The Broken Thread. Le Queux William
yes,” he replied. “I went there from Paris once, with the guv’nor. We stayed at the Hotel de France – I think it was – at Fontainebleau. We went over the old palace and drove out to Barbison, and to Marlotte. Awfully charming places.”
“Ah! Barbison. That is the colony of artists. I know, I love it, and have often cycled over there, where I have friends. Father is a bit of a recluse, so I travel and look after my uncle.”
“And Marlotte – by the river. Do you know the picturesque little hotel there, and its al-fresco café – the garden with all the little summer-houses?”
“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “Do you know it, too? How gay it is on Sundays in summer. All the artists come out from Paris for the day.”
“It reminds me of Monkey Island, on the Thames. We used to go up there when I was at Eton.”
She looked at him suddenly with a fixed expression, and then said:
“You haven’t told me your name. I only know you as Snookie’s rescuer – you know,” and she laughed.
“My name’s Remington – Raife Remington,” he replied. “The guv’nor lives at Aldborough Park, not far from Tunbridge Wells.”
Her face changed in an instant. She seemed to suddenly hold her breath, though quite imperceptibly. For a moment all the colour left her soft cheeks, but as quickly she recovered all her self-possession, and exclaimed, in a changed tone:
“Is your father Sir Henry Remington?”
“Yes. Why? Do you happen to know him?”
“I – er – oh, no, I don’t!” she replied, endeavouring to conceal her consternation at the discovery. “Only – well – I – of course, had no idea that you were the son of a gentleman so well-known as Sir Henry.”
“My misfortune, perhaps,” he laughed, airily. “The guv’nor has brains – has been a member of Parliament for twenty years, and all that – I haven’t any.”
“You have.”
“They say I haven’t, at Cambridge.”
She was silent for some moments. What strange freak of Fate had thrown them together – he, the very last man on earth she desired to meet. And yet, she had found him such a bright, cheerful companion!
Her eyes were turned to where Mutimer and her friend, Maud Wilson, were strolling along the seafront.
The young fellow at her side was actually the son of Sir Henry Remington! The baronet’s name burned into her brain – it was branded there, as though seared by a red-hot iron.
The amazing revelation staggered her. That man seated so idly in the chair, his legs stretched out, displaying the latest make in ’Varsity socks, was actually the son of Sir Henry!
She could not believe it.
Raife, on his part, was not exactly blind to the fact that mention of his father’s name had unduly surprised her.
“I fancy you know the guv’nor – eh?” he exclaimed, chaffing her. “Do you? Tell me. Perhaps you’ve met him somewhere? He’s at Upper Brook Street in the season, and at Mentone in winter. We have a villa there.”
“No, Mr Remington, I have never had the pleasure of meeting your father,” was her rather strained response. “But all the world has heard of him. One sees his picture in the papers very often. I only read yesterday his scathing criticism in the House of Commons on the Navy estimates, and his serious warning regarding the new super-dreadnought – which is building on the Clyde – the vessel which is to be the most powerful battleship afloat.”
“You know more than I do, Miss Tempest,” he laughed. “I never read the guv’nor’s speeches. I heard too much about ships at home, before I went up to Cambridge.”
“I suppose so,” she laughed, and then, as though uneasy and anxious to get away, she added: “Look! Your friend is coming back with Maud. We must go,” and she rose, a tall, graceful figure in neat black.
“No. Don’t go yet,” he urged, still remaining seated. “You surely aren’t in such a great hurry! It’s only just past ten.”
“I have to go back to the hotel,” she declared.
“Have you so very much to do – and is my society so terribly boring?” the young fellow asked, with a mischievous laugh.
“Certainly not,” was her reproachful reply, and, as though against her will, she re-seated herself. “You really ought not to say that,” she added.
“But you seem very anxious to get away. Why?” The girl held her breath, and her great blue eyes were downcast. No. She dare not raise her gaze to his lest he should suspect the terrible truth – he, the son of Sir Henry Remington!
“Well,” she replied at last. “Because I have some letters to write, and – and to tell the truth, I have a dressmaker coming at half-past ten.”
“I suppose in a woman’s life one’s dressmaker is set upon a very high pedestal. All women must bow to the Goddess of Fashion.”
“You are horribly philosophic.”
“My philosophy is induced by your attitude towards me, Miss Tempest,” he declared. “You are a mystery. You were bright and merry until you knew my name, and then – well, then you suddenly curled into your shell. Really, I confess I can’t make you out!”
One more experienced than he would probably have discerned that a great and staggering blow had fallen upon his newly-found little friend. She was at a loss how to act – or what to say.
Her heart was thumping hard within her. What if he should discover the terrible secret which she alone knew! Fearing lest he should grow suspicious, she was all anxiety to get away – to place him and his memory behind her for ever.
Yet, somehow, he had fascinated her, and she sat there quite unable to leave him. Though the sunshine, the life and gaiety about her were brilliant, the whole earth had, for her, grown dark in one single instant. She hardly knew what she did – or what she said.
“I really must go,” she declared, at last, hitching up her pom from beneath her arm.
“Well, if you must, you must, I suppose, Miss Tempest,” he responded at last, with great reluctance. “I fear you don’t care for my society,” he added, with a sigh.
“How very foolish!” she cried. “Of course, I do – only, as I have explained, I have an engagement which I can’t possibly break. My dinner-dress is a positive rag.”
“Then let us meet later to-day,” he suggested. “This evening – at any time you like,” he urged. “Will you see me again? Do,” he implored.
For some time she made no reply. She was reflecting deeply. At last, with pale face, and striving to preserve a bold front, she replied rather frigidly: “No, really, Mr Remington, I am sorry, very sorry, but I cannot meet you again. I thank you ever so much for saving my little Snookie, but, in our mutual interests, it is far the best that we should not meet again.”
“Why? I really don’t understand you!” he exclaimed, much mystified.
“I am sorry, I repeat, Mr Remington – very sorry indeed – but I can’t meet you again,” she said, in a hard, determined tone. “I do not dare to.”
“Engaged, I suppose – and fear tittle-tattle – eh?” he sniffed.
“No, I’m not engaged,” was her rather haughty response, her cheeks colouring slightly.
“Then why cannot we meet? What prevents it?”
She looked at him with a strange, almost weird expression in her big luminous eyes.
“A barrier lies between us, Mr Remington,” she said, in a low, very earnest voice. “We must never meet again after to-day – never?”
“But, Miss Tempest – you – ”
“I have told