The Right Honourable John William Hebblethwaite took the hat from his footman, stepped into his car, and was driven rapidly away. He leaned back among the cushions, more thoughtful than usual. There was a yellow moon in the sky, pale as yet. The streets were a tangled vortex of motorcars and taxies, all filled with men and women in evening dress. It was the height of a wonderful season. Everywhere was dominant the note of prosperity, gaiety, even splendour. The houses in Park Lane, flower-decked, displayed through their wide-flung windows a constant panorama of brilliantly-lit rooms. Every one was entertaining. In the Park on the other side were the usual crowd of earnest, hard-faced men and women, gathered in little groups around the orator of the moment. Hebblethwaite felt a queer premonition that evening. A man of sanguine temperament, thoroughly contented with himself and his position, he seemed almost for the first time in his life, to have doubts, to look into the future, to feel the rumblings of an earthquake, the great dramatic cry of a nation in the throes of suffering. Had they been wise, all these years, to have legislated as though the old dangers by land and sea had passed?—to have striven to make the people fat and prosperous, to have turned a deaf ear to every note of warning? Supposing the other thing were true! Supposing Norgate and Spencer Wyatt had found the truth! What would history have to say then of this Government of which he was so proud? Would it be possible that they had brought the country to a great prosperity by destroying the very bulwarks of its security?
The car drew up with a jerk, and Hebblethwaite came back to earth. Nevertheless, he promised himself, as he hastened across the pavement, that on the morrow he would pay a long-delayed visit to the War Office.
CHAPTER XXIII
Table of Contents
Anna was seated, a few days later, with her dearest friend, the Princess of Thurm, in a corner of the royal enclosure at Ascot. For the first time since their arrival they found themselves alone. From underneath her parasol the Princess looked at her friend curiously.
“Anna,” she said, “something has happened to you.”
“Perhaps, but explain yourself,” Anna replied composedly.
“It is so simple. There you sit in a Doucet gown, perfection as ever, from the aigrette in your hat to those delicately pointed shoes. You have been positively hunted by all the nicest men—once or twice, indeed, I felt myself neglected—and not a smile have I seen upon your lips. You go about, looking just a little beyond everything. What did you see, child, over the tops of the trees in the paddock, when Lord Wilton was trying so hard to entertain you?”
“An affair of moods, I imagine,” Anna declared. “Somehow I don’t feel quite in the humour for Ascot to-day. To be quite frank,” she went on, turning her head slowly, “I rather wonder that you do, Mildred.”
The Princess raised her eyebrows.
“Why not? Everything, so far as I am concerned, is couleur de rose. Madame Blanche declared yesterday that my complexion would last for twenty years. I found a dozen of the most adorable hats in Paris. The artist who designs my frocks was positively inspired the last time I sat to him. I am going to see Maurice in a few weeks, and meanwhile I have several new flirtations which interest me amazingly. As for you, my child, one would imagine that you had lost your taste for all frivolity. You are as cold as granite. Be careful, dear. The men of to-day, in this country, at any rate, are spoilt. Sometimes they are even uncourtier-like enough to accept a woman’s refusal.”
“Well,” Anna observed, smiling faintly, “even a lifetime at Court has not taught me to dissimulate. I am heavy-hearted, Mildred. You wondered what I was looking at when I gazed over those green trees under which all those happy people were walking. I was looking out across the North Sea. I was looking through Belgium to Paris. I saw a vast curtain roll up, and everything beyond it was a blood-stained panorama.”
A shade rested for a moment on her companion’s fair face. She shrugged her shoulders.
“We’ve known for a long time, dear, that it must come.”
“But all the same, in these last moments it is terrible,” Anna insisted. “Seriously, Mildred, I wonder that I should feel it more than you. You are absolutely English. Your father is English, your mother is English. It is only your husband that is Austrian. You have lived in Austria only for seven years. Has that been sufficient to destroy all your patriotism, all your love for your own country?”
The Princess made a little grimace.
“My dear Anna,” she said, “I am not so serious a person as you are. I am profoundly, incomprehensibly selfish. The only human being in the whole world for whom I have had a spark of real affection is Maurice, and I adore him. What he has told me to do, I have done. What makes him happy makes me happy. For his sake, even, I have forgotten and shall always forget that I was born an Englishwoman. Circumstances, too,” she went on thoughtfully, “have made it so easy. England is such a changed country. When I was a child, I could read of the times when our kings really ruled, of our battles for dominion, of our fight for colonies, of our building up a great empire, and I could feel just a little thrill. I can’t now. We have gone ahead of Napoleon. From a nation of shop-keepers we have become a nation of general dealers—a fat, over-confident, bourgeois people. Socialism has its hand upon the throat of the classes. Park Lane, where our aristocracy lived, is filled with the mansions of South African Jews, whom one must meet here or keep out of society altogether. Our country houses have gone the same way. Our Court set is dowdy, dull to a degree, and common in a different fashion. You are right. I have lost my love for England, partly because of my marriage, partly because of those things which have come to England herself.”
For the first time there was a little flush of colour in Anna’s exquisitely pale cheeks. There was even animation in her tone as she turned towards her friend.
“Mildred,” she exclaimed, “it is splendid to hear you say what is really in your mind! I am so glad you have spoken to me like this. I feel these things, too. Now I am not nearly so English as you. My mother was English and my father Austrian. Therefore, only half of me should be English. Yet, although I am so much further removed from England than you are, I have suddenly felt a return of all my old affection for her.”
“You are going to tell me why?” her companion begged.
“Of course! It is because I believe—it is too ridiculous—but I believe that I am in your position with the circumstances reversed. I am beginning to care in the most foolish way for an unmistakable Englishman.”
“If we had missed this little chance of conversation,” the Princess declared, “I should have been miserable for the rest of my life! There is the Duke hanging about behind. For heaven’s sake, don’t turn. Thank goodness he has gone away! Now go on, dear. Tell me about him at once. I can’t imagine who it may be. I have watched you with so many men, and I know quite well, so long as that little curl is at the corner of your lips, that they none of them count. Do I know him?”
“I do not think so,” Anna replied. “He is not a very important person.”
“It isn’t the man you were dining with in the Cafe de Berlin when Prince Karl came in?”
“Yes, it is he!”
The Princess made a little grimace.
“But how unsuitable, my dear,” she exclaimed, “if you are really in earnest! What is the use of your thinking of an Englishman? He is quite nice, I know. His mother and my mother were friends, and we met once or twice. He was very kind to me in Paris, too. But for a serious affair—”
“Well, it may not come to that,” Anna interrupted, “but there it is. I suppose that it is partly for his sake that I feel this depression.”
“I should have thought that he himself would have been a little out of sympathy with his country just now,” the Princess remarked. “They tell me that the Foreign Office ate humble pie with the Kaiser for that affair shockingly. They not only removed him from the Embassy, but they are going to give him nothing in Europe. I heard for a fact that the Kaiser requested that he should not b
e attached to any Court with which Germany had diplomatic relations.”
Anna nodded. “I believe that it is true,” she admitted, “but I am not sure that he realises it himself. Even if he does, well, you know the type. He is English to the backbone.”
“But there are Englishmen,” the Princess insisted earnestly, “who are amenable to common sense. There are Englishmen who are sorrowing over the decline of their own country and who would not be so greatly distressed if she were punished a little.”
“I am afraid Mr. Norgate is not like that,” Anna observed drily. “However, one cannot be sure. Bother! I thought people were very kind to leave us so long in peace. Dear Prince, how clever of you to find out our retreat!”
The Ambassador stood bareheaded before them.
“Dear ladies,” he declared, “you are the lode-stones which would draw one even through these gossamer walls of lace and chiffons, of draperies as light as the sunshine and perfumes as sweet as Heine’s poetry.”
“Very pretty,” Anna laughed, “but what you really mean is that you were looking for two of your very useful slaves and have found them.”
The Ambassador glanced around. Their isolation was complete.
“Ah! well,” he murmured, “it is a wonderful thing to be so charmingly aided towards such a wonderful end.”
“And to have such complete trust in one’s friends,” Anna remarked, looking him steadfastly in the face.
The Prince did not flinch. His smile was perfectly courteous and acknowledging.
“That is my happiness,” he admitted. “I will tell you the reason which directed my footsteps this way,” he added, drawing a small betting book from his pocket. “You must back Prince Charlie for the next race. I will, if you choose, take your commissions. I have a man waiting at the rails.”
“Twenty pounds for me, please,” the Princess declared. “I have the horse marked on my card, but I had forgotten for the moment.”
“And the same for me,” Anna begged. “But did you really come only to bring us this valuable tip, Prince?”
The Ambassador stooped down.
“There is a dispatch on its way to me,” he said softly, “which I believe concerns you. It might be necessary for you to take a short journey within the next few days.”
“Not back to Berlin?” Anna exclaimed.
Their solitude had been invaded by now, and the Princess was talking to two or three men who were grouped about her chair. The Ambassador stooped a little lower.
“To Rome,” he whispered.
CHAPTER XXIV
Table of Contents
Back from the dusty roads, the heat and noise of the long day, Anna was resting on the couch in her sitting-room. A bowl of roses and a note which she had read three or four times stood on a little table by her side. One of the blossoms she had fastened into the bosom of her loose gown. The blinds were drawn, the sounds of the traffic outside were muffled and distant. Her bath had been just the right temperature, her maid’s attention was skilful and delicate as ever. She was conscious of the drowsy sweet perfume of the flowers, the pleasant sense of powdered cleanliness. Everything should have conduced to rest, but she lay there with her eyes wide-open. There was so much to think about, so much that was new finding its way into her stormy young life.
“Madame!”
Anna turned her head. Her maid had entered noiselessly from the inner room and was standing by her side.
“Madame does not sleep? There is a person outside who waits for an interview. I have denied him, as all others. He gave me this.”
Anna almost snatched the piece of paper from her maid’s fingers. She glanced at the name, and the disappointment which shone in her eyes was very apparent. It was succeeded by an impulse of surprise.
“You can show him in,” she directed.
Selingman appeared a few moments later—Selingman, cool, rosy, and confident, on the way to his beloved bridge club. He took the hand which Anna, without moving, held out to him, and raised it gallantly to his lips.
“I thought it was understood, my crockery friend,” she murmured, “that in London we did not interchange visits.”
“Most true, gracious lady,” he admitted, “but there are circumstances which can alter the most immovable decisions. At this moment we are confronted with one. I come to discuss with you the young Englishman, Francis Norgate.”
She turned her head a little. Her eyes were full of enquiry.
“To discuss him with me?”
Selingman’s eyes as though by accident fell upon the roses and the note.
“Ah, well,” she murmured, “go on.”
“It is wonderful,” Selingman proceeded, “to be able to tell the truth. I speak to you as one comrade to another. This young man was your companion at the Cafe de Berlin. For the indiscretion of behaving like a bull-headed but courageous young Englishman, he is practically dismissed from the Service. He comes back smarting with the injustice of it. Chance brings him in my way. I proceed to do my best to make use of this opportunity.”
“So like you, dear Herr Selingman!” Anna murmured.
Selingman beamed.
“Ever gracious, dear lady. Well, to continue, then. Here I find a young Englishman of exactly the order and position likely to be useful to us. I approach him frankly. He has been humiliated by the country he was willing to serve. I talk to him of that country. ‘You are English, of course,’ I remind him, ‘but what manner of an England is it to-day which claims you?’ It is a very telling argument, this. Upon the classes of this country, democracy has laid a throttling hand. There is a spirit of discontent, they say, among the working-classes, the discontent which breeds socialism. There is a worse spirit of discontent among the upper classes here, and it is the discontent which breeds so-called traitors.”
“I can imagine all the rest,” Anna interposed coolly. “How far have you succeeded?”
“The young man,” Selingman told her, “has accepted my proposals. He has drawn three months’ salary in advance. He furnished me yesterday with details of a private conversation with a well-known Cabinet Minister.”
Anna turned her head. “So soon!” she murmured.
“So soon,” Selingman repeated. “And now, gracious lady, here comes my visit to you. We have a recruit, invaluable if he is indeed a recruit at heart, dangerous if he has the brains and wit to choose to make himself so. I, on my way through life, judge men and women, and I judge them—well, with few exceptions, unerringly, but at the back of my brain there lingers something of mistrust of this young man. I have seen others in his position accept similar proposals. I have seen the struggles of shame, the doubts, the assertion of some part of a man’s lower nature reconciling him in the end to accepting the pay of a foreign country. I have seen none of these things in this young man—simply a cold and deliberate acceptance of my proposals. He conforms to no type. He sets up before me a problem which I myself have failed wholly to solve. I come to you, dear lady, for your aid.”
“I am to spy upon the spy,” she remarked.
“It is an easy task,” Selingman declared. “This young man is your slave. Whatever your daily business may be here, some part of your time, I imagine, will be spent in his company. Let me know what manner of man he is. Is this innate corruptness which brings him so easily to the bait, or is it the stinging smart of injustice from which he may well be suffering? Or, failing these, has he dared to set his wits against mine, to play the double traitor? If even a suspicion of this should come to you, there must be an end of Mr. Francis Norgate.”
Anna toyed for a moment with the rose at her bosom. Her eyes were looking out of the room. Once again she was conscious of a curious slackening of purpose, a confusion of issues which had once seemed to her so clear.
“Very well,” she promised. “I will send you a report in the course of a few days.”
“I should not,” Selingman continued, rising, “venture to trouble you, Baroness, as I know the sphere of your activities
is far removed from mine, but chance has put you in the position of being able to ascertain definitely the things which I desire to know. For our common sake you will, I am sure, seek to discover the truth.”
“So far as I can, certainly,” Anna replied, “but I must admit that I, like you, find Mr. Norgate a little incomprehensible.”
“There are men,” Selingman declared, “there have been many of the strongest men in history, impenetrable to the world, who have yielded their secrets readily to a woman’s influence. The diplomatists in life who have failed have been those who have underrated the powers possessed by your wonderful sex.”
“Among whom,” Anna remarked, “no one will ever number Herr Selingman.”
“Dear Baroness,” Selingman concluded, as the maid whom Anna had summoned stood ready to show him out, “it is because in my life I have been brought into contact with so many charming examples of your power.”
* * * * *
Once more silence and solitude. Anna moved restlessly about on her couch. Her eyes were a little hot. That future into which she looked seemed to become more than ever a tangled web. At half-past seven her maid reappeared.
“Madame will dress for dinner?”
Anna swung herself to her feet. She glanced at the clock.
“I suppose so,” she assented.
“I have three gowns laid out,” the maid continued respectfully. “Madame would look wonderful in the light green.”
“Anything,” Anna yawned.
The telephone bell tinkled. Anna took down the receiver herself.
“Yes?” she asked.
Her manner suddenly changed. It was a familiar voice speaking. Her maid, who stood in the background, watched and wondered.
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