The Pauper of Park Lane. Le Queux William
the faint flush in her face died away.
Her voice ceased. He looked down musing, without replying. He was impressed by her utter loneliness – impressed, too, without knowing it by the time and place. The twilight of the short evening was gathering fast. A cold damp feeling was mingled with the silence of the dull, drab London street. It struck him that it felt like a grave.
A slight nervous trembling came over his well-beloved, and a weary little sigh escaped her lips.
That sigh of hers recalled him to a sense of her distress at his departure, and the face that met her troubled eyes was, in an instant, as full as ever of resolute hopefulness.
“What matters, my own, if I am away?” he asked with a smile. “We love each other, and that is all-sufficient.”
All the pity of his strong, tender nature went forth to the lovely girl whom he loved with such strong passionate devotion.
“What matter, indeed!” she cried, hoarsely, tears springing to her eyes. “Is it no matter that I see you, Charlie? Ah! you do not know how I count the hours when we shall meet again – how – how – ” And unable to further restrain her emotion, she burst into tears.
He was silent. What, indeed, could he say?
Reflections, considerations, possibilities crowded in upon his mind, already disturbed and perplexed. The sweetness of the hours passed in her society had increased insensibly ever since that well-remembered afternoon in Aix; the tones of her voice, the notes of those melodious old Servian songs she so often sang, her slightest action held a charm for him such as his earnest nature had never experienced before.
And they must part.
Within himself he doubted whether they would ever meet again. He had secret fears – fears of something that was in progress – something that might entirely change his life – something he held secret from her.
But he put the thought away. It was a horrible reflection – a qualm of conscience. What would she think of him if she actually knew the truth?
He bit his lip, and in resolution again took her white-gloved hand.
“No, darling,” he said, softly, in an earnest effort to cheer her. “I will return very soon. Be brave, and remember that my every thought is of you always – of you, my love.”
“I know,” she sobbed. “I know, Charlie, but – but I cannot really help it. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you! Of course I do, sweetheart; only do not cry, or they will certainly suspect something when you sit down to dinner.”
His argument decided her, and she slowly dried her tears, saying:
“I only wish I could go to Charing Cross to see you off. But an hour ago I telephoned to your sister Marion to come and dine with us, and go with me to a concert at Queen’s hall.”
“And she accepted?” he asked, quickly, almost breathlessly.
Rolfe gave a sigh of relief. At any rate neither his sister nor his well-beloved would be at Charing Cross at nine that evening.
“I must try and bring her to the station, if possible. Does she know you are going?” asked the girl.
“Oh, yes. But I particularly asked her not to see me off.”
“In order that I might come alone. Oh! how very good of you, Charlie!”
“No. Forgive me for saying so, but like a good many men who travel a lot I never like being seen off – not even by you, yourself, my darling!”
“Very well,” she sighed, looking up into his serious eyes. “I must, I suppose, act as you wish. May God protect you, my dearest, and bring you back again in safety to me.” Then as he whispered into her ear words of courage and ardent affection, with linked arms they re-traced their steps back to Earl’s Court Road, where, with lingering reluctance, he took affectionate leave of her.
Having watched her turn the corner, he went slowly back towards Earl’s Court Station, and as he did so, beneath his breath he murmured “Ah! if she knew – if she knew! But she must never know – she shall never know – never as long as I have breath. I love her – love her better than my life – and she is mine. Yet – yet how can I, after – after – ”
And he sighed deeply without concluding the sentence, while his face went ashen pale at the thought which again crossed his mind – a thought, secret and terrible.
Chapter Four.
Which is Distinctly Mysterious
Max Barclay, on leaving Dr Petrovitch, had taken a cab straight to Charlie’s chambers in Jermyn Street, arriving there shortly before six. Green, his man, had told him, however, that his master had returned soon after luncheon, ordered two big bags to be packed, and had left with them upon a hansom, merely saying that he should be absent a week, or perhaps two, and that no letters need be forwarded.
Max was not surprised at this sudden departure, for old Statham had a habit of sending his confidential secretary hither and thither at almost a moment’s notice. The old fellow’s financial interests were enormous, and widely dispersed. Some of them were in Servia and Bulgaria, where he held concessions of great value.
He had had a finger in most of the financial undertakings in the Near East during the past fifteen years or so. Out of the Oriental Railway extension from Salonica to the Servian frontier alone he had, it was said, made a huge fortune, for he was the original concessionaire. For some years he had lived in the Balkans, looking after his interests in person, but nowadays he entrusted it all to his agents with occasional visits by this confidential secretary.
Therefore Max suspected that Charlie had left for the East, more especially that at the hour he had left Jermyn Street he could have caught the afternoon Continental service from Charing Cross viâ Boulogne.
So he went on to his own rooms, changed, dined at the Automobile Club, his mind being full of what the Doctor had told him concerning Charlie and Maud. He had, of course, suspected it all along. Marion knew the truth, but, loyal to her brother, she had said no word. Yet when he had seen Rolfe with the ex-statesman’s pretty daughter, he had long ago guessed that the pair were more than mere friends.
That the Doctor disapproved of the affair was somewhat disconcerting, more especially as he had openly declared that he had other ideas of Maud’s future. What were they? Was her father hoping that she would marry some young Servian – a man of his own race?
He sat in the club over a cigar till nearly nine o’clock, wondering how he could assist the man who was not only his dearest friend but brother of the girl to whom he was so entirely devoted and whom he intended to make his wife.
He sighed with regret when he thought of her undergoing that shop drudgery to which she had never been accustomed. The early rising, the eternal drive of business, the calm, smiling exterior towards those pettish, snapping women customers, and those hasty scrambles for meals. He had seen her engaged in her business, and he had met her after shop hours, pale, worn, and fagged out.
And yet he – the man who was to be her husband – lived in that ease and idleness which an income of twelve thousand a year secured.
Had Petrovitch not told him that Marion was dining at Cromwell Road and going to a concert with Maud afterwards, he would have wired to her to meet him. But he knew how devoted the two girls were to each other, notwithstanding the difference of their stations, and how Maud welcomed Marion’s company at concerts or theatres to which her father so seldom cared to go.
Suddenly it occurred to him that if he returned to the Doctor’s he would meet Marion there later on, when she came back from Queen’s Hall, and be able to drive her home to that dull street at the back of Oxford Street where the assistants of Cunnington’s, Limited, “lived in.”
This reflection aroused him, and, glancing at the smoking-room clock, he saw it wanted a quarter to ten.
Two other men, friends of his, were sitting near, discussing motoring matters, and their eternal chatter upon cylinders, tyres, radiators, and electric horns bored him.