Chapter Twenty One. Love and “The Ladybird.”

Re-entering the room she found herself alone, Leucha having gone downstairs into the garden to walk with Ignatia. Therefore she drew the letter from her pocket and re-read it.

“Dearest Heart,” he wrote,—“To-night the journals in Rome are publishing the news of the King’s death, and I write to you as your Majesty—my Queen. You are my dear heart no longer, but my Sovereign. Our enemies have again libelled us. I have heard it all. They say that we left Treysa in company, and that I am your lover; foul lies, because they fear your power. The Tribuna and the Messagero have declared that the King contemplates a divorce; yet surely you will defend yourself. You will not allow these cringing place-seekers to triumph, when you are entirely pure and innocent? Ah, if his Majesty could only be convinced of the truth—if he could only see that our friendship is platonic; that since the clay of your marriage no word of love has ever been spoken between us! You are my friend—still my little friend of those old days at dear old Wartenstein. I am exiled here to a Court that is brilliant though torn by internal intrigue, like your own. Yet my innermost thoughts are ever of you, and I wonder where you are and how you fare. The spies of Hinckeldeym have, I hope, not discovered you. Remember, it is to that man’s interest that you should remain an outcast.

“Cannot you let me know, by secret means, your whereabouts? One word to the Embassy, and I shall understand. I am anxious for your sake. I want to see you back again at Treysa with the scandalous Court swept clean, and with honesty and uprightness ruling in place of bribery and base intrigue. Do not, I beg of you, forget your duty to your people and to the State. By the King’s death the situation has entirely changed. You are Queen, and with a word may sweep your enemies from your path like flies. Return, assert your power, show them that you are not afraid, and show the King that your place is at his side. This is my urgent advice to you as your friend—your oldest friend.

“I am sad and even thoughtful as to your future. Somehow I cannot help thinking that wherever you are you must be in grave peril of new scandals and fresh plots, because your enemies are so utterly unscrupulous. Rome is as Rome is always—full of foreigners, and the Corso bright with movement. But the end of the season has come. The Court moves to Racconigi, and we go, I believe, to Camaldoli, or some other unearthly hole in the mountains, to escape the fever. I shall, however, expect a single line at the Embassy to say that my Sovereign has received my letter. I pray ever for your happiness. Be brave still, and may God protect you, dear heart.—Carl.”

Tears sprang to her beautiful eyes as she read the letter of the man who was assuredly her greatest friend—the man whom the cruel world so erroneously declared to be her lover.

The red afterglow from over the sea streamed into the room as she sat with her eyes fixed away on the distant horizon, beyond which lay the wealthy, picturesque kingdom over which she was queen.

Leucha entered, and saw that she was triste and thoughtful, but, like a well-trained maid, said nothing. Little Ignatia was already asleep after the journey, and dinner would be served in half an hour.

“I hope Madame will like Worthing,” the maid remarked presently, for want of something else to say. She had dropped the title of Majesty, and now addressed her mistress as plain “Madame.”

“Delightful—as far as I have seen,” was the reply. “More rural than Hastings, it appears. To-morrow I shall walk on the pier, for I’ve heard that it is the correct thing to do at an English watering-place. You go in the morning and after dinner, don’t you?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Mr Bourne did well to suggest this place. I don’t think we shall ever be discovered here.”

“I hope not,” was Leucha’s fervent reply. “Yet what would the world really say, I wonder, if it knew that you were in hiding here?”

“It would say something against me, no doubt—as it always does,” she answered, in a hard voice; and then she recollected Steinbach’s serious warning.

Dinner came at last, the usual big English joint and vegetables, laid in that same room. The housemaid, in well-starched cap, cuffs, and apron, was a typical seaside domestic, who had no great love for foreigners, because they were seldom lavish in the manner of tips. An English servant, no matter of what grade, reflects the same askance at the foreigner as her master exhibits. She regards all “forriners” as undesirables.

“Madame” endeavoured to engage the girl in conversation, but found her very loath to utter a word. Her name was Richards, she informed the guest, and she was a native of Thrapston, in Northamptonshire.

The bright, sunny days that followed Claire found most delightful. Leucha took little Ignatia down to the sea each morning, and in the afternoon, while the child slept, accompanied her mistress upon long walks, either along the sea-road or through the quiet Sussex lanes inland, now bright in the spring green. The so-called season at Worthing had not, of course, commenced; yet there were quite a number of people, including the “week-enders” from London, the people who came down from town “at reduced fares,” as the railway company ingeniously puts it—an expression more genteel than “excursion.” She hired a trap, and drove with Leucha to Steyning, Littlehampton, Shoreham, those pretty lanes about Amberley, and the quaint old town of Arundel, all of which highly interested her. She loved a country life, and was never so happy as when riding or driving, enjoying the complete freedom that now, for the first time in her life, was hers.

Weeks crept by. Spring lengthened into summer, and Madame Bernard still remained in Worthing, which every day became fuller of visitors, mostly people from London, who came down for a fortnight or three weeks to spend their summer holiday. And with Leucha she became more friendly, and grew very fond of her.

She had written to Leitolf the single line of acknowledgment, and sent it to the Austrian Embassy in Rome, enclosing it in the official envelope which he had sent her, in order to avoid suspicion. To Steinbach too she had written, urging him to keep her well-informed regarding the undercurrent of events at Court.

In reply he had sent her other reports which showed most plainly that, even though the King might be contemplating an adjustment of their differences in order that she might take her place as Queen, her enemies were still actively at work in secret to complete her ruin. Up to the present, however, the spies of Hinckeldeym had entirely failed to trace her, and their cruel story that she was in Rome had on investigation turned out to be incorrect. Her enemies were thus discomfited.

In the London papers she read telegrams from Treysa—no doubt inspired by her enemies—which stated that the King had already applied to the Ministry of Justice for a divorce, and that the trial was to be heard in camera in the course of a few weeks.

Should she now reveal her whereabouts? Should she communicate with her husband and deny the scandalous charges before it became too late? By her husband’s accession her position had been very materially altered. Her duty to the country of her adoption was to be at her husband’s side, and assist him as ruler. Not that she regretted for one single instant leaving Treysa. She had not the slightest desire to re-enter that seething world of intrigue; it was only the call of duty which caused her to contemplate it. At heart, indeed, if the truth were told, she still retained a good deal of affection for the man who had treated her so brutally. When her mind wandered back to the early days of her married life and the sweetness of her former love, she recollected that he possessed many good traits of character, and felt convinced that only the bitterness of her enemies had aroused the demon jealousy within him and made him what he had now become.

If she were really able to clear herself of the stigma now upon her, there might, after all, be a reconciliation—if not for her own sake, then for the sake of the little Princess Ignatia.

These were the vague thoughts constantly in her mind during those warm days which passed so quietly and pleasantly before the summer sea.

Ignatia was often very inquisitive. She asked her mother why they were there, and begged that Allen might come back. From Leucha she was learning to speak English, but with that Cockney twang which was amusing, for the child, of course, imitated the maid’s intonation and expression.

One calm evening, when Ignatia had gone to bed and they were sitting together in the twilight upon a seat before the softly-lapping waves up at the west end of the town, Leucha said,—

“To-day I heard from father. He is in Stockholm, and apparently in funds. He arrived in Sweden from Hamburg on the day of writing, and says he hopes in a few days to visit us here.”

Claire guessed by what means Roddy Redmayne had replenished his funds, but made no remark save to express pleasure at his forthcoming visit. From Stockholm to Worthing was a rather far cry, but with Roddy distance was no object. He had crossed the Atlantic a dozen times, and was, indeed, ever on the move up and down Europe.

“Guy has also left London,” “the Ladybird” said. “He is in Brighton, and would like to run over and call—if Madame will permit it.”

“To call on you—eh, Leucha?” her royal mistress suggested, with a kindly smile. “Now tell me quite truthfully. You love him, do you not?”

The girl flushed deeply.

“I—I love him!” she faltered. “Whatever made you suspect that?”

“Well, you know, Leucha, when one loves one cannot conceal it, however careful one may be. There is an indescribable look which always betrays both man and woman. Therefore you may as well confess the truth to me.”

She was silent for a few moments.

“I do confess it,” she faltered at last, with downcast eyes. “We love each other very fondly; but, alas, ours is a dream that can never be realised! Marriage and happiness are not for such as we,” she added, with a bitter sigh.

“Because you have not the means by which to live honestly?” Claire replied, in a voice of deep, heartfelt sympathy, for she had become much attached to the girl.

“That is exactly the difficulty, madame,” was the lady’s maid’s reply. “Both Guy and myself hate this life of constant scheming and of perpetual fear of discovery and arrest. He is a thief by compulsion, and I an assistant because I—well, I suppose I was trained to it so early that espionage and investigation come to me almost as second nature.”

“And yet you can work—and work extremely well,” remarked her royal mistress, with a woman’s tenderness of heart. “I have had many maids from time to time, in Vienna and at Treysa, but I tell you quite openly that you are the handiest and neatest of them all. It is a pity—a thousand pities—that you lead the life of an adventuress, for some day, sooner or later, you must fall into the hands of the police, and after that—ruin.”

“I know,” sighed the girl; “I know—only too well. Yet what can I do? Both Guy and I are forced to lead this life because we are without means. And again, I am very unworthy of him,” she added, in a low, despondent tone. “Guy is, after all, a gentleman by birth; while I, ‘the Ladybird’ as they call me, am merely the daughter of a thief.”

“And yet, Leucha, you are strangely unlike other women who are adventuresses. You love this man both honestly and well, and he is assuredly one worthy a woman’s love, and would, under other circumstances, make you a most excellent husband.”

“If we were not outlaws of society,” she said. “But as matters are it is quite hopeless. When one becomes a criminal, one must, unfortunately, remain a criminal to the end. Guy would willingly cut himself away from my father and the others if it were at all possible. Yet it is not. How can a man live and keep up appearances when utterly without means?”

“Remain patient, Leucha,” Claire said reassuringly. “One day you may be able to extricate yourselves—both of you. Who knows?”

But the girl with the dark eyes shook her head sadly, and spoke but little on their walk back to the house.

“Ah, Leucha,” sighed the pale, thoughtful woman whom the world so misjudged, “we all of us have our sorrows, some more bitter than others. You are unhappy because you are an outlaw, while I am unhappy because I am a queen! Our stations are widely different; and yet, after all, our burden of sorrow is the same.”

“I know all that you suffer, madame, though you are silent,” exclaimed the girl, with quick sympathy. “I have never referred to it, because you might think my interference impertinent. Yet I assure you that I reflect upon your position daily, hourly, and wonder what we can do to help you.”

“You have done all that can be done,” was the calm, kind response. “Without you I should have been quite lost here in England. Rest assured that I shall never forget the kindnesses shown by all of you, even though you are what you are.”

She longed to see the pair man and wife, and honest; yet how could she assist them?

Next evening, Guy Bourne, well-dressed in a grey flannel suit and straw hat, and presenting the appearance of a well-to-do City man on holiday, called upon her, and was shown up by the servant.

The welcome he received from both mistress and maid was a warm one, and as soon as the door was closed he explained,—

“I managed to get away from London, even though I saw a detective I knew on the platform at London Bridge. Very fortunately he didn’t recognise me. I’ve found a safe hiding-place in Brighton, in a small public-house at the top of North Street, where lodgers of our peculiar class are taken in. Roddy is due to arrive at Hull to-day. With Harry and two others, he appears to have made a fine haul in Hamburg, and we are all in funds again, for which we should be truly thankful.”

“To whom did the stuff belong?” Leucha inquired.

“To that German Baroness in whose service you were about eight months ago—Ackermann, wasn’t the name? You recollect, you went over to Hamburg with her and took observation.”

“Yes, I remember,” answered “the Ladybird” mechanically; and her head dropped in shame.

Little Ignatia came forward, and in her sweet, childish way made friends with the visitor, and later, leaving Leucha to put the child to bed, “Madame Bernard” invited Guy to stroll with her along the promenade. She wished to speak with him alone.

The night was bright, balmy, and starlit, the coloured lights on the pier giving a pretty effect to the picture, and there were a good many promenaders.

At first she spoke to him about Roddy and about his own dull, cheerless life now that he was in such close hiding. Then, presently, when they gained the seat where she had sat with “the Ladybird” on the previous evening, she suddenly turned to him, saying,—

“Mr Bourne, Leucha has told me the truth—that you love each other. Now I fully recognise the tragedy of it all, and the more so because I know it is the earnest desire of both of you to lead an honest, upright life. The world misjudges most of us. You are an outlaw and yet still a gentleman, while she, though born of criminal parents, yet has a heart of gold.”

“Yes, that she has,” he asserted quickly. “I love her very deeply. To you I do not deny it—indeed, why should I? I know that we both possess your Majesty’s sympathy.” And he looked into her splendid eyes in deep earnestness.

“You do. And more. I urge you not to be despondent, either of you. Endeavour always to cheer her up. One day a means will surely be opened for you both to break these hateful trammels that bind you to this unsafe life of fraud and deception, and unite in happiness as man and wife. Remember, I owe you both a deep debt of gratitude; and one day, I hope, I may be in a position to repay it, so that at least two loving hearts may be united.” Though crushed herself, her great, generous heart caused her to seek to assist others.

“Ah, your Majesty!” he cried, his voice trembling with emotion as, springing up, he took her hand, raising it reverently to his lips. “How can I thank you sufficiently for those kind, generous words—for that promise?”

“Ah!” she sighed, “I myself, though my position may be different to your own, nevertheless know what it is to love, and, alas! know the acute bitterness of the want of love.”

Then a silence fell between them. He had reseated himself, his manly heart too full for words. He knew well that this woman, whose unhappiness was even tenfold greater than his own, was his firm and noble friend. The world spoke ill of her, and yet she was so upright, so sweet, so true.

And while they sat there—he, a thief, still holding the soft white hand that he had kissed with such reverence—a pair of shrewdly evil eyes were watching them out of the darkness and observing everything.

At midnight, when he returned to Brighton, the secret watcher, a hard-faced, thin-nosed woman, slight, narrow-waisted, rather elegantly dressed in deep mourning, travelled by the same train, and watched him to his hiding-place; and having done so, she strolled leisurely down to the King’s Road, where, upon the deserted promenade, she met a bent, wizened-faced, little old man, who was awaiting her.

With him she walked up and down until nearly one o’clock in the morning, engaged in earnest conversation, sometimes accompanied by quick gesticulation.

And they both laughed quietly together, the old man now and then shrugging his shoulders.