The Light Beyond

Foreword

An Englishman, a Frenchman and an American sat in the lounge of the Ritz Hotel in London finishing a conversation which had touched at different times upon the Ruhr, the funding of the English debt to the United States, and the great Conference now sitting in Whitehall. They were men with trained minds, and, notwithstanding their different nationalities, they had discussed each subject without prejudice and with the impartiality of the philosopher. The coming of Louis, the maitre @hotel, to announce that the luncheon which they had ordered with some care half an hour ago was served, brought the conversation to a close. They were all three sufficiently intimate to end it on a note of levity.

“At any rate,” the Englishman declared to his American friend, “we shall never quarrel with you. You have all the gold in the world and we need some.”

“And believe me,’ the American rejoined, “we’d put up with most anything from you Britishers. Why, if it weren’t for you people whom should we have to beat at polo and golf?”

“We too,’ the Frenchman intervened, “very badly need some of that gold which you have hoarded up on the other side of the Atlantic, and as for your country, my dear friend,” he added, turning to the Englishman, “if ever the sentiment between us should for a moment weaken, we have always to ask ourselves who else. in the world is there left to buy our wines?”

“You’ve got us safe,” the American observed. ‘Most vi FOREWORD of our womenkind to-day prefer an apartment in Paris to an estate on Long Island.”

“So that between the three,” the Englishman concluded, taking his two companions lightly by the arm and leading them towards the restaurant, “our friendship is imperishable.”

Chapter I

Tue names of the three men who lunched together that rather dreary February morning were Lord Henry Dorchester, Member of Parliament for a northern manufacturing town, Mark K. Van Stratton, son of one of America’s greatest bankers, and Raoul, Marquis de Fontanay, a French diplomat of democratic principles, who had filled various important posts in the service of his country. Of the three Mark Van Stratton had perhaps the advantage in looks. He was over six feet, with broad shoulders and long, athletic body; an international golfer and a famous polo player. He had the blue eyes and fair hair of his Dutch ancestors, but nothing of their stolidity. The Frenchman was of slighter build, his complexion olive, almost sallow, with sunburn freckles, the result of years spent in Africa. His hair was jet black, and his eyes of the same colour, clear and steady; his mouth a little hard, his brown hands slim and strong. He was a renowned big-game shot but the ruling passion of his life was an intense and almost perfervid patriotism. The third man, the Englishman, was of a different type. He was almost as tall as his friend Van Stratton, but he was thinner and of less athletic build. He possessed rather a high colour, fair hair which was inclined to be sandy. He was slightly short-sighted and possessed a less assured manner than either of his two friends. He was comparatively new to politics but he had already made a reputation as an earnest and well-informed speaker, and although a slight inclination towards heterodox principles made him somewhat of a trouble to the whips of his party, he was clearly marked out for a career. He was an athlete without distinction, from love of the games in which, however, he never excelled; he had dabbled in literature and was reputed to be desirous of writing the life of a well-known contemporary statesman, All three men were approximately of the same age—thirty-four to thirty-five— and having formed their friendship during the war, they had established a habit of monthly luncheon parties in some congenial meeting place. ‘They were all three admirers of women, but not one of them was married or even engaged. Their first toast was an unvarying one. The Englishman raised his glass.

“To France and America!”

“To England and France!” Mark Van Stratton rejoined.

“To America and England!” Raoul de Fontanay echoed.

This time another toast was included, proposed by the American.

“To the success of the Conference!”

The Frenchman groaned slightly but he drank the toast and they set down their glasses empty. The wine was commented upon and approved. They were all moderate drinkers, but connoisseurs. After their fashion, each according to his tendencies, they were connoisseurs of life.

“To lunch without women,” Raoul de Fontanay observed, “is now and then a relief.”

“If one would converse seriously,’ Dorchester assented,

“it 1s a necessity. Women are too distracting. They force our thoughts into an absolutely fanciful groove, and after they have left us the interval generally is too short to talk rationally.”

“Better not let any of my countrywomen hear you speak like that,” Mark Van Stratton observed.

The Frenchman smiled.

“Your countrywomen are adorable,” he declared, “but if they have a fault it is that they take themselves too seriously. They will not admit or recognise the great boundaries which divide the sexes. I cannot talk to a woman seriously. I need a man to understand what I am aiming at, to understand what I would hope and work for. Woman is our best helpmate when she leaves our careers alone, when she is simply amusing and beautiful and perhaps affectionate.”

“That is all very well for one’s mistress,” Dorchester conceded, “‘but no one in this country, at any rate, can altogether keep his wife out of the serious side of his life.”

“You English!” Raoul de Fontanay murmured, with a little shrug of the shoulders. ‘‘Ah well! Still, as we must talk of women, let us ask one another this: we are all fond of them and yet not one of us is married or even engaged. Why not?”

“T shall marry some day,” Dorchester announced. “Up till now my work has been too absorbing.”

“T have looked around,’ Mark Van Stratton admitted, “but nothing doing so far. I admire Frenchwomen more than any in the world but they either keep you dangling at their heels all the time, or else in the most charming way possible fill your place. The English girls I have met are all right for sport, but they are either too reserved and cold, or too slangy. I suppose when I do marry it will be an American.”

“As for me,” Raoul de Fontanay pronounced, “I shall never marry. There is something ugly to me in infidelity, and I am too conscious of my limitations. I could never be faithful for a lifetime or a quarter of it. What about you, Mark?”

The American had been looking steadfastly across the room. His face had become curiously intent, his eyes fixed. He did not reply for a moment. Then he drew a little breath and answered without withdrawing his gaze.

“I could be faithful all my life,” he said, “‘to the girl who has just come in—the girl in grey with the chinchilla furs.”

“This is amazingly interesting,’ Raoul de Fontanay declared, thrusting his monocle into his eye and looking across the room.

‘Thrilling!’ Dorchester assented. “A trifle on the melodramatic side perhaps, but atoned for by Mark’s obvious earnestness. Would it be possible to indicate the favoured lady?”

‘You cannot possibly mistake her,” Mark replied. “There is no one else. She is in grey with chinchilla furs, and something green in her hat. She is just sitting down now, facing you, at the table by the window, with an elderly man.”

The Marquis glanced in the direction indicated. His manner changed a little. He dropped his monocle and whistled softly under his breath. Dorchester was enthusiastic.

‘She is awfully good-looking,” he pronounced. “Like a piece of Dresden china. Who is she, Mark?”

“IT don’t know—yet,” was the young man’s reply.

“IT do,” Raoul de Fontanay announced. “I know her name, at any rate, and I have some slight acquaintance with her companion.”

“Who is he—a relative?” Mark asked quickly.

De Fontanay’s surprise was obvious.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “‘that neither of you know who he is?”

“T have no idea whatever,” Dorchester confessed.

“Neither have I,” Mark affirmed.

Raoul de Fontanay sipped his wine. He had a sense of the dramatic and he paused for a moment to give weight to his words.

“That,” he confided, “is one of the best-known men on paper and the least-known actually in the world— Felix Dukane.”

“Gee!’ Mark murmured under his breath.

“Felix Dukane!” Dorchester repeated wonderingly. ‘He isn’t in the least like what I expected.”

“What he does here,” De Fontanay continued, with a shght frown, “I cannot imagine. He is very seldom seen in a restaurant—very seldom seen anywhere, as a matter of fact. They say that he has never been interviewed in his life, and that he beat the only photographer who ever succeeded in taking a snapshot of him in the streets of New York with a loaded stick, which he always carries, and smashed the camera. He doesn’t look it, but he is really prodigiously strong.”

Mark’s national respect for wealth kept fin a little awed.

“Felix Dukane!” he muttered. “The third richest man in the world.”

“He is not only that,” De Fontanay commented, “but he has the power of raising more money than any other born financier. If he speaks the word the banks in London, New York and Paris obey. I know for a fact that he was the inscribed holder of thirty million francs of War Loan in 1921 and he held about the same amount in French rentes. All the time, too, there were rumours that it was he who arranged the first German loan.”

“A man of wide sympathies,” Dorchester observed.

“Too wide,” De Fontanay agreed. “I confess that I do not like to see him in London just now. It is the one city which he dislikes and seldom visits. There can be only one reason for his presence here.”

“The Conference?” Dorchester suggested.

De Fontanay nodded.

‘“‘He must have some idea that the terms will be made possible for Germany. He has perhaps a loan in his mind.”

Mark remained profoundly uninterested in all such considerations.

“Say, how is it if you know the old man that you have never met the daughter?” he asked.

“Alas!” De Fontanay replied. ‘How does one obtain the chance? Socially he does not exist. People have grown tired of sending him invitations. He never even answers them. I chanced to see them both in Monte Carlo last season. They arrived in his yacht and they left the next day—people said because he was annoyed at the sensation his presence had created.”

“Of what nationality is he?” Mark enquired.

“No one knows exactly. He passes as English. His wife, I know, was a Servian. She was the daughter of a former Prime Minister. I never saw her but I remember her being spoken of as a famous beauty.”

“Say, what I want to get at is this,” Mark declared earnestly: “if you have never met the girl, do you know the father well enough to present me?”

De Fontanay shook his head doubtfully.

“TI am afraid I do not,” he acknowledged. ‘‘With any one else I would try to gratify you, but he is very difficult. Observe the way he looks round the room. His stare is absolutely stony. He has probably recognised me long ago, but I doubt whether he will take the slightest notice.”

“T have just got to know her somehow,” Mark insisted earnestly.

“As a matter of fact, I too am interested,” Dorchester affirmed.

The services of luncheon proceeded, but the continuity of their discussion seemed to have become broken and conversation was only fitful. The attention of both Dorchester and Mark seemed entirely engrossed by observation more or less surreptitious of the table where Felix Dukane and his daughter were seated. De Fontanay, whose turn it was that day to be host, suffered their neglect and watched them both with a slightly cynical amusement. As they passed out of the restaurant at the conclusion of luncheon he linked arms with them and spoke, half-banteringly, of their obsession.

“My friends,” he said, “it is a fact that both of you take women a little more seriously than I. Racial instinct, perhaps. Well, let me tell you this: the joy of a woman’s love is great, but the joy of the friendship between us three is, I think, a greater thing. You will not forget it—either of you?”

“Of course not,” Dorchester assented firmly.

“Sure thing!” Mark murmured, a little mechanically.

“That being clearly understood,” De Fontanay continued, “I will lay myself open to rebuff and do my best to present you both to the young lady. We will take our coffee at one of the lower tables. The opportunity may present itself.”

The three men found a table in the lounge which commanded a view of the departing guests and the eyes of two out of the three of them scarcely ever left the exit from the restaurant. They still talked, but in a disconnected fashion, and under Mark’s manner there was always a vein of almost feverish impatience. At last the inevitable happened.

“Say, they’re coming right along!’ Mark declared. “You'll have to look alive, Raoul.”

The latter, with a little gesture of resignation, rose to his feet and the two young men leaned forward, their eyes fixed upon the advancing pair. There was not the slightest personal resemblance between father and daughter. Felix Dukane was a short man, powerfully built, with a head large in proportion to his body, and a protruding underlip. He had masses of grey-black hair, a pallid complexion and cold grey eyes, set, as he walked down the carpeted way from the restaurant, in a hard, unseeing stare. The girl by his side was without a doubt beautiful. She was a trifle taller than her father, slim, with light brown hair, hazel eyes which looked about her with pleasant curiosity, the smooth, perfect complexion of youth and health, a mouth wonderfully attractive, with indications of humour in its uplifted corners. Whilst her father’s one object seemed to be to get out of the place as speedily as possible, to look at no one, to remain unnoticed if possible, she, on the other hand, showed some disposition towards loitering and was obviously taking in her surroundings with a certain amount of interest and pleasure. De Fontanay, summoning up his courage, as he afterwards admitted, intercepted Dukane with a courteous bow and outstretched hand.

“This is the first time, I think, Mr. Dukane, that I have had the pleasure of seeing you in London,” he said. “You will remember that we met at the French Embassy in Rome, and subsequently, I think, in Paris. My name is De Fontanay—Raoul de Fontanay.”

“T remember you, Marquis,” Dukane admitted, without rudeness but certainly without enthusiasm.

“You will perhaps give me the great pleasure,” De

Fontanay continued, “of presenting me to your daughter.”

The introduction was made and the three stood talking together. Yet even then the final issue of De Fontanay’s efforts appeared to be in doubt. Felix Dukane’s manner lost none of its brusqueness and he showed distinct signs of a desire to escape. The two young men sat and watched anxiously.

“T am forced to acknowledge, Mark,” Dorchester confided, “that you have better taste than I gave you credit for. With one possible exception I should say that Felix Dukane’s daughter is the most attractive young woman I have ever seen.”

“There couldn’t be an exception, even a possible one,” Mark declared gruffly.

Dorchester tapped a cigarette upon the table and lit it.

“The times have gone by,” he remarked, “when it would have been my duty to encase myself in unwieldy armour, mount a spirited dray horse, and perform prodigies of valour with the most inefficient weapon the mind of man ever conceived, to prove—Mark, she’s coming! Good old Raoul! He’s brought it off!”

De Fontanay arrived with his guests, assured as usual and urbane of manner. Felix Dukane at close quarters seemed even more cold and ungracious than his appearance suggested. The girl, on the other hand, displayed a charm of manner which more than atoned for her father’s shortcomings.

“Mademoiselle,” De Fontanay said, “will you permit that I present my two friends—Lord Henry Dorchester, Mr. Van Stratton—Miss Dukane, Mr. Dukane. I have persuaded Mr. and Miss Dukane to take their coffee with us.”

Attentive waiters hurried up with chairs and the little party subsided into a semicircle, the cynosure for many eyes, as the identity of the small man with the big head, the mystery millionaire, as many people called him, began to be whispered about. Dukane responded to his host’s courteous attempts at conversation with cold monosyllables. He had the air of a man who for some unknown reason was submitting to an unwelcome social act. It was Dorchester who first engaged the young lady’s attention. They talked for several moments of trifles. Then, during a temporary lapse in the conversation, she turned with unexpected graciousness towards Mark, as though desirous of including him.

“You are an American?” she asked.

“T am,” he answered, “although I am afraid not a very patriotic one. Most of my time is spent on this side.”

“I was in New York last year,’ she confided. “A very wonderful place! My father was immersed in business all the time, however, and I was a little dull. Tell me—your friend Lord Henry’s profession I know, only last week I heard him speak in the House of Commons, and the Marquis, of course, is a diplomat—how do you interest yourself in life?”

For a moment Mark was taken aback. The directness of the question, the friendly but inquisitive regard of her bewildering eyes almost embarrassed him.

“TI am afraid,” he confessed, “that I am rather what they call over here a ‘slacker.’ Of course there was the war. Since then I have done little which you would call of real interest.”

“You play games, do you not?” she remarked. “I have seen your name amongst the polo players. I think I saw you play once at Ranelagh.”

“It is quite likely,” he admitted.

‘But when the season for games passes,” she persisted, ‘how do you spend your time? You have still, perhaps, business affairs to attend to? In your country they become so absorbing.”

He shook his head.

“TI know better than to attempt anything of the sort,” he confided. ‘When I left college, I went to Washington for a time. I had some idea of studying diplomacy. They sent me down to Bolivia for a few months and afterwards to Equador. I disliked both heartily. Couldn’t seem to find anything in the job which was worth while. Then the war came and since then I am afraid I have not been what you would call a serious person.”

She had the air of beginning to lose interest in him. Mark noticed it and sought desperately to reéstablish himself.

“Of course,” he argued, “it is all very well for Dorchester. He’s living in his own country and he has his own interests and the interests of his class to work for. For me there is nothing. America does not need men of my kind who have had no commercial training. If I were to try, for instance, to manage my own affairs over there, it would simply mean that money would be wasted. There are none of the professions which attract me, and if they did I should be only taking work away from a man who probably needed it more.”

“A somewhat indolent excuse,” she murmured reprovingly. “Why not return to diplomacy?”

“I thought of it once,” he admitted.

She turned away and addressed some remark to De Fontanay, whose gallant efforts to entertain Dukane had come momentarily to an end. Mark had a queer and disconcerting feeling that he had somehow fallen into disfavour with the one person in the world he was most anxious to conciliate. He watched admiringly the charming turn of her head, her white neck with its single row of beautiful pearls, the full, unbecarmined lips, the transparent, untouched complexion. He watched her smile and found it adorable; a smile accompanied by the deepening of the fascinating little lines at the corners of her eyes. She was discussing with De Fontanay the poetry of a Russian whom they had both met in Paris, and for the first time Mark realised that she possessed the slightest possible trace of a foreign accent—an accent which seemed to make her voice even more attractive. He leaned over and, taking his courage into his hands, addressed her father.

“You live in Paris, don’t you, sir?” he asked. “TI remember having your house in the Bois pointed out to me once.”

“It is my headquarters,” Dukane admitted. “TI have, however, other habitations. Just now my affairs make it necessary that I spend some time in London.”

“You are spending the season here, you and your daughter?” Mark asked eagerly.

Dukane knocked the ash from the cigar which De Fontanay had persuaded him to light.

“I do not know what you mean by the season,” he answered. ‘‘Such things do not interest me. I am here for another six weeks or two months, until certain affairs in which I am concerned are concluded. When they are I shall get away as soon as I can. The English climate and cooking are the worst in the world.”

Estelle Dukane turned suddenly towards her neighbour. She had apparently concluded her conversation with De Fontanay, who was leaning back in his chair with the satisfied air of one who has just produced a successful repartee.

“The Marquis is too literary to be human,” she declared. ‘“‘Are you a great reader, Mr. Van Stratton?”

“T am afraid not,” he confessed, a little gloomily, “and

I am afraid that what I do read in a general way could scarcely be called literary.”

She concentrated upon him a regard which might almost have been termed critical. His expression at that moment was discontented, but he had by no means the appearance of a man lacking in intelligence. De Fontanay had bravely resumed his attempts at conversation with Dukane, a passing acquaintance had paused to speak to Dorchester, and Mark and his companion were practically alone.

“Should you very much resent a word of advice from a stranger?” she asked, dropping her voice a little.

“Tf you mean yourself, I should welcome it,” he assured her eagerly, “but then you are not a stranger. I think that I have known you for quite a long time.”

She laughed softly. His intense earnestness redeemed his speech from any suggestion of impertinence.

“Very well then,” she continued, “I will speak to you not as a stranger but as a friend. If by any chance the opportunity should come for you to take up some useful work—I do not mean wasting your energies in Bolivia or Equador or any of those terrible countries, but if at any time it should be made easy for you to engage in some work of real importance, promise me not to refuse it.”

He was a little bewildered, but he did not hesitate.

“IT won’t refuse anything,” he promised. “If I am offered a job as Consul to the North Pole or President of the United States I’ll take it on if you wish me to.”

She rose to her feet in response to an imperative gesture from her father, and after farewells which the latter’s impatience restricted to the merest conventionalities, they took their leave. The three men resumed their seats.

“Well?” De Fontanay enquired, as he lit a fresh cigarette.

“She is just as wonderful as I knew she was,” Mark declared fervently.

“She is the most attractive human being I have ever met,” Dorchester pronounced. “She is coming down to the House to hear me speak one day next week. I warn you, Mark, that if you are in earnest you may possibly find in me a rival.”

There was a gleam of cynical amusement in De Fontanay’s eyes as he leaned back and laughed softly.

‘‘When Estelle Dukane makes up her mind to marry,” he told them, “her father will buy her a kingdom. If either of you two are really in earnest, take my advice and forget.”

The departure of Felix Dukane from the hotel was characteristic. He lingered for a moment in the doorway until he caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man in plain clothes standing with the*other footmen. At a sign from Dukane the latter hurried across the road and stood there waiting, whilst his master crossed the pavement swiftly, and passed into the remote corner of the limousine which had been drawn up against the kerb. The girl followed him. The attendant seated himself next to the chauffeur. They drove off eastwards.

“A coincidence, that we should meet that young man,” she murmured.

“IT suppose so,” he admitted surlily. “Not that he’s likely to be the least use to us.”

Estelle smiled meditatively as she looked out of the window.

“One never knows,” she murmured.

Chapter II

Mr. SterpHen Huventuayrer, Ambassador from the Government of the United States to the Court of St. James, a pleasant, dignified-looking man of slightly over middle age, was standing upon the pavement waiting for his car as Mark left the hotel. The latter raised his hat respectfully and would have passed on. The Ambassador, however, detained him.

“Just the man I was looking for, Mark!’ he exclaimed. “Are you in a hurry for half an hour?”

“Nothing whatever to do, sir, this afternoon, prompt admission.

“Step in and drive round with me to Carlton House Terrace then,” the other invited. ‘I have a few little matters to look after down there. They won’t take me more than a ae: minutes. Brownlow was writing to you this evening.”

Mark, mystified Ea interested, accepted the invitation and entered the car. During the short drive his companion spoke only of the weather and some mutual family friends. Arrived at Carlton House Terrace, he led the way to his own study where Brownlow, his private secretary, was at work.

“Anything urgent?” the Ambassador enquired.

“Nothing of any importance, sir. They have rung up from Whitehall once or twice but we were able to deal with their enquiries.”

“That’s good. You know Mark Van Stratton?”

The two young men smiled at each other.

“Of course you do, though,” the Ambassador contin-

> was the ued. “You were at Harvard together, weren’t you, and you’ve met often enough round at Marsden House. Give us a few minutes, Brownlow. I want to have a word or two with this young man.”

“I have to go down to the Consul’s office, if you can spare me for half an hour, sir.”

“Capital! Don’t be longer if you can help it.”

Mr. Huventhayer waited until the door was closed. Then he motioned Mark to a chair and seated himself at his desk.

“Am I correct in believing, Mark,” he began, “that you have so far imbibed English habits as to be living the life of a gentleman at ease?”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it, sir,” Mark admitted. ‘‘Since the war I am afraid I have led rather a useless existence.”

“Should you like some work?”

The question was so unexpected that it came almost as a shock. Mark’s thoughts flashed back to the Ritz, to the girl leaning towards him, her earnest, almost mysterious admonition. If this was coincidence it was coincidence of an amazing sort.

“What kind of work, sir?” he enquired.

“We need help here and at the Embassy,” Hr. Huventhayer explained. ‘‘We have all we can do at any time. They don’t over-staff us, as you know, and perhaps you’ve heard—we’ve lost Dimsdale. Influenza, or something of the sort. He’s going home by the next steamer.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” Mark ventured. ‘He always seemed so keen.”

Mr. Huventhayer sighed.

“Well, anyhow, he’s gone,” he said, “and what with our ordinary work and having to provide help for Hugerson and Martin at the Conference, we are desperately short-handed.”

“Do you think I should be of any use, sir?” Mark asked eagerly.

“Of course you would,” was the prompt reply. “Anyway, I want you to try. You could relieve Brownlow here of some of the social data he has to get up for Mrs. Huventhayer, and then there is work every day in connection with the Conference. Hugerson is all the time plying us with figures and statistics he wants verified. By the bye, you don’t speak German by any chance, do you?”

“Why, just so that I can make myself understood,” Mark admitted.

“Better and better,’ the Ambassador declared. “I was going to give you a room here, but I think you had better start up at Marsden House. Mrs. Huventhayer will be able to get at you more easily there, and if we are really able to make use of you down at Whitehall in Dimsdate’s place it will be handier to have you on the spot. You can dine to-night, I hope?”

“TI have no engagement, sir.”

“Capital! We'll have a further talk after dinner. I’ve got to have a few words with Brownlow here, so you had better get along. Come early to-night—at about a quarter to eight. Mrs. Huventhayer may want you to help her. She misses Ned Dimsdale rather when we have guests.”

Mark was dismissed with a kindly nod, and walked out, feeling a little dazed. Instead of turning back into Pall Mall, he descended the steps and turned towards the Strand with some idea of paying a call at the Savoy.