CHAPTER XV

Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin lunched with discretion, as usual, but with no

lack of appetite. It chanced that they were alone. Lord Camperdown was

down in the Midlands for a day’s hunting, and Helene had ensured their

seclusion from any one who might drop in by a whispered word to the

hall porter as they passed into the house. It seemed to her that she had

never found Mr. Sabin more entertaining, had never more appreciated his

rare gift of effortless and anecdotal conversation. What a marvelous

memory! He knew something of every country from the inside. He had been

brought at various times during his long diplomatic career into contact

with most of the interesting people in the world. He knew well how

to separate the grain from the chaff according to the tastes of

his listener. The pathos of his present position appealed to her

irresistibly. The possibilities of his life had been so great, fortune

had treated him always so strangely. The greatest of his schemes had

come so near to success, the luck had turned against him only at the

very moment of fruition. Helene felt very kindly towards her UNCLE as

she led him, after luncheon, to a quiet corner of the winter garden,

where a servant had already arranged a table with coffee and liqueurs

and cigarettes. Unscrupulous all his life, there had been an element of

greatness in all his schemes. Even his failures had been magnificent,

for his successes he himself had seldom reaped the reward. And now in

the autumn of his days she felt dimly that he was threatened with some

evil thing against which he stood at bay single-handed, likely perhaps

to be overpowered. For there was something in his face just now which

was strange to her.

“Helene,” he said quietly, “I suppose that you, who knew nothing of

me till you left school, have looked upon me always as a selfish,

passionless creature--a weaver of plots, perhaps sometimes a dreamer of

dreams, but a person wholly self-centred, always self-engrossed?”

She shook her head.

“Not selfish!” she objected. “No, I never thought that. It is the wrong

word.”

“At least,” he said, “you will be surprised to hear that I have loved

one woman all my life.”

She looked at him half doubtfully.

“Yes,” she said, “I am surprised to hear that.”

“I will surprise you still more. I was married to her in America within

a month of my arrival there. We have lived together ever since. And I

have been very happy. I speak, of course, of Lucille!”

“It is amazing,” she murmured. “You must tell me all about it.”

“Not all,” he answered sadly. “Only this. I met her first at Vienna

when I was thirty-five, and she was eighteen. I treated her shamefully.

Marriage seemed to me, with all my dreams of great achievements, an act

of madness. I believed in myself and my career. I believed that it was

my destiny to restore the monarchy to our beloved country. And I wanted

to be free. I think that I saw myself a second Napoleon. So I won her

love, took all that she had to give, and returned nothing.

“In the course of years she married the son of the American Consul at

Vienna. I was obliged, by the bye, to fight her brother, and he carried

his enmity to me through life. I saw her sometimes in the course

of years. She was always beautiful, always surrounded by a host of

admirers, always cold. When the end of my great plans here came, and I

myself was a fugitive, her brother found me out. He gave me a letter to

deliver in America. I delivered it--to his sister.

“She was as beautiful as ever, and alone in the world. It seemed to me

that I realised then how great my folly had been. For always I had loved

her, always there had been that jealously locked little chamber in my

life. Helene, she pointed no finger of scorn to my broken life. She

uttered no reproaches. She took me as I was, and for three years our

life together has been to me one long unbroken harmony. Our tastes were

very similar. She was well read, receptive, a charming companion. Ennui

was a word of which I have forgotten the meaning. And it seemed so with

her, too, for she grew younger and more beautiful.”

“And why is she not with you?” Helene cried. “I must go and see her. How

delightful it sounds!”

“One day, about three months ago,” Mr. Sabin continued, “she left me to

go to New York for two days. Her milliner in Paris had sent over, and

twice a year Lucille used to buy clothes. I had sometimes accompanied

her, but she knew how I detested New York, and this time she did not

press me to go. She left me in the highest spirits, as tender and

gracefully affectionate as ever. She never returned.”

Helene started in her chair.

“Oh, UNCLE!” she cried.

“I have never seen her since,” he repeated.

“Have you no clue? She could not have left you willingly. Have you no

idea where she is?”

He bowed his head slowly.

“Yes,” he said, “I know where she is. She came to Europe with Lady

Carey. She is staying with the Duchess of Dorset.”

“The Countess Radantz?” Helene cried.

“It was her maiden name,” he answered.

There was a moment’s silence. Helene was bewildered.

“Then you have seen her?”

He shook his head slowly.

“No. I did not even know where she was until you told me.”

“But why do you wait a single moment?” she asked. “There must be some

explanation. Let me order a carriage now. I will drive round to Dorset

House with you.”

She half rose. He held out his hand and checked her.

“There are other things to be explained,” he said quickly. “Sit down,

Helene.”

She obeyed him, mystified.

“For your own sake,” he continued, “there are certain facts in

connection with this matter which I must withhold. All I can tell you

is this. There are people who have acquired a hold upon Lucille so great

that she is forced to obey their bidding. Lady Carey is one, the Duchess

of Dorset is another. They are no friends of mine, and apparently

Lucille has been taken away from me by them.”

“A--a hold upon her?” Helene repeated vaguely.

“It is all I can tell you. You must suppose an extreme case. You may

take my word for it that under certain circumstances Lucille would have

no power to deny them anything.”

“But--without a word of farewell. They could not insist upon her leaving

you like that! It is incredible!”

“It is quite possible,” Mr. Sabin said.

Helene caught herself looking at him stealthily. Was it possible that

this wonderful brain had given way at last? There were no signs of it

in his face or expression. But the Duchess of Dorset! Lady Carey! These

were women of her own circle--Londoners, and the Duchess, at any rate,

a woman of the very highest social position and unimpeached

conventionality.

“This sounds--very extraordinary, UNCLE!” she remarked a little lamely.

“It is extraordinary,” he answered drily. “I do not wonder that you find

it hard to believe me. I--”

“Not to believe--to understand!”

He smiled.

“We will not distinguish! After all, what does it matter? Assume, if

you cannot believe, that Lucille’s leaving me may have been at the

instigation of these people, and therefore involuntary. If this be so

I have hard battle to fight to win her back, but in the end I shall do

it.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“I am sure,” she said, “that you will not find it difficult. Tell me,

cannot I help you in any way? I know the Duchess very well indeed--well

enough to take you to call quite informally if you please. She is a

great supporter of what they call the Primrose League here. I do not

understand what it is all about, but it seems that I may not join

because my husband is a Radical.”

Mr. Sabin looked for a moment over his clasped hands through the faint

blue cloud of cigarette smoke, and sundry possibilities flashed through

his mind to be at once rejected. He shook his head.

“No!” he said firmly. “I do not wish for your help at present, directly

or indirectly. If you meet the Countess I would rather that you did not

mention my name. There is only one person whom, if you met at Dorset

House or anywhere where Lucille is, I would ask you to watch. That is

Mr. Brott!”

It was to be a conversation full of surprises for Helene. Mr. Brott!

Her hand went up to her forehead for a moment, and a little gesture of

bewilderment escaped her.

“Will you tell me,” she asked almost plaintively, “what on earth Mr.

Brott can have to do with this business--with Lucille--with you--with

any one connected with it?”

Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders.

“Mr. Brott,” he remarked, “a Cabinet Minister of marked Radical

proclivities, has lately been a frequent visitor at Dorset House,

which is the very home of the old aristocratic Toryism. Mr. Brott was

acquainted with Lucille many years ago--in Vienna. At that time he

was, I believe, deeply interested in her. I must confess that Mr. Brott

causes me some uneasiness.”

“I think--that men always know,” Helene said, “if they care to. Was

Lucille happy with you?”

“Absolutely. I am sure of it.”

“Then your first assumption must be correct,” she declared. “You cannot

explain things to me, so I cannot help you even with my advice. I am

sorry.”

He turned his head towards her and regarded her critically, as though

making some test of her sincerity.

“Helene,” he said gravely, “it is for your own sake that I do not

explain further, that I do not make things clearer to you. Only I wanted

you to understand why I once more set foot in Europe. I wanted you to

understand why I am here. It is to win back Lucille. It is like that

with me, Helene. I, who once schemed and plotted for an empire, am once

more a schemer and a worker, but for no other purpose than to recover

possession of the woman whom I love. You do not recognise me, Helene. I

do not recognise myself. Nevertheless, I would have you know the truth.

I am here for that, and for no other purpose.”

He rose slowly to his feet. She held out both her hands and grasped his.

“Let me help you,” she begged. “Do! This is not a matter of politics or

anything compromising. I am sure that I could be useful to you.”

“So you can,” he answered quietly. “Do as I have asked you. Watch Mr.

Brott!”