“Hands up all in favour!” Cross exclaimed.
Every hand was raised. Bright came back from the couch, blinking underneath his heavy spectacles but meekly acquiescent.
“Let us remember this hour,” the Bishop begged, “as something solemn in our lives. The Council of Labour shall justify itself, shall voice the will or the people, fighting for victory.”
“For the Peace which comes through Victory!” Julian echoed.
CHAPTER XXII
Table of Contents
The Bishop and Catherine, a few weeks later, walked side by side up the murky length of St. Pancras platform. The train which they had come to meet was a quarter of an hour late, and they had fallen into a sort of reminiscent conversation which was not without interest to both of them.
“I left Mr. Stenson only an hour ago,” the Bishop observed. “He could talk about nothing but Julian Orden and his wonderful speeches. They say that at Sheffield and Newcastle the enthusiasm was tremendous, and at three shipbuilding yards on the Clyde the actual work done for the week after his visit was nearly as much again. He seems to have that extraordinary gift of talking straight to the hearts of the men. He makes them feel.”
“Mr. Stenson wrote me about it,” Catherine told her companion, with a little smile. “He said that no dignity that could be thought of or invented would be an adequate offering to Julian for his services to the country. For the first time since the war, Labour seems wholly and entirely, passionately almost, in earnest. Every one of those delegates went back full of enthusiasm, and with every one of them, Julian, before he has finished, is going to make a little tour in his own district.”
“And after to-morrow,” the Bishop remarked with a smile, “I suppose he will not be alone.”
She pressed his arm.
“It is very wonderful to think about,” she said quietly. “I am going to try and be Julian’s secretary—whilst we are away, at any rate.”
“It isn’t often,” the Bishop reflected, “that I have the chance of a few minutes’ quiet conversation, on the day before her wedding, with the woman whom I am going to marry to the man I think most of on earth.”
“Give me some good advice,” she begged.
The Bishop shook his head.
“You don’t need it,” he said. “A wife who loves her husband needs very few words of admonition. There are marriages so often in which one can see the rocks ahead that one opens one’s prayer-book, even, with a little tremor of fear. But with you and Julian it is different.”
“There is nothing that a woman can do for the man whom she loves,” she declared softly, “which I shall not try to do for Julian.”
They paced up and down for a few moments in silence. The Bishop’s step was almost buoyant. He seemed to have lost all that weary load of anxiety which had weighed him down during the last few months. Catherine, too, in her becoming grey furs, her face flushed with excitement, had the air of one who has thrown all anxiety to the winds.
“Julian’s gift of speech must have surprised even himself,” the Bishop remarked. “Of course, we always knew that ‘Paul Fiske’, when he was found, must be a brilliant person, but I don’t think that even Julian himself had any suspicion of his oratorical powers.”
“I don’t think he had,” she agreed. “In his first letter he told me that it was just like sitting down at his desk to write, except that all the dull material impedimenta of paper and ink and walls seemed rolled away, and the men to whom he wished his words to travel were there waiting. Of course, he is wonderful, but Phineas Cross, David Sands and some of the others have shown a positive genius for organisation. That Council of Socialism, Trades Unionism, and Labour generally, which was formed to bring us premature peace, seems for the first time to have brought all Labour into one party, Labour in its very broadest sense, I mean.”
“The truth of the matter is,” the Bishop pronounced, “that the people have accepted the dictum that whatever form of republicanism is aimed at, there must be government. A body of men who realise that, however advanced their ideas, can do but little harm. I am perfectly certain—Stenson admits it himself—that before very long we shall have a Labour Ministry. Who cares? It will probably be a good ministry—good for the country and good for the world. There has been too much juggling in international politics. This war is going to end that, once and for ever. By the bye,” he went on, in an altered tone, “there is one question which I have always had in my mind to ask you. If I do so now, will you please understand that if you think it best you need not answer me?”
“Certainly,” Catherine replied.
“From what source did you get your information which saved us all?”
“It came to me from a man who is dead,” was the quiet answer.
The Bishop looked steadily ahead at the row of signal lights.
“There was a young foreigner, some weeks ago,” he said “a Baron Hellman—quite a distinguished person, I believe—who was discovered shot in his rooms.”
She acquiesced silently.
“If you were to go to the Home Office and were able to persuade them to treat you candidly, I think that you could discover some wonderful things,” she confided. “I wish I could believe that the Baron was the only one who has been living in this country, unsuspected, and occupying a prominent position, who was really in the pay of Germany.”
“It was a very subtle conspiracy,” the Bishop remarked thoughtfully, “subtle because, in a sense, it appeared so genuine. It appealed to the very best instincts of thinking men.”
“Good has come out of it, at any rate,” she reminded him. “Westminster Buildings is now the centre of patriotic England. Labour was to have brought the war to an end—for Germany. It is Labour which is going to win the victory—for England.”
The train rolled into the station and rapidly disgorged its crowd of passengers, amongst whom Julian was one of the first to alight. Catherine found herself trembling. The shy words of welcome which had formed themselves in her mind died away on her lips as their glances met. She lifted her face to his.
“Julian,” she murmured, “I am so proud—so happy.”
The Bishop left them as they stepped into their cab.
“I am going to a mission room in the neighbourhood,” he explained. “We have war talks every week. I try to tell them how things are going on, and we have a short service. But before I go, Mr. Stenson has sent you a little message, Julian. If you go to your club later on to-night, you will see it in the telegrams, or you will find it in your newspapers in the morning. There has been wonderful fighting in Flanders to-day. The German line has been broken at half a dozen points. We have taken nearly twenty thousand prisoners, and Zeebrugge is threatened. Farther south, the Americans have made their start and have won a complete victory over the Crown Prince’s picked troops.”
The two men wrung hands.
“This,” Julian declared, “is the only way to Peace.”
THE BIRD OF PARADISE
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
CHAPTER I
Table of Contents
Hamer Wildburn sat suddenly up in his wide and luxurious cabin bed, with the
start of the sound sleeper unexpectedly awakened. His hands clasped his pyjama clad knees. He listened intently. Through the wide open porthole opposite came the thirty seconds flash from Antibes lighthouse. From the shore road, which skirted the bay, there was the faint hoot of a belated motor car. Closer at hand the lazy murmur of the sea against the sides of his anchored yacht. Then more distinctly, he heard again the sound which had at first awakened him. This time there was no doubt about it. A human voice from the open space. A woman’s cry of appeal. The soft but purposeful splashing of a swimmer keeping herself afloat…The young man hastened out of bed, ran up the companionway, and leaned over the side. What he saw almost immediately below was enough to startle anyone. A woman was floating upon her back, a woman, not in the day-by-day scanty but sufficient bathing dress of the moment, but a woman in evening dress, with the glint even of Jewels around her neck.
“What on earth’s the matter?” he called out “Have you fallen in from anywhere?”
“Please do not ask foolish questions,” was the composed reply. “Let down your steps. I have upset my canoe, and I must come on board for a moment.”
Wildburn’s hesitation was only momentary. He unscrewed the hooks, lowered the chain, and let down the steps into the sea. The woman, with a few tired strokes, swam towards him. She showed no particular signs of weakness or panic, but she clutched almost feverishly at his hand, and the moment she reached the deck she calmly but completely collapsed. With a thrill of horror, Wildburn realised that a portion of her black chiffon gown which clung so tightly to her body bore traces of a darker stain than the discolouration of the sea. His natural stream of questions died away upon his lips, as she became a dead weight upon his arm.
There was a quivering narrow shaft of light piercing the skies eastwards when the woman opened her eyes. Wildburn gave a sigh of relief. He held a glass of brandy once more to her lips. Her fingers guided it and she sipped some feebly.
“I will give you some coffee presently,” he promised. “By an unfortunate chance, I am alone on the boat. I gave my matelot and his boy the night off.”
She fingered the blanket by which she was covered. A look of mild horror shone out of her eyes. Hanging from the ropes which supported the forward awning was a black shapeless object.
“My gown!” she gasped.
“I had to take it off,” he explained coolly. “I was not sure whether you were seriously hurt. I am glad to find that you are not. I have bound up your shoulder. You may find it stiff and a little painful at first, from the salt water, but it is not serious.”
She lay quite still. Her hands were underneath the rug. From a very damp satin bag she produced a handkerchief, and wiped her forehead.
“I suppose it was necessary for you to play lady’s maid?” she asked weakly.
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “You were still bleeding, and I could not tell how serious your wound might be I—er—exercised every precaution.”
She looked up at him earnestly. Apparently her scrutiny of his features satisfied her. Wildburn was not good looking in the ordinary sense of the word, but he had pleasant features, a freckled, sunburnt complexion, and the humourous gleam of understanding in his eyes.
“I am sure you did what you thought was best,” she said. “I ran my canoe into one of those stationary fishing boats.”
If it occurred to him to make any comment upon her journeying amongst them at an early hour in the morning, alone and in evening dress, he refrained.
“I always said that they ought to show a light,” he remarked. “I have seen your canoe. It is drifting in shorewards.”
“Give me some more brandy,” she begged. “I wish to speak to you before we are disturbed.”
“I can hear the kettle boiling now,” he told her. Wouldn’t you like coffee?”
“Coffee would be better,” she admitted. “You are being very kind to me. I thank you.”
Still somewhat dazed, Wildburn descended the steps, made the coffee, and remounted.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised, “that there will be no milk. They bring it to me from the shore at seven o’clock.”
“It smells too delicious as it is,” she declared.
“If you will swing a little round,” he advised her, “with another cushion or two behind your back you will be more comfortable. You can sit up now and, you see, I will put this rug round your knees. Directly you have had your coffee you had better go down to my cabin and take off the remainder of your wet things.”
“You have perhaps a stock of ladies clothing on board?” she asked curiously.
“If I had known of your projected visit,” he replied, “I should have provided some. As it is you will have to content yourself with a set or my pyjamas. You will find them in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe by the side of the bed.”
She looked at him meditatively. Wildburn was a trifle over six feet, and she herself, slim and elegant as she seemed, could scarcely have been more than five feet five. Furthermore, Wildburn was broad shouldered with a man’s full chest. She sighed.
“I am going to look ridiculous,” she complained.
“I should forget that for the moment,” he ventured, as he set down her empty coffee cup. “You seem to be quite warm. I wonder whether you are feeling strong enough to satisfy my curiosity before you go down below.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
He looked around the harbour. There were no unusual lights, no indications of any other yacht having come in during the night.
“Well, where you come from first of all. Then why you choose to paddle about the bay in the small hours of the morning in your ordinary evening clothes, and lastly, why you should choose my boat for your objective.”
She was watching that broadening shaft of light uneasily.
“What is the time?” she inquired.
“Five o’clock,” he told her. “Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette whilst you explain your adventure?”
“I will smoke one too.” she said, holding out her hand. “As to explaining my adventure, I find it difficult. You smoke good tobacco, I am glad to see. Thank you,” she added as she leaned towards his briquet.
There was a silence. As yet there were no signs of life either on the small plage or anywhere upon the sea. They were surrounded by the brooding background of the woods which fringed the inlet. The lights in the few villas had long been extinguished. The tops of a row of tall cypresses stood out like dark smudges against the coming dawn.
“Well?” he asked after a brief pause.
“After all, I find it difficult,” she admitted. “Where I came from it does not matter. I started, as you perceive, in a hurry, I am rather impulsive. There was something which had to be done.”
“Something which had to be done between three and four o’clock in the morning by a young lady still wearing valuable jewellery and dressed for the evening sounds,” he pointed out, “mysterious.”
“Life,” she told him evasively, “is mysterious.”
“You will have to be a little more definite,” he insisted, with some impatience. “I have done my best to help you under these singular circumstances, but I want to know where you came from and what you want.”
“Indeed,” she murmured, drawing the blanket more securely around her.
“Think it over for a few minutes,” he proposed. “Go down below—the hatch is open—five steps, first door to the right, and you will come to a very untidy cabin. There are plenty of clean towels on the settee. I have rubbed you as best I could. You had better try and get yourself quite dry. Put on some pyjamas and my dressing gown—which you will find there—then come up and explain yourself.”
“You will trust me in your cabin then,” she observed, struggling to her feet.
“Why shouldn’t I? You do not appear to be in distressed circumstances and I have nothing in the world worth stealing.”
She looked at him for a moment with an expression which baffled him.
&n
bsp; “Are you as honest as you seem?” she asked abruptly.
“I think so,” he answered, mystified.
Without further comment she rose to her feet and, holding the blanket about her as though it were an ermine cape, disappeared down the stairs. Wildburn waited for what seemed to him to be an unconscionable time, then he poured out another cup of coffee, lit a fresh cigarette, and strolled round the deck. Once more in the misty twilight of dawn he satisfied himself that no strange craft had entered the bay during the night. The tiny restaurant on the plage was still closed. The beautiful château which, with its thickly growing woods, occupied the whole of the western side of the bay offered no signs of life. The windows of the few villas on the other side were still lifeless blanks…He paused before the sodden black frock flapping in the faint breeze, took it down and shook it. A fragment of the sash disclosed within the name of a world famous dressmaker. Then he turned round to find his unaccountable visitor standing by the side of him.
“Of course I know that I look ridiculous,” she admitted querulously. “I hope that your manners will stand the strain and that you will not laugh at me.”
The tell-tale lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth deepened, but if he felt any inclination towards mirth he restrained it.
“I never realised that I had such good taste in night apparel,” he assured her. “The prospect of your immediate future however, causes me—I must confess—some disquietude. Perhaps you are staying near here—at some place where I can send for clothes?”
“We will see about that presently,” she replied. “It is a matter of no great importance.”
She seemed to find the twinkle in his eyes, as he stole another look at her, unduly irritating.
“These things are all trifles,” she declared with a frown. “Where I live or who I am does not matter. What do you want to know about me?”
“Let’s get to something definite,” he begged. “What were you doing swimming round my boat at three o’clock in the morning in an evening frock from the Rue de la Paix?”
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