“Write out the cheque,” he said; “I agree. We shall be at the junction in about ten minutes.”
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE MODERN RICHELIEU
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“So I have found you at last!”
Mr. Sabin looked up with a distinct start from the table where he sat writing. When he saw who his visitor was, he set down his pen and rose to receive her at once. He permitted himself to indulge in a little gesture of relief; her noiseless entrance had filled him with a sudden fear.
“My dear Helène,” he said, placing a chair for her, “if I had had the least idea that you wished to see me, I would have let you know my whereabouts. I am sorry that you should have had any difficulty; you should have written.”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“What does it all mean?” she asked. “Why are you masquerading in cheap lodgings, and why do they say at Kensington that you have gone abroad? Have things gone wrong?”
He turned and faced her directly. She saw then that pale and haggard though he was, his was not the countenance of a man tasting the bitterness of failure.
“Very much the contrary,” he said; “we are on the brink of success. All that remains to be done is the fitting together of my American work with the last of these papers. It will take me about another twenty-four hours.”
She handed across to him a morning newspaper, which she had been carrying in her muff. A certain paragraph was marked.
“We regret to state that Admiral, the Earl of Deringham, was seized yesterday morning with a fit, whilst alone in his study. Dr. Bond, of Harley Street, was summoned at once to a consultation, but we understand that the case is a critical one, and the gravest fears are entertained. Lord Deringham was the greatest living authority upon the subject of our fleet and coast defences, and we are informed that at the time of his seizure he was completing a very important work in connection with this subject.”
Mr. Sabin read the paragraph slowly, and then handed the paper back to Helène.
“Deringham was a very distinguished man,” he remarked, “but he was stark mad, and has been for years. They have been able to keep it quiet, only because he was harmless.”
“You remember what I told you about these people,” Helène said sternly; “I told you distinctly that I would not have them harmed in any way. You were at Deringham Hall on the morning of his seizure. You went straight there from the Lodge.”
“That is quite true,” he admitted; “but I had nothing to do with his illness.”
“I wish I could feel quite certain of that,” Helène answered. “You are a very determined man, and you went there to get papers from him by any means. You proved that you were altogether reckless as to how you got them, by your treatment of Lord Wolfenden. You succeeded! No one living knows by what means!”
He interrupted her with an impatient gesture.
“There is nothing in this worth discussion,” he declared. “Lord Deringham is nothing to you—you never even saw him in your life, and if you really have any misgivings about it, I can assure you that I got what I wanted from him without violence. It is not a matter for you to concern yourself in, nor is it a matter worth considering at all, especially at such a time as the present.”
She sat quite still, her head resting upon her gloved hand. He did not altogether like her appearance.
“I want you to understand,” he continued slowly, “that success, absolute success is ours. I have the personal pledge of the German Emperor, signed by his own hand. To-morrow at noon the compact is concluded. In a few weeks, at the most, the thunderbolt will have fallen. These arrogant Islanders will be facing a great invasion, whose success is already made absolutely sure. And then——”
He paused: his face kindled with a passionate enthusiasm, his eyes were lit with fire. There was something great in the man’s rapt expression.
“Then, the only true, the only sweet battle-cry in the French tongue, will ring through the woods of Brittany, ay, even to the walls of Paris. Vive la France! Vive la Monarchie!”
“France has suffered so much,” she murmured; “do not you who love her so tremble when you think of her rivers running once more red with blood?”
“If there be war at all,” he answered, “it will be brief. Year by year the loyalists have gained power and influence. I have notes here from secret agents in every town, almost in every village; the great heart of Paris is with us. Henri will only have to show himself, and the voice of the people will shout him king! And you——”
“For me,” she interrupted, “nothing! I withdraw! I will not marry Henri, he must stand his chance alone! His is the elder branch—he is the direct heir to the throne!”
Mr. Sabin drew in a long breath between his teeth. He was nerving himself for a great effort. This fear had been the one small, black cloud in the sky of his happiness.
“Helène,” he said, “if I believed that you meant—that you could possibly mean—what you have this moment said, I would tear my compact in two, throw this box amongst the flames, and make my bow to my life’s work. But you do not mean it. You will change your mind.”
“But indeed I shall not!”
“Of necessity you must; the alliance between you and Henri is absolutely compulsory. You unite the two great branches of our royal family. The sound of your name, coupled with his, will recall to the ears of France all that was most glorious in her splendid history. And apart from that, Henri needs such a woman as you for his queen. He has many excellent qualities, but he is weak, a trifle too easy, a trifle thoughtless.”
“He is a dissipated roué,” she said in a low tone, with curling lip.
Mr. Sabin, who had been walking restlessly up and down the room, came and stood over her, leaning upon his wonderful stick.
“Helène,” he said gravely, “for your own sake, and for your country’s sake, I charge you to consider well what you are doing. What does it matter to you if Henri is even as bad as you say, which, mark you, I deny. He is the King of France! Personally, you can be strangers if you please, but marry him you must. You need not be his wife, but you must be his queen! Almost you make me ask myself whether I am talking to Helène of Bourbon, a Princess Royal of France, or to a love-sick English country girl, pining for a sweetheart, whose highest ambition it is to bear children, and whose destiny is to become a drudge. May God forbid it! May God forbid, that after all these years of darkness you should play me false now when the dawn is already lightening the sky. Sink your sex! Forget it! Remember that you are more than a woman—you are royal, and your country has the first claim upon your heart. The dignity which exalts demands also sacrifices! Think of your great ancestors, who died with this prayer upon their lips—that one day their children’s children should win again the throne which they had lost. Their eyes may be upon you at this moment. Give me a single reason for this change in you—one single valid reason, and I will say no more.”
She was silent; the colour was coming and going in her cheeks. She was deeply moved; the honest passion in his tone had thrilled her.
“I would not dare to suggest, even in a whisper, to myself,” he went on, his dark eyes fixed upon her, and his voice lowered, “that Helène of Bourbon, Princess of Brittany, could set a greater price upon the love of a man—and that man an Englishman—than upon her country’s salvation. I would not even suffer so dishonouring a thought to creep into my brain. Yet I will remember that you are a girl—a woman—that is to say, a creature of strange moods; and I remind you that the marriage of a queen entails only the giving of a hand, her heart remains always at her disposal, and never yet has a queen of France been without her lover!”
She looked up at him with burning cheeks.
“You have spoken bitterly to me,” she said, “but from your point of view I have deserved it. Perhaps I have been weak; after all, men are not so very different. They are all ignoble. You are right when you call us women creatures of moods. To-day I should prefer the
convent to marriage with any man. But listen! If you can persuade me that my marriage with Henri is necessary for his acceptance by the people of France, if I am assured of that, I will yield.”
Mr. Sabin drew a long breath of relief, Blanche had succeeded, then. Even in that moment he found time to realise that, without her aid, he would have run a terrible risk of failure. He sat down and spoke calmly, but impressively.
“From my point of view,” he said, “and I have considered the subject exhaustively, I believe that it is absolutely necessary. You and Henri represent the two great Houses, who might, with almost equal right, claim the throne. The result of your union must be perfect unanimity. Now, suppose that Henri stands alone; don’t you see that your cousin, Louis of Bourbon, is almost as near in the direct line? He is young and impetuous, without ballast, but I believe ambitious. He would be almost sure to assert himself. At any rate, his very existence would certainly lead to factions, and the splitting up of nobles into parties. This is the greatest evil we could possibly have to face. There must be no dissensions whatever during the first generation of the re-established monarchy. The country would not be strong enough to bear it. With you married to Henri, the two great Houses of Bourbon and Ortrens are allied. Against their representative there would be no one strong enough to lift a hand. Have I made it clear?”
“Yes,” the girl answered, “you have made it very clear. Will you let me consider for a few moments?”
She sat there with her back half-turned to him, gazing into the fire. He moved back in the chair and went on with his writing. She heard the lightning rush of his pen, as he covered sheet after sheet of paper without even glancing towards her; he had no more to say, he knew very well that his work was done. The influence of his words were strong upon her; in her heart they had awakened some echo of those old ambitions which had once been very real and live things. She set herself the task of fanning them once more with the fire of enthusiasm. For she had no longer any doubts as to her duty. Wolfenden’s words—the first spoken words of love which had ever been addressed to her—had carried with them at the time a peculiar and a very sweet conviction. She had lost faith, too, in Mr. Sabin and his methods. She had begun to wonder whether he was not after all a visionary, whether there was really the faintest chance of the people of her country ever being stirred into a return to their old faith and allegiance. Wolfenden’s appearance had been for him singularly opportune, and she had almost decided a few mornings ago, that, after all, there was not any real bar between them. She was a princess, but of a fallen House; he was a nobleman of the most powerful country in the world. She had permitted herself to care for him a little; she was astonished to find how swiftly that sensation had grown into something which had promised to become very real and precious to her—and then, this insolent girl had come to her—her photograph was in his locket. He was like Henri, and all the others! She despised herself for the heartache of which she was sadly conscious. Her cheeks burned with shame, and her heart was hot with rage, when she thought of the kiss she had given him—perhaps he had even placed her upon a level with the typewriting girl, had dared to consider her, too, as a possible plaything for his idle moments. She set her teeth, and her eyes flashed.
Mr. Sabin, as his pen flew over the paper, felt a touch upon his arm.
“I am quite convinced,” she said. “When the time comes I shall be ready.”
He looked up with a faint, but gratified smile.
“I had no fear of you,” he said. “Frankly, in Henri alone I should have been destitute of confidence. I should not have laboured as I have done, but for you! In your hands, largely, the destinies of your country will remain.”
“I shall do my duty,” she answered quietly.
“I always knew it! And now,” he said, looking back towards his papers, “how about the present? I do not want you here. Your presence would certainly excite comment, and I am virtually in hiding for the next twenty-four hours.”
“The Duchess of Montegarde arrived in London yesterday,” she replied. “I am going to her.”
“You could not do a wiser thing,” he declared. “Send your address to Avon House; to-morrow night or Saturday night I shall come for you. All will be settled then; we shall have plenty to do, but after the labour of the last seven years it will not seem like work. It will be the beginning of the harvest.”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“And your reward,” she said, “what is that to be?”
He smiled.
“I will not pretend,” he answered, “that I have worked for the love of my country and my order alone. I also am ambitious, although my ambition is more patriotic than personal. I mean to be first Minister of France!”
“You will deserve it,” she said. “You are a very wonderful man.”
She walked out into the street, and entered the cab which she had ordered to wait for her.
“Fourteen, Grosvenor Square,” she told the man, “but call at the first telegraph office.”
He set her down in a few minutes. She entered a small post-office and stood for a moment before one of the compartments. Then she drew a form towards her, and wrote out a telegram—
“To Lord Wolfenden,
“Deringham Hall,
“Norfolk.
“I cannot send for you as I promised. Farewell—Helène.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
FOR A GREAT STAKE
“GERMANY’S INSULT TO ENGLAND!
ENGLAND’S REPLY.
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Mobilisation Imminent.
Arming of the Fleet.
War almost Certain!”
Wolfenden, who had bought no paper on his way up from Norfolk, gazed with something approaching amazement at the huge placards everywhere displayed along the Strand, thrust into his cab by adventurous newsboys, flaunting upon every lamp-post. He alighted near Trafalgar Square, and purchased a Globe. The actual facts were meagre enough, but significant when considered in the light of a few days ago. A vacancy had occurred upon the throne of one of England’s far off dependencies. The British nominee had been insulted in his palace by the German consul—a rival, denounced as rebel by the authorities, had been carried off in safety on to a German gunboat, and accorded royal honours. The thing was trivial as it stood, but its importance had been enhanced a thousandfold by later news. The German Emperor had sent a telegram, approving his consul’s action and forbidding him to recognise the new sovereign. There was no possibility of misinterpreting such an action; it was an overt and deliberate insult, the second within a week. Wolfenden read the news upon the pavements of Pall Mall, jostled from right to left by hurrying passers by, conscious too, all the while, of that subtle sense of excitement which was in the air and was visibly reflected in the faces of the crowd. He turned into his club, and here he found even a deeper note of the prevailing fever. Men were gathered around the tape in little clusters, listening to the click click of the instrument, and reading aloud the little items of news as they appeared. There was a burst of applause when the Prime Minister’s dignified and peremptory demand for an explanation eked out about four o’clock in the afternoon—an hour later it was rumoured that the German Ambassador had received his papers. The Stock Exchange remained firm—there was enthusiasm, but no panic. Wolfenden began to wish that he, too, were a soldier, as he passed from one to another of the eager groups of young men about his own age, eagerly discussing the chances of the coming campaign. He walked out into the streets presently, and made his way boldly down to the house which had been pointed out to him as the town abode of Mr. Sabin and his niece. He found it shut up and apparently empty. The servant, who after some time answered his numerous ringings, was, either from design or chance, more than usually stupid. He could not tell where Mr. Sabin was or when he would return—he seemed to have no information whatever as regards the young lady. Wolfenden turned away in despair and walked slowly back towards Pall Mall. At the bottom of Piccadilly he stopped for a m
oment to let a little stream of carriages pass by; he was about to cross the road when a large barouche, with a pair of restive horses, again blocked the way. Attracted by an unknown coronet upon the panel, and the quiet magnificence of the servants’ liveries, he glanced curiously at the occupants as the carriage passed him. It was one of the surprises of his life. The woman nearest to him he knew well by sight; she was the Duchess de Montegarde, one of the richest and most famous of Frenchwomen—a woman often quoted as exactly typical of the old French nobility, and who had furthermore gained for herself a personal reputation for delicate and aristocratic exclusiveness, not altogether shared by her compeers in English society. By her side—in the seat of honour—was Helène, and opposite to them was a young man with a dark, fiercely twisted moustache and distinctly foreign appearance. They passed slowly, and Wolfenden remained upon the edge of the pavement with his eyes fixed upon them.
He was conscious at once of something about her which seemed strange to him—some new development. She leaned back in her seat, barely pretending to listen to the young man’s conversation, her lips a little curled, her own face the very prototype of aristocratic languor! All the lines of race were in her delicately chiselled features; the mere idea of regarding her as the niece of the unknown Mr. Sabin seemed just then almost ridiculous. The carriage went by without her seeing him—she appeared to have no interest whatever in the passers-by. But Wolfenden remained there without moving until a touch on the arm recalled him to himself.
He turned abruptly round, and to his amazement found himself shaking hands vigorously with Densham!
“Where on earth did you spring from, old chap?” he asked. “Dick said that you had gone abroad.”
Densham smiled a little sadly.
“I was on my way,” he said, “when I heard the war rumours. There seemed to be something in it, so I came back as fast as express trains and steamers would bring me. I only landed in England this morning. I am applying for the post of correspondent to the London News.”
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