Kitabı oku: «The White Lie», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XVII.
THE DARKENING HORIZON
“Well, nurse, I hardly expected that,” he said, reprovingly, his serious eyes fixed upon hers.
Jean turned scarlet, and then admitted, as she stood with her back to the writing table:
“I saw the photograph in your despatch-box, and it attracted me. Then I saw those papers.”
“And they seem to have greatly interested you, nurse – eh?” Darnborough remarked.
“A woman is always interested in what does not concern her,” she replied with a forced smile.
“Well, forgive me for saying so, but I consider it gross impertinence on your part to have pried into my papers, young lady,” exclaimed the chief of the Secret Service, with some asperity.
“I trust you will forgive me, Mr. Darnborough, but, truth to tell, I could not resist the temptation.”
“Just as many other people could not resist – if they knew what secrets this despatch-box of mine sometimes contains,” he laughed. “Well, nurse, I forgive you,” he added cheerfully, his manner changing. “Go back to Lord Bracondale, and make haste and get him well again. England is sorely in need of him to-day – I can assure you.”
“Does he wish for me?”
“Yes, he gave me a message asking you to return to him at once.”
“I’ll go, then,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’ve forgiven me. My action was, I know, horribly mean and quite unpardonable. Good evening.”
“Good evening, nurse,” Darnborough responded, as he busied himself repacking his papers. She left the room.
The great man of secrets was, as yet, in ignorance that the pretty, graceful, half-French nurse and Fräulein Montague, Dick Harborne’s friend, were one and the same person.
At that moment he had been talking with the very woman whom his agents had been hunting the whole of Europe to find. Yet he bowed her out of the room in entire ignorance of that fact.
And as she ascended the great, broad, thickly-carpeted staircase to the sick man’s room she was filled with regret that Darnborough had not entered five minutes later, when, by that time, she would have learnt the secret of what was contained in those papers concerning Dick Harborne’s death.
Her head swam as she recalled that tragic afternoon and also the afternoon succeeding it, when she had witnessed the terrible accident to Noel Barclay, the naval aviator. She recollected how Ralph had been at her side in the cab when they had both witnessed the collapse of the aeroplane, and how utterly callous and unmoved he had been.
For the thousandth time she asked herself whether Ralph Ansell, her dead husband, had ever discovered her friendship with Richard Harborne. It was a purely platonic friendship. Their stations in life had been totally different, yet he had always treated her gallantly, and she had, in return, consented to assist him in several matters – “matters of business” he had termed them. And in connection with one of them she had gone to Germany as Fräulein Montague and met him on that memorable day when she acted as a go-between.
Had Ralph found this out? If so, had Dick died by her husband’s hand?
She was at the door of his lordship’s room, a pretty figure in her blue cotton gown and white nursing-apron and cap. For a moment she paused to crush down all recollections of the past. Then she turned the handle and entered on tip-toe, fearing lest her patient might be asleep.
But he was very wideawake – planning a line of policy to defeat the suggested Austro-German alliance against Great Britain. Prompt measures were necessary. At eight o’clock in the morning two King’s Messengers would be at Bracondale ready to take the cipher despatches – autograph instructions to the British Ambassadors to the Courts of both Empires.
Though the Earl of Bracondale was confined to his bed, the foreign policy of the nation had still to be conducted, and he had resumed control of affairs as soon as ever his hand could use a pen.
A whole stream of officials from Downing Street, and others, called at Bracondale daily and passed through his room. And to each and sundry he gave precise and implicit instructions, the marvellously ingenious policy evolved by his remarkable brain.
“It is time for your medicine,” Jean said, in a soft voice, as she entered. “It was due half an hour ago, but I hesitated to disturb you with your visitor.”
“Quite right, nurse. Never disturb me when Mr. Darnborough calls. My business with him is always of the very highest importance, and always strictly confidential.”
Jean crossed to the small round table whereon stood the bottle and medicine-glass, and after measuring the mixture carefully, handed it to him, asking:
“Is your shoulder quite easy now?”
“Quite, nurse,” was his reply, as, raising himself on his other elbow, he tossed off the medicine, pulling a wry face afterwards. Then, with a calm, set expression upon his countenance, he looked at her, and remarked:
“I should think nursing must be a terribly dull, monotonous life, isn’t it? Surely the continual atmosphere of the sick-room is very depressing?”
“I do not find it so,” she replied brightly, with her pretty French accent. “I am devoted to my calling.”
“I quite recognise that,” said his lordship, looking into her sweet, serious eyes. “Yet it requires a good deal of self-denial, I should imagine.”
“Perhaps,” and she smiled. “But self-denial is one of the first lessons learnt in our Sisterhood.”
“You joined the Sisterhood in France, did you not?” he asked.
“Yes; at the chief convent at Enghien, near Paris. But, of course, I have not yet taken my vows as a nun.”
“You intend to do so, I suppose?”
She was silent a few seconds; then, with her eyes averted, she answered frankly:
“It is more than possible.”
“Would it not be a great sacrifice? Remember, you are young. Why should you cut yourself off so entirely from the world?”
Again she was silent. Then, seeing that he awaited her reply, she answered:
“If I take the vows I shall do so because I have certain reasons for so doing.”
“Strong reasons?” he asked, still looking into her face.
She raised her fine eyes to his again, and nodded in the affirmative.
Then she turned and walked towards the table to put down the empty glass.
Lord Bracondale for the first time realised that the nurse by whom during the past few days he, confirmed bachelor that he was, had become so strangely attracted, possessed a chapter of her life which she hoped was closed for ever.
The curious situation attracted him. What, he wondered, could be the nature of the secret of such a good, pure-minded, honest woman?
His eyes followed her as she moved about the room in silence. He was wondering.
The autumn days passed slowly. His was a long illness.
Out in the great park the golden leaves, in falling, were swept along the wide avenue by the strong winds from the sea, and the face of the country had now become brown and desolate.
Jean, when she took her walk alone each afternoon, when off duty, wandered over the bare fields or beside the grey, chill sea until, so dispiriting did she find the scene, that she preferred to spend her hours of rest in the big, well-warmed house or at the convent itself.
His lordship’s recovery was very slow.
Sir Evered Morrison had been down three times from London and seen the patient, and on the last occasion had been accompanied by another renowned surgeon.
Though it was kept a profound secret, the truth was that the Earl was not progressing as well as had been expected. Perhaps the strain of State affairs was too heavy upon him, for though far from recovered, he worked several hours with Mr. Charlton, his secretary, who sat at a table at his bedside, writing despatches as his lordship dictated them.
Thus three months went by. November came and went, and still the Earl had not left his room, although he was allowed to sit by the fire in his dressing-gown for two hours each day.
The room had been transformed into a small library, and here his lordship received callers who came from London upon official business. Indeed, he on more than one occasion received an ambassador of one of the Great Powers.
To Jean it was all a very novel and strange experience. At her patient’s bedside she met some of the greatest of the land, men whose names were as household words. Even a royal prince called one day in his motor-car and sat beside the fire with the invalid. And if the truth be told, scarcely a person who visited the Earl did not remark upon his nurse’s grace, sweetness, and good looks.
Inwardly, the Earl of Bracondale was much mystified. Unconsciously, though occupied with State affairs, he found himself thinking of her, and when she was absent for rest he looked forward eagerly to her return. To Sister Gertrude he spoke but little, while to Jean he was always frank, open, and exceedingly chatty.
Yet constantly did the suspicion arise in his mind that she was in possession of some dread secret, that there was a chapter in her past which she was undesirous of revealing.
In the middle of December he grew convalescent, and Sir Evered one day announced that he would, with care, completely recover.
The daily bulletins in the newspapers ceased to appear, and the world then knew that the renowned Foreign Secretary was on his way back to health.
This he attributed to Jean’s careful nursing. To every one he was loud in her praises. Indeed, he often spoke of her in eulogistic terms while she was present, and on such occasions she would blush deeply and declare that she had only performed her duty.
In those weeks they had been constantly in each other’s society. The long days in which she sat at his bedside reading or doing needlework, and the nights when each quarter of an hour she stole in stealthily to see that all was well, she had grown very partial to his society. He was so bright and intellectual, and possessed such a keen sense of humour when his mind was not overshadowed by the weight of political events. Often he would chat with her for hours, and sometimes, indeed, he would put a subtle question upon the matter in which he now took so keen an interest – her past.
But to all his cleverly-conceived inquiries she remained dumb. Her wit was as quick as his, and he saw that whatever was the truth, her intelligence was of a very high order. She would speak freely upon every other subject, but as to what she had done or where she had been before entering the Sisterhood she refused to satisfy him.
The past! To her it was all a horrible nightmare. Often, when alone, the face of Ralph Ansell, the man who had been shot like a dog by the police, arose before her. She tried to blot it out, but all was, alas! of no avail.
Sometimes she compared her patient with her dead husband. And then she would sigh to herself – sigh because she held the Earl in such admiration and esteem.
Just after Christmas another diplomatic bombshell burst in Europe. Darnborough came to and fro to Bracondale half a dozen times in the course of four or five days. Once he arrived by special train from Paddington in the middle of the night. Many serious conferences did he have with his chief, secret consultations at which Jean, filled with curiosity, of course was not present, though she did not fail to note that Darnborough usually regarded her with some suspicion, notwithstanding his exquisite politeness.
More than once in those last days of the year Jean suggested that her presence at Bracondale was no longer required. But her patient seemed very loath to part with her.
“Another week, nurse,” he would say. “Perhaps I will be able to do without you then. We shall see.”
And so indispensable did his lordship find her that not until the last day of January did she pack her small belongings ready to be carried back to the convent.
It was a warm, bright evening, one of those soft, sunny winter days which one so often experiences in sheltered Torquay, when Jean, having sent her things down by Davis, the under chauffeur, put on her neat little velvet hat and her black, tailor-made coat, and carrying her business-like nursing-bag, went into the huge drawing-room, where she had learnt from Jenner the Earl was reading.
The big, luxurious, heavily-gilded apartment was empty, but the long, French windows were open upon the stone terrace, and upon one of the white iron garden chairs the Earl, a smart, neatly-dressed figure in black morning coat, widely braided in the French manner – a fashion he usually affected – sat reading.
Jean walked to the window, bag in hand, and paused for a few seconds, looking at him in silence.
Then, as their eyes met and he rose quickly to his feet, she advanced with outstretched hand to wish him farewell.
CHAPTER XVIII.
LORD BRACONDALE’S CONFESSION
“What!” he cried, with a look of dismay upon his pale face. “Are you really leaving, nurse?”
“Yes, Lord Bracondale. I have already sent my things back to the convent. I have come to wish you good-bye.”
“To wish me good-bye!” he echoed blankly, looking her straight in the face. “How can I ever thank you – how can I ever repay you for all your kindness, care, and patience with me? Sir Evered says that I owe my life to your good nursing.”
She smiled.
“I think Sir Evered is merely paying me an undeserved compliment,” was her modest reply.
He had taken her small, white hand in his, and for a moment he stood mute before her, overcome with gratitude.
“Sir Evered has spoken the truth, Nurse Jean,” he said. “I know it, and you yourself know it. In all these weeks we have been together we have begun to know each other, we have been companions, and – and you have many a time cheered me when I felt in blank despair.”
“I am very pleased if I have been able to bring you happiness,” she replied. “It is sometimes difficult to infuse gaiety into a sick-room.”
“But you have brought me new life, new hope, new light into my dull, careworn life,” he declared quickly. “Since I found you at my bedside I have become a different man.”
“How?” she asked, very seriously.
“You have inspired in me new hopes, new aspirations – and a fresh ambition.”
“Of what?”
He raised her ungloved hand and kissed it fervently.
She tried to snatch it away, but he held it fast, and, looking into her dark, startled eyes, replied:
“Of making you my wife, Jean.”
“Your wife!” she gasped, her face pale in an instant, as she drew back, astounded at the suggestion.
“Yes. Listen to me!” he cried, quickly, still holding her hand, and drawing her to him as he stepped into the huge room upholstered with pale blue silk. “This is no sudden fancy on my part, Jean. I have watched you – watched you for days and weeks – for gradually I came to know how deeply attached I had become to you – that I love you!”
“No, no!” she exclaimed. “Let me go, please, Lord Bracondale! This is madness. I refuse to hear you. Reflect – and you will see that I can never become your wife!”
And upon her sweet face there spread a hard, pained expression.
“But I repeat, Jean – I swear it – I love you!” he said. “I again repeat my question – Will you honour me by becoming my wife? Can you ever love me sufficiently to sacrifice yourself? And will you try and love me – will you – ”
“I cannot bear it!” she cried, struggling to free herself from his strong embrace, while he held her hand and again passionately raised it to his lips. “Please recall those words. They are injudicious, to say the least.”
“I have spoken the plain truth. I love you!”
Her eyes were downcast. She stood against a large, silk-covered settee, her hand touching the silken covering, her chest heaving and falling in deep emotion, so unprepared had she been for the Earl’s declaration of affection.
Through her mind, however, one thought ran – the difference in their social status; he – a Cabinet Minister; and she – the widow of a thief!
Recollection of that hideous chapter of her life flashed upon her, and she shuddered.
Bracondale noticed that she shivered, but, ignorant of the reason, only drew her closer to him.
“Tell me, Jean,” he whispered. “May I hope? Now that you are leaving, I cannot bear that you should go out of my life for ever. I am no young lover, full of flowery speeches, but I love you as fervently, as ardently, as any man has ever loved a woman; and if you will be mine I will endeavour to make you contented and happy to all the extent I am able.”
“But, Lord Bracondale,” she protested, raising her fine eyes to his, “I am unworthy – I – ”
“You are worthy, Jean,” he declared, earnestly. “You are the only woman in all my life that I have loved. For all these years I have been a bachelor, self-absorbed in the affairs of the nation, in politics and diplomacy, until, by my accident, I have suddenly realised that there is still something more in the world to live for higher than the position I hold as a member of the Cabinet – the love of a good woman, and you are that woman. Tell me,” he urged, speaking in a low whisper as he bent to her, “tell me – may I hope?”
Slowly she disengaged the hand he held, and drew it across her white brow beneath her velvet hat.
“I – I – ah! no, Lord Bracondale,” she cried. “This is all very unwise. You would soon regret.”
“Regret!” he echoed. “No, I shall never regret, because, Jean, I love you!”
“Have you ever thought that, while you are a peer and a Cabinet Minister, I am only a nurse?”
“Social status should not be considered when a man loves a woman as truly and devotedly as I love you. Remember, to you I owe my recovery,” he said frankly. “In the weeks you have spent at my side I have realised that life will now be a blank when you have left my roof. But must it be so? Will you not take pity upon me and try to reciprocate, in even a small degree, the great love I bear you? Do, Jean, I beg of you.”
She was silent for a long time, her eyes fixed across the terrace upon the pretty Italian garden, to the belt of high, dark firs beyond.
“You ask me this, Lord Bracondale, and yet you do not even know my surname!” she remarked at last.
“Whatever your surname may be, it makes no difference to me,” was his reply. “Whatever skeleton may be hidden in your cupboard is no affair of mine. I ask nothing regarding your past life. To me, you are honest and pure. I know that, or you would not lead the life you now lead. I only know, Jean, that I love you,” and, again taking her soft hand tenderly, he once more raised it to his lips and imprinted upon it tender kisses.
His words showed her that his affection was genuine. His promise not to seek to unveil her past gave her courage, for she had all along been suspicious that he was endeavouring to learn her secret. What would he say, how would he treat her, if he ever knew the ghastly truth?
“Now, I wish to assure you,” he went on, “that I have no desire whatever that you should tell me the slightest thing which you may wish to regard as your own secret. All of us, more or less, possess some family confidence which we have no desire to be paraded before our friends. A wife should, of course, have no secrets from her husband after marriage. But her secrets before she becomes a wife are her own, and her husband has no right to inquire into them. I speak to you, Jean, as a man of the world, as a man who has sympathy for women, and who is cognisant of a woman’s feelings.”
“Do you really mean what you say, Lord Bracondale?” she asked, raising her serious eyes inquiringly to his.
“I certainly do. I have never been more earnest, or sincere, in all my life than I am at this moment.”
“You certainly show a generous nature,” she replied. His assurance had swept away her fears. She dreaded lest he should know the truth of the tragedy of her marriage. She held Darnborough in fear, because he seemed always to suspect her. Besides, what could that file of papers have contained – what facts concerning her friend’s tragic end?
“I hate to think of your wearing your life out in a sick-room, Jean,” he said. “It is distressing to me that you, whom I love so dearly, should be doomed to a convent life, however sincere, devout, and holy.”
“It is my sphere,” she replied.
“Your proper sphere is at my side – as my wife,” he declared. “Ah, Jean, will you only give me hope, will you only endeavour to show me a single spark of affection, will you try and reciprocate, to the smallest extent, my love for you? Mine is no boyish infatuation, but the love of a man whose mind is matured, even soured by the world’s follies and vanities. I tell you that I love you. Will you be mine?”
She still hesitated. His question nonplussed her.
How could she, the widow of a notorious thief dare to become Countess of Bracondale!
He noticed her hesitation, and put it down to her natural reticence and shyness. He loved her with all his heart and soul. Never, in all his career, had he ever met, in society or out of it, a woman to whom he had been so deeply devoted. He had watched her closely with the keen criticism of a practised mind, and he had found her to be his ideal.
She was still standing against the pale blue settee, leaning against it for support. Her face was pale as death, with two pink spots in the centre of the cheeks betraying her excitement and emotion. She dare not open her mouth lest she should betray the reason of her hesitation. It was upon the tip of her tongue to confess all.
Yet had he not already told her that he had no desire to probe the secret of her past – that he only desired her for herself, that her past was her own affair, and that his only concern was her future, because he loved her so? She recognised how good, how kind, how generous, and how every trait of his character was that of the high-born English gentleman. In secret she had long admired him, yet she had been careful not to betray an undue interest beyond that of his accident. In such circumstances a woman’s diplomacy is always marvellous. In the concealment of her true feelings, woman can always give many points to a man.
Bracondale was awaiting her answer. His eyes were fixed upon hers, though her gaze was averted. He held her in his arms, and again repeated his question in a low, intense voice, the voice of a man filled with the passion of true affection.
“Will you be mine, dearest?” he asked, a second time. “Will you trust in me and throw in your lot in life with mine?”
She shook her head.
“No, Lord Bracondale; such a marriage would, for you, be most injudicious. You must marry one of your own people.”
“Never!” he cried in desperation. “If I marry, it will be only your own dear self.”
“But think – think what the world will say.”
“Let the world say what it likes,” he laughed. “Remember my policy and my doings are criticised by the Opposition newspapers every day. But I have learned to disregard hard words. I am my own master in my private life as well as in my public life, and if you will only consent to be my wife I shall tackle the difficult European problems with renewed vigour, well knowing that I have at least one sympathiser and helpmate – my wife.”
He paused, and looked into her dark eyes for quite a long time.
Then, bending till his lips almost touched hers, and placing his arm tenderly about her waist, he asked breathlessly:
“Jean, tell me, darling, that you do not hate me – that you will try to love me – that you will consent to become my wife. Do, I beg of you.”
For a few seconds she remained silent in his embrace, then slowly her lips moved.
But so stirred by emotion was she that no sound escaped them.
“You will be mine, darling, will you not?” he urged. “Jean, I love you – I’ll love you for ever – always! Do, I beseech of you, give me hope. Say that you love me just a little – only just a little.”
Tears welled in her great, dark eyes, and again her chest heaved and fell.
Then, of a sudden, her head fell upon his shoulder and she buried her face, sobbing in mute consent, while he, on his part, pressed her closely to him and smothered her cheek with burning kisses.
