The Yellow Crayon Part 21

Mr. Sabin rose.

"I thank you, sir," he said, "for the courteous manner in which you have discharged your mission."

Lord Robert bowed.

"My good wishes," he said, "are yours."

Mr. Sabin when alone called Duson to him.

"Have you any report to make, Duson?" he asked.

"None, sir!"

Mr. Sabin dismissed him impatiently.

"After all, I am getting old. He is young and he is strong--a worthy antagonist. Come, let us see what this little volume has to say about him."

He turned over the pages rapidly and read aloud.

"Reginald Cyril Brott, born 18--, son of John Reginald Brott, Esq., of Manchester. Educated at Harrow and Merton College, Cambridge, M.A., LL.D., and winner of the Rudlock History Prize. Also tenth wrangler.

Entered the diplomatic service on leaving college, and served as junior attache at Vienna."

Mr. Sabin laid down the volume, and made a little calculation. At the end of it he had made a discovery. His face was very white and set.

"I was at Petersburg," he muttered. "Now I think of it, I heard something of a young English attache. But--"

He touched the bell.

"Duson, a carriage!"

At Camperdown House he learned that Helene was out--shopping, the hall porter believed. Mr. Sabin drove slowly down Bond Street, and was rewarded by seeing her brougham outside a famous milliner's. He waited for her upon the pavement. Presently she came out and smiled her greetings upon him.

"You were waiting for me?" she asked.

"I saw your carriage."

"How delightful of you. Let me take you back to luncheon."

He shook his head.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I should be poor company. May I drive home with you, at any rate, when you have finished?"

"Of course you may, and for luncheon we shall be quite alone, unless somebody drops in."

He took his seat beside her in the carriage. "Helene," he said, "I am interested in Mr. Brott. No, don't look at me like that. You need have no fear. My interest is in him as a man, and not as a politician. The other days are over and done with now. I am on the defensive and hard pressed."

Her face was bright with sympathy. She forgot everything except her old admiration for him. In the clas.h.i.+ng of their wills the victory had remained with her. And as for those things which he had done, the cause at least had been a great one. Her happiness had come to her through him. She bore him no grudge for that fierce opposition which, after all, had been fruitless.

"I believe you, UNCLE," she said affectionately. "If I can help you in any way I will."

"This Mr. Brott! He goes very little into society, I believe."

"Scarcely ever," she answered. "He came to us because my husband is one of the few Radical peers."

"You have not heard of any recent change in him--in this respect?"

"Well, I did hear Wolfendon chaffing him the other day about somebody,"

she said. "Oh, I know. He has been going often to the d.u.c.h.ess of Dorset's. He is such an ultra Radical, you know, and the Dorsets are fierce Tories. Wolfendon says it is a most unwise thing for a good Radical who wants to retain the confidence of the people to be seen about with a d.u.c.h.ess."

"The d.u.c.h.ess of Dorset," Mr. Sabin remarked, "must be, well--a middle-aged woman."

Helene laughed.

"She is sixty if she is a day. But I daresay she herself is not the attraction. There is a very beautiful woman staying with her--the Countess Radantz. A Hungarian, I believe."

Mr. Sabin sat quite still. His face was turned away from Helene. She herself was smiling out of the window at some acquaintances.

"I wonder if there is anything more that I can tell you?" she asked presently.

He turned towards her with a faint smile.

"You have told me," he said, "all that I want to know."

She was struck by the change in his face, the quietness of his tone was ominous.

"Am I meant to understand?" she said dubiously "because I don't in the least. It seems to me that have told you nothing. I cannot imagine what Mr. Brott and you have in common."

"If your invitation to lunch still holds good," he said, "may I accept it? Afterwards, if you can spare me a few minutes I will make things quite clear to you."

She laughed.

"You will find," she declared, "that I shall leave you little peace for luncheon. I am consumed with curiosity."

CHAPTER XV

Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin lunched with discretion, as usual, but with no lack of appet.i.te. 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 pa.s.sed 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, pa.s.sionless 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 selfis.h.!.+" 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.