The Yellow Crayon
discharged your mission.”
Lord Robert bowed.
“My good wishes,” he said, “are yours.”
Mr. Sabin when alone called Duson to him.
“Have you any report to make, Duson?” he asked.
“None, sir!”
Mr. Sabin dismissed him impatiently.
“After all, I am getting old. He is young and he is strong--a worthy
antagonist. Come, let us see what this little volume has to say about
him.”
He turned over the pages rapidly and read aloud.
“Reginald Cyril Brott, born 18--, son of John Reginald Brott, Esq.,
of Manchester. Educated at Harrow and Merton College, Cambridge, M.A.,
LL.D., and winner of the Rudlock History Prize. Also tenth wrangler.
Entered the diplomatic service on leaving college, and served as junior
attache at Vienna.”
Mr. Sabin laid down the volume, and made a little calculation. At the
end of it he had made a discovery. His face was very white and set.
“I was at Petersburg,” he muttered. “Now I think of it, I heard
something of a young English attache. But--”
He touched the bell.
“Duson, a carriage!”
At Camperdown House he learned that Helene was out--shopping, the
hall porter believed. Mr. Sabin drove slowly down Bond Street, and was
rewarded by seeing her brougham outside a famous milliner’s. He waited
for her upon the pavement. Presently she came out and smiled her
greetings upon him.
“You were waiting for me?” she asked.
“I saw your carriage.”
“How delightful of you. Let me take you back to luncheon.”
He shook his head.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that I should be poor company. May I drive home
with you, at any rate, when you have finished?”
“Of course you may, and for luncheon we shall be quite alone, unless
somebody drops in.”
He took his seat beside her in the carriage. “Helene,” he said, “I am
interested in Mr. Brott. No, don’t look at me like that. You need have
no fear. My interest is in him as a man, and not as a politician. The
other days are over and done with now. I am on the defensive and hard
pressed.”
Her face was bright with sympathy. She forgot everything except her
old admiration for him. In the clashing of their wills the victory had
remained with her. And as for those things which he had done, the cause
at least had been a great one. Her happiness had come to her through
him. She bore him no grudge for that fierce opposition which, after all,
had been fruitless.
“I believe you, UNCLE,” she said affectionately. “If I can help you in
any way I will.”
“This Mr. Brott! He goes very little into society, I believe.”
“Scarcely ever,” she answered. “He came to us because my husband is one
of the few Radical peers.”
“You have not heard of any recent change in him--in this respect?”
“Well, I did hear Wolfendon chaffing him the other day about somebody,”
she said. “Oh, I know. He has been going often to the Duchess of
Dorset’s. He is such an ultra Radical, you know, and the Dorsets are
fierce Tories. Wolfendon says it is a most unwise thing for a good
Radical who wants to retain the confidence of the people to be seen
about with a Duchess.”
“The Duchess of Dorset,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “must be, well--a
middle-aged woman.”
Helene laughed.
“She is sixty if she is a day. But I daresay she herself is not the
attraction. There is a very beautiful woman staying with her--the
Countess Radantz. A Hungarian, I believe.”
Mr. Sabin sat quite still. His face was turned away from Helene. She
herself was smiling out of the window at some acquaintances.
“I wonder if there is anything more that I can tell you?” she asked
presently.
He turned towards her with a faint smile.
“You have told me,” he said, “all that I want to know.”
She was struck by the change in his face, the quietness of his tone was
ominous.
“Am I meant to understand?” she said dubiously “because I don’t in the
least. It seems to me that have told you nothing. I cannot imagine what
Mr. Brott and you have in common.”
“If your invitation to lunch still holds good,” he said, “may I accept
it? Afterwards, if you can spare me a few minutes I will make things
quite clear to you.”
She laughed.
“You will find,” she declared, “that I shall leave you little peace for
luncheon. I am consumed with curiosity.”
CHAPTER XV
Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin lunched with discretion, as usual, but with no
lack of appetite. It chanced that they were alone. Lord Camperdown was
down in the Midlands for a day’s hunting, and Helene had ensured their
seclusion from any one who might drop in by a whispered word to the
hall porter as they passed into the house. It seemed to her that she had
never found Mr. Sabin more entertaining, had never more appreciated his
rare gift of effortless and anecdotal conversation. What a marvelous
memory! He knew something of every country from the inside. He had been
brought at various times during his long diplomatic career into contact
with most of the interesting people in the world. He knew well how
to separate the grain from the chaff according to the tastes of
his listener. The pathos of his present position appealed to her
irresistibly. The possibilities of his life had been so great, fortune
had treated him always so strangely. The greatest of his schemes had
come so near to success, the luck had turned against him only at the
very moment of fruition. Helene felt very kindly towards her UNCLE as
she led him, after luncheon, to a quiet corner of the winter garden,
where a servant had already arranged a table with coffee and liqueurs
and cigarettes. Unscrupulous all his life, there had been an element of
greatness in all his schemes. Even his failures had been magnificent,
for his successes he himself had seldom reaped the reward. And now in
the autumn of his days she felt dimly that he was threatened with some
evil thing against which he stood at bay single-handed, likely perhaps
to be overpowered. For there was something in his face just now which
was strange to her.
“Helene,” he said quietly, “I suppose that you, who knew nothing of
me till you left school, have looked upon me always as a selfish,
passionless creature--a weaver of plots, perhaps sometimes a dreamer of
dreams, but a person wholly self-centred, always self-engrossed?”
She shook her head.
“Not selfish!” she objected. “No, I never thought that. It is the wrong
word.”
“At least,” he said, “you will be surprised to hear that I have loved
one woman all my life.”
She looked at him half doubtfully.
“Yes,” she said, “I am surprised to hear that.”
“I will surprise you still more. I was married to her in America within
a month of my arrival there. We have lived together ever since. And I
have been very happy. I speak, of course, of Lucille!”
“It is amazing,” she murmured. “You must tell me all about it.”
“Not all,” he answered sadly. “Only this. I met her first at Vienna
when I was thirty-five, and she was eighteen. I treated her shamefully.
Marriage seemed to me, with all my dreams of great achievements, an act
of madness. I believed in myself and my career. I believed that it was
my destiny to restore the monarchy to our beloved country. And I wanted
to be free. I think that I saw myself a second Napoleon. So I won her
love, took all that she had to give, and returned nothing.
“In the course of years she married the son of the American Consul at
Vienna. I was obliged, by the bye, to fight her brother, and he carried
his enmity to me through life. I saw her sometimes in the course
of years. She was always beautiful, always surrounded by a host of
admirers, always cold. When the end of my great plans here came, and I
myself was a fugitive, her brother found me out. He gave me a letter to
deliver in America. I delivered it--to his sister.
“She was as beautiful as ever, and alone in the world. It seemed to me
that I realised then how great my folly had been. For always I had loved
her, always there had been that jealously locked little chamber in my
life. Helene, she pointed no finger of scorn to my broken life. She
uttered no reproaches. She took me as I was, and for three years our
life together has been to me one long unbroken harmony. Our tastes were
very similar. She was well read, receptive, a charming companion. Ennui
was a word of which I have forgotten the meaning. And it seemed so with
her, too, for she grew younger and more beautiful.”
“And why is she not with you?” Helene cried. “I must go and see her. How
delightful it sounds!”
“One day, about three months ago,” Mr. Sabin continued, “she left me to
go to New York for two days. Her milliner in Paris had sent over, and
twice a year Lucille used to buy clothes. I had sometimes accompanied
her, but she knew how I detested New York, and this time she did not
press me to go. She left me in the highest spirits, as tender and
gracefully affectionate as ever. She never returned.”
Helene started in her chair.
“Oh, UNCLE!” she cried.
“I have never seen her since,” he repeated.
“Have you no clue? She could not have left you willingly. Have you no
idea where she is?”
He bowed his head slowly.
“Yes,” he said, “I know where she is. She came to Europe with Lady
Carey. She is staying with the Duchess of Dorset.”
“The Countess Radantz?” Helene cried.
“It was her maiden name,” he answered.
There was a moment’s silence. Helene was bewildered.
“Then you have seen her?”
He shook his head slowly.
“No. I did not even know where she was until you told me.”
“But why do you wait a single moment?” she asked. “There must be some
explanation. Let me order a carriage now. I will drive round to Dorset
House with you.”
She half rose. He held out his hand and checked her.
“There are other things to be explained,” he said quickly. “Sit down,
Helene.”
She obeyed him, mystified.
“For your own sake,” he continued, “there are certain facts in
connection with this matter which I must withhold. All I can tell you
is this. There are people who have acquired a hold upon Lucille so great
that she is forced to obey their bidding. Lady Carey is one, the Duchess
of Dorset is another. They are no friends of mine, and apparently
Lucille has been taken away from me by them.”
“A--a hold upon her?” Helene repeated vaguely.
“It is all I can tell you. You must suppose an extreme case. You may
take my word for it that under certain circumstances Lucille would have
no power to deny them anything.”
“But--without a word of farewell. They could not insist upon her leaving
you like that! It is incredible!”
“It is quite possible,” Mr. Sabin said.
Helene caught herself looking at him stealthily. Was it possible that
this wonderful brain had given way at last? There were no signs of it
in his face or expression. But the Duchess of Dorset! Lady Carey! These
were women of her own circle--Londoners, and the Duchess, at any rate,
a woman of the very highest social position and unimpeached
conventionality.
“This sounds--very extraordinary, UNCLE!” she remarked a little lamely.
“It is extraordinary,” he answered drily. “I do not wonder that you find
it hard to believe me. I--”
“Not to believe--to understand!”
He smiled.
“We will not distinguish! After all, what does it matter? Assume, if
you cannot believe, that Lucille’s leaving me may have been at the
instigation of these people, and therefore involuntary. If this be so
I have hard battle to fight to win her back, but in the end I shall do
it.”
She nodded sympathetically.
“I am sure,” she said, “that you will not find it difficult. Tell me,
cannot I help you in any way? I know the Duchess very well indeed--well
enough to take you to call quite informally if you please. She is a
great supporter of what they call the Primrose League here. I do not
understand what it is all about, but it seems that I may not join