already have seen, darling, that I love you. He isn't blind,"said Charlie Rolfe, moving slowly along at her side.
Hers was, indeed, a face that would attract attention anywhere, oval,delicately moulded, slightly flushed by the momentary excitement ofmeeting her lover. Her hair was well-dressed, her narrow-waisted figurestill girlish; her dress, a pale biscuit-coloured cloth, which, in itsrefined simplicity, suited well the graceful contour of the slenderform, and contrasted admirably with the soft white skin; the dark hair,a stray coquettish little wisp of which fell across her brow beneath herneat black hat, and the dark brown eyes, so large, luminous, andexpressive.
Her gaze met his. Every sensitive feature, every quiet gracefulmovement told plainly of her culture and refinement, while on her facethere rested an indescribable charm, a look of shy, sweet humility, offond and all-consuming love for the man beside her.
As she lifted her eyes at the words of affection he was whispering intoher ear as they went along the quiet, deserted street, she perceived howtall and athletic he was, and noticed, woman-like, the masculineperfection of his dress, alike removed from slovenliness and foppery.
"No," she said at last, her eyes gazing in abstraction in front of her."I don't suppose dad is in any way blind. He generally is toowide-awake. I have to make all sorts of excuses to get out--dressmakers, painting-lessons, buying evening gloves, a broken watch--and all sorts of thing like that. The fact is," she declared, laughingsweetly and glancing again at him, "I have almost exhausted all thesubterfuges."
"Ah, dearest, a woman can always find some excuse," he remarked, joiningin her laughter.
"Yes, but that's all very well; you haven't a father," she protested,"so you don't know."
She had only left school at Brighton two years before, therefore herclandestine meetings with Charlie Rolfe were adventures which she dearlyloved. And, moreover, they both of them were devoted to each other.Charlie absolutely adored her. Hitherto women had never attracted him,but from the day of their introduction on the gravelled walk in front ofthe Villa des Fleurs at Aix, his whole life had changed. He was hers--hers utterly and entirely.
For three months he had existed in constant uncertainty, until one warmevening at Scarborough--where she and her father were staying at theGrand--while they were alone together in the sloping garden of the Spahe summoned courage to tell her the secret of his heart, and to hisoverwhelming joy found that his passion was reciprocated. Thus had theybecome lovers.
As Max rightly guessed, he had feared for the present to tell DrPetrovitch the truth lest he should object and a parting be the result.His position was not what he wished it to be. As secretary to theeccentric old financier, his salary was an adequate one, but notsufficient to provide Maud with a home such as her own. He thereforeintended in a little while to tell old Statham the truth, and to ask formore. And until he had done so, he hesitated to demand of the Doctorhis daughter's hand.
Together they strolled slowly on, chatting as lovers will. At thebottom of Fopstone Road they continued round the crescent of PhilbeachGardens, along Warwick Road, and crossing Old Brompton Road, enteredthat maze of quiet, eminently respectable streets in the neighbourhoodof Redcliffe Square, strolling slowly on in the falling gloom.
"Do you know, darling," he exclaimed at last, "I wanted to see you veryparticularly this evening, because I am leaving London to-night forServia."
"For Servia!" she cried, halting and fixing her great eyes upon his inquick surprise.
"Yes."
Her countenance fell.
"Then you--you are leaving me?"
"It is imperative, my darling," he said, in a low, tender voice, takingher hand in his. He wished to kiss her sweet lips, but there in theopen street such action was impossible. Courtship in our grimy,matter-of-fact London has many drawbacks, even though every housecontains its life-romance and every street holds its man or woman with abroken heart.
"But you never told me," she complained. "You've left it until the lastminute. Do you start from Charing Cross to-night?"
"Yes. I would leave to-morrow at nine, and catch the Orient expressfrom Calais for Belgrade, but I have business to do in Paris to-morrow."
"Ah! Belgrade!" sighed the girl. "I wonder if I shall ever see itagain? Long ago I used to be so fond of it, and we had so very manygood friends. Dear old dad is so popular. Why, when we drove out thepeople in their brown homespun clothes used to run after the carriageand cheer `Petrovitch the Patriot,' as they call dad."
"Of course you will return soon," Charlie said. "No doubt your fatherwill be induced to enter the new Pashitch Cabinet."
The girl shook her head dubiously.
"I know the King has several times asked him to return to Servia, butfor some mysterious reason he has always declined."
"But he is the most popular man in the country, and he cannot remainaway much longer. It is his duty to return and assist in theGovernment."
"Yes. But my mother died in Belgrade, you know, and I think that may bethe reason he does not care to return," replied the girl. "Why are yougoing there?" she asked.
"On a mission for Statham--regarding a mining concession," he answered."You know we have a lot of interests out there. Perhaps I shall be awayonly a week or two--perhaps six months."
"Six months!" she cried in a blank voice. "It is such a long, long timeto look forward to."
"I have no desire to leave you, my own darling," he declared, lookingstraight into her beautiful face. "But the mission is confidential, andfor that reason I have received orders to go."
"Your train leaves at nine," she said, "and it is already nearly seven--only two hours! And those two remaining hours I cannot spend with you,for I must be in to dinner at seven. I must leave you in a moment," sheadded, and the faint flush in her face died away.
Her voice ceased. He looked down musing, without replying. He wasimpressed by her utter loneliness--impressed, too, without knowing it bythe time and place. The twilight of the short evening was gatheringfast. 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 wearylittle sigh escaped her lips.
That sigh of hers recalled him to a sense of her distress at hisdeparture, 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 loveeach other, and that is all-sufficient."
All the pity of his strong, tender nature went forth to the lovely girlwhom 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 Icount the hours when we shall meet again--how--how--" And unable tofurther 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 inher society had increased insensibly ever since that well-rememberedafternoon in Aix; the tones of her voice, the notes of those melodiousold Servian songs she so often sang, her slightest action held a charmfor 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 hadsecret fears--fears of something that was in progress--something thatmight entirely change his life--something he held secret from her.
But he put the thought away. It was a horrible reflection--a qualm ofconscience. 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. "Iwill return very soon. Be brave, and remember that my every thought isof you always--of you, my love."
"I know," she sobbed. "
I know, Charlie, but--but I cannot really helpit. Forgive me."
"Forgive you! Of course I do, sweetheart; only do not cry, or they willcertainly 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 hourago I telephoned to your sister Marion to come and dine with us, and gowith 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 hiswell-beloved would be at Charing Cross at nine that evening.
"I must try and bring her to the station, if possible. Does she
The Pauper of Park Lane Page 4
