The dangerous game
Darville’s absence, nodded seriously, and said:
“Yes, sir, I quite agree. The whole situation is full of peril.”
“It is,” sighed Darville, who at once set himself to scribble his
signature to that pile of documents before him.
“Is there anything else that I should read?” he asked, after he had
taken up his fountain pen.
“No, sir, nothing. They only require your signature or authority. I
have dealt with the applications for instructions in your absence.”
“Yes, Bennett, always do so. I--well, I’m getting a bit tired of it, I
confess the truth. Act as you think fit whenever I am away. I know I
can rely implicitly upon you. I shall be in Switzerland shortly. I
want you to carry on in my absence, and come out to me in secret every
fourteen days.”
“Winter sports, as usual?” asked the clean-shaven, Secret Service
official.
“Yes. At Wengen, as before. You get up there from Lauterbrunnen. You
know the place, for you came out twice to me last winter.”
“Oh, yes,” laughed the faithful Bennett, “of course. I know the little
railway station, and the train which climbs around the mountain and
through those wonderful tunnels up to the Jungfraujoch. It is really
lovely there in winter.”
CHAPTER XV.
THE SECRET OUT
When, a quarter of an hour later, Darville let his secretary out and
rejoined Edris, he found her glancing at one of his books, which she
had taken from the long case at the end of the room.
“Oh, by the way,” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering, “I’ve never
shown you those snapshots I took when I returned to Switzerland last
April.” And from a drawer he took out a large envelope containing a
quantity of loose photographs.
“As you know, I went up the Kander Valley to Kandersteg, and to
Abelboden, and on to Brigue.”
“You were at Interlaken, also,” she added. “I wrote to you at the
Hotel du Lac, but you never replied,” she added reprovingly.
“I was traveling a great deal, and I fear I often neglect my
correspondence very sadly,” he said in lame excuse.
He drew two chairs to the round, polished table, and, after they had
seated themselves, he placed the pictures before her one after
another, explaining each. With him had traveled a Mr. Norman Gale, a
personal friend, who was a representative of that world-wide
organization that protects and assists travelers in every part of the
globe, Messrs. Thomas Cook & Son. Mr. Gale, who was known to Edris,
appeared in most of the snapshots.
One snapshot he passed by as without interest to her. It was the
picture of a smart, well-set-up young man of thirty, evidently a
foreigner, and had been taken at the edge of one of the Swiss lakes.
“Who’s that?” she asked, taking it up and looking at it. “He’s rather
nice! Is he Swiss?”
“Oh, that’s Karl Weiss, a friend of mine. Yes, he’s Swiss, and quite a
charming fellow.”
“He looks very English,” she remarked.
“He speaks English quite well,” Darville said. “But he has rather the
appearance of a German officer. He is a good climber and an expert
ski-er.”
“I’d like to meet him, if he climbs,” Edris said. “You know how I
adore mountain-climbing. I’m dying to be taught how to cut steps in
glaciers, and all that kind of mountain craft.”
“Climbing is too dangerous a sport for a woman,” he remarked.
“Not if you have a good guide and an expert male companion, as you say
your friend is.”
“He is, no doubt, a good climber, for he has done the Wetterhorn, the
Eiger, the Monch, and several other high and difficult peaks, quite
recently. But I shouldn’t care for you to go climbing, my dear child.”
“I did quite a lot of it around the Dents du Midi before I met you. I
was a student in Zürich, you know.”
“Well, when you go up to Wengen, don’t start climbing,” he urged. “It
is too great a risk.”
“Oh, that’s everybody’s cry! Father and mother are constantly dinning
it into my ears. They are always trying to extract from me a promise
not to make any more ascents, but I refuse to give my promise to
anybody, simply because I love climbing.”
He placed the photograph of Karl Weiss aside, and went on with the
others. But she drew it from the pile, and looked at it again.
“He’s just the type of a good climber,” she remarked, as though
speaking to herself.
“Oh, if you like his photograph, keep it,” he laughed merrily.
“Then I will,” she replied, placing it aside, with a light laugh. “I
don’t suppose I shall ever meet him, shall I?”
“I don’t suppose so,” he answered. “But, nevertheless, he’s a very
nice fellow,” and they continued their chatter about the pictures
taken during his motor journey through the Bernese Oberland with Mr.
Gale.
It was midnight before Edris, after Seton Darville had kissed her hand
as usual, wished him good-night and passed into her room.
Her woman’s intuition told her that she had charmed him. Yes, it was
true what other women had said, Seton was a “dear”; so kind and
sympathetic, with that old-world courtliness, the outcome of his
descent from a long line of diplomats since the elegant days of Louis
XIV. In French history the noble house of Darville had ever
distinguished itself, for its sons were notable throughout the First
Empire. The head of the Marquis Henri D’Arville had, at dawn one day,
fallen beneath the guillotine outside the Bastille amid the yells of
the revolutionary mob.
As Edris brushed her hair before the mirror that night, she suddenly
recollected the photograph which she had taken. She had placed it face
downwards upon the dressing-table. She paused, took it up, and again
examined it carefully. It happened to be a well-focused portrait.
“Yes,” she thought, “Seton says that he is charming, and I can quite
believe it. I love Switzerland and the Swiss, and I really think he is
my ideal.”
Next second she remembered Lionel, and the bitter lesson his
fickleness had taught her.
“I will never love again,” she murmured. “Never in all my life!”
And she tossed the snapshot aside, and continued brushing her dark
shingled hair until it stood out like that of a gollywog.
Meanwhile, Seton was in his room poring over a long document typed
upon thin, pale-green paper, which he had kept back for consideration
out of the big pile which Bennett had submitted to him.
All was silent. The wind, strong at sunset, had now gone down
entirely, and upon the sea was hardly a ripple. After he had digested
the long document, a report from one of his female agents in Rome, he
lit a cigarette, put on his overcoat, and went out upon the balcony to
smoke. It was half-past one in the morning, and the stillness was
absolute. A distant church clock chimed the half hour, as he sat
smoking and thinking in the chilly night.
The problem of certain clever machinations of Great Britain’s enemies
to alienate Italy from the Allies was a difficult one, and, as he sat
in the arm-chair on the balcony, he was trying to grapple with it.
But, contrary to his habit, thoughts of Edris overruled his brain. He
loved her to distraction, yet he feared to reveal the secret of his
great and all-absorbing passion.
Towards him she was very sweet and sympathetic. Her attitude was, he
knew, due to her knowledge of his parting with Elaine. She had from
the first been interested in his secret friendship with the peer’s
young wife, whose name she did not know, and now that they had parted,
her curiosity had been further aroused. Sympathy is akin to love
always, but in his case, and at his age, did the time-worn adage
really apply? He feared not. No. The whole situation was false, for,
after all, he was only clutching at the wind.
In his hard experience of life he retained no illusions of youth. He
knew that his fond dream of passion and supreme happiness would never
be realized. If he tried to win her as his wife, his efforts would
only be as those of a fool who spits against the wind. His keen
intellect had received a jar at the moment when she had placed aside
the snap of his friend Weiss.
No, he reflected, he must face the bitter truth. Only men of her own
age appealed to her. He himself was too old. And yet, after all, was
it not natural, when young hearts beat in unison?
Once again he choked down his tears. Then he reëntered the room,
pulled down the blind, and, fully alive to the fact that his great
passion was only a fond dream that could never be fulfilled, he
retired to rest.
In the room adjoining was his adored one. How he longed to place his
strong arms about her and tell her the truth of that fierce passion he
had conceived for her, and how slowly and stealthily she had stolen
into his heart. But he was, after all, a moral coward, as every man is
when facing a woman. He feared the flash of scorn in her fine eyes,
and the jeering words as to his age that would fall from her lips.
“No, no,” he muttered aloud as he lay in his bed, “she is young--and
her lover must be young. I will fade from her life, yet still remain
her firmest friend. It would be sheer madness to tell her the truth.
Lionel has caused her a revulsion against men, and naturally so. He
was a young fool, who did not know how to treat a woman. It is only
men of my age who are able to gauge a woman’s character, and to
understand their little fads and fancies, their hates and their loves.
The majority of men gauge women’s minds by their own,” he went on,
still speaking to himself. “Ah, what greater folly? A woman’s mind is
apart and unique, even though she may be married. We of the male sex
are always so inferior in our intelligence, and our general outlook
upon life is always so different.”
Next morning, as they sat at breakfast, Seton said to the girl who had
bewitched him, and who looked so fresh and charming:
“Can’t you stay longer, Edris? Do wire to your mother and ask her to
allow you to stay a day or two longer--unless, of course, you are
bored.”
“Bored!” she cried, looking across the table. “Why, how can I be when
you are so kind and delightful to me?”
“Then you will wire, eh?” he asked eagerly. “Let the week-enders go,
and then for a day or two we will be together to--to cheer each other
in our loneliness,” he ventured to add.
For some moments she made no reply. His charming manner had impressed
itself upon her. She had liked him ever since that day in Wengen when
he had so frankly told her of his friendship with Elaine, and she had
somehow felt that the liking was mutual. But, knowing his character,
she never dreamed that he was so infatuated with her.
“Do you really wish me to stay?” she asked, lifting her long, dark
lashes and peering into his eyes.
“I do, Edris. I find it very lonely here, and your company is, I
assure you, very delightful.”
“How extremely complimentary you are,” she said, with a light laugh.
“I suppose, in such circumstances, and if you are coming to Wengen, I
must obey your wishes.”
“Then we will go out and telegraph to your mother. I do hope she will
give you permission.”
“I think she will. I’m often away visiting. And I know both she and
father regard you as their friend.”
So, after breakfast, they sent the telegram to which, later, came an
affirmative reply. That day they motored over to Eastbourne, where
they lunched at the Grand Hotel on the sea-front, and, later, took
their tea at the old-fashioned White Hart, opposite the Town Hall in
Lewes, returning home in the fast-falling twilight, after a very
charming day.
Every hour he spent at her side he found her the more fascinating, and
yet more than ever there was impressed upon him that wide gulf of
years between them, that barrier which must prevent the realization of
his happiness.
Next day and the next they spent together, walking side by side twice
each day in order to exercise his pet Pomeranian. Wet or fine, in all