Part 23

Sir Charles felt the blood tingle in his pulses. He had not been so stirred in years. Her words ran to his head like wine.

Mr. Collier raised his glass.

“Here’s to our next meeting,” he said, “on the terrace of the House of Commons.”

But Miss Cameron interrupted. “No; to the Colonial Secretary,” she amended.

“Oh yes,” they assented, rising, and so drank his health, smiling down upon him with kind, friendly glances and good-will.

“To the Colonial Secretary,” they said. Sir Charles clasped the arms of his chair tightly with his hands; his eyes were half closed, and his lips pressed into a grim, confident smile. He felt that a single word from her would make all that they suggested possible. If she cared for such things, they were hers; he had them to give; they were ready lying at her feet. He knew that the power had always been with him, lying dormant in his heart and brain. It had only waited for the touch of the Princess to wake it into life.

The American visitors were to sail for the mainland the next day, but he had come to know them so well in the brief period of their visit that he felt he dared speak to her that same night. At least he could give her some word that would keep him in her mind until they met again in London, or until she had considered her answer. He could not expect her to answer at once. She could take much time. What else had he to do now but to wait for her answer? It was now all that made life.

Collier and his wife had left the veranda and had crossed the lawn towards the water’s edge. The moonlight fell full upon them with all the splendor of the tropics, and lit the night with a brilliant, dazzling radiance. From where Miss Cameron sat on the veranda in the shadow, Sir Charles could see only the white outline of her figure and the indolent movement of her fan. Collier had left his wife and was returning slowly towards the step. Sir Charles felt that if he meant to speak he must speak now, and quickly. He rose and placed himself beside her in the shadow, and the girl turned her head inquiringly and looked up at him.

But on the instant the hush of the night was broken by a sharp challenge, and the sound of men’s voices raised in anger; there was the noise of a struggle on the gravel, and from the corner of the house the two sentries came running, dragging between them a slight figure that fought and wrestled to be free.

Sir Charles exclaimed with indignant impatience, and turning, strode quickly to the head of the steps.

“What does this mean?” he demanded. “What are you doing with that man? Why did you bring him here?”

As the soldiers straightened to attention, their prisoner ceased to struggle, and stood with his head bent on his chest. His sombrero was pulled down low across his forehead.

“He was crawling through the bushes, Sir Charles,” the soldier panted, “watching that gentleman, sir,”--he nodded over his shoulder towards Collier. “I challenged, and he jumped to run, and we collared him. He resisted, Sir Charles.”

The mind of the Governor was concerned with other matters than trespassers.

“Well, take him to the barracks, then,” he said. “Report to me in the morning. That will do.”

The prisoner wheeled eagerly, without further show of resistance, and the soldiers closed in on him on either side. But as the three men moved away together, their faces, which had been in shadow, were now turned towards Mr. Collier, who was advancing leisurely, and with silent footsteps, across the grass. He met them face to face, and as he did so the prisoner sprang back and threw out his arms in front of him, with the gesture of a man who entreats silence. Mr. Collier halted as though struck to stone, and the two men confronted each other without moving.

“Good God!” Mr. Collier whispered.

He turned stiffly and slowly, as though in a trance, and beckoned to his wife, who had followed him.

“Alice!” he called. He stepped backwards towards her, and taking her hand in one of his, drew her towards the prisoner. “Here he is!” he said.

They heard her cry “Henry!” with the fierceness of a call for help, and saw her rush forward and stumble into the arms of the prisoner, and their two heads were bent close together.

Collier ran up the steps and explained breathlessly.

“And now,” he gasped, in conclusion, “what’s to be done? What’s he arrested for? Is it bailable? What?”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Sir Charles, miserably. “It is my fault entirely. I assure you I had no idea. How could I? But I should have known, I should have guessed it.” He dismissed the sentries with a gesture. “That will do,” he said. “Return to your posts.”

Mr. Collier laughed with relief.

“Then it is not serious?” he asked.

“He--he had no money, that was all,” exclaimed Sir Charles. “Serious? Certainly not. Upon my word, I’m sorry--”

The young man had released himself from his sister’s embrace, and was coming towards them; and Sir Charles, eager to redeem himself, advanced hurriedly to greet him. But the young man did not see him; he was looking past him up the steps to where Miss Cameron stood in the shadow.

Sir Charles hesitated and drew back. The young man stopped at the foot of the steps, and stood with his head raised, staring up at the white figure of the girl, who came slowly forward.