CHAPTER XV.
THE SECRET CAVALIER
That evening the Countess of Wyndcliffe appeared at dinner, in the gay restaurant at Gurnigel, looking radiant in a pretty cyclamen gown and wearing her pearls--bought, by the way, out of the check which came to her after the tragic death from pneumonia of an American girl she had been chaperoning up the Nile.
To the handsome young pair she gave a glowing description of her old friend Nellie Price, who had married a well-known Swiss heart specialist, and how she had, after her visit, had her shingled hair trimmed by a Spaniard who was an artist, at a _coiffeur’s_ close to the station.
Her ex-butler was still in Berne, and was leaving by the ten o’clock express for Calais that night--a fact which of course she withheld from the happy pair. They had been out on a ski picnic with the expert runner, Mr. Mallins, who had taken out a party, and to whom the visitors at the hotel were all indebted for kindly advice and help.
In every winter-sports hotel there crop up English nobodies, mostly with a military title, who proclaim themselves skiers or bob-runners, who put on immaculate winter-sports suits and sweaters, and pose as experts, only to be driven out by those who really can ski or bob. It was so at Gurnigel, just as at all winter-sports centres--centres, alas! of petty jealousies, and where men and women make fools of themselves.
After all, when one leaves Dover for gaiety on the Continent, what matters? What mattered, indeed, when at a winter-sports hotel at Mürren the visitors were once invited by a notice posted in the hall to subscribe to an amusement fund, and the visitors were at once lavish in their gifts? What mattered when, a few nights later, there was bought a handsome prize for the best dress at a midnight carnival, and lo! the proprietress of the hotel won it, and carried away the prize her visitors had subscribed for?
What matters? Nobody cared. Happily, that was unique. Only such an incident is actively discussed when visitors to Switzerland return to London and chat over their reminiscences in their own drawing-rooms. Yet there remains the fact that Switzerland is the winter playground of Europe, and it well deserves to be so till the end of time.
It was a gala night at Gurnigel, a masked ball, with a midnight supper in the interval. So after dinner Sibell put on the _sari_ of an Indian lady of high caste, a wonderful garment of shot orange, gold and green tissue, with her scarlet marriage brand upon her brow, but masked of course, while Brinsley Otway was dressed as an Arab sheik, with darkened face, also masked, and daggers stuck in his belt; but Lady Wyndcliffe was too tired to put on one of her fancy costumes.
The great ballroom was the scene of mad gaiety that night. As fancy dresses were not put on till after dinner, the maskers could be recognized only by their friends.
After two fox-trots with her lover, Sibell suddenly looked up and saw a rather tall, masked man in the costume of a cavalier bowing and sweeping his plumed hat across his knees, and at the same time, in a low half-whisper, he invited her to dance.
She accepted, and instantly knew what an excellent dancer he was.
They went around the ballroom without exchanging words with each other, until suddenly he whispered into her ear:
“I know you, Miss Dare. When we have finished this dance, will you allow me to sit with you for a few moments? I want to tell you something in strictest confidence.”
Much intrigued, the girl, wondering who the cavalier might be and what he desired to say, assented. Therefore, when the dance had ended, instead of continuing in the encore, they both strolled away to the big lounge adjoining the dance-room, and sat down apart from the rest.
“Miss Dare,” he said, “you have no idea of my identity, and you will never know. I am speaking quite seriously. I may as well say that I am no friend of yours, not even an acquaintance, but simply the bearer of an urgent message to you. Before I deliver it, however, I must have your solemn assurance that you breathe not a word of it to a soul--not even to Dr. Otway, to whom you are engaged.”
“I don’t understand!” she exclaimed in slight alarm. “I don’t follow you! At least you can disclose your name.”
“My Christian name is Edward--simply that. Just think of me as Edward,” was his answer.
“Edward what?”
But he only chuckled to himself behind his mask, replying:
“That does not matter. Will you give me the undertaking I seek? Please do, as we cannot sit here together very long without arousing your fiancé’s interest in me. And I am not anxious for that.”
“Why should Dr. Otway be kept in ignorance?” she asked resentfully, with natural curiosity.
“Because I am instructed that it should be so,” the stranger replied. “As I have told you, I am merely acting as the mouthpiece of another.”
“You are indeed very mysterious! Surely you can be more explicit!” she protested. “You ask me to keep a secret from the man whom I am about to marry. It’s hardly fair, is it?”
“If you give me your undertaking you will, on hearing what I have to say, quickly realize that, in the circumstances, silence will be best. Really, Miss Dare,” he went on, “I regret to say so, but there is no time for argument. I see that the doctor is already in search of you.”
“Very well,” said the girl hastily. “I give my undertaking to tell him nothing.”
“Good. Then my message, sent you in secret by one who wishes you well, and will help you in dire necessity, is to the effect that there is a conspiracy--a subtle and damnable plot--to part you from Dr. Otway. So be forewarned.”
“A plot!” gasped the girl. “By whom?”
“I’m sorry, but I unfortunately have no information upon that point,” replied the mysterious stranger in the exquisite garb of a cavalier. “My only duty has been to warn you. I beg of you to take precautions. Of how the coup will be effected I have no knowledge, neither has, I believe, the person whose mouthpiece I am. It was not deemed safe to write to you, hence this present subterfuge of mine.”
“But how can we possibly be separated, devoted as we are to each other?” she asked, her nervous fingers toying with her jewelled wrist-watch.
“Other lovers, as devoted as you both are, have, alas! been victims of wicked cunning and despicable plots. Parents and relatives are often to blame where it is a question of money, or of social advancement.”
“But my aunt, Lady Wyndcliffe, heartily approves of Brinsley,” she declared.
“If you are quite certain of that, then I fear I can make no further suggestion,” he said, in a voice that sounded curious.
“What do you mean? Do you know my aunt?”
“Not from Adam.”
“She’s sitting over there, in a cyclamen frock, with those two elderly men”; and the girl indicated the trio.
“Oh!” he said. “So that’s Lady Wyndcliffe! How very interesting. I’ve heard of her, of course--of her gay dances at Claridge’s, and her luncheons and dinners at the Ritz. She’s always in the limelight, it seems.”
“You seem to hint, Mr. Edward, that she is not quite so favorable to my marriage with Dr. Otway as she makes out, eh?”
“My dear Miss Dare, I hint at nothing. I have merely delivered my message, in the hope that you will heed it, and keep both eyes and ears open.”
“What you have said has entirely mystified me,” she remarked. “Who is this unknown friend of mine who keeps his or her identity a secret?”
“It is a friend who desires to remain unidentified. But do believe me when I tell you that, although your friend has never seen you--only photographs of you--you nevertheless have a true friend.”
The girl paused. The more the stranger said the more deeply did she become intrigued.
“Well,” she exclaimed, after reflection, “if you refuse to disclose the identity of this unknown friend of mine, please present to him my compliments and thanks. Tell him that I am much mystified.”
“Naturally,” laughed her companion. “Take my advice, Miss Dare, and be prepared for any untoward circumstance that might lead to a breach between your lover and yourself. As I have already suggested to you, be forearmed against any _contretemps_.”
“Will it come soon, do you think?” she inquired in a low, tremulous voice, her eyes showing narrowed and anxious through her mask.
“Ah! How can we tell?” he asked, drawing a slight sigh, which she in an instant regarded as a sign of sympathy. “When the blow falls you will be expecting it, and be able to stave it off.”
“And may I not warn Brinsley?” she begged. “It isn’t fair to him to keep him in the dark.”
“I agree. But I can give no permission myself, Miss Dare,” he replied seriously. “I have to obtain it. This I will do. Look in the personal column of _The Times_ of next Monday for a message addressed to ‘S,’ and the word will be either ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ And if the latter, you will know that the decision is inexorable. Your friend wishes you well, but he is compelled, because of certain contingencies, to exercise the greatest caution. He sends you word through myself of the clever plot against your happiness, in order that you may expect and frustrate it.”
“But is my aunt implicated in it? Surely not?”
“I am entirely ignorant of the details,” was the mysterious masquerader’s quiet response. “However, I would ask you one question which your unknown friend is anxious to know”; and, after he had paused for a few moments, he inquired: “Did your aunt, Lady Wyndcliffe, once have in her service a butler named Ashe?”
“Ashe!” she echoed. “Of course she had! He was discharged for impertinence not very long ago.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “That is all my friend wishes to know.”
“Surely Ashe has nothing to do with my affairs!” she exclaimed excitedly.
“How can he? A mere servant,” he said; and as at that moment the man in the garb of an Arab sheik was seen approaching, the mysterious cavalier rose, bowed courteously, waved his plumed hat across his knees again, and, strolling away, was seen in the ballroom no more.
“Who’s your gay cavalier?” asked Brinsley with natural inquisitiveness, as he rejoined his fiancée.
“I--well, I really don’t know. Quite a nice man he seems, but he made himself mysterious. That’s all!”
“He seemed to be talking to you very seriously.”
“Yes,” she said, her woman’s innate wit coming to her rescue on the instant. “He seems to be a very sad person. A new arrival, I suppose. He was telling me of his wife. They were both here last season, but she has left him, and he seems inconsolable, poor fellow!”
“I wonder who he is,” exclaimed Brinsley in sympathy, his jealousy quite disarmed by Sibell’s explanation. “Take good stock of him, and let’s try and identify him afterwards. Did he tell you his name?”
“Of course not, Brin. He was masked. And why should I want to know the man’s name?” she laughed.
As a waltz was just commencing, they rose together and joined in the dancing. Little did Brinsley Otway dream of those warning words which had been whispered into Sibell’s ear, or little did the pair suspect the fatal pitfall which had been opened before them by the base and unscrupulous machinations of those bent upon feathering their own nests at the expense of a girl’s love and happiness.
The mad dance proceeded. Balloons and serpentines were everywhere. The electroliers were festooned with thousands of yards of multicolored paper ribbon, and thousands of yards of the same clung to the feet of the dancers. Confetti was half an inch deep everywhere, and, to the strains of the amateur jazz-band which had temporarily relieved the professional orchestra, the lovers fox-trotted around the room, watched furtively by the young-looking peeress in cyclamen.
Sibell’s brain was awhirl. What could the stranger have meant by his dark hints of conspiracy against her happiness? As she danced in her lover’s arms she tried to recall all that he had said; all those meaning words he had used; all the hints and warnings. The latter were certainly serious enough, but why had he, a perfect stranger, who admitted that he had never met her before that evening, made such a curious inquiry as he had done regarding her aunt’s discharged manservant, Albert Ashe?
She recollected that, although the fellow had always been most polite and courteous, even to obsequiousness, yet she had always instinctively disliked him, and was secretly very glad when he had been discharged for impertinence. Nevertheless, it was indeed strange that the mysterious masquerader should know of him.
That there was a conspiracy afoot, a secret plot, conceived by an enemy, to part her from Brinsley, was the main point. What she had heard from the masked man’s lips held her stunned and stupefied, yet, by reason of her promise to divulge nothing to her lover, she was now held dumb and powerless.
Who could possibly be jealous of her happiness? Bliss such as she was now experiencing amid these unsullied snows had never been hers before in all her life. Why should it all end? Who was there in the world who could conspire to prevent their union?
The dance was concluded, and supper was announced. They went to a long table in the big dining-room, where they joined a party of about twenty others with whom they had formed friendships in the hotel. Chatter and loud peals of laughter sounded on every hand, masks were lifted, champagne corks popped, and serpentines came hurtling through the air and fell upon the table. But Sibell had lost interest in it all.
Her keen eyes were diligently searching everywhere to discover her secret cavalier. But from the moment he had bowed so courteously and left her, he had disappeared. He had delivered his mysterious message, and his mission was apparently at an end.
Not far away from her, at a _table-à-deux_ in a corner, was seated a middle-aged man in the brown habit of a Capuchin monk, chatting merrily with a pretty, fair-haired girl dressed as a Columbine.
Now and then the man raised his brown eyes, and watched Sibell furtively, but so changed was he in appearance that it was not surprising that she failed to again recognize him.