Part 13 (1/2)
George smiled bitterly at the old man's philosophy. ”Are you, then, one of those with a romance within you?” he asked, his face suddenly becoming grave again.
”Yes,” the old lawyer answered, his features hard and cold. ”I, dry-as-dust, matter-of-fact man that I am, I also have my romance.
Years ago, how many I do not care to count, I loved a woman just as madly as you love Liane Brooker. She was of good family, wealthy, and so handsome that a well-known artist painted her portrait, which was hung at one of the Galleries as one of a collection of types of English beauty. That she loved me I could not doubt, and the first six months of our acquaintance in the quaint old cathedral town where we lived was a dream of sunny, never-ending days. At evening, when the office at which I was articled was closed, she met me, and we walked together in the sunset by the river. I see her now, as if it were but yesterday, in her simple white dress and large hat trimmed with roses. The years that have pa.s.sed have not dimmed my memory.”
And the old man, pausing, sat with his steely eyes gazing into the fire, a hardness in the corners of his mouth as if the recollection of the past was painful.
”Months went by,” he continued in a harsh voice, quite unlike the tone habitual to him. ”She knew that I was poor, yet against the wishes of her parents, purse-proud county people, she had announced her intention of waiting a year or two, and then marrying me. At length there came a day when I found it necessary to exchange the quiet respectability of Durham for the bustle of a London office, and left. Ours was a sad farewell, one night beneath the moon. She took my ring from my finger, kissed it and replaced it, while I kissed her hair, and we exchanged vows of undying love. Then we parted. Well, you may guess the rest.
Within three months she was a wife, but I was not her husband. From the moment when we said farewell on that memorable night I never saw her nor heard from her again. Times without number I wrote, but my letters remained unanswered, until I saw in the papers the announcement of her marriage with some man who I ascertained later had ama.s.sed a fortune at the Cape and had taken her out there with him. Though I have grown old, I have never ceased to remember her, because she was the one woman I adored, the woman who comes once into the life of every man to lighten it, but who, alas! too often forsakes him for reasons incomprehensible and leaves him solitary and forgotten, with only a deep-cherished memory as consolation. So it is with you, George,” he added. ”It may be, as you fear, that Liane Brooker has grown weary, yet remember the old adage that a woman's mind and winter wind change oft, and reflect that if after her solemn vow to you she breaks her pledge, she is unworthy.”
”I know,” he answered. ”Nevertheless she is my well-beloved.”
”So to me was the woman of whom I have just spoken,” he answered.
”Nevertheless, that did not prevent me marrying ten years later and living in perfect happiness with my wife till her death six years ago.
No, the thought of the past is the privilege of all men. I admit that it is doubly hard in your case that, having sacrificed your fortune for sake of her, you should now find yourself being slowly replaced in her heart by some other man. Nevertheless, I repeat I am not surprised.”
”But you sympathise with me, although I speak so foolishly,” he said, half apologetically.
”It is no foolish talk,” Harrison replied. ”There is surely no foolishness in discussing a matter that so closely concerns a man's future,” he said. ”Of course you have my most sincere sympathy, and if at any time I can offer advice or render a.s.sistance, then command me.”
”You are extremely good,” the young man replied. ”The mystery surrounding Liane, the tragic death of Nelly Bridson, the discovery of the missing miniature, and the unfortunate girl's acquaintance with this unknown woman whom my father designated as my wife, form an enigma of which, try how I will, I am unable to obtain any elucidation. Through all these months not a single important fact has come to light.”
”True. It's an extraordinary affair altogether,” Harrison acquiesced, replacing the inquiry agent's report in his breast-pocket. ”But I still hope we may discover Mariette Lepage, and through her we shall certainly be able to learn something. Until then, we must remain patient.”
The pained, thoughtful expression that had rested upon his face, while he had been telling George the romance of his life, had been succeeded by that keen business-like air he always wore. He was again the plain, matter-of-fact lawyer, with his clean-shaven aquiline face, his cold steel-blue eyes and thin lips that gave those who did not know him an impression of almost ascetic austerity.
George Stratfield made no answer, but when a few minutes later his visitor had gone, after placing his hand sympathetically upon his shoulder and bidding him bear up against misfortune, he cast himself again into his chair and sat immovable, heedless of everything save the one woman who was his idol.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE PROMENADE DES ANGLAIS.
Nice, the town of violets and mimosa, of confetti, of gay dominoes and pretty women, is at its best in February, white, clean, and ready for the reception of its most welcome guest, King Carnival. While England is still gloomy with rain and fogs, and wintry winds still moan through the bare branches, the weather is already summer-like, with bright suns.h.i.+ne, soft warm breezes, and a sea of that intense sapphire blue which only the Mediterranean can a.s.sume. Little wonder it is that the gay world of every European capital should flock to Nice, so mild is its climate, and so many and unique are its attractions.
Superbly situated on the broad beautiful Bay of Anges, with the promontories of Ferrat and Antibes jutting out in the far distance on either side, and sheltered by the lower terraces of the Maritime Alps, it presents a handsome appearance, with the heights of Cimiez and other fertile olive-clad hills forming a fitting background. Close to the sea, in the centre of the town, is the pretty Jardin Public, with its cascade and cavern of hanging stalact.i.tes, and behind is the fine Place Ma.s.sena, wherein stands the handsome white Casino Munic.i.p.al, while along the coast to the right stretches the world-famed Promenade des Anglais, a magnificent esplanade bordered by palatial hotels and villas, all uniformly white, the roadway planted with palms, oranges, cypresses and aloes, and laid out with beds of sweet-smelling flowers.
Although February, the oranges are ripe, and roses and carnations are already in full blossom; the Jardin Public is a blaze of brilliant colour, and as one turns from the Promenade into the clean white streets the fragrance of violets hawked in huge bunches at four sous by the flower-girls greets the nostrils at every corner. Nice is indeed a town of flowers. The garden of each villa is full of them--almost every person in the street wears a b.u.t.tonhole or carries violets, the florists' shops diffuse the odour of mimosa and roses far and near, and even the confectioners sell dainty little round boxes of violets and roses crystallised in sugar. In those spring days Nice is verily in Carnival mood. Her hotels are full, her shops display the daintiest fabrics possible, and as to hats and sunshades--for both of which the town is famous--it is doubtful whether such daring feats of millinery, as fetching as they are audacious, can be found in any city or any clime the world over. Certainly nowhere else is there a brighter or more animated scene than that witnessed on the cemented footway of the Promenade des Anglais on a February morning. Furs have long ago been discarded, and silk blouses and sunshades testify to the warmth of the brilliant sun, while the male portion of the visitors are attired in straw hats and suits of summer tweed. Truly cosmopolitan and polyglot is that chattering throng. One rubs shoulders with barons, counts and highnesses of every nationality, and hears every European language uttered by gay laughing lips; the sibilant French of the dainty Parisienne, the musical Italian, the guttural German, the rapid English and the slow Russian, all combine to make a veritable Babel of tongues, while by the costumes alone, many of them marvellous creations of the famous men-dressmakers, the race of their wearers may usually be determined. Fas.h.i.+onable Europe is making happy holiday amid premature summer.
Amid this chattering crowd of pleasure-seekers Liane was strolling beside Prince Zertho one morning a fortnight after old Mr Harrison had visited George in his dingy London chambers. Gowned in pearl grey, the fitting of which bore the impress of the Parisian costumier, and with a large hat to match, she walked on, chatting, laughing, and ever and anon bowing to those she knew; while the Prince, in black jacket suit and soft felt hat of silver-grey, lounged leisurely along beside her, smoking a cigarette, and listening amusedly to her light, vivacious gossip. Her appearance was entirely different to the trim, neatly-dressed girl who, in cotton blouse and shabby skirt, had cycled over the level Berks.h.i.+re roads. With her pure and perfect French, her slim waist girdled narrow, her _chevelure_ as carefully arranged as if by a maid of the first order, one might have easily mistaken her for a true Parisienne. Her beautiful face, combined with her delightful _chic_, caused many to turn and glance after her as she pa.s.sed, a fact not unnoticed by her companion.
Her cheeks, no longer wan as they had been at Stratfield Mortimer, were again flushed with health; her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she became conscious of the profound admiration she everywhere evoked, and in her footstep was the lightness of one in whose heart there lurked no shadow.
The day was perfect. Both sea and sky were of a deep, intense blue, the long line of sun-blanched villas and hotels were gay with visitors, the trees wore their freshest green, and the sweet scent of violets pervaded everything. As they walked, Zertho was reflecting how striking was her beauty, even among that crowd of Europe's prettiest and wealthiest women.
Through November and December she and her father had remained in Paris, and early in the new year had travelled down to Nice, taking up their quarters at a small select ”pension” in one of the large white villas which, standing in its own pretty garden planted with oranges, palms and roses, faced the Mediterranean at the end of the Promenade towards the Magnan, while close by them Zertho occupied the handsome Villa Chevrier, a great white house with palms in front, which also faced the sea at the corner of the Rue Croix de Magnan.
In Nice a wealthy man can, if he desires, easily obtain a large cosmopolitan circle of friends, therefore, the villa of Prince Zertho d'Auzac quickly became a social centre, for his entertainments being upon a scale almost unequalled, he found no lack of acceptances to his invitations. Everyone in Nice soon knew him by sight; the well-informed _Pet.i.t Nicois_ mentioned him almost daily in its ”Echoes de Partout,”
the _Swiss and Nice Times_ devoted whole columns to descriptions of his fetes and lists of his guests, among which figured many well-known names, and the _Phare du Littoral_ was loud in its praises of his dinners, his driving parties, and the dances at his house. Well-groomed and usually attired in a dark suit, he walked in the Avenue de la Gare, drove tandem with Liane at his side along the Promenade, rode his unmatched bay on the Corniche Road, or strolled about the Casino, and was everywhere recognised, for he was indeed the man of the hour.
He smiled, however, when he recollected how, two years before, he had occupied an apartment ”au troisieme” in the narrow noisy Rue de France, while Liane, Nellie and the Captain had lived equally precariously in the Rue Dalpozzo, close by. Often dependent on his wits for a meal he had more than once, he remembered, strolled out upon that same Promenade where he now walked with Liane, in search of some inexperienced youth from whom he might obtain a few louis at cards, and thus stave off starvation for the next few days. Their run of ill-luck had almost knocked them both under until one night after the Captain had won a considerable sum at Monte Carlo, a sudden suggestion occurred to them, and together they started a private gaming-house in the Boulevard Gambetta, in Nice, a place which, although remaining open only a few months, gained a decidedly unenviable repute. Nevertheless, both men found their venture a most profitable one, and it is more than likely that their avarice would have led them into the arms of the police had not Brooker, at Liane's instigation, suddenly dissolved the partners.h.i.+p, taken his money, and returned to England.