“I find this most fascinating,” she murmured. “I hope that Lord Dorminster and his cousin will win. Your sympathies, of course, are on the other side.”
“You are right,” Immelan assented. “My sympathies are on the other side.”
There was a lull in the game for a moment or two. The sun was troublesome, and the players were changing courts. Naida turned towards her companion thoughtfully.
“My friend,” she said, glancing around as though to be sure that they were not overheard, “there are times when you move me to wonder. In the small things as well as the large, you are so unchanging. I think that you would see an Englishman die, whether he were your friend or your enemy, very much as you kick a poisonous snake out of your path.”
“It is quite true,” was the calm reply.
“But America was once your enemy,” she continued, watching Chalmers’ powerful service.
“With America we made peace,” he explained. “With England, never. If you would really appreciate and understand the reason for that undying hatred which I and millions of my fellow countrymen feel, it will cost you exactly one shilling. Go to any stationer’s and buy a copy of the Treaty of Versailles. Read it word by word and line by line. It is the most brutal document that was ever printed. It will help you to understand.”
She nodded slowly.
“Paul always declared,” she said, “that in those days England had no statesmen—no one who could feel what lay beyond the day-by-day horizon. When I think of that Treaty, my friend, I sympathise with you. It is not a great thing to forge chains of hate for a beaten enemy.”
“If you realise this, are you not then our friend?” Immelan asked.
She appeared for a few moments to be engrossed in the tennis. Her companion, however, waited for her answer.
“In a way,” she acknowledged, “I find something magnificent in your wonderfully conceived plans for vengeance, and in the spirit which has evolved and kept them alive through all these years. Then, on the other hand, I look at home, and I ask myself whether you do not make what they would call over here a cat’s-paw of my country.”
“Ours is the most natural and most beneficial of all possible alliances,” Immelan insisted. “Germany and Russia, hand in hand, can dominate the world.”
“I am not sure that it is an equal bargain, though, which you seek to drive with us,” she said. “Germany aims, of course, at world power, but you are still fettered by the terms of that Treaty. You cannot build a great fleet of warships or æroplanes; you cannot train great armies; you cannot lay up for yourselves all the store that is necessary for a successful war. So you bring your brains to Russia, and you ask us to do these things; but Russia does not aim at world power. Russia seeks only for a great era of self-development. She, too, has a mighty neighbour at her gates. I am not sure that your bargain is a fair one.”
“It is the first time that I have heard you talk like this,” Immelan declared, with a little tremor in his tone.
“I have been in England twice during the last few months,” Naida said. “You know very well at whose wish I came, I have been studying the conditions here, studying the people so far as I can. I find them such a kindly race. I find their present Government so unsuspicious, so genuinely altruistic. After all, that Treaty belongs to an England that has passed. The England of to-day would never go to war at all. They believe here that they have solved the problem of perpetual peace.”
Immelan smiled a little bitterly.
“Dear lady,” he said, “if I lose your help, if you go back to Petrograd and talk to Paul Matinsky as you are talking to me, do you know that you will break the heart of a nation?”
She shook her head.
“Paul does not look upon me as infallible,” she protested. “Besides, there are other considerations. And now, please, we will talk of the tennis. I do not know whether it is my fancy, but that man there to your left, in grey, seems to me to be taking an interest in our conversation. He cannot possibly overhear, and he has not glanced once in our direction, yet I have an instinct for these things.”
Immelan glanced in the direction of the stranger,—a quiet-looking, spare man dressed in a grey tweed suit, clean-shaven and of early middle-age. There was nothing about his appearance to distinguish him from a score or more of other loiterers.
“You are quite right,” her companion admitted. “One should not talk of these things even where the birds may listen, but it is so difficult. As for that man, he could not possibly hear, but there might be others. One passes behind on the grass so noiselessly.”
They relapsed into silence. Naida, leaning a little forward, became once more engrossed in the play. Her eyes were fixed upon Nigel. It was his movements which she followed, his strokes which she usually applauded. Immelan sat by her side and watched.
“They are well matched,” he remarked presently.
“Mr. Chalmers has a wonderful service,” she declared, “but Lord Dorminster has more skill. Oh, bravo!”
The set at that moment was finished by a backhanded return from Nigel, which skimmed over the net at a great pace, completely out of reach of the opposing couple. The players strolled across to the seats under the trees. Naida smiled at Nigel, and he came over to her side. Once again he was conscious of that peculiar sense of pleasure and well-being which he felt in her company.
“You play tennis very well, Lord Dorminster,” she said.
“I found inspiration,” he answered.
“In your partner?”
“Maggie is always charming to play with. I was thinking of the onlookers.”
“Mr. Immelan is very interested in tennis,” she remarked, with a smile which challenged him.
“And you?”
“Even more so.”
“Tell me about games in Russia,” he begged, seating himself on the grass by her side.
“We have none,” she replied. “I learnt my tennis at Cannes, where, curiously enough, I saw you play three years ago.”
“You were there then?” he asked with interest.
“For a few days only. We were motoring from Spain to Monte Carlo. Cannes was very crowded, but you see I remembered.”
Her voice seemed to have some lingering charm in it, some curiously potent suggestion of personal interest which stirred his pulses. He looked up and met her eyes. For a moment the world of tennis fields, of pleasant chatter and of holiday-makings, passed away. He rose abruptly to his feet. This time he avoided looking at her.
“You must come over and speak to Maggie,” he begged. “Perhaps Mr. Immelan will spare you for a few moments.”
Immelan bowed, sphinxlike but coldly furious. The two strolled away together.
When the next set was over, Naida, who had rejoined her companion, had disappeared. On one of their vacated chairs was seated the quiet-looking stranger in grey. Chalmers passed his arm through Nigel’s and led him in that direction.
“I want you two to know each other,” he said. “Jesson, this is Lord Dorminster—Mr. Gilbert Jesson—Lord Dorminster.”
The two men shook hands, Nigel a little vaguely. He was at first unable to place this newcomer.
“Mr. Jesson,” Chalmers explained, dropping his voice a little, “was a highly privileged and very much valued member of our Intelligence Department, until he resigned a few months ago. I think that if you could spare an hour or two any time this evening, Dorminster, it would interest you very much to know exactly the reason for Mr. Jesson’s resignation.”
“I should be very pleased indeed,” Nigel replied. “Won’t you both come and dine in Belgrave Square to-night? I was going to ask you, anyhow, Chalmers. Naida Karetsky has promised to come, and my cousin will be hostess.”
“It will give me very great pleasure,” Jesson acquiesced. “You will understand,” he added, “that the information which Mr. Chalmers has just given you concerning myself is entirely confidential.”
Nigel nodded.
“We three will have a little
talk to ourselves afterwards,” he suggested. “At eight o’clock—Number 17, Belgrave Square.”
Jesson strolled away after a little desultory conversation. Chalmers looked after him thoughtfully.
“Harmless-looking chap, isn’t he?” he observed. “Yet I’ll let you in on this, Dorminster: there isn’t another living person who knows so much of what is going on behind the scenes in Europe as that man.”
“Why has he chucked his job, then?” Nigel enquired.
“He will tell you that to-night,” was Chalmers’ quiet reply.
CHAPTER VIII
Table of Contents
“I don’t think I shall marry you, after all,” Maggie announced that evening, as she stood looking at herself in one of the gilded mirrors with which the drawing-room at Belgrave Square was adorned.
“Why not?” Nigel asked, with polite anxiety.
“You are exhibiting symptoms of infidelity,” she declared. “Your flirtation with Naida this afternoon was most pronounced, and you went out of your way to ask her to dine to-night.”
“I like that!” Nigel complained. “Supposing it were true, I should simply be obeying orders. It was you who incited me to devote myself to her.”
“The sacrifices we women make for the good of our country,” Maggie sighed. “However, you needn’t have taken me quite so literally. Do you admire her very much, Nigel?”
He smiled. His manner, however, was not altogether free from self-consciousness.
“Of course I do,” he admitted. “She’s a perfectly wonderful person, isn’t she? Let’s get out of this Victorian environment,” he added, looking around the huge apartment with its formal arrangement of furniture and its atmosphere of prim but faded elegance. “We’ll go into the smaller room and tell Brookes to bring us some cocktails and cigarettes. Chalmers won’t expect to be received formally, and Mademoiselle Karetsky will appreciate the cosmopolitan note of our welcome.”
“We do look a little too domestic, don’t we?” Maggie replied, as she passed through the portière which Nigel was holding up. “I’m not at all sure that I ought to come and play hostess like this, without an aunt or anything. I must think of my reputation. I may decide to marry Mr. Chalmers, and Americans are very particular about that sort of thing.”
“From what I have seen of him, I should think that Chalmers would make you an excellent husband,” Nigel declared, as he rang the bell. “You need a firm hand, and I should think he would be quite capable of using it.”
“You take the matter far too calmly,” she objected. “I can assure you that I am getting peevish. I hate all Russian women with creamy complexions and violet-coloured eyes.”
“They are wonderful eyes,” Nigel declared, after he had given Brookes an order.
Maggie looked at him curiously.
“Naida is for your betters, sir,” she reminded him. “You must not forget that she is to rule over Russia some day.”
“Just at present,” Nigel observed, “Paul Matinsky has a perfectly good wife of his own.”
“An invalid.”
“Invalids always live long.”
“Presidents and emperors can always get divorces,” Maggie insisted, “especially in this irreligious age.”
“Matinsky isn’t that sort,” Nigel said cheerfully. “Even an old gossip like Karschoff calls him a purist, and you yourself have spoken of his principles.”
Maggie shrugged her shoulders.
“All right,” she remarked. “If you are determined to rush into danger, I suppose you must. There is just one more point to be considered, though. I suppose you know that if you succeed any farther with Naida, you will introduce a personal note into our coming struggle.”
“What do you mean?” Nigel demanded.
“Why, Immelan, of course,” she replied. “He’s head over ears in love with Naida. Any one can see that.”
Nigel laughed scornfully.
“My dear child,” he protested, “can you imagine a woman like Naida thinking seriously of a fellow like Immelan?—a scheming, Teutonic adventurer, without even the breeding of his class!”
Maggie laughed softly for several moments.
“My dear Nigel,” she exclaimed, “what a luxury to get at the man of you! I haven’t seen your eyes flash like that for ages. The cocktails, thank goodness! Shake one for me till it froths all the way up the glass, please, and then give me a cigarette.”
Nigel obeyed orders, helped himself, and glanced at the clock as Brookes left the room.
“How nice of you to come half an hour early, Maggie!” he remarked.
She made a little grimace.
“The first time you have noticed it,” she said dolefully. “Do you realise, Nigel, that it is nearly a week since you proposed to me? Apart from your penchant for Naida, don’t you really want to marry me any more?”
He came across the room and stood looking down at her thoughtfully. She was wearing a somewhat daringly fashioned black lace gown, which showed a good deal of her white shoulders and neck. Her brown hair was simply but artistically arranged. She was piquante, alluring, with a provocative smile at the corners of her lips and a challenging gleam in her eyes. The daintiness and femininity of her were enthralling.
“You would make an adorable wife,” he reflected.
“For some one else?”
“An unspeakable proposition,” he assured her.
“You’re very nice-looking, Nigel,” she murmured.
“You’re terribly attractive, Maggie!”
“Then why is it,” she sighed, “that we neither of us want to marry the other?”
“If a serious proposition would really be of interest to you,” he began,—
She made a little grimace.
“You heard them coming,” she interrupted.
The three expected guests arrived almost together, bringing with them, at any rate so far as Chalmers and Naida were concerned, an atmosphere of light-heartedness which was later on to make the little dinner party a complete success. Naida, too, was in black, a gown simpler than Maggie’s but full of distinction. She wore no jewellery except a wonderful string of pearls. Her black hair was brushed straight back from her forehead but drooped a little over her ears. She seemed to bring with her a larger share of girlishness than any of them had previously observed in her, as though she had made up her mind for this one evening to cast herself adrift from the graver cares of life and to indulge in the frivolities which after all were the heritage of her youth. She sat at Nigel’s right hand and plied him with questions as to the lighter side of his life,—his favourite sport, books, and general occupation. She gave evidences of humour which delighted everybody, and Nigel, though he would at times have welcomed, and did his best to initiate, an incursion into more serious subjects, found himself compelled to admire the tact with which she continually foiled him.
“It is a mistake,” she declared once, “to believe that a woman is ever serious unless she is forced to be. All our natural proclivities are towards gaiety. We are really butterflies by instinct, and we are at our best when we are natural. Don’t you agree with me, Maggie?”
“From the bottom of my heart,” Maggie assented. “Nothing but conscience ever induces me to pull a long face and turn my thoughts to serious things. And I haven’t a great deal of conscience.”
“So you see,” Naida continued, smiling up at her host, “when you try to get a woman to talk politics or sociology with you, you are brushing a little of the down off her wings. We really want to be told—other things.”
“I should imagine,” he replied, “that my sex frequently indulged you.”
“Not so much as I should desire,” she assured him. “I have somehow or other acquired an undeserved reputation for brains. In Russia especially, when I meet a stranger, they don’t even look at my frock or the way my hair is done. They plunge instead into a subject of which I know nothing—philosophy or history, or international politics.”
“Do you know nothing
of international politics?” Nigel asked.
“A home thrust,” she declared, laughing. “I suppose that is a subject upon which I have some glimmerings of knowledge. Really not very much, though, but then I have a theory about that. I think sometimes that the clearest judgments are formed by some one who comes a little fresh to a subject, some one who hasn’t been dabbling in it half their lifetime and acquired prejudices. Do you always provide strawberries for your guests, Lord Dorminster? If so, I should like to come and live here.”
“If you will promise to come and live here,” he replied, “I will provide strawberries if I have to start a nursery garden in Jersey.”
“Maggie,” Naida announced across the table, “Lord Dorminster has proposed to me. The matter of strawberries has brought us together. I don’t think I shall accept him. There are no means of making him keep his bargain.”
“He’d make an awfully good husband,” Maggie declared. “If no one else wants me, I shall probably marry him myself some day.”
Naida shook her head.
“Lord Dorminster is more my type,” she declared. “Besides, you have had your chance if you really wanted him. I have a great friend in Russia who prophesies that I shall never marry. That does not please me. I think not to be married is the worst fate that can happen to any woman.”
“The remedy,” Nigel told her, “is in your own hands.”
Jesson, quieter than the others, was still an interesting personality, often intervening with a shrewd remark and listening to the sallies of the others with a humorous gleam in his spectacle-shielded eyes. When at last the girls left them for a time, Nigel led the way at once into the library, where coffee and liqueurs were served.
“I expect the others will find their way here in a few minutes,” he said, as the door closed behind Brookes and his satellite. “You had something to say to me, Chalmers, about Mr. Jesson here.”
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