back to me, and they say that I play bridge ever so well. I shall love to help you entertain.”

  The maid was slowly unfastening her mistress’s boots. Rosamund held up her foot for him to feel.

  “See how cold I am!” she complained. “Please rub it. I am going to have some supper up here with nurse. Will one of you maids please go down and see about it? What a lot of nice new things you have, Everard!” she added, looking around. “And that picture of me from the drawing-room, on the table!” she cried, her eyes suddenly soft with joy. “You dear thing! What made you bring that up?”

  “I wanted to have it here,” he told her.

  “I’m not so nice as that now,” she sighed, a little wistfully.

  “Do not believe it,” he answered. “You have not changed in the least. You will be better-looking still when you have been here for a few months.”

  She looked at him almost shyly—tenderly, yet still with that gleam of aloofness in her eyes.

  “I think,” she murmured, “I shall be just what you want me to be. I think you could make me just what you want. Be very kind to me, please,” she begged, stretching her arms out to him. “I suppose it is because I have been ill so long, but I feel so helpless, and I love your strength and I want you to take care of me. Your own hands are quite cold,” she added anxiously. “You look pale, too. You’re not ill, Everard?”

  “I am very well,” he assured her, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Forgive me now, won’t you, if I hurry away. There are guests here—rather important guests. Tomorrow you must come and see them all.”

  “And help you?”

  “And help me.”

  ***

  Dominey made his escape and went reeling down the corridor. At the top of the great quadrangular landing he stopped and stood with half-closed eyes for several moments. From downstairs he could hear the sound of pleasantly raised voices, the music of a piano in the distance, the click of billiard balls. He waited until he had regained his self-possession. Then, as he was on the point of descending, he saw Seaman mounting the stairs. At a gesture he waited for him, waited until he came, and, taking him by the arm, led him to a great settee in a dark corner. Seaman had lost his usual blitheness. The good-humoured smile played no longer about his lips.

  “Where is Lady Dominey?” he asked.

  “In my room, waiting until her own is prepared.”

  Seaman’s manner was unusually grave.

  “My friend,” he said, “you know very well that when we walk in the great paths of life I am unscrupulous. In those other hours, alas! I have a weakness.—I love women.”

  “Well?” Dominey muttered.

  “I will admit,” the other continued, “that you are placed in a delicate and trying position. Lady Dominey seems disposed to offer to you the affection which, notwithstanding their troubles together, she doubtless felt for her husband. I risk your anger, my friend, but I warn you to be very careful how you encourage her.”

  A light flashed in Dominey’s eyes. For the moment angry words seemed to tremble upon his lips. Seaman’s manner, however, was very gentle. He courted no offence.

  “If you were to take advantage of your position with—with any other, I would shrug my shoulders and stand on one side, but this mad Englishman’s wife, or rather his widow, has been mentally ill. She is still weak-minded, just as she is tender-hearted. I watched her as she passed through the hall with you just now. She turns to you for love as a flower to the sun after a long spell of cold, wet weather. Von Ragastein, you are a man of honour. You must find means to deal with this situation, however difficult it may become.”

  Dominey had recovered from his first wave of weakness. His companion’s words excited no sentiment of anger. He was conscious even of regarding him with a greater feeling of kindness than ever before.

  “My friend,” he said, “you have shown me that you are conscious of one dilemma in which I find myself placed, and which I must confess is exercising me to the utmost. Let me now advise you of another. The Princess Eiderstrom has brought me an autographed letter from the Kaiser, commanding me to marry her.”

  “The situation,�
�� Seaman declared grimly, “but for its serious side, would provide all the elements for a Palais Royal farce. For the present, however, you have duties below. I have said the words which were thumping against the walls of my heart.”

  Their descent was opportune. Some of the local guests were preparing to make their departure, and Dominey was in time to receive their adieux. They all left messages for Lady Dominey, spoke of a speedy visit to her, and expressed themselves as delighted to hear of her return and recovery. As the last car rolled away, Caroline took her host’s arm and led him to a chimney seat by the huge log fire in the inner hall.

  “My dear Everard,” she said, “you really are a very terrible person.”

  “Exactly why?” he demanded.

  “Your devotion to my sex,” she continued, “is flattering but far too catholic. Your return to England appears to have done what we understood to be impossible—restored your wife’s reason. A fiery-headed Hungarian Princess has pursued you down here, and has now gone to her room in a tantrum because you left her side for a few minutes to welcome your wife. And there remains our own sentimental little flirtation, a broken and, alas, a discarded thing! There is no doubt whatever, Everard, that you are a very bad lot.”

  “You are distressing me terribly,” Dominey confessed, “but all the same, after a somewhat agitated evening I must admit that I find it pleasant to talk with some one who is not wielding the lightnings. May I have a whisky and soda?”

  “Bring me one, too, please,” Caroline begged. “I fear that it will seriously impair the note which I had intended to strike in our conversation, but I am thirsty. And a handful of those Turkish cigarettes, too. You can devote yourself to me with a perfectly clear conscience. Your most distinguished guest has found a task after his own heart. He has got Henry in a corner of the billiard-room and is trying to convince him of what I am sure the dear man really believes himself—that Germany’s intentions towards England are of a particularly dovelike nature. Your Right Honourable guest has gone to bed, and Eddy Pelham is playing billiards with Mr. Mangan. Every one is happy. You can devote yourself to soothing my wounded vanity, to say nothing of my broken heart.”