The Lady in the Car

“You seem to fear what these wretched gossips may say concerning us, Jack,” she said at last, raising her eyes to his. “Why should you?”

“I fear for your sake, Princess,” he answered. “You have all to lose – honour, name, husband – everything. For me – what does it matter? I have no reputation. I ceased to have that two years ago when I left England – bankrupt.”

“Poor Jack!” she sighed, in her quaint, childlike way. “I do wish you were wealthy, for you’d be so much happier, I suppose. It must be hard to be poor,” she added – she who knew nothing of the value of money, and scarcely ever spent any herself, her debts and alms being paid by palace secretaries.

“Yes,” he laughed. “And has it never struck you as strange that you, an Imperial Princess, should be a friend of a man who’s a bankrupt – an outsider like myself?” and an ugly thought flashed through his mind causing him to wince.

“And have you not always shown yourself my friend, Jack? Should I not be ungrateful if I were not your friend in return?” she asked.

They halted almost unconsciously half way along the cypress avenue, and stood facing each other.

Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was struggling within himself. He loved this beautiful woman with all his heart, and all his soul. Yet he knew himself to be treading dangerous ground.

Their first acquaintance had been a purely accidental one three years ago. Her Highness was driving in the Ringstrasse, in Vienna, when her horses suddenly took fright at a passing motor-car and bolted. Jack, who was passing, managed to dash out and stop them, but in doing so was thrown down and kicked on the head. He was taken to the hospital, and not until a fortnight afterwards was he aware of the identity of the pretty woman in the carriage. Then, on his recovery, he was commanded to the palace and thanked personally by the Princess and by her father, the grey-bearded Emperor.

From that day the Princess Angelica had never lost sight of him. When she had married he had endeavoured to end their acquaintance, but she would not hear of it. And so he had drifted along, held completely beneath her spell.

He was her confidant, and on many occasions performed in secret little services for her. Their friendship, purely platonic, was firm and fast, and surely no man was ever more loyal to a woman than was the young Englishman, who was, after all, only an audacious adventurer.

In the glorious sunset of the brilliant Tuscan day they stood there in silence. At last he spoke.

“Princess,” he exclaimed, looking straight into her eyes. “Forgive me for what I am about to say. I have long wished to say it, but had not the courage. I – well, you cannot tell the bitterness it causes me to speak, but I have decided to imperil you no longer. I am leaving Florence.”

She looked at him in blank surprise.

“Leaving Florence!” she gasped. “What do you mean, Jack?”

“I mean that I must do so – for your sake,” was his answer. “The world does not believe that a woman can have a man friend. I – I yesterday heard something.”

“What?”

“That the Prince has set close watch upon us.”

“Well, and what of that? Do we fear?”

“We do not fear the truth, Princess. It is the untruth of which we are in peril.”

“Then Ferdinand is jealous!” she remarked as though speaking to herself. “Ah! that is distinctly amusing!”

“My friendship with you has already caused a scandal in this gossip-loving city,” he pointed out. “It is best for you that we should part. Remember the difference in our stations. You are of blood-royal – while I – ” and he hesitated. How could he tell her the ghastly truth?

She was silent for a few moments, her beautiful face very grave and thoughtful. Well, alas! she knew that if this man left her side the sun of her young life would have set for ever.

“But – but Jack – you are my friend, are you not?”

“How can you ask that?”

“Ah! yes. Forgive me. I – I know – you risked your life to save mine. You – ”

“No, no,” he cried, impatiently. “Don’t let’s talk of the past. Let us look at the future, and let us speak plainly. We are old friends enough for that, Princess.”

“Angelica,” she said, correcting him.

“Then – Angelica,” he said, pronouncing her Christian name for the first time. Then he hesitated and their eyes met. He saw in hers the light of unshed tears, and bit his lip. His own heart was too full for mere words.

“Jack,” she faltered, raising her hand and placing it upon his arm, “I don’t quite understand you. You are not yourself this evening.” The bar of golden sunlight caught her wrist and caused the diamonds in her bracelet to flash with a thousand fires.

“No, Princess – I – I mean Angelica. I am not. I wish to speak quite plainly. It is this. If I remain here, in Florence, I shall commit the supreme folly of – of loving you.” She cast her eyes to the ground, flushed slightly and held her breath.

“This,” he went on, “must never happen for two reasons, first you are already married, and secondly, you are of Imperial birth, while I am a mere nobody, and a pauper at that.”

“I am married, it is true!” she cried, bitterly. “But God knows, what a hollow mockery my marriage has been! God knows how I have suffered, compelled as I am to act a living lie! You despise me for marrying Ferdinand, a man I could never love. Yes, you are right, you are quite – ”

“I do not despise, you, Angelica. I have always pitied you,” he interrupted. “I knew well that you did not love the Prince, but were compelled to sacrifice yourself.”

“You knew!” she cried, clutching his arm wildly, and looking into his face. “Ah! yes, Jack. You – you knew the truth. You must have known. I could not conceal it from you.”

“What?” he asked, his hand upon her slim shoulder.

“That – that I loved you,” she burst forth. But next second, as if ashamed of her confession, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly.

Tenderly he placed his strong arm about her neck as her head fell upon her shoulder. For a moment he held her closely to him. Then, in a faltering voice, he said:

“Angelica, I know that our love is mutual, that is why we must part.”

“No! no!” she cried through her tears. “No. Do not leave me here alone, Jack! If you go from Florence I must return to the hateful semi-imprisonment of the Palace at Sarajevo among those dull boors with whom I have not the least in common.”

“But, Angelica, I am in honour bound not to compromise you further. Your enemies are all talking, and inventing disgraceful scandals that have already reached the Prince’s ears. Hence his spies are here, watching all our movements.”

“Spies! Yes, Bosnia is full of them!” she cried angrily. “And Ferdinand sends them here to spy upon me!” and she clenched her tiny white hands resentfully.

“They are here, hence we must part. We must face our misfortune bravely; but for your sake I must leave your side, though heaven knows what this decision has cost me – my very life and soul.”

She raised her head, and with her clear blue eyes looked into his face.

At that same instant they heard a footstep on the gravel, and sprang quickly apart. But just as they did so a tall, well-dressed, brown-bearded man came into view. Both held their breath, for no doubt he had seen her in Jack’s arms.

The man was the Marquis Giulio di San Rossore, a Roman nobleman, who was a friend of her husband the Prince. But that he was her secret enemy she well knew. Only a month ago he had fallen upon his knees before her, and declared his love to her. But she had spurned and scorned him in indignation. He heard her biting words in silence, and had turned away with an expression upon his face which plainly told her of the fierce Italian spirit of revenge within his heart.

But he came forward smiling and bowing with those airs and graces which the cultured son of the south generally assumes.

“They have sent me to try and find you, your Highness,” he said. “The Duchess of Spezia has suggested a ball in aid of the sufferers from the earthquake down in Calabria, and we want to beg of you to give it your patronage.”

And he glanced at the Princess’s companion with fierce jealousy. He had, as they feared, witnessed the beautiful woman standing with her head upon his shoulder.

“Let us go back, Mr Cross,” her Highness said, “I would like to hear details of what is proposed.”

And all three strolled along the fine old avenue, and skirted the marble terrace to where the guests, having now finished their tea, were still assembled gossiping with the Countess Von Wilberg and Countess Lahovary.

As they walked together, the Marquess Giulio chuckled to himself at the discovery he had made, and what a fine tale he would be able to tell that night at the Florence Club.

The truth was proved. The penniless Englishman was the Princess’s lover! Florence had suspected it, but now it should know it.

That same night, after dinner, Jack was standing alone with the Princess in the gorgeous salon with its gilt furniture and shaded electric lights. He looked smart and well-groomed, notwithstanding that his evening clothes showed just a trifle the worse for wear, while she was brilliant and beautiful in an evening-gown of palest eau-de-nil embroidered chiffon, a creation of one of the great houses of the Rue de la Paix. Upon her white neck she wore her historic pearls, royal heirlooms that were once the property of Catherine the Great, and in her corsage a splendid true-lover’s knot in diamonds, the ornament from which there usually depended the black ribbon and diamond star-cross decoration, which marked her as an Imperial Archduchess. The cross was absent that night, for her only visitor was the man at her side.

Her two female companions were in the adjoining room. They knew well their royal mistress’s attraction towards the young Englishman, and never sought to intrude upon them. Both were well aware of the shameful sham of the Princess’s marriage and of his neglect and cruelty towards her, and both women pitied her in her loveless loneliness.

“But, Jack!” her Highness was saying, her pale face raised to his. “You really don’t mean to go? You can’t mean that!”

“Yes, Angelica,” was his firm reply, as he held her waist tenderly, drawing her towards him and looking deeply into her fine eyes. “I must go – to save your honour.”

“No, no!” she cried, clinging to him convulsively. “You must not – you shall not! Think, if you go I shall be friendless and alone! I couldn’t bear it.”

“I know. It may seem cruel to you. But in after years you will know that I broke our bond of affection for your own dear sake,” he said very slowly, tears standing in his dark eyes as he uttered those words. “You know full well the bitter truth, Angelica – just as well as I do,” he went on in a low whisper. “You know how deeply, how fervently I love you, how I am entirely and devotedly yours.”

“Yes, yes. I know, Jack,” she cried, clinging to him. “And I love you. You are the only man for whom I have ever entertained a single spark of affection. But love is forbidden to me. Ah! yes I know! Had I been a commoner and not a princess, and we had met, I should have found happiness, like other women. But alas! I am accursed by my noble birth, and love and happiness can never be mine – never!”

“We love each other, Angelica,” whispered the man who was a thief, softly stroking her fair hair as her head pillowed itself upon his shoulder. “Let us part, and carry tender remembrances of each other through our lives. No man has ever loved a woman more devoutly than I love you.”

“And no woman has ever loved a man with more reverence and more passion than I love you, Jack – my own dear Jack,” she said.

Their lips slowly approached each other, until they met in a fierce long passionate caress. It was the first time he had kissed her upon the lips – their kiss, alas! of long farewell.

“Good-bye, my love. Farewell,” he whispered hoarsely. “Though parted from you in the future I shall be yours always – always. Remember me – sometimes.”

“Remember you!” she wailed. “How can I ever forget?”

“No, dear heart,” he whispered. “Do not forget, remember – remember that we love each other – that I shall love you always – always. Farewell!”

Again he bent and kissed her lips. They were cold. She stood immovable. The blow of parting had entirely paralysed her senses.

Once more he pressed his hot lips to hers.

“May Providence protect and help us both, my beloved,” he whispered, and then with a last, long, yearning look upon the sad white countenance that had held him in such fascination, he slowly released her.

He caught up her soft white hand, kissing it reverently, as had been his habit ever since he had known her.

Then he turned, hard-faced and determined, struggling within himself, and next second the door had closed upon him, and she was left alone.

“Jack! My Jack!” she gasped. “Gone!” and grasping the edge of the table to steady herself, she stood staring straight before her.

Her future, she knew, was only a blank grey sea of despair.

Jack, the man whom she worshipped, the man whom she believed was honest, and for whom her pure affection was boundless, had gone out of her young life for ever.

Outside, a young Tuscan contadino, passing on to meet his love, was singing in a fine clear voice one of the old Florentine stornelli– those same love-songs sung in the streets of the Lily City ever since the Middle Ages. She listened:

Fiorin di mela!La mela è dolce e la sua buccia è amara,L’uomo gli è finto e la donna sincera.Fior di limone!Tre cose son difficili a lasciare:Il giuoco, l’amicizia, e il primo amore!Fior di licore!Licore è forte e non si può incannare;Ma son più forti le pene d’amore.

She held her breath, then with sudden wild abandon, she flung herself upon the silken couch, and burying her face in its cushions gave herself up to a paroxysm of grief and despair.

Six weeks later.

Grey dawn was slowly spreading over the calm Mediterannean, the waters of which lazily lapped the golden shingle. Behind the distant blue the yellow sun was just peeping forth. At a spot upon the seashore about four miles from Leghorn, in the direction of the Maremma, five men had assembled, while at a little distance away, on the old sea-road to Rome, stood the hired motor-car which had brought one of them there.

The motive for their presence there at that early hour was not far to seek.

The men facing each other with their coats cast aside were the brown-bearded Marquess Giulio di San Rossore, and Prince Albert.

The latter, having left Florence, had learnt in Bologna of a vile, scandalous, and untrue story told of the Princess by the Marquess to the aristocratic idlers of the Florence Club, a story that was a foul and abominable lie, invented in order to besmirch the good name of a pure and unhappy woman.

On hearing it he had returned at once to the Lily City, gone to the Marquess’s palazzo on the Lung’ Arno, and struck him in the face before his friends. This was followed by a challenge, which Jack, although he knew little of firearms, was forced to accept.

Was he not champion and defender of the helpless and lonely woman he loved – the woman upon whom the Marquess had sworn within himself to be avenged?

And so the pair, accompanied by their seconds and a doctor, now faced each other, revolvers in their hands.

The Prince stood unflinching, his dark brow slightly contracted, his teeth hard set, his handsome countenance pale and serious.

As he raised his weapon he murmured to himself some words.

“For your honour, my own Angelica – my dear lost love!”

The signal was given an instant later, and two shots sounded in rapid succession.

Next moment it was seen that the Italian was hit, for he staggered, clutched at air, and fell forward upon his face, shot through the throat.

Quickly the doctor was kneeling at his side, but though medical aid was rendered so quickly, he never spoke again, and five minutes afterwards he was dead.

Half an hour later Prince Albert was driving the hired car for all he was worth across the great plain towards the marble-built city of Pisa to catch the express to Paris. From that day Jack Cross has concealed his identity, and has never been traced by the pretty Crown-Princess.

No doubt she often wonders what was the real status of the obscure good-looking young Englishman who spoke German so perfectly, who loved her devotedly, who fought bravely in vindication of her honour, and yet who afterwards so mysteriously disappeared into space.

These lines will convey to her the truth. What will she think?

Chapter Nine

A Double Game

Lord Nassington drove his big red sixty horse-power six-cylinder “Napier” slowly up the Corso in Rome.

By his side was his smart chauffeur, Garrett, in dark-green livery with the hand holding a garland proper, the crest of the Nassingtons, upon his bright buttons.

It was four o’clock, the hour of the passeggiata, the hour when those wintering in the Eternal City go forth in carriages and cars to drive up and down the long, narrow Corso in order to see, and be seen, to exchange bows with each other, and to conclude the processional drive at slow pace owing to the crowded state of the street by a tour of the Pincian hill whence one obtains a magnificent view of Rome and the Tiber in the sunset.

Roman society is the most exclusive in the world. Your Roman princess will usually take her airing in her brougham with the windows carefully closed, even on a warm spring afternoon. She holds herself aloof from the crowd of wealthy foreigners, even though her great gaunt palazzo has been denuded of every picture and work of art years ago, and she lives with a donna di casa in four or five meagre rooms on the first floor, the remainder of the great place being unfurnished and untenanted.

There is more pitiful make-believe among the aristocracy of Rome than in any other city in the world. The old principessa, the marchesa, and the contessa keep themselves within their own little circle, and sneer at the wealthy foreigner and his blatant display of riches. One hears girls of the school-room discussing the social scale of passers-by, and disregarding them as not being “of the aristocracy” like themselves.

Truly the Eternal City is a complex one in winter, and the Corso at four o’clock, is the centre of it all. You know that slowly-passing almost funereal line of carriages, some of them very old and almost hearse-like, moving up and down, half of them emblazoned with coronets and shields – for the Italian is ever proud of his heraldry – while the other half hired conveyances, many of them ordinary cabs in which sit some of the wealthiest men and women in Europe who have come south to see the antiquities and to enjoy the sunshine.

Behind the lumbering old-fashioned brougham of a weedy marchesa, Lord Nassington drove his big powerful car at snail’s pace, and almost silently. In such traffic the flexibility of the six-cylinder is at once appreciated.

Both Garrett and his master had their eyes about them, as though in search of some one.

A dozen times pretty women in furs bowed to Lord Nassington, who raised his motor-cap in acknowledgment. The smart, good-looking young peer had spent a couple of months there during the previous winter and had become immensely popular with the cosmopolitan world who gather annually in the Italian capital. Therefore, when he had arrived at the Excelsior, a week before, word had quickly gone round the hotels, clubs, pastrycooks, and cafés that the young English motoring milord had returned.

Upon the table of his luxurious little sitting-room at the hotel were lying a dozen or so invitations to dinners, receptions, the opera, and a luncheon-party out at Tivoli, while Charles, his man, had been busy spreading some picturesque gossip concerning his master.

For the nonce his Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was incognito, and as was the case sometimes, he was passing as an English peer, about whose whereabouts, position, and estates Debrett was somewhat vague. According to that volume of volumes, Lord Nassington had let his ancestral seat in Northamptonshire, and lived in New Orleans. Therefore, his Highness had but little to fear from unwelcome inquiry. He spoke English as perfectly as he could speak German when occasion required, for to his command of languages his success had been in great measure due.

Such a fine car as his had seldom, if ever, been seen in Rome. It was part of his creed to make people gossip about him, for as soon as they talked they began to tumble over each other in their endeavour to make his acquaintance. Both Garrett and Charles always had some interesting fiction to impart to other servants, and so filter through to their masters and mistresses.

The story running round Rome, and being passed from mouth to mouth along the Corso, in Aregno’s, in the Excelsior, and up among the idlers on the Pincio, was that that reckless devil-may-care young fellow in motor-coat and cap, smoking a cigar as he drove, had only a fortnight before played with maximums at Monte Carlo, and in one day alone had won over forty thousand pounds at roulette.

The rather foppishly dressed Italians idling along the Corso – every man a born gambler – were all interested in him as he passed. He was a favourite of fortune, and they envied him his good luck. And though they wore yellow gloves and patent-leather boots they yearned for a terno on the Lotto – the aspiration of every man, be he conte or contadino.

As his lordship approached the end of the long, narrow street close to the Porta del Popolo, Garrett gave him a nudge, and glancing at an oncoming carriage he saw in it two pretty dark-haired girls. One, the better looking of the pair, was about twenty-two, and wore rich sables, with a neat toque of the same fur. The other about three years her senior, wore a black hat, a velvet coat, and a boa of white Arctic fox. Both were delicate, refined-looking girls, and evidently ladies.

Nassington raised his cap and laughed, receiving nods and merry laughs of recognition in return.

“I wonder where they’re going, Garrett?” he remarked after they had passed.

“Better follow them, hadn’t we?” remarked the man.

A moment later, however, a humble cab passed, one of those little open victorias which the visitor to Rome knows so well, and in it was seated alone a middle-aged, rather red-faced English clergyman.

His lordship and he exchanged glances, but neither recognised each other.

“Good!” whispered the man at the wheel to his servant beside him. “So the Parson’s arrived. He hasn’t been long on the way from Berlin. I suppose he’s keeping his eye upon the girls.”

“Trust him,” laughed the chauffeur. “You sent him the snap-shot, I suppose?”

“Of course. And it seems he’s lost no time. He couldn’t have arrived before five o’clock this morning.”

“When Clayton’s on a good thing he moves about as quickly as you do,” the smart young English chauffeur remarked.

“Yes,” his master admitted. “He’s the most resourceful man I’ve ever known – and I’ve known a few. We’ll take a run up the Pincio and back,” and, without changing speed, he began to ascend the winding road which leads to the top of the hill.

Up there, they found quite a crowd of people whom Nassington had known the previous season.

Rome was full of life, merriment and gaiety. Carnival had passed, and the Pasqua was fast approaching; the time when the Roman season is at its gayest and when the hotels are full. The court receptions and balls at the Quirinale had brought the Italian aristocracy from the various cities, and the ambassadors were mostly at their posts because of the weekly diplomatic receptions.

Surely it is a strange world – that vain, silly, out-dressing world of Rome, where religion is only the cant of the popular confessor and the scandal of a promenade through St. Peter’s or San Giovanni.

At the summit of the Pincio Lord Nassington pulled up the car close to the long stone balustrade, and as he did so a young Italian elegant, the Marquis Carlo di Rimini, stepped up and seizing his hand, was profuse in his welcome back to Rome.

The Englishman descended from the car, lit one of his eternal “Petroffs,” and leaned upon the balustrade to chat and learn the latest scandal. The Marquis Carlo and he were fellow members of the Circolo Unione, one of the smartest clubs in Rome, and had played bridge together through many a night.