Chapter Twenty Four. Romance and Reality.

Roddy Redmayne, having returned safely from abroad, was living in quiet seclusion with Guy in apartments in a small, pleasantly situated cottage beyond West Worthing, on the dusty road to Goring. Immediately on his arrival from Hull he had gone to Brighton, but after a few days had taken apartments in the ancient little place, with its old-world garden filled with roses.

Both he and Guy, under assumed names, of course, represented themselves as clerks down from London, spending their summer holidays, and certainly their flannel suits, white shoes, and Panama hats gave them that appearance. Kinder was in hiding in a house up in Newcastle-on-Tyne, having crossed to that port from Antwerp. The Baroness’s jewels, which were a particularly fine lot, had been disposed of to certain agents in Leyden, and therefore Roddy and his friends were in funds, though they gave no sign of wealth to their landlady, the thrifty wife of a cab proprietor.

It was a very pleasant little cottage, standing quite alone, and as the two men were the only lodgers they were quite free to do as they liked. The greater part of the day they smoked and read under the trees in the big, old-fashioned garden, and at evening would walk together into Worthing, and generally met Claire upon the pier.

“Madame,” as they called her, went with Leucha several times and lunched with them at the little place, while once or twice they had had the honour of dining at her table, when they had found her a most charming hostess. Both men tried to do all they could to render her what little services lay in their power, and each day they sent her from the florist’s large bunches of tea-roses, her favourite flowers. Little Ignatia was not forgotten, for they sent her dolls and toys.

Claire’s life was now at last calm and peaceful, with her three strange friends. Leucha was most attentive to Ignatia, and took her each morning for a run with bare feet upon the sands, while the two men who seldom, if ever, went out before dusk, generally met her and walked with her after dinner beside the sea.

Often, when alone, she wondered how her husband fared at Treysa, and how Carl was enduring the broiling heat of the long, thirsty Italian summer. Where was that traitress, the Trauttenberg, and what, she wondered, had become of those two faithful servants, Allen and Henriette? Her past unhappiness at Treysa sometimes arose before her like some hideous but half-remembered dream. In those days she lived among enemies, but now she was with friends, even though they might be outlawed from society. With all her timid flexibility and soft acquiescence Claire was not weak; for the negative alone is weak, and the mere presence of goodness and affection implies in itself a species of power, power with repose—that soul of grace.

Many a pleasant stroll after sundown she took with the courtly old adventurer, who looked quite a gay old dog in his flannels and rakish Panama pulled down over his eyes; or with Guy, who dressed a trifle more quietly. The last-named, however, preferred, of course, the society of Leucha, and frequently walked behind with her. Claire treated Roddy’s daughter more as an equal than as a dependant—indeed, treated her as her lady-in-waiting, to fetch and carry for her, to tie her veil, to button her gloves, and to perform the thousand and one little services which the trained lady-in-waiting does so deftly and without ceremony.

Though at first very strange to the world, Claire was now beginning to realise its ways, and to enjoy and appreciate more and more the freedom which she had at last gained. She delighted in those evening walks beneath the stars, when they would rest upon a seat, listening to the soft music of the sea, and watching the flashing light of the Owers and the bright beacon on Selsea Bill.

Yes, life in the obscurity of Worthing was indeed far preferable to the glare and glitter of the Court at Treysa. The people in the town—shopkeepers and others—soon began to know Madame Bernard by sight, and so many were her kindly actions that the common people on the promenade—cabmen, baggage-porters, bath-chair men, and the like—touched their hats to her in respect, little dreaming that the beautiful, sweet-faced foreigner with the pretty child was actually queen of a German kingdom.

As the summer days went by, and the two men met her each evening at the entrance to the pier, she could not close her eyes to the fact that the affection between Guy and Leucha had increased until it now amounted to a veritable passion. They loved each other both truly and well, yet what could be done? There was, alas! the ghastly barrier of want between them—a barrier which, in this cruel, hard world of ours, divides so many true and loving hearts.

And as those peaceful summer days went by, the two strangers, a man and a woman, who lived at separate hotels, and only met on rare occasions, were ever watchful, noting and reporting the Queen’s every action, and keeping close observation upon the two men who were living at that rose-embowered cottage in calm ignorance of the dastardly betrayal that was being so ingeniously planned.

One evening, just before she sat down to dinner, the maidservant handed her a letter with a Belgian stamp, and opening it, she saw that enclosed was a communication from the faithful Steinbach.

She tore open the envelope with breathless eagerness, and read as follows:—

“Your Majesty.—In greatest haste I send you warning to acquaint you with another fresh conspiracy, the exact nature of which I am at present unaware. Confidential papers have, however, to-day passed through my hands in the Ministry—a report for transmission to Crispendorf, in London. This report alleges that you are unduly friendly with a certain Englishman named Guy Bourne, said to be living in the town of Worthing, in the county of Sussex. This is all I can at present discover, but it will, I trust, be sufficient to apprise you that your enemies have discovered your whereabouts, and are still seeking to crush you. The instant I can gather more I will report further. Your Majesty’s most humble and obedient servant.—S.”

She bit her lip. Then they had discovered her, and, moreover, were trying now to couple her name with Bourne’s! It was cruel, unjust, inhuman. In such a mind as hers the sense of a cruel injury, inflicted by one she had loved and trusted, without awakening any violent anger or any desire of vengeance, sank deep—almost incurably and lastingly deep.

Leucha, who entered the room at that moment, noticed her grave expression as she held the letter in her hand, but was silent.

The tender and virtuous woman re-read those fateful lines, and reflected deeply. Steinbach was faithful to her, and had given her timely warning. Yes, she had on many occasions walked alone with Guy along the promenade, and he had, unseen by any one, kissed her hand in homage of her royal station. She fully recognised that, unscrupulous liars as her enemies were, they might start another scandal against her as cruel as that concerning Carl Leitolf.

She had little appetite for dinner but afterwards, when she went out with Leucha into the warm summer’s night, and, as usual, they met the two men idling near the pier, she took Guy aside and walked with him at some distance behind Roddy and his daughter.

At first their conversation was as usual, upon the doings of the day. She gave him permission to smoke, and he lit his cigar, the light of the match illuminating his face.

It was a delightful August night, almost windless, and with a crescent moon and calm sea, while from the pier there came across the waters the strains of one of the latest waltzes. She was dressed all in white, and Guy, glancing at her now and then, thought he had never seen her looking more graceful and beautiful. Nevertheless her Imperial blood betrayed itself always in her bearing, even on those occasions when she had disguised herself in her maid’s gowns.

Presently, when father and daughter were some distance ahead, she turned to him and, looking into his countenance, said very seriously,—

“Much as I regret it, Mr Bourne, our very pleasant evenings here must end. This is our last walk together.”

“What! Madame!” he exclaimed. “Are you leaving?” and he halted in surprise.

“I hardly know yet,” she replied, just a trifle confused, for she hesitated to tell the cruel truth to this man who had once risked his life for hers. “It is not, however, because I am leaving, but our parting is imperative, because—well—for the sake of both of us.”

“I don’t quite follow your Majesty,” he said, looking inquiringly at her. They were quite alone, at a spot where there were no promenaders.

“No,” she sighed. “I expect not. I must be more plain, although it pains me to be so. The fact is that my enemies at Court have learnt that we are friends, and are now endeavouring to couple our names—you and I. Is it not scandalous—when you love Leucha?”

“What!” he cried, starting back amazed. “They are actually endeavouring to again besmirch your good name! Ah! I see! They say that I am your latest lover—eh? Tell me the truth,” he urged fiercely. “These liars say that you are in love with me! They don’t know who I am,” he laughed bitterly. “I, a thief—and you, a sovereign!”

“They are enemies, and will utter any lies to create scandal concerning me,” she said, with quiet resignation. “For that reason we must not be seen together. To you, Mr Bourne, I owe my life—a debt that I fear I shall never be able to sufficiently repay. Mr Redmayne and yourself have been very kind and generous to me, a friendless woman, and yet I am forced by circumstances to withdraw my friendship because of this latest plot conceived by the people who have so ingeniously plotted my ruin. As you know, they declared that Count Leitolf was my lover, but I swear before God that he was only my friend—my dear, devoted friend, just as I believe that you yourself are. And yet,” she sighed, “it is so very easy to cast scandal against a woman, be she a seamstress or of the blood royal.”

“I am certainly your devoted friend,” the man declared in a clear, earnest tone. “You are misjudged and ill-treated, therefore it is my duty as a man, who, I hope, still retains some of the chivalry of a gentleman, to stand your champion.”

“In this, you, alas! cannot—you would only compromise me,” she declared, shaking her head sadly.

“We must part. You and Mr Redmayne are safe here. Therefore I shall to-morrow leave Worthing.”

“But this is dastardly!” he cried in fierce resentment. “Are you to live always in this glass house, for your enemies to hound you from place to place, because a man dares to admire your beauty? What is your future to be?”

She fixed her calm gaze upon him in the pale moonlight.

“Who can tell?” she sighed sadly. “For the present we must think only of the present. My enemies have discovered me, therefore it is imperative that we should part. Yet before doing so I want to thank you very much for all the services you and Mr Redmayne have rendered me. Rest assured that they will never be forgotten—never.”

Roddy and Leucha had seated themselves upon a seat facing the beach, and they were now slowly approaching them.

“I hardly know how to take leave of you,” Guy said, speaking slowly and very earnestly. “You, on your part, have been so good and generous to Leucha and myself. If these scandalmongers only knew that she loved me and that I reciprocated her affection, they surely would not seek to propagate this shameful report concerning us.”

“It would make no difference to them,” she declared in a low, hoarse voice of grief. “For their purposes—in order that I shall be condemned as worthless, and prevented from returning to Treysa—they must continue to invent their vile fictions against my honour as a woman.”

“The fiends!” he cried fiercely. “But you shall be even with them yet! They fear you—and they shall, one day, have just cause for their fears. We will assist you—Roddy and I. We will together prove your honesty and innocence before the whole world.”

They gained the seat whereon Leucha and her father were sitting, and Claire sat down to rest before the softly sighing sea, while her companion stood, she having forgotten to give him permission to be seated. She was so unconventional that she often overlooked such points, and, to her intimate friends, would suddenly laugh and apologise for her forgetfulness.

While all four were chatting and laughing together—for Roddy had related a droll incident he had witnessed that day out at Goring—there came along the sea-path two figures of men, visitors like themselves, judging from their white linen trousers and straw hats. Their approach was quite unnoticed until of a sudden they both halted before the group, and one of them, a brown-bearded man, stepping up to the younger man, said, in a stern, determined voice,—

“I identify you as Guy Bourne. I am Inspector Sinclair of the Criminal Investigation Department, and I hold a warrant for your arrest for jewel robbery!” Claire gave vent to a low cry of despair, while Leucha sprang up and clung to the man she loved. But at that same instant three other men appeared out of the deep shadows, while one of them, addressing Roddy, who in an instant had jumped to his feet, said,—

“I’m Detective-sergeant Plummer. I identify you as Roddy Redmayne, alias Scott-Martin, alias Ward. I arrest you on a charge of jewel robbery committed within the German Empire. Whatever statement you may make will be used in evidence against you on your trial.” Both men were so utterly staggered that neither spoke a word. Their arrest had been so quickly and quietly effected that they had no opportunity to offer resistance, and even if they had they would have been outnumbered.

Roddy uttered a fierce imprecation beneath his breath, but Guy, turning sadly to Claire, merely shrugged his shoulders, and remarked bitterly,—

“It is Fate, I suppose!”

And the two men were compelled to walk back with a detective on either side of them, while Leucha, in a passion of tears, crushed and heart-broken, followed with her grave-faced mistress—a sad, mournful procession.

Claire spoke to them both—kind, encouraging words, urging them to take courage—whereupon one of the detectives said,—

“I really think it would be better if you left us, madam.” But she refused, and walked on behind them, watched from a distance by the German agent Stieger and Rose Reinherz, and, alas! in ignorance of the vile, despicable plot of Hinckeldeym—the plot that was to ruin her for ever in the eyes of her people.