“Whatever happens to us in the future,” Catherine meditated, “we are three strange people, Mark. I, since I left school, have had only one thought—Russia. My life has been given to working for poor exiles, trying to help as many as I could and dreaming that some day she might once more become a great country. And you—your whole life has been spent in trying to be faithful to your father’s legacy. I heard your name years before I ever dreamed of seeing you. It was you who in some mysterious way were to abolish armaments and bring peace into the world. And there is Prince Cheng who, since the days when he left China as a boy and came to the West, has done nothing but build up his great scheme of bringing China back to her place amongst the nations of the world. It was your father who made his dream possible. I like to think the story is true that from your laboratories at Beaumont Park you sent a message of warning to the Mikado that if he touched any American possession his fleet would perish.”
“It is true,” Mark acknowledged. “My father was great enough to realise that he could never convince the world unless he gave them definite proof, but it would have broken his heart had he been alive when the disaster happened. He hated human suffering. They all say that he was never the same man after he realised that he held entirely in his own hands the control over the lives or deaths of millions.”
She shivered as she pushed away her coffee cup and took his arm.
“Finished for the day, Mark,” she cried. “No more horrors. Here we have found our way into the very garden of life and everything is wonderful.”
They walked slowly along the ramparts and back again. They spoke no more of those things which lay beyond their vision. All the throbbing drama of a world in suspense was swept away into the background. She leaned upon his arm and they talked in odd snatches. They breathed in content. They gave themselves up to happiness. Mark had a sudden idea, as they made their way reluctantly back on to the terrace.
“Catherine,” he whispered, leaning down. “Why not here—afterwards? We have our dressing-cases with us.” He waved his hand towards the hotel.
“People do stay here,” he went on. “Many artists I know have lived here for a time.”
“I think it would be the most wonderful thing that ever happened,” she replied.
They found Madame. Monsieur, too, joined the trio. They all trooped upstairs. There was one little suite—two simple, plainly furnished rooms, spotlessly clean, with beds which Madame could assure the world were as good as any in France—a view unsurpassable, air the finest to be had, unless one mounted to the hills where it was still cold. The bathroom between them was a little crude but there was plenty of water. The rooms were promised next week to a great English artist. Till then they were free. The whole affair was arranged in a few minutes. When they left, the dark-visaged chambermaid was setting out Catherine’s toilet things upon the table of the room which she had chosen and Mark’s dressing-case and small trunk, which had been fetched in from the car, had been opened out in the adjoining apartment. Madame was busy filling bowls with flowers, dragging out sheets and towels from her lavender chest. Monsieur had made his way down to the cellar where there remained still a few bottles of a famous vintage, and Mark and Catherine, alone together in Mark’s wonderful Packard coupé, were flying down the zigzag lanes towards the broad main road which led to Nice.
The Consulate in the Boulevard Victor Hugo was looking very gay indeed that afternoon. Both its flags were floating gently in the breeze and two enormous bowls of flowers graced the small landing table. Mr. Haverley, a little flurried and distinctly nervous, was wearing the black-tailed coat of ceremony and had a flower in his buttonhole. A very beautiful nosegay of white roses tied up with white ribbon were in a vase upon his desk. The two clerks who were to act as witnesses each wore a buttonhole. The only dour face in the room was the face of the Russian maid, Nadia, who sat on a hard chair in a corner waiting.
“A long time,” Mr. Haverley remarked to his head clerk, “since we had anything of this sort. Nearly six months, I see,” he went on, turning over the pages of a thick volume which stood upon the desk. “Very simple, though. Quite different from what it used to be. All over in a few minutes. You see where you sign, both of you?”
The clerk nodded. His companion hurried to the door and threw it open. Catherine, in a very becoming grey frock and chinchilla coat, entered the room, a most entrancing vision. Mark, with his hand upon her arm, led her to the desk behind which Mr. Haverley was standing.
“Punctual to the minute, my dear young people,” the latter said, welcoming them. “I am very happy to see you both. I have two of my clerks here for witnesses in case you found any difficulty, Mark.”
The young man smiled.
“That’s very good of you, sir,” he acknowledged. “As a matter of fact, except for the ring, I had forgotten all about these trivial details.”
“I must warn you,” Mr. Haverley went on, “that this is a very prosaic business. Nothing in the nature of a ceremony or anything of that sort. I shall just read a line or two from this book, ask you two simple questions and the whole thing is pretty well over. No need to rush it, you know. If either of you are nervous, for instance, we can gossip for a few minutes.”
Catherine raised her eyes and he saw that what he had taken for a sudden fit of shyness was the one emotion which is unmistakable. It was absolute and blissful happiness which shone out of her eyes.
“I do not think that I am nervous,” she said. “There is no need to wait for me.”
“Or me,” Mark echoed, producing the ring from his waistcoat pocket.
“Very well, then,” the Consul began, reopening the volume which lay on the desk before him. “I shall read to you—”
He broke off and looked towards the slowly opening door with a frown upon his forehead. One of the waiting clerks leaped up and moved across the room. The man who had entered was tall and exceedingly thin. His fine features were wasted as though with illness. He wore a long grey beard. His clothes had seen better days. He had rather the air of a person who was walking in a dream. When the clerk addressed him brusquely he made no sign of having heard. Mr. Haverley leaned forward with an angry exclamation framed upon his lips. It was never uttered. He remained dumb—staring at the new¬comer. Mark followed suit, but the intrusion meant nothing to him. The man was a stranger. Then he looked across the room and saw a queer thing. Nadia, the Russian maid, was on her knees. Catherine at last caught the sense of something unusual. She, too, turned round. A little cry broke from her lips. Before Mark realised what she was about to do she was on her knees with her hands clasped and her head downcast. The newcomer raised his hand and there was something in the droop of his long wasted fingers entirely ecclesiastical. Mr. Haverley was puzzled.
“You wish to attend—er—the ceremony, sir?” he asked.
The other shook his head.
“There must be no ceremony,” he said.
Mark swung round—six foot three of vigorous, passionate manhood. The angry words died away upon his lips, however. The man who had spoken was as tall as he himself, but a thin, wasted figure, a man apparently of great age.
“You, sir,” the stranger continued, “and you others do not know who I am. Permit me to explain. I am the Lord Patriarch and Archbishop of the Greek Church, who escaped from Moscow many years ago by a miracle. Since then I have done what I could to keep my fellow countrymen together. In these later years I have received the help of the Princess Oronoff. Princess, be so kind as to rise to your feet. I am not very strong and it is best for me to say quickly what I have to say.”
Catherine obeyed him, clutching at Mark, who passed his arm around her.
“Father,” she confided, “this is the man whom I have chosen to be my husband.”
“God wills it otherwise, my daughter,” he rejoined. “You are the one hope we, the lost creatures of a struggling race, have of ever returning to our own country, setting up once more our own religion and through that religion relighti
ng the torch of spirituality which, alas, the heathen and unbelievers have trodden underfoot. You, Catherine Oronoff, are consecrated. You can wed with no stranger of any foreign race. You are to wed the Czar of all the Russias. You are in the future—I know it, for I have seen it—you are to be the mother of your country.”
“I cannot,” Catherine faltered. “It is too late, father. I love this man. I can do nothing.”
The Archbishop looked at her wearily, pityingly.
“My poor child,” he said, “what has your earthly love to do with a matter like this? Never any woman for nearly two thousand years was called upon to make so holy a sacrifice. Your hesitation even would be a sin. Pardon me—for one moment I pause.”
Catherine, who was as pale as death, shook her head. It seemed to Mark that her body, which was leaning now towards his for support, was growing colder within his arms.
“You will abandon this marriage, Catherine Oronoff,” the Patriarch continued. “It is not for you, almost the last of your great line, to enter upon a sacred ceremony amidst surroundings such as these. You have been mad. The madness must pass. When you are given in marriage, it will be in the Kremlin to Alexander and you will hear the acclaiming cry of millions in your ears. I shall not live to see that day but it will be soon.”
It seemed to them all that he swayed unsteadily upon his feet. The Russian maid rose from her knees, hurried to him, placed a chair, into which he sank.
“I am a feeble old man, Catherine Oronoff,” he went on. “I rose from my bed when I heard of this terrible thing. When I go back it may be to die, but before I go you must give me your word.”
Catherine’s arms were like ropes around Mark’s neck. She clung to him as though it were his will, his brain, the power of both she needed, as well as his protection.
“I will work for Russia all my days,” she pleaded, “and my husband—he is young, but a famous man. He, too, will help. I will do your bidding in all things save one. I will marry no one but the man I have chosen.”
For a moment or two the situation seemed dissolved. Mr. Haverley leaned forward.
“Archbishop,” he urged, “believe me you have all our sympathy but I suggest to you, sir, that the affair between these two young people has gone too far for interference. They love each other. You cannot ask this young woman to throw away this happiness. After all, you yourself would teach us that marriage is a sacrament and not a bargain. You would do better, sir, if you would wait while I say these few words and afterwards sign the book.”
The Archbishop remained silent. Mark’s voice, as he turned towards him, was unexpectedly gentle.
“Together, I promise you, sir, that Catherine Oronoff and I will do great things for Russia. We will live there if she wishes, and may I be pardoned if I tell you that I am richer than any one of the Czars who ever ruled over the country. Money, I know, counts for nothing in a spiritual sense, but I can bring the farmers back to their homes, I can build up the homes of the peasants, I can replant and re-establish great tracts of the country. I will work side by side with Catherine Oronoff in her cause, for her country, to bring her happiness, but she must be my wife. There must be no interference between us.”
Catherine held out her hands.
“My father,” she prayed, “you have heard what he says. We will keep our word.”
“This marriage,” the Patriarch pronounced slowly, “must not take place.”
There was a brief silence. Then Mr. Haverley turned towards Catherine.
“Princess,” he asked, “is it your wish that we proceed?”
She felt the sudden clutch of Mark’s fingers warming and encouraging her.
“Yes,” she answered.
The Consul looked across the room.
“You hear, sir,” he said. “It is my duty to continue. Your guardianship over this young woman is merely a spiritual one. You have no power to interfere. If you do not wish to withdraw, then I ask you please to refrain from any further interruption.”
Very slowly the intruder rose to his feet. Underneath the frock coat he was wearing was a long black cassock, from whose loose pocket he drew out a small black volume. Catherine’s eyes were fastened upon it, and she began to shiver. Nadia, still on her knees, crossed herself.
“Catherine Oronoff,” the Archbishop began, “if this is to be the last of the sacraments which my lips utter, I shall leave this world feeling indeed that I am forsaken by the Powers above as well as by my children below, yet it is my duty, and I tell it to you. It is my duty to warn you that unless you abandon this marriage, I, in the name of the Holy Church, must place upon you the ban of excommunication. You know the sentence. Am I to read it? Will you thrust this awful task upon a dying man?”
For the first time, Catherine’s arms grew limp. She leaned away from Mark. She covered her face with her hands.
“You must not,” she moaned. “You must not.”
“Leave this room with me, my daughter, then, and tell this young man that the marriage is impossible. Tell him this or I read.”
Catherine swayed irresolutely upon her feet. Mark was standing with folded arms. She made one little movement towards him and stopped. His arms were ready but she shrank back. The Archbishop’s voice, incoherent though it was, seemed to be muttering a prayer. Nadia, who had hastened to her mistress’ side, led her towards the door.
“Catherine,” Mark begged, “you will not leave me—you are not afraid? No man can speak for God—”
“Save only the man whom God has appointed,” the Archbishop interposed solemnly.
Mark took one mad step forward. Mr. Haverley, who had left his place, checked him.
“You had better leave her alone, Mark,” he advised. “You cannot interfere. An old man near death—you cannot tear her away. You must wait. This thing has come as a shock to her. Let her get over it. It would be better—”
They were at the door. Mark took her cold hand, which was hanging limply down, and raised it to his lips.
“You won’t leave me, Catherine!” he implored.
She turned her head. The agony in her face brought tears into his eyes.
“Dear Mark,” she pleaded, “forgive me.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
Table of Contents
IT was twenty minutes past three when Mark pressed the starting button of his car outside the Consulate in the Boulevard Victor Hugo. It was between eight and nine o’clock that night when, with something of the air of a somnambulist, he strode through the corridors of the fast emptying Bureau and found Cheng alone in his private reception room. The latter laid down the map he had been studying and looked at his friend with some concern.
“I am very sorry,” he said.
“To hell with your sorrow!” was the fierce retort.
Cheng shook his head slowly. His eyes were fixed upon Mark, who was scarcely recognisable. His clothes were stained with oil and grease, his hair was wildly dishevelled.
“Nevertheless, I am sorry,” he repeated, and there was perhaps as much feeling in his voice as Mark had ever heard there before.
“It was you who went to the Archbishop?” the latter demanded.
“It was I.”
“If I had met you an hour ago I should have shot you.”
“I do not think so,” Cheng said. “You are a strong man, Mark, and you have a strong man’s passions and a strong man’s anger, but you have also a brain. If I had come between you and Catherine Oronoff—forgive the improbability—as a rival, then we might have fought. It would have been just that we fought. But I did not. Your marriage with Catherine Oronoff would have destroyed one of the props of my scheme—you must not be angry with me if I say our scheme. You will listen one moment, please?” he went on, as though he saw the fierce words framing themselves upon Mark’s lips. “A reborn Russia is necessary if we are to give actual life to the dreams and hopes which we have nourished and cherished together.”
Mark sank into a chair.
“I cannot argue,”
he confessed. “I am weary.”
Cheng touched a concealed bell with his foot.
“You have been in the mountains?”
“Over them—beyond. Smashed my brakes on a mountain track near Sisteron and came down it at a hundred kilometres an hour. I have had a madman’s drive in search of sanity.”
One of Cheng’s Chinese house servants was standing by his master’s chair. He carried a salver in his hand. Cheng motioned him to set it down, and waved him away. He mixed a whisky and soda and carried it with some sandwiches over to Mark.
“You must eat and drink,” he enjoined, “then go to your bath. Your servant is still waiting. To-morrow we will talk. See—it is many years since I have done this. I drink a whisky and soda with you. I ask nothing save that you remember that it was for The Cause.”
Mark ate his sandwiches and took a long draught of his whisky and soda. Cheng raised his glass and there was the glint of a queer little smile—half wistful, half inviting—upon his lips. He waited. Mark, as though with an effort, raised his glass again and drank. Mr. Cheng set his down empty.
“I go to my apartment,” he said. “We talk no more tonight. To-morrow.”
Mark finished his sandwiches. He drank more whisky and soda, then made his way with weary feet to the bathroom. In an hour, he walked through to his sitting-room, in appearance at any rate, a different man. Only a very close observer would have seen those new lines in his face which had not yet disappeared.
“You will dine in, sir?” the servant asked him.
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