The Message

  CHAPTER VII

  TWO WOMEN

  Mr. Isidore David Baumgartner was in a state of high good humor. Afterwasting many hundreds of cartridges he had actually shot a drivengrouse. True, the method of slaughter amounted almost to a crime.Traveling fast and low before the wind, the doomed bird flew straighttoward the butts. Baumgartner closed his eyes, fired both barrels--thefirst intentionally, the second from sheer nervousness--and a cloud offeathers, out of which fell all that was left of legs, wings, and body,showed how a gallant moorcock had met his fate.

  "There's a clean hit for you, Sandy," cried the little man delightedly."It's all knack. I knew I could do it, once I got the hang of it."

  "Man, but ye stoppit him," replied Sandy, who doled out encouragementwith a sour grin. The shattered carcass lay in full view on a tuft ofheather. Two ounces of shot had riddled it at a distance of ten feet.

  "I suppose the second barrel was hardly necessary," said Baumgartner,more critically.

  "It's best to mak' sure," said the sardonic gillie, "but now ye'vegot yer 'ee in, as the sayin' is, mebbe ye'll be droppin' ithers, Mr.Baumgartner."

  He held forth the spare gun as a hint. Grouse were plentiful atLochmerig, and three other men in the line of shelters were busy.Baumgartner forthwith excelled himself. Just as a novice at Monte Carlomay achieve several winning coups in succession, so did fortune favorone whom nature had not designed as a sportsman. He shot with blindconfidence, and brought down half a dozen birds while they came sailingover the crest of the hill before a strong breeze that brought them toclose range. That he rendered them for the most part uneatable did nottrouble him in the least. Sport was merely slaying to him; his onlytrophies previously were some tame pigeons secured for practice.

  So Baumgartner was well content. As he trudged down the brae toLochmerig Lodge, discoursing learnedly to his companions anent the"stopping" qualities of his eighty-guinea pair of guns, his eyes rovedover the beauties of loch and glen, and the day-dream that it would bewell to pass the remainder of his days in this quiet haven cast itsspell on his soul. Rich as he was, he owned no home except a garishmansion in New York. His career had been meteoric, full of luridenergy. Beginning with the lust of money, he had followed the beatentrack of his order, and became obsessed with the lust of power. Yethis ambition needed spurring. Already the tremendous issues involvedin the project which procured him the condescending patronage of anemperor were revealing their dangers. Here, in Scotland, surroundedby subservient friends and well-trained servants, he longed for rest.Lairdship was proving a subtle rival to West African adventure.

  Moreover, he was married, and Mrs. Baumgartner was endowed with a willof her own and a tongue to bear witness thereto. She was learning toappreciate the easy tolerance of English society, which proved itselffar more accessible than the Four Hundred of New York. Men and womenof recognized social rank and pleasant manners were quite willingto shoot over the Lochmerig moors, play bridge in the Lodge, cruiseon the _Sans Souci_, and generally live and amuse themselves at themillionaire's expense. Mrs. Baumgartner was shrewd enough to see thatthe gain of a big slice of British territory in West Africa would offerpoor compensation for the loss of the new career which was opening upan alluring vista to her dazzled gaze. For once, therefore, discordthreatened in the household. In her daughter, too, she found a powerfulally. A month of close companionship with Evelyn Dane had completelychanged the life-theories of a spoiled and affected girl of eighteen.Too young as yet to be jealous of Evelyn's greater attractions,Beryl Baumgartner was alert enough to see that vulgar pertness wasludicrously inadequate as a means of winning male regard. Luckily,she became enthusiastically attached to Evelyn from the first hour.The wonderful faculty of hero-worship had survived the precocity of atoo-indulgent rearing. It was stronger now than mere counsel. Berylbegan to copy her new friend, and at once she began to improve.

  It was, therefore, a very dark cloud that lowered over the Baumgartnersky when a family coach which brought visitors from the ten milesdistant railway deposited at the hospitable door of Lochmerig Lodge,at one and the same moment, Mrs. Laing, Miguel Figuero, and Count vonRippenbach. As it happened, the three already knew each other slightly.They had met in Madeira during the previous winter. Figuero then actedas bear-leader to the count before he started on the hunting trip inthe Tuburi hinterland which had come to the Under Secretary's knowledge.

  It was a surprise to both men when they encountered Mrs. Laing at PerthJunction. They passed several interesting hours in her company, andvon Rippenbach, who spoke English better than Figuero, was a skilledcross-examiner. Thus, he soon hit upon a plausible explanation of thelady's appearance in Inverness-shire. She was one of Mrs. Baumgartner'ssocial links with England. On his part, as a "distinguished foreigner,"he would be acceptable in a higher circle than that occupied by hishost, but, when it came to Figuero, Mrs. Laing was puzzled--indeed,somewhat amused.

  The man's record was no secret. Tolerant Madeira did not ask how hehad risen to seeming affluence. It helped him to spend his money, andwas graciously blind to the darker pages of his history--nevertheless,those pages were an open book to local gossips.

  Figuero, a shrewd and level-headed scoundrel, was the most taken abackof the trio at this unlooked-for meeting. He was aware of the lovepassages between Warden and Rosamund Laing; he feared Warden; andhere was the woman whom Warden had once loved crossing his path at anawkward hour.

  The situation might have provided harmless interest for a number ofunimportant people at Lochmerig if Figuero had not recognized EvelynDane the instant he set eyes on her. Straightway the tiny rills ofintrigue and suspicion flowing through the adventurer's brain unitedinto a torrent.

  Seizing the first opportunity that presented itself, he drewBaumgartner into an unoccupied room, and closed and locked the door.Before the surprised millionaire could utter a word of protest, theWest African fire-brand began to question him in his own tongue, sinceBaumgartner, despite his Teutonic label and semblance, had a Portuguesemother.

  "Why did you fail to recognize the girl I described to you in Cowes?"he demanded fiercely. "Malediction! Are you mad, that you would riskour enterprise in this fashion?"

  "You must neither address me in that manner nor talk in riddles,"growled Baumgartner. "What girl? How am I to know one among the tenthousand girls of a regatta week?"

  "Riddles! It is you who are the conundrum, senhor. I tell you thatthis Englishman, Captain Warden, a Deputy Commissioner in Nigeria,is the man we have most to fear, yet you permit one who is probablyhis fianc?e, and surely in league with him, to live in your house andspy on the actions of yourself and your friends. What will Count vonRippenbach think when I tell him? What will the Emperor say, after allthe precautions we took that none should know----"

  "Silence!" roared Baumgartner, who could hold his own in matters thatdemanded clear thinking and careful guidance. "You are too ready withsome names, Senhor Figuero, yet too sparing of others that may explainyour folly. Of whom are you speaking?"

  "Of the young Englishwoman I have just met, of course. I am not good atcatching these strange words, but I mean the good-looking one, the tallslim girl in white muslin, she with brown hair and Madonna eyes----"

  "Do you mean Miss Dane?"

  "Yes--that is she. I remember now."

  "My daughter's companion! Nonsense!"

  "It is true, I tell you. Am I likely to forget a face--and such a face!Did I not describe her dress? She must have left your yacht just beforeWarden met her. And they are lovers. How can I be mistaken? They wentaway from Cowes in the same train. I told you her destination. What wasit? I have it written here," and he hurriedly turned over the leaves ofa note-book.

  Baumgartner was undoubtedly impressed. Figuero's earnestness was notto be gainsaid, and he had an unpleasant belief, now he came to recallthe incidents of a busy day, that Evelyn Dane was dressed exactly asWarden's unknown acquaintance was pictured.

  Meanwhile, the Portuguese found the memorandum he sought.
r />   "Here it is," he snapped, all a-quiver with the doubts that threatenedthe destruction of his pet scheme of vengeance on the British powerwhich had stopped the supply of slaves to the Sultan of Bogota."Langton in Oxfordshire--that is the place. The railway officialspelt it for me. A boatman told me he knew the girl, and gave me someoutlandish name as being hers. Now I see he was fooling me. What washis motive? Was he also an emissary of Warden's? Let me assure you,senhor, this thing begins to look ugly."

  Baumgartner's heavy jowl lost some of the ruddy hue of the moors.Count von Rippenbach had been ready enough to apply the screw when hisquondam confederate showed a degree of hesitancy in falling in withthe proposal he came from London to make, and this latest complicationwould strengthen von Rippenbach's hands beyond resistance. Already thelairdship of Lochmerig was becoming visionary, and the far-off hills ofinterior Africa grew more substantial in their dim outlines.

  But the millionaire, though he might toady to a Scottish gillie fora crumb of recognition as a marksman, had not attained his presentposition by displaying weakness in face of a crisis.

  "I believe you are the victim of a delusion," he said, with some showof dignity, "but, even if you are right, we gain nothing by yieldingto panic. What if Miss Dane is, as you say, Warden's _belle amie_?Why should that be harmful? Does it not explain his visit to Cowes?Indeed, once we are convinced that they know each other, we can turnthe circumstance to our own purpose. I am far from crediting aninsignificant official of the Niger Company with the importance youseem to attach to him, but, granted he is a hostile influence to befeared, why not stalk him through an unsuspecting agent?"

  "You don't rate him high enough," muttered Figuero. "He can sway thosestupid niggers like no other man in Nigeria. He talks Arabic, andHausa, and krooboy palaver as well as I do. He broke the Oku ju-ju whenit was worth a thousand lives to touch a stick or a feather. If Wardengets wind of our project before we are ready, we will fail, and yourealize what that means to all of us."

  A dinner gong came to Baumgartner's aid. He wished to avoid anydiscussion on the last point raised by the Portuguese. It bristled withthorns. Von Rippenbach revealed some of its cactus-like propertiesearlier in the evening.

  "You and I and the Count will go into other matters fully to-morrow,"he said. "As for Miss Dane, I shall clear up that difficulty withoutdelay. Act as though you had never seen her before, and keep your earsopen during dinner."

  So it came to pass that Evelyn, who was mightily astonished andperplexed by the arrival of the two men concerning whom Warden had toldher so much, was still more bewildered when Mr. Baumgartner availedhimself of a lull in the conversation at the dinner-table to saycasually:

  "By the way, Miss Dane, is Langton, in Oxfordshire, near your people'splace?"

  "Yes," she said, wondering what the question signified.

  "I suppose, then, you passed through it on your way home after quittingthe _Sans Souci_ at Cowes?"

  "Oh, yes. Langton is our station."

  "Ah! What a small world it is! A friend of mine, Mr. James G. Hertz, ofBoston, is staying there now. I suppose you did not chance to meet him?"

  "No. Our village is three miles away, and that is a long distance inthe country."

  And, in truth, Mr. James G. Hertz, of Boston, who was buried in Boston,could tell of yet more impassable gulfs.

  Rosamund Laing was sitting next to Figuero. She noticed the eagerattention with which he followed this trivial bit of talk, though hislimited knowledge of English rendered most of the lively chatter at thetable unintelligible.

  "Were you in Cowes during the regatta week, Senhor Figuero?" she asked.

  It was a reasonable deduction from his presence at Lochmerig, but shelittle guessed the devilish purpose engendered in that alert brain byher aimless inquiry. The Portuguese felt that he was at a disadvantageamong the gay throng gathered under Baumgartner's roof. His nimblewits were dulled by the barrier of language. It put him outside thepale. Things might be occurring which he ought to know, but which werehidden from him owing to this drawback. In the beautiful woman by hisside he might find an excellent go-between if only he could command herinterest. Was that old flame quite quenched in her heart, he mused?She had married a rich man, but had she forgotten--did any woman everforget--her first love? He thought not. At any rate, here was anopening provided by the gods.

  "I lib for Cowes one-time, senora," he murmured, "an' I see somet'ingdere dat I tell you if you not vexed."

  "Why should I be vexed?" she said, smiling at the odd expressions,though she was quite conversant with the _lingua franca_ of the coast.

  "You 'member dem Captain Warden?"

  "Of course I do."

  "An' you keep secret dem t'ing I tell you?"

  "Where Captain Warden's affairs are concerned, I shall certainly notdiscuss him or them."

  Figuero paid no heed to the intentional snub.

  "You understan' better w'en I tole you dem secret. You promise notspeak 'im any one?"

  "Well--yes."

  "He fit for marry dem Mees Dane."

  "Don't be idiotic."

  Mrs. Laing could not help it. She was so startled that she raisedher voice, and more than one of her neighbors wondered what thesallow-faced stranger had said that evoked the outburst. Figuero lookedannoyed. He was not prepared for such vehement repudiation of his news.Fortunately, the Honorable Billy Thring was giving a realistic accountof his failure to secure an heiress during a recent wife-hunting tourin America--he tried lots of 'em, he explained, but they all said hemust kill off at least one brother and two healthy nephews before theywould risk marryin' a prize dude like him--so Rosamund's emphatic crypassed almost unheeded amidst the laughter evoked by Thring's exploits.

  "You fit for chop," muttered the Portuguese sarcastically. "You fit forfool palaver. You plenty-much silly woman."

  "But what you say cannot be true," she half whispered, and the man'sastute senses warned him that it was dread, not contempt, that drew theprotest from her lips.

  "I fit for tell you Warden make wife palaver wid dem girl at Cowes. Ifyou no b'lieve me, make sof' mouf an' ax Mees Dane."

  Then the woman remembered Warden's anxiety to return to the Isle ofWight. He had not written to her or to Lady Hilbury during the pastmonth, and this fact, trivial as a pin-prick before, now became arankling wound.

  "You keep dem secret?" went on Figuero, watching her closely.

  "Why did you tell me?" she retorted.

  "Coss I no want Warden marry dem girl. Savvy?"

  "Do you want to marry her yourself?" she asked, with a bitterness thatshowed how deeply she was hurt.

  He grinned, and wetted his thin lips with his tongue.

  "You t'ink I tired goin' by lone?" he said.

  "What is your motive? Why do you choose me as a confidant?"

  Figuero suddenly became dense.

  "I tell you leetle bit news," he said. "Dat is English custom. W'en wechop one-time palaver set. But you no say Figuero tole you dem t'ing."

  Rosamund did not reply. She endeavored to eat, and entered intoconversation with a man near her. The Honorable Billy was ending hisstory.

  "So I am still eligible," he was saying. "I went to America full ofhot air, and came back with cold feet. But I learned the language--eh,what?"

  That night, in the drawing-room, Mrs. Laing carried out the openingmove in a campaign she had mapped out for herself. If Figuero'sstory were true, she would smite and spare not. If it were untrue,Evelyn would be the first to deny it, and Rosamund trusted to her ownintuition to discover how far such denial might be credited.

  A man who was talking to Evelyn was summoned to a bridge table, andRosamund took his place unobtrusively.

  "Then you really were on board the Sans Souci at Cowes, Miss Dane?" shebegan, with a friendly smile.

  "Yes," said Evelyn, at a loss to determine why her brief sojourn in theSolent should attract such widespread attention.

  "And you met Captain Warden there?"

 
The attack was so direct and unexpected that the younger woman blushedand flinched from it. Still, she was not to be drawn into admissionslike a frightened child.

  "I met several people on the island," she said. "Cowes is a crowdedplace during regatta week."

  "Oh, come now," purred the smiling Rosamund, "one does not forget a manof Arthur Warden's type so readily--and after a violent flirtation,too! You see, I know all about it. Little birds whisper these things.Arthur did not tell me when he came to see me in town. Of course, hewouldn't, but there are always kind-hearted people willing enough togossip if they think they are annoying one."

  There was sufficient innuendo in this brief speech to justify Mrs.Laing's worst estimate of scandal-mongers. Not one barbed shaft missedits mark. If words could wound, then Evelyn must have succumbed, butthe injuries they inflict are not always visible, and she kept a stiffupper lip, though her heart raced in wild tumult.

  "The inference is that you are far more interested in Captain Warden'svisits to Cowes than I or any other person can pretend to be," she saidslowly.

  She meant the cold-drawn phrase to hurt, and in that she succeeded,though her own voice sounded in her ears as if it had come from afar.

  "Well, perhaps you ought to be told that he and I are engaged," saidRosamund, stung to a sudden fury of lying. "Don't imagine I bearmalice. You are sweetly pretty, and Arthur is so susceptible! But heis also rather thoughtless. We were pledged to each other years ago,but were kept apart by--by a mother's folly. Now I am free, and he cameback to me, though I had to insist that at least a year should elapsebetween my husband's death and the announcement of our engagement.All our friends know our sad story, and would forgive some measure ofhaste, but one has to consider the larger circle of the public."

  Then, indeed, Evelyn's blood seemed to chill in her veins. The room andits occupants swam before her eyes, and the pain of repression becamealmost unbearable, yet she was resolved to carry off the honors in thisduel unless she fainted.

  "I gather that you are warning me against Captain Warden'sthoughtlessness, as you term it?" she said, compelling each word at thebayonet's point, as it were.

  "Oh, I was not speaking seriously, but we can let it go at that."

  "And you wish me to understand that you are his promised wife?"

  "There, at least, I am most emphatic," and Rosamund laughed, a trifleshrilly, perhaps, for a woman so well equipped with the armor ofself-conceit.

  "I suppose, then, that the late Mr. Laing has been dead a year, as Iform one of that larger circle whose favorable opinion you court?"

  For an instant Rosamund's black eyes flashed angrily. She had expectedtears and faltering, not resistance.

  "I only meant to do you a good turn, yet on the raw," she sneered.

  "Pray do not consider me at all. By your own showing, I have nogrievance--no _locus standi_, as the lawyers say--but, since youhave gone out of your way to give a mere stranger this interestinginformation, I wish to be quite sure of the facts. For instance, let ussuppose that I have the honor of Captain Warden's acquaintance--am I atliberty to write and congratulate him?"

  "That would place me in a false position."

  "Ah. Is there nothing to be said for me? You spoke of a 'violentflirtation,' I think. If I may guess at the meaning of a somewhat crudephrase, it seems to imply a possible exchange of lovers' vows, and oneof the parties might be misled--and suffer."

  "We women are the sinners most frequently."

  "I do not dispute your authority, Mrs. Laing. I only wish to ascertainexactly what I am free to say to Captain Warden?"

  "Tell him you met me, and that I am well posted in everything thatoccurred at Cowes. And, for goodness' sake, let me see his reply. Itwill be too killing to read Arthur's verbal wrigglings, because he isreally clever, don't you think?"

  Somehow, despite the steely tension of every nerve, Evelyn caught anundertone of anxiety in the jesting words. Her rival was playing a boldgame. It might end in complete disaster, but, once committed to it,there was no drawing back.

  "The proceedings at Cowes were open to all the world," Evelyn could nothelp saying. "Even you, with your long experience, might fail to detectin them any trace of the thoughtlessness you deplore."

  "Then you have met him elsewhere?"

  Evelyn, conscious of a tactical blunder, colored even more deeply withannoyance, though again she felt that her tormentor was not so sure ofher ground as she professed to be. Every woman is a born actress, andEvelyn precipitated a helpful crisis with histrionic skill.

  "The whole story is yours, not mine, Mrs. Laing," she said quietly."Perhaps, if you apply to your half-caste informant, he may fill infurther details to please you."

  At that moment the Honorable Billy Thring intervened. He was one ofthose privileged persons who can say anything to anybody without givingoffense, and he broke into the conversation now with his usual frankinanity.

  "I find I've bin lookin' for a faithful spouse in the wrong direction,Mrs. Laing," he chortled. "Barkin' up the wrong tree, a Chicago girlcalled it. What a thorough ass I was to spin that yarn at dinner withyou in the room. Will you be good, an' forget it? Don't say I haven'tgot an earthly before the flag falls."

  "What in the world are you talking about?" cried Rosamund, turning onhim with the sourest of society smiles.

  "It sounds like the beginning of a violent flirtation," said Evelyn,yielding to the impulse that demanded some redress for the torture shehad endured.

  "Right you are, Miss Dane," said Billy. "By gad, that clears the coursequicker than a line of policemen. You see, Mrs. Laing, I really mustmarry somebody with sufficient means for both of us. I have expensivetastes, and my noble dad gave me neither a profession nor an income. Sowhat is a fellow to do?"

  "You flatter me," said Rosamund tartly. "Unfortunately I have just beentelling Miss Dane that I am _hors de concours_, as they put it in theParis exhibitions."

  "That is the French for 'you never know your luck,' Mr. Thring," criedEvelyn, with a well-assumed laugh. "Mrs. Laing may change her mind,too, not for the first time."

  Without giving her adversary a chance to retaliate, she darted away tojoin Beryl Baumgartner, and soon seized an opportunity to retreat toher own room. Once safely barricaded behind a locked door, she bowedbefore the storm. Flinging herself on her knees by the bedside, shewept as though her heart would break. It was her first taste of thebitter cup that is held out to many a girl in her position, and itsgall was not diminished because she still believed that Arthur Wardenloved her. How could she doubt him, when each passing week brought hera letter couched in the most endearing terms? Only that morning had sheheard from him at Ostend, whither the _Nancy_ had flown after makinga round of the Norfolk Broads. He described his chances of speedypromotion once the threatened disturbance in West Africa had spentitself, and, oddly enough, reminded her of his intention to curtailhis furlough so as to permit of a visit to Rabat in a coasting steamerbefore going to Madeira on his way to the Protectorate.

  Not a word did he say of the Baumgartners, or their queer acquaintancesof the Isle of Wight. It was tacitly agreed between them that Evelynshould not play the r?le of spy on her employers, and, indeed, untilthat very day there was little to report save the utmost kindness attheir hands.

  Why, then, it may be urged, did she weep so unrestrainedly? andonly the virgin heart of a woman who loves can answer. She fearedthat Rosamund Laing was telling the truth when she spoke of a priorengagement. She knew that Warden had said nothing at Plymouth ofmeeting Rosamund in London, and she was hardly to be blamed for drawingthe most sinister inference from his silence. Did he dread that earlierentanglement? He was poor, and she was poor; how could he resist thepleading of one so rich and beautiful as her rival?

  In short, poor Evelyn passed a grievous and needlessly tortured hourbefore she endeavored to compose herself for sleep, and she was deniedthe consolation of knowing that the woman who destroyed her happinesswas pacing another room like a caged tigress, and strivin
g to devisesome means of extricating herself from the morass into which Figuero'stidings and her own rashness had plunged her.