49
The return journey of the rescuers and the rescued was a happy oneindeed. If fraternity had prevailed on the outward voyage, now farmore were all (or most) hearts knit together. What happy greetingswere exchanged, what stories related, what mysteries made clear! Thehappy press were told the tale of each captured delegate; they learntof the pursuit after vice of the two public-spirited ladies, and theirconsequent entrapment, of the decoy of Lord John Lester through hisdevotion to the Union of the League, of how Professor Inglis had beenbetrayed through his pity for the poor Greek woman, of how Dr. Chang,leaving the Bergues hotel at midnight, had taken a walk through theSaint Gervais quarter, and been led by the smell of opium toinvestigate a mysterious opium den whose floor had failed beneath hisfeet and dropped him into an underground passage, along which he hadbeen conducted to an exit close to the Seujet Wharf, hustled into acovered boat, and carried up the lake. Many such strange tales thereleased captives told, and the journalists took down breathlessly ontheir writing-pads. Geneva, one perceived, must be full of the paidagents of the ex-cardinal and the society which employed him. Not thatDr. Franchi had told his captives anything of this society; he hadmerely said that he was anxious for good company, and had thereforetaken the liberty of capturing the pick of the eminent persons presentat Geneva and entertaining them as his guests.
"If you knew, gentlemen," he had said, "how one wearies for a littleintelligence, a little wit, a little _bonhomie_, in this dourcountry!"
Naturally, they had not believed him, but some of them had been, allthe same, a little flattered at their own selection.
They had had, it seemed, a delightful time. Books, newspapers,delicate food and wines, games, conversation, everything exceptliberty, had been provided for their delectation.
"One can't help, in some ways, being even a little sorry it is at anend," Lord Burnley murmured, as he watched the lights of the ch?teaurecede, and thought of the dusty days of labour which were to follow.
"If only it's not too late--if only irretrievable damage has not beendone," muttered Lord John Lester, frowning at the same lights,thinking of the vast agenda for the session, and of the growlingnations of the world.
"I think," the voice of Charles Wilbraham came, high and conceited, toHenry Beechtree as he lurked disgraced in a corner and listened andwatched, "I think we may say we have put a spoke in the wheel ofthese scoundrels this time. Yes; _I_ think we may say that...."
50
Henry that night packed his things. He was leaving next day. He wasnot going to wait to be dismissed by his paper. He knew that, if hedid not go, he would with ignominy be removed.
So he packed, in his small hot room after dinner, with the cats anddogs uttering their cries in the courtyard below, and beyond them thesmall whispering cry of water beating and shuffling against the wharf.
His adventure was over. In fact, Henry must now be called MissMontana, for such was, in truth, her name, and such, as CharlesWilbraham had truly said, her sex.
How superciliously had he said it, how superciliously staring her downthe while. As, long ago, he had superciliously stared her down when hehad said to his secretary, "This cannot go on, Miss Montana. I mustmake another arrangement. Particularly in view of Paris...."
Particularly in view of Paris. Ah, yes, that was the sting. Who wouldhave wanted to go on being Charles Wilbraham's secretary but forParis? For to that heaven of secretaries, the Paris Peace Conference,Charles had been called, and was going that month, January, 1919. Shehad been going with him. What delight! What a world of joy had openedbefore her when she heard it! What a peace! It would make up for allthe weary years of war, all the desolating months of servitude toCharles Wilbraham. And now, within a fortnight of starting, Charlessaid he must make another arrangement. For his secretary had showngross carelessness, hopeless incompetence: she had done a frightfulthing. She had put a Foreign Office letter into an envelope addressedto the Archbishop of Westminster, and vice versa, and so despatchedthem. It was the climax, so Charles told her, of a long series ofmisdeeds. Also, she was slow on the typewriter, spelt Parliament witha small p, and used the eraser too frequently, and you could, saidCharles, see the smudge made by that a mile off. So--in fine, Charlesmust make another arrangement and must in fact, in point of fact, heunctuously told her, ask her forthwith to take a minute to theestablishment, bidding them obtain for him another secretary. Thebitterness of that moment swept back to Henry now across the years.She remembered how, wordless, sullen, and fighting that dizziness thatattacked her in moments of stress, she had stood before him, loathinghis smooth voice, his lofty choice of words, his whole arrogant,pompous presence. Then he had dictated the minute.
"_From_ Mr. Wilbraham.
"_To_ the Establishment Branch.
"I find I have to make other arrangements about a secretary. I shall be glad if you will transfer Miss Montana to other work, and send some one to me more thoroughly efficient. It would be well if I could have a selection up for interview and make a choice, preferably after a preliminary trial. The work will be responsible, as I am going out to the Peace Conference in a fortnight.
"8.1.1919."
"Kindly see," Charles had ordered her, "that that is typed and goesdown immediately. I shall be glad to have it for initialing in notmore than five minutes from now."
That had been the way Charles had always addressed his secretaries;Charles was like that. Courtesy to a subordinate was, in his view,wholly wasted. He kept all he had of it for his superiors. "The onlyreally rude man in the Ministry," Henry had heard him called by thetypists, and typists always know.
Miss Montana had been subsequently transferred to the EstablishmentBranch, where she had spent her time typing chits about other people'ssalaries and appointments. Finally, when the staff was reduced, shewas the first to be dismissed. She had never been to Paris; neverseen the Peace Conference. Charles, with first one bullied secretary,now another, had moved on his triumphant way from conference toconference, a tour unbroken by his appointment to the staff of theLeague of Nations Secretariat. Miss Montana had never been to aconference in her life.
In her loafing, idle and poor, about London, with her idle and poorbrother and her Irish journalist lover, bitterness had grown morebitter. No money, no prospects, no career. Only chance bits offreelance journalism, not enough to pay the rent of decent rooms. Shehad vowed to be revenged on Charles, but no way presented itself. Shehad prayed God to send her to some bright continental place with asunny climate and if possible with some sort of conference going on,but no ladder thereto reared itself for her climbing. Her lover, ayoung man from Dublin, who wrote for, among other papers, the _BritishBolshevist_, went out to represent this journal at the League Assemblyat Geneva one year. He fell foul there of Charles Wilbraham, whoobjected to his messages, which, indeed, were not in the best oftaste; but, as he said, if you write for vulgar papers you must sendvulgar messages sometimes or they won't print you. Charles had himboycotted from public dinners, and otherwise annoyed. Hearing of it,Miss Montana consecrated afresh her vow to be revenged on Charles. Thenext year this journalist was to have gone to Geneva again, butinstead he encountered an Orange bullet while reporting a riot inBelfast on August 15th, and was still laid up with the effects at thebeginning of September. Then Miss Montana had conceived her brilliantidea. She would take his place. She would get back on Charles. Shewould disguise herself so that he would not know her if they met,and somehow she would be avenged. Incidentally, she would have aconference, in a bright continental climate, and earn some money.
Eventually she had persuaded the young man to write to the_Bolshevist_ telling them that he had a journalist friend already inGeneva, one Henry Beechtree, who might safely be entrusted with thenot onerous job of reporting the proceedings of the Assembly for them.The _Bolshevist_ did not really much care who did this job, or how itwas done, so they accepted the services of this Mr. Beechtree.
Thus, for Miss Montana, opene
d out at once an entertaining adventure,a temporary and scanty means of livelihood, and a chance of revenge.Surely now, knowing what she knew of Charles (for she had worked hardto collect injurious facts), she could somehow bring him to indignityand disgrace. How she had worked for this end! How patiently she hadschemed, waited, watched, prayed, made friends with a dull girl,followed Charles about.... Let him wait, she had said; only letCharles wait. And now had come her hour, and it had, after all, turnedon her and proved to be, as always, the hour not of herself, but ofCharles. Charles was in the right; she was in the wrong. Charles (shemight have known it) had done nothing so unseemly as to retainarmament shares while entering the staff of the League; Charles hadtransferred his money to beer. Charles had not conspired against theLeague. Rather had Charles conceived the clever idea of engaging afamous detective to solve the mystery, and triumphantly he had had itsolved. Charles emerged from this business, as always from everybusiness, with credit; Charles was triumphantly in the right.
It came to Miss Montana afresh, what she had really always known, thatthe Charleses of this world always are in the right. You cannot putthem in the wrong. They put you in the wrong, for ever and ever. Theymay be all wrong, within and without, but they cannot be in the wrong.The wrong is in them, not they in it. However false, selfish,complacent, arrogant, and abominable a life Charles might have led,one would know that at the Judgment Day he would somehow be in theright.... Right with God, Charles would be, and contemptuously andwithout surprise he would watch his neighbours' condemnation. Had henot joined the True Church to make sure of this ultimate rightness,and because it was fashionable just now? Much Charles cared forreligion! If Catholics were once more to be persecuted instead ofadmired, how soon would Charles leave them! Yes, Charles would alwaysbe in the right with the best people....
The heart and soul of Miss Montana went out passionately across landand sea to her wild journalist lover in Dublin, that poor and recklessfailure, with whom nothing went right, who had scarcely a shilling tohis name nor an ounce of health in his body. He was more than all theCharles Wilbrahams of the world together; infinitely more brilliant,more valuable, more alive; but never did he succeed, for life was noton his side. And now he would lose his job on the _British Bolshevist_(not that that mattered much), and be further discredited, forperpetrating this fraud which had been so unfortunately exposed. Hewould go under, deeper and deeper under, and so would she. Theunderworld, that vague and fearful place, would receive them. Hisgenerous and trusting love for her had joined with his love of a joketo sink him. Together they would sink, and over their bodies CharlesWilbraham would climb, as on stepping-stones, to higher things. Higherand higher, plumping with prosperity like a filbert in the sun, whilehis eyes dropped fatness, and his corn and wine and oil increased....
Thus bitterly mused Miss Montana, sitting in her grimy room by hershabby gladstone bag, throwing therein her pyjamas, her socks, hercollars, her safety razor, her passport (the passport was about DenisO'Neill, but it had served Henry Beechtree well enough; there is oneadvantage about passports: the nonsensical story on them is seldomread, nor the foolish portrait glanced at).
To-morrow she would walk once more about the romantic, clean, andnoble city, look her last on the most lovely lake, visit the ice-creamcaf? and perhaps go up Sal?ve, which she had not yet had time to do.Or up the lake to Nyons. She would not visit the Assembly Hall or theSecretariat, for by those she encountered there she would be looked ataskance. She had made a fool of herself and been made a fool of, andshe had, it would be supposed, tried to make a fool of Committee 9 inorder to spite Charles Wilbraham. She would be thought no gentleman,even no lady. And yet, did they but know it, she had accused Charlesin good faith, though with such rancour as they would be amazed toknow of, such rancour as Serb-Croat-Slovenes scarce feel againstAlbanians, or Bolsheviks against Bourgeoisie.
Miss Montana, past laughter, past tears, past sleep, and even now pasthate, considered for a while where comfort could best be sought, thencrept down the crazy winding staircase of her lodgings and so to thelake's edge. She would take a boat and have a last moonlight row.
51
The September days went by, and once again, on the shores of that mostlovely lake, the nations assembled and talked.
* * * * *
GLASGOW: W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD.
Messrs.
COLLINS'
Latest Novels
_Messrs. COLLINS will always be glad to send their book listsregularly to readers who will send name and address._
PIRACY
Michael Arlen
This is the story of Ivor Pelham Marlay between the ages of 18 and 32,and the period is London, 1910-1922. It is the history of England, twoloves, and an ideal. Mr. Arlen deals with all the types of LondonSociety, and he likes to bring out the queer and unexpected sides ofhis characters. No one who read Mr. Arlen's first book, _A LondonVenture_, or his delightful short stories, _A Romantic Lady_, needs tobe told that he writes wittily and well.
TYLER OF BARNET
Bernard Gilbert
Author of _Old England_
This long, powerful novel shows the dilemma of a middle-aged man withan invalid wife and grown-up children, who falls passionately in lovefor the first time. As he is a man of iron self-control he represseshis passion till it bursts all bounds, with a tragic result. No onenow writing knows so well or describes so vividly life in the Englishcountryside as does Bernard Gilbert.
THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE
Freeman Wills Crofts
Another brilliantly ingenious detective story by the author of _ThePonson Case_. The mystery of the real business of the syndicateutterly baffled the clever young "amateurs" who tried to solve it, andit took all the experience and perseverance of the "professionals" tobreak up the dangerous and murderous gang.
THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED
F. Scott Fitzgerald
This book has caused an even greater sensation in America than _ThisSide of Paradise_. It is a long, searching, and absolutely convincingstudy of degeneration, that degeneration which ruins so many of therich, young, idle people. The "smart set" of New York is hurled intothe limelight and mercilessly revealed. A witty, pungent, and entirelyoriginal book.
DANDELION DAYS
Henry Williamson
This is the tale of a boy's last terms at a public school, a verysensitive, unusual boy, and it is in a sense a sequel to _TheBeautiful Years_. It is the work of a very clever young writer whosenature essays have attracted the widest attention here and in America,and is utterly unlike the usual "school story." It is a subtle andbeautifully written study of character.
BEANSTALK
Mrs. Henry Dudeney
A charmingly told novel of Sussex. The theme is Motherhood, and allthe emotional subtleties of the desire for children.
PENDER AMONG THE RESIDENTS
Forrest Reid
This is an episode in the life of Rex Pender, who inherited and cameto live at Ballycastle. It is the story of the curious spiritualexperience which came to him there. It is in a sense a "ghost story,"but it is told by an artist and a stylist. "The Residents," moreover,are admirably contrasted, and in some cases deliciously humorouslydrawn. A charming, enigmatic, "different" book.
THE DEAVES AFFAIR
Hulbert Footner
This is a story of Evan Weir's wooing, and a very strenuous andoriginal pursuit it proved. In fact the lady of his choice so fardissembled her love, as frequently to threaten his further existence.At the time, Evan was acting as secretary to old Simeon Deaves, famedas the possessor of the "tightest wad" in New York.
Now certain individuals had designs upon old Simeon and his hoard, andamongst them was the forcible and beautiful object of Evan'saffections.
Like _The Owl Taxi_, it goes with a splendid snap, and is packed withexciting and humorous incidents.
ROSEANNE
Madame Albanesi
The author calls this an "old-fashion
ed story." It does not concernitself with sex or any other problems, but is just a lively, well-toldlife of a very fascinating heroine who has plenty of adventuressentimental and otherwise.
Collins' 'First Novel' Library
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EXPERIENCE
Catherine Cotton
This charming chronicle has no "plot." It is an attempt to present ahappy, witty, simple-minded woman who attracted love because she gaveit out. This is a very difficult type of book to write. The attentionof the reader must be aroused and held by the sheer merit of thewriting, and the publishers believe they have found in CatherineCotton a writer with just the right gifts of wit, sympathy, andunderstanding.
DOMENICO
H. M. Anderson
This is the story of a Cardinal of Rome, a member of one of the greatnoble families. In his youth something had happened which had thrown ashadow over his life. There are three great crises in his life, one ofthem due to this shadow, one to the contrast between his conscienceand his ambition, and the third when, an exile in England, he falls inlove. Miss Anderson shows much skill in drawing the character of thisgreat and tragic figure.
[Transcriber's Notes and Amendments:
In addition to the listed inconsistencies in hyphenation or spelling, nationalities in general are inconsistently hyphenated and were left as printed.