A Fascinating Traitor

C >> Col. Richard Henry Savage >> A Fascinating Traitor

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

"And, I am to do nothing else?" cried Hawke, in surprise. "I fear
to have you meet this man alone! He is rich, powerful, and crafty.
The nature of your business, I fear, is that of deadly quarrel.
Remember, this man is at bay. He is unscrupulous. I fear for you!"

The renegade spoke only the truth. For dark memories of Hugh Fraser's
bitter deeds in days past now thronged upon his brain.

"Fear not for me." cried Berthe Louison, springing up like a tigress
in defense of her cubs. "Do you know that his life would be the
forfeit of a lifted finger? Do you take me for a blind fool?" she
raged. "Do you know the power of gold? Ah, my friend, there are
unseen eyes watching my pathway here, and may God have mercy upon
any one who practices against me, in secret! Any 'strange happening'
to me would be fearfully avenged! As for this flinty-hearted brute,
he would never even reach that threshold alive, if he dared to
threaten! Go! Leave him to me. Come here to-morrow night. I shall
have need of your cool brain and your ready wit! My only task was
to find him and the girl together."

"And if I am questioned about you? If anything occurs?" persisted
Alan Hawke.

"Simply ignore my existence; if we meet we are strangers!" gasped
Berthe, who had thrown herself on a divan. "Obey me without
questioning my motive! Each night you will receive orders for the
next day, should I need your secret hand! Go now! I am tired! I
must be ready to meet this man!"

Alan Hawke had reached the door, but he turned back. "And as to
Ram Lal? What shall I do?" The woman's eyes flashed fire.

"Leave him also to me! I will handle him! A few rupees--will serve
as his bait. Stay! You say that this Swiss woman, Justine Delande,
is sympathetic, and seems to be a worthy person?" She was scanning
his impassive face with steely glances now.

"She is younger than her sister Euphrosyne," gravely said Alan
Hawke, "and not without some personal attractions. Her older sister
adores her. Even this old brute, Johnstone, seems to treat her with
great respect and deference."

"There is the only danger to us! Watch that woman! Mingle freely
in the Johnstone household," said Berthe, wearily, "but never cast
your eyes toward Nadine. Never even hint to this Swiss governess
that you have seen her sister. After they return to Europe it is
another thing. Silence and discretion now. Good night. Come to-morrow
night at ten o'clock; all will be quiet, and you can steal away
from the Club in safety."

Major Alan Hawke stole away to the hidden entrance like a thief
of the night. He started as he saw the menacing figure of Jules
Victor glide swiftly after him to the secret opening in the wall.
The servitor spoke not a single word, but watched the business
agent disappear. "I must watch this damned Frenchman," he mused,
feeling for his packet of notes and loosening his revolver. "He
may be set on by this she devil to watch Ram Lal." And then Hawke
gayly sought the jewel merchant, lingering an hour in the very room
where he was on the morrow to meet the heart-awakened Justine. Old
Ram Lal grinned as he accepted the letter. He was happy, for he
heard the jingling of golden guineas in the near future. "You have
nothing to do with me, Ram Lal," laughed the Major. "The lady will
give you your orders, only you are to tell me all for both our
sakes. I will see you rewarded," and again Ram Lal grinned in his
quiet way.

When Alan Hawke's head was resting on his pillow he suddenly became
possessed with a strange new fear. "By God! I believe that she has
been here before; she seems to be up to the whole game."

Alan Hawke's steps hardly died away in the hallway before the beautiful
Nemesis made a careful inspection of her splendid reception-room.
The splendors of its curtained arches, its fretted ceiling, and
its frescoed walls were idly passed over, for the woman only made
an exhaustive survey of its geometrical arrangement. Marie Victor
was in waiting at her side, and the mistress and maid were soon
joined by Jules. Throwing open the door of a little adjoining
cabinet, Madame Louison whispered a few private directions to the
ex-Communard. "Do this at once yourself; none of the blacks are to
know. I trust none of them!" imperatively commanded Berthe. "Marie
will receive him. You are to be here at nine o'clock, and be sure
to let no one of these yellow spies observe you. Now, both of you.
Here is the rearrangement of the furniture. This will be your first
task in the morning. You can both use the whole household for these
changes. They are to obey you in all. Let all be ready when I have
breakfasted. Now, Marie, I will try and rest. Jules, inspect and
examine the house; then you can take your post for the night at my
door. Have you exhausted every possibility of any trickery in the
sleeping room?"

"There's but the one door, Madame. Trust to me. I have sounded every
inch of the walls, and even examined the floor." Jules Victor's
romantic nature thrilled with the possibilities of the little life
drama to come.

Berthe Louison departed to rest upon her arms the night before the
battle. Much marveled the swarming band of Ram Lal's creatures that
no human being was suffered to approach the Lady of the Bungalow
but her two white attendants. Berthe Louison had not reached the
idle luxury of employing a dozen Hindus in infinitesimal labors
near her person. For she fathomed easily Ram Lal's devotion to
Major Alan Hawke.

The presence of keen-eyed Marie Victor's brass camp-bed in My
Lady's sleeping-room was a source of wonder to the velvet-eyed spy
who was Ram Lal's especial "Bureau of Intelligence." "Strange ways
has this Mem-Sahib," murmured the Hindu when he craved to know if
the Daughter of the Sun and Light of the World desired aught. "I
will then have two to watch. The waiting woman has the eye of a
tiger."

A personal verification of the fact that Jules Victor was encamped for
the night, en zouave, on a divan drawn before the only door joining
the boudoir and sleeping-room, caused the sly spy to greatly marvel,
for the scarred face of the French social rebel was ominously
truculent, and a pair of Lefacheux revolvers and a heavy knife lay
within the ready reach of this strange "outside guard."

In the dim watches of the first night in Delhi, the same barefooted
Hindu spy learned by a visit of furtive inspection, that a night
light steadily burned in the boudoir where Jules was toujours pret.
The sneaking rascal crept away, with a violently beating heart,
fearing even the rustle of his bare feet upon the mosaic floor.

And all this, and much more, did he deliver with abject humility
to Ram Lal Singh, when that worthy appeared the next day to crave
his mysterious patron's orders. It seemed a tough nut to crack,
this tripartite household arrangement.

The dawn found Madame Berthe Louison as alertly awake as bird and
beast stirring in the ruined splendors of old Shahjehanabad. Long
before the anxious Justine Delande arose to deck herself furtively
for her tryst with Alan Hawke, Berthe Louison knew that all her
orders of the night before were executed.

"You are sure that you can see perfectly, Jules?" said the anxious
woman.

"I command the whole side of the room where you will be seated,"
replied the Frenchman, "and the ornaments and carved tracery cover
the aperture. Marie has tested it and I have also done the same,
reversing our positions. Nothing can be seen."

"Good! Remember! Nine o'clock sees you at your post! You are
prepared?" The woman's voice trembled.

"Thoroughly!" cried the alert servitor, "Only give me your signal!
I must make no mistake! There's no time to think in such cases!"
He bent his head, while his mistress, in a low voice gave her last
orders. Jules saluted, as if he were the leader of a forlorn hope.

"And now for the first skirmish!" mused Berthe Louison, as she
personally examined some matters, of more material interest to her,
in the reception-room.

The rearrangement of the furniture seemed to be satisfactory, and
Madame Berthe Louison composedly busied herself with the arrangement
of a writing case, and a few womanly articles upon the table which
she had chosen as her own peculiar fortification. A few moments
were wasted upon trifling with a well-worn envelope, now carefully
hidden in her bosom. This maneuver passed the time needed for
a stately carriage to sweep up from the opened grand gate of the
bungalow to the raised veranda steps. "There he is!" she grimly
said. "Now, for the first blood!"

A man who was shaking with mingled rage and fear hastily strode
across the broad portico, as Berthe Louison glided away from the
curtained window and confidently resumed her own chosen chair. Her
bosom was heaving, her eye was fixed and stern, and she steadily
awaited her foe, for one last warning whisper had reached her hidden
servitor.

When Marie Victor threw open the double doors of the reception
room, on its threshold stood the towering form of the man whom
Alixe Delavigne had known in other years as Hugh Fraser, the man
whose pallid face told her that he knew at last that he was under
the sword of Damocles! Clad in white linen, his sun helmet in his
hand, steadying himself with a jeweled bamboo crutch-handled stick,
the old Anglo-Indian waited until Berthe Louison's voice rang out,
as clear as a silver bell: "Marie! I am not to be interrupted."
she calmly said. "You may wait beyond, in the ante-room!"

The woman who had emerged from the dark penumbra of a dead Past,
to torture the embryo Baronet, gazed silently at the stern old man
glowering there.

Striding up to her, the insolent habit of years was, strong upon
him, as he hoarsely said: "What juggling fiend of hell brings you
here?"

Without a tremor in her voice, the lady of Jitomir replied:

"I came here to undo the work of years! To teach an orphaned girl
to know that a love which hallows and which blesses, can reach her
from the grave in which your cold brutality buried the only being
I ever loved! She shall know her mother, from my lips, and not
wither in the gray hell of your egoism. I have searched the world
over, and found you, at last, together!"

"By God! You shall never even see her face, you she-devil!" cried
the infuriated old man, nearing the defiant woman. "You were
the go-between for your worthless sister and that Russian cur,
Troubetskoi!"

"You lie! Hugh Fraser, you lie!" cried Berthe, in a ringing voice.
"You crushed the flower that Fate had drifted within your reach!
You turned her into the streets of London to starve! You robbed
her of her child, all this to feed your own flinty-hearted tyrant
vanity! She was divorced from you by a Royal Russian Decree, before
she married the man whose heart broke when she was laid in the
tomb. She rests with the princes of his line, and her tomb bears
the name of wife!"

The old nabob crept nearer, growling:

"You shall never see the child's face!"

Then, Alixe Delavigne sprang up and faced him: "There she is! on
my heart! Just what her mother was, before you sent her to an early
grave. Valerie died hungering for one sight of that child's face!"
Throwing the picture of Nadine Johnstone on the table, the lady
of Jitomir said: "Pierre Troubetskoi left to me the wealth which
makes me your equal. I fear you not! I shall see Nadine to-morrow!"

"Never!" roared Hugh Johnstone, now beyond all control. "I defy you!
Beware how you approach my threshold!" His eyes were murderous in
their steely blue gleam, and, yet, he met a glance as steady as
his own.

"Listen," said Berthe Louison, sinking back into her chair, "I
will tell you a little story." Hugh Johnstone was now gazing at the
photograph, which trembled in his hand. "Once upon a time a man
secreted a vast deposit of jewels, really the spoil of a deposed king,
and, rightly, the property of the victorious British Government!"
The photograph fell to the floor as the old man sprang up from the
chair, into which he had dropped. "This paper, the receipt for the
deposit, once delivered to the Viceroy of India--and the Baronetcy
which is to be your life crown is lost for ever." The old man's hands
knotted themselves in anger. "The lying story that the deposit was
stolen by an underling will bring you, Hugh Johnstone, to the felon's
cell! You shall live to wear the convict's chain! The Government
is partly aware of the facts. It rests for me to give the Viceroy
the receipt for your private deposit. The private bank vault
in Calcutta has hidden your shame for twenty years. You know the
condition of your settlement with the Government. Now, shall I see
my sister's child? I hold your very existence here--in the hollow
of my hand!" The dauntless woman drew forth a yellowed envelope from
her breast. There was a smothered shriek, a crash and a groan, as
Jules Victor, springing from his concealment, hurled the infuriated
man to the floor!

With a knee on the panting nabob's breast, he hissed:

"Move, and you are a dead man!"

"Take the paper, Madame," calmly said the victorious Jules. Then
Alixe Delavigne laughed scornfully.

"Let the fool arise. The contents are only blank paper. The document
is where I can find it for use. Remain here, Jules," concluded
the triumphant woman, as she replaced the photograph in her bosom.
"Take the envelope--you know it, Hugh Fraser. I stole it the night
you drove the sister I loved from our miserly lodgings in London."
The furious onslaught had failed, and the old nabob was only a
cowering, cringing prisoner at will. He dared not even cry out.

Hugh Johnstone groaned as his eyes turned from the woman, now laughing
him to scorn, to the stern-faced Frenchman, who was covering the
baffled assailant with the grim Lefacheux revolver.

"Send this man away. Let us talk, Alixe," muttered the astounded
Johnstone. Then a mocking laugh rang out in the room.

"I am in no hurry now. I can wait. I like Delhi, and I shall find
my way to Nadine's side, and she shall know the story of a mother's
love. One signal from me, by telegraph, and the document goes to
the Viceroy. So, I fear you not, my would-be strangler! It is for
me to make conditions! Listen! I will send my carriage and my man
to your house to-morrow morning at ten. You will have made up your
mind then. I have friends all around me, here, at Allahabad, and
in Calcutta. If you practice any treachery on me you die the death
of a dog, even here, in your robber nest!"

"I will come! I will come!" faltered Johnstone.

"Ah!" smiled the lady. "Jules, show Sir Hugh Johnstone to his carriage."
And then turning her back in disdain, she vanished without a word.

CHAPTER VII.

THE PRICE OF SAFETY.

When nabob Hugh Johnstone's carriage dashed swiftly down the crowded
Chandnee Chouk, on its return to the marble house, the driver and
footman, as well as the slim syce runners, were alarmed at the
old man's appearance when he was half led, half carried out of his
luxurious vehicle. The staggering sufferer reached his rooms and
was surrounded by a bevy of frightened menials, while the equippage
dashed away in search of old Doctor McMorris, the surgeon par
excellence of Delhi. A second butler had hastily darted away to
the Delhi Club with an imperative summons for Major Alan Hawke,
who had, unfortunately, left for the day.

With a shudder of affright Mademoiselle Justine Delande had slipped
into a booth on the great thoroughfare, only to feel safe when she
glided into Ram Lal Singh's jewel shop, to be swiftly hurried into
the rear reception room by the argus-eyed merchant, who had noted
the swiftly passing carriage. Her womanly conscience was as tender
as her heart.

"Lock the door, Ram Lal!" cried Alan Hawke, "We will be in the pagoda
in the garden. Let no one pass this door, on your life!" When they
were alone, Major Alan Hawke led the trembling woman away to to
the hidden bower, where Ram Lal had hospitably spread a feast of
India's choicest cakes and dainties.

Only there, in that haven of safety, dared the excited Justine to
falter. "If you knew what I have suffered! He drove almost over
me as I crossed the Chandnee Chouk, and I had a struggle to leave
Nadine. There is the curse of an old family sorrow there. The father
and daughter are arrayed against each other."

"Forget it all, my dear Justine," murmured Alan Hawke. "Here you
are hidden now and perfectly safe with me. Never mind those people
now. Let us only think of each other. You were simply matchless
in your behavior at the house."

"Oh, I fear him so! I fear that hard old man!" whispered the timid
woman, as she dropped her eyes before Alan Hawke's ardent glances.
He had noted the growing touch of coquetry in her dress; he measured
the tell-tale quiver of her voice, and he smiled tenderly when she
shyly showed him the diamond bracelet, securely hidden upon her
left arm.

"I put this on to show you that I do trust you," she murmured.
"And I wear it every night. It seems to give me courage." The happy
Major pressed her hand warmly.

"Let it be a secret sign between us, an omen of brighter days for
all of us. Stand by me and I will stand by you to the last. We will
all meet happily yet by the beautiful shores of Lake Leman!"

In half an hour, Justine Delande was completely at her ease, for
well the artful renegade knew how to circle around the dangerous
subject nearest his heart--the secret history of Nadine Johnstone's
mother. He had dropped easily into the wooing and confidential
intimacy which lulled Justine Delande into a fool's paradise of
happy content.

She was sinking away and now losing her will and identity in his
own, without one warning qualm of conscience. For Alan Hawke's
dearly bought knowledge of womankind now stood him in great stead.

"One single familiarity, one questionable liberty, and this cold-pulsed
Heloise would fly forever. She must be left to her day dreams and
to the work of a sweet self-deception," he artfully mused. They
were interrupted but a moment, when Ram Lal Singh glided to the
door of the pagoda.

"I must now go to the bungalow to see Madame Louison and have her
approve her horses and carriage. She has sent word that she will
drive this afternoon. And," he whispered breathlessly, "Old Johnstone
is very sick. He has sent all over the city to find you, and now
his own private man bids me go there at once. He must have me, if
he can't find you."

Major Hawke mused a moment. "Give me the keys! Put your best man on
guard to watch for any intruders! Go first to the Mem-Sahib! Keep
your mouth shut! Remember about me and--" He pointed to the governess,
now timidly cowering in a shadowy corner. "Let the old devil wait
till you are done with her! Pump the old wretch! Find out what he
wants! Say that I went off for a day's jaunt!" Alan Hawke smiled
grimly as he seated himself tenderly at Justine Delande's side. "Old
Hugh did not last long! They must have had their first skirmish.
If he is a coward at heart, she will rule him with a rod of iron.
What is her hold over him? I warrant that the jade will never tell
me. She will fight him to the death in silence, and try to hoodwink
me. We will see, my lady! We will see!"

"Now, Justine," softly said the renegade, "tell me all of the story
of this strange father and daughter! Ram Lal has reconnoitered! We
are safe! Both Hugh and his daughter are at home!"

The reassured governess frankly opened her heart to her wary listener.
It was an hour before the recital was finished, and Miss Justine
was gayly chatting over the impromptu breakfast, when the details
of these last stormy days at Delhi were described. "I cannot make
it all out. She is certainly his legitimate daughter. He is crafty,
covetous, miserly, and yet he lives in a scornful splendor here.
Both my sister and myself look forward to learning the whole story
through my visit here. Of course, on our arrival, Nadine and myself
wondered not at the gloomy solitude of the marble house. But the
affronts to society, the practical imprisonment of this girl, this
chilling silence as to her mother, have roused her brave young
heart. Not a picture, not a single memento, not even a jewel, not
a tress of hair, not even a passing mention of where that shadowy
mother lies buried!" the Swiss woman sighed. "He is a brute and
tyrant--a man of a stony heart and an iron hand!"

"You have never been made his confidante?" earnestly asked the
Major.

"Never!" promptly replied Justine. "Beyond a grave courtesy and
the curt answers to our reports, with liberal payment, we know no
more now than when the prattling child of four was brought to us.

"She has no childish memories of her own. I have overheard all the
unhappy scenes of the last month. There are the tearful prayers of
Nadine, then the old man's harsh threats, and then only his cold
avoidance follows. Strange to say--gentle and warm-hearted, formed
for love, and yearning to know of the dear mother whom she has fondly
pictured in her dreams, Nadine Johnstone has all the courage of a
soldier's daughter, and her fearless bravery of soul is as inflexible
as steel. She returns frankly to the contest, and his only refuge
is the wall of cold silence that he has built up between them!"

"Has he tried to punish her in any way--to intimidate her?" eagerly
cried the Major.

"Not yet," answered Justine. "She tells me all, and he knows it.
I can see that his eyes are fixed on me now with a growing hatred.
He fears that I uphold her in this duel of words, of answerless
questions.

"He has threatened her roughly with sending her away to some place,
to 'come to her senses,' alone, and--" the frightened woman said,
"That is what I fear--some sudden, rough brutality. He despairs
of making her love him. If she were suddenly removed--and I cast
adrift on the world, alone, here, he would, I suppose, send me back
to Switzerland. He can do no less, but I would lose her forever
from my sight. I know that he hates me, and we have always hoped
that he would make us a handsome present, on her marriage. Euphrosyne
and I have been as mothers to her." There were tears in the woman's
anxious eyes now. She was startled as Hawke bounded to his feet.

"By God!" he cried, forgetting himself. "That's just his little
game! It must never be! See here, Justine! I have reason to think
that you are right. He may try to spirit her away and separate
her forever from you and Euphrosyne. He would cut off the only two
friends who could connect her with this strange past. Yes, that's
his little game! And--" he slowly concluded, controlling himself,
"I have reason to think he may go about it at once. He is afraid
of me, also, about some old official business. Now, I will watch
over your interests. The least this old miser can do is to give
you a neat little home in Geneva, as a final recompense."

Justine Delande's eyes sparkled in gratitude. The acute Major had
easily learned from the garrulous Francois that the "Institut Pour
les Jeunes Dames" was an intellectual property only; the fine old
mansion belonging to a rich Genevese banker. Major Alan Hawke was
now busied in writing upon a few leaves torn from his betting book.

"Listen to me!" he gravely said. "Promise me that you will never
let these papers leave you a moment."

"I will carry them in my passport case, around my neck," murmured
Justine. "My money in notes, and a few articles."

"Good!" energetically cried Hawke. "I will write the same to
Euphrosyne, and send it by 'registered post' to-day."

"Here!" he suddenly cried, "Just pencil a few words to her to say
that you are with me, and that we understand each other; that our
interests are to be one; and that she must keep the faith and help
us both, for both our sakes. I will mail it so that old Johnstone
will be powerless to injure any of us three." He gave her another
leaflet from his book, and detached a golden pencil from his watch
chain.

There was a crimson flush upon her cheek, as she vainly essayed to
write. Her hand trembled, and then with a sob, her head fell upon
her breast; with an infinite art, the triumphant renegade soothed
the excited woman, and, it was only through her happy tears that
she saw him, before her there, duplicating the secret addresses.

"Now, Justine; my Justine!" softly said Alan Hawke. "Here is a secret
address in Allahabad, and a secret address in London. If this man
decides to send Nadine away, he will do it secretly in some way.
There are several seaports open to leave India. You will be, of
course, sent out of Hindostan with her. It would be just his little
game, however, to separate you at the first foreign port, to pay
you off royally, and then--neither you nor Euphrosyne would ever
see Nadine again. There is something hanging over him that he would
hide from her. He fears me, also, for my official power. Remember,
now! No matter whatever happens you can always find a way to
telegraph to me. If I am in India, here to Allahabad; if in Europe,
to London. Now, Euphrosyne will know always where I am. Telegraph
me the whereabouts of Nadine Johnstone, or, where you are forced
to leave her, telegraph the vessel you are on, and her destination,
and, I swear to you, by the God who made me, I will track her down,
and we three shall find a way to reach her later. He would like to
lock her up in a living tomb, if he found it to be to his interest.
A cheap private asylum in Germany, or some low haunt in France,
perhaps hide her away in Italy as a pretended invalid. The man is
mad--simply mad--about this baronetcy, and in some strange way the
girl stands between him and it. Do you promise?"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28