Chapter Thirty. Reveals the Gulf.

Having been introduced to Mrs Holbrook—a pleasant-fated old lady in a white-laced cap with mauve ribbons—I made excuse to “Miss Stebbing” to leave, and took train a quarter of an hour later back to St. Fillans. From the village post-office I sent an urgent wire to Hartwig to go again to Lower Clapton, see Danilovitch, explain how Her Highness had discovered the plot against her, and assure him that if any attempt were male, proof of his treachery would be placed at once before his “comrades.”

I called at the hotel and inquired for Mr Gregory, but was informed that he was out fishing. But though I lunched there and waited till evening, yet he did not return.

So again I took train back to Lochearnhead, and with the golden sunset flashing upon the loch, climbed the hill path towards Glendevon House—a nearer cut than by the carriage road.

Suddenly, as I turned the corner, I saw two figures going on before me—Natalia and Richard Drury. She wore a darker gown than in the morning, with simple, knockabout country hat, while he had on a rough tweed jacket and breeches. I drew back quickly when I recognised them. His arm was tenderly around her waist as they walked, and he was bending to her, speaking softly, as with slow steps they ascended through the hill-side copse.

Yes, they were indeed a handsome, well-matched pair. But I held, my breath, foreseeing the tragic grief which must ere long arise as the result of that forbidden affection.

Standing well back in the hedge, I gazed after their as with halting steps they went up that unfrequented Scotch by-way, rough and grass-grown. Suddenly they paused, and the man, believing that they were alone, took his well-beloved in his strong embrace, pushed back her hat, and imprinted a warm, passionate kiss upon her white, open brow.

Perhaps it was impolite to watch. I suppose it was; yet my sympathy was entirely with them. I, who had once loved and experienced a poignant sorrow as result, knew well all that they felt at that moment, especially now that the girl, even though an Imperal Princess, was compelled to decide between love and duty.

Unseen, I watched them cling to each other, exchanging fond, passionate caresses. I saw him tenderly push the dark hair from her eyes and again place his hot lips reverently to her brow. He held her small hand, and looking straight into her wonderful eyes, saw truth, honesty and pure affection mirrored there.

They had halted. While the evening shadows fell he had placed his hand lightly upon her shoulder and was whispering in her ear, speaking words of passionate affection, in ignorance that between them, alas! lay a barrier of birth which could never be bridged.

I felt myself a sneak and an eavesdropper; but I assure you it was with no idle curiosity—only because what I had witnessed aroused within me the most intense sorrow, because I knew that only a man’s great grief and a woman’s broken heart could accrue from that most unfortunate attachment.

In all the world I held no girl in greater respect than Natalia, the unconventional daughter of proud Imperial Romanoffs. Indeed, I regarded her with considerable affection, if the truth were told. She had charmed me by her natural gaiety of heart, her disregard for irksome etiquette and her plain outspokenness. She was a typical outdoor girl. What the end of her affection for Dick Drury would be I dreaded to anticipate.

Again he bent, and kissed her upon the lips, her sweet face raised to his, aglow in the crimson sunset.

He had clasped her tenderly to his heart, holding her there in his strong arms, while he rained his hot, fervent kisses upon her, and she stood in inert ecstasy.

Soon the shadows declined, yet the pair still stood there in silent enjoyment of their passionate love, all unconscious of observation. I drew a long breath. Had I not myself long ago drunk the cup of happiness to the very dregs, just as Dick Drury was now drinking it—and ever since, throughout my whole career in those gay Court circles in foreign cities, I had been obsessed by a sad and bitter remembrance. She had married a peer, and was now a great lady in London society. Her pretty face often looked out at me from the illustrated papers, for she was one of England’s leading hostesses, and mentioned daily in the “personal” columns.

Once she had sent me an invitation to a shooting-party at her fine castle in Yorkshire. The irony of it all! I had declined in three lines of formal thanks.

Ah! yes. No man knew the true depths of grief and despair better than myself, therefore, surely, no man was more fitted to sympathise with that handsome couple, clasped at that moment in each other’s arms.

I turned back; I could endure it no longer, foreseeing tragedy as I did.

Descending the hill to the loch-side again, I found the carriage road, and approached the big white house.

I was standing alone in the long, old-fashioned drawing-room, with its bright chintzes and bowls of potpourri, awaiting Mrs Holbrook, when the merry pair came in through the long French windows, from the sloping lawn.

“Why, Uncle Colin!” she gasped, starting and staring at me. “How long have you been here?”

“Only a few moments,” I replied, and then, advancing, I shook Drury’s hand. He looked a fine, handsome fellow in his rough country tweeds.

“So glad to meet you again, Mr Trewinnard,” he said frankly, a smile upon his healthy, bronzed face. “I’ve heard from Miss Gottorp of your long journey across Siberia. You’ve been away months—ever since the beginning of the winter! I’ve always had a morbid longing to see Siberia. It must be a most dreadful place.”

“Well, it’s hardly a country for pleasure-seeking,” I laughed; then changing my tone, I said: “You two have given me a nice fright! I returned to find you both missing, and feared lest something awful had happened to you.”

“Fear of something happening caused us to disappear,” he answered; then he practically repeated what Natalia had told me earlier in the day. “My aunt very kindly offered to put Miss Gottorp up, and I have since lived down at St. Fillans under the name of Gregory.”

I told him of the search in progress in order to discover him. But he declared that a Scotch village or the back streets of a manufacturing town were the safest places in which to conceal oneself.

“But how long do you two intend causing anxiety to your friends?” I asked, glancing from one to the other.

Natalia looked at her lover with wide-open eyes of admiration.

“Who knows?” she asked. “Dick has to decide that.”

“But Miss West and Davey, and all of them at Hove are distracted,” I said, and then, turning to Drury, added, “Your man in Albemarle Street and the people at your offices in Westminster are satisfied that you’ve met with foul play. You certainly ought to relieve their minds by making some sign.”

“I must, soon,” he said. “But meanwhile—” and he turned his eyes upon his well-beloved meaningly.

“Meanwhile, you are both perfectly happy—eh?”

“Now don’t lecture us, Uncle Colin!” cried the little madcap, leaning over the back of a chair and holding up her finger threateningly; and then to Dick she added: “Oh! you don’t know how horrid my wicked uncle can be when he likes. He says such caustic things.”

“When my niece deserves them—and only then,” I assured her lover.

Though Dick Drury was in trade a builder of ships, as his father before him, he was one of nature’s gentlemen. There was nothing of the modern young man, clean-shaven, over-dressed, with turned-up trousers and bright socks. He was tall, lithe, strong, well and neatly dressed as became a man in his station—a man with an income of more than ten thousand a year, as I had already secretly ascertained.

Had not Natalia been of Imperial birth the match would have been a most suitable one, for Dick Drury was decidedly one of the eligibles. But her love was, alas! forbidden, and marriage with a commoner not to be thought of.

They stood together laughing merrily, he bright, pleasant, and all unconscious of her true station, while she, sweet and winning, stood gazing upon him, flushed with pleasure at his presence.

I was describing to Drury the fright I had experienced on arrival in Brighton to find them both missing, whereupon he interrupted, saying:

“I hope you will forgive us in the circumstances, Mr Trewinnard. Miss Gottorp resolved to go into hiding until you returned to give her your advice. Therefore, with my aunt’s kind assistance, we managed to disappear completely.”

“My advice is quickly given,” I said. “After to-night there will be no danger, therefore return and relieve the anxiety of your friends.”

“But how can you guarantee there is no danger?” asked the young man, looking at me dubiously. “I confess I’m at a loss to understand the true meaning of it all—why, indeed, any danger should arise. Miss Gottorp is so mysterious, she will tell me nothing,” he said in a voice of complaint.

For a moment I was silent.

“There was a danger, Drury—a real imminent danger,” I said at last. “But I can assure you that it is now past. I have taken steps to remove it, and hope to-morrow morning to receive word by telegraph that it no longer exists.”

“How can you control it?” he queried. “What is its true nature? Tell me,” he urged.

“No, I regret that I cannot satisfy your curiosity. It is—well—it’s a family matter,” I said; “therefore forgive me if I refuse to betray a confidence reposed in me as a friend of the family. It would not be fair to reveal anything told me in secrecy.”

“Of course not,” he said. “I fully understand, Mr Trewinnard. Forgive me for asking. I did not know that the matter was so entirely confidential.”

“It is. But I can assure you that, holding the key to the situation as I do, and being in a position to dictate terms to Miss Gottorp’s enemies, she need not in future entertain the slightest apprehension. The danger existed, I admit; but now it is over.”

“Then you advise us to return, Uncle Colin?” exclaimed the girl, swaying herself upon the chair.

“Yes—the day after to-morrow.”

“You are always so weirdly mysterious,” she declared. “I know you have something at the back of your mind. Come, admit it.”

“I have only your welfare at heart,” I assured her.

“Welfare!” she echoed, and as her eyes fixed themselves upon me she bit her lips. I knew, alas! the bitter trend of her thoughts. But her lover stood by, all unconscious of the blow which must ere long fall upon him, poor fellow. I pitied him, for I knew how much he was doomed to suffer, loving her so fondly and so well. He, of course, believed her to be a girl of similar social position to himself—a dainty little friend whom he had first met as a rather gawky schoolgirl at Eastbourne, and their friendship had now ripened to love.

“I feel that you, Mr Trewinnard, really have our welfare at heart,” declared the young man earnestly. “I know in what very high esteem Miss Gottorp holds you, and how she has been awaiting your aid and advice.”

“I am her friend, Drury, as I am yours,” I declared. “I am aware that you love each other. I loved once, just as deeply, as fervently as you do. Therefore—I know.”

“But we cannot go south—back to Brighton,” the girl declared. “I refuse.”

“Why?” he asked. “Mr Trewinnard has given us the best advice. You need not now fear these mysterious enemies of yours who seem to haunt you so constantly.”

“Ah!” she cried in a low, wild voice, “you do not know, Dick! You don’t know the truth—all that I fear—all that I suffer—for—for your sake! Uncle Colin knows.”

“For my sake!” he echoed, staring at her. “I don’t quite follow you. What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she exclaimed in a low, hoarse voice, drawing herself up and standing erect, “I mean that you do not know what Uncle Colin is endeavouring to induce me to do—you do not realise the true tragedy of my position.”

“No, I don’t,” was his blunt response, his eyes wide-open in surprise.

“Oh, Dick,” she cried in despair, her voice trembling with emotion, “he speaks the truth when he urges me for my own sake to go south—to return again to Hove. But, alas! if I followed his advice, sound though it is, it would mean that—that to-morrow we should part for ever!”

“Part!” gasped the young man, his face becoming white in an instant. “Why?”

“Because—well, simply because all affection between us is forbidden,” she faltered in a hoarse, half whisper, her beautiful face ashen pale, “because,”—she gasped, still clinging to the back of the chintz-covered chair, “because, although we love each other as passionately and as dearly as we do, we can never marry—never! Between us there exists a barrier—a barrier strong but invisible, that can never be broken—never—until the grave!”