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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6222-0.txt b/6222-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c9b8e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/6222-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7820 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Trespasser, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Trespasser, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6222] +Last Updated: August 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + +By Gilbert Parker + + + + +CONTENTS: + + Volume 1 + I. ONE IN SEARCH OF A KINGDOM + II. IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN + III. HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE + IV. AN HOUR WITH HIS FATHER’S PAST + V. WHEREIN HE FINDS HIS ENEMY + + Volume 2. + VI. WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS + VII. WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET + VIII. HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION + IX. HE FINDS NEW SPONSORS + X. HE COMES TO “THE WAKING OF THE FIRE” + XI. HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST + + Volume 3. + XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS + XIII. HE JOURNEYS AFAR + XIV. IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED + XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN + XVI. WHEREIN LOVE SNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN’S + XVII. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE + XVIII. “RETURN, O SHULAMITE!” + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +While I was studying the life of French Canada in the winter of 1892, +in the city of Quebec or in secluded parishes, there was forwarded to me +from my London home a letter from Mr. Arrowsmith, the publisher, asking +me to write a novel of fifty thousand or sixty thousand words for what +was called his Annual. In this Annual had appeared Hugh Conway’s ‘Called +Back’ and Anthony Hope’s ‘Prisoner of Zenda’, among other celebrated +works of fiction. I cabled my acceptance of the excellent offer made +me, and the summer of 1893 found me at Audierne, in Brittany, with some +artist friends--more than one of whom has since come to eminence--living +what was really an out-door literary life; for the greater part of ‘The +Trespasser’ was written in a high-walled garden on a gentle hill, and +the remainder in a little tower-like structure of the villa where I +lodged, which was all windows. The latter I only used when it rained, +and the garden was my workshop. There were peaches and figs on the +walls, pleasant shrubs surrounded me, and the place was ideally quiet +and serene. Coffee or tea and toast was served me at 6.30 o’clock A.M., +my pad was on my knee at 8, and then there was practically uninterrupted +work till 12, when ‘dejeuner a la fourchette’, with its fresh sardines, +its omelettes, and its roast chicken, was welcome. The afternoon was +spent on the sea-shore, which is very beautiful at Audierne, and there +I watched my friends painting sea-scapes. In the late afternoon came +letter-writing and reading, and after a little and simple dinner at 6.30 +came bed at 9.45 or thereabouts. In such conditions for many weeks I +worked on The Trespasser; and I think the book has an outdoor spirit +which such a life would inspire. + +It was perhaps natural that, having lived in Canada and Australia, and +having travelled greatly in all the outer portions of the Empire, I +should be interested in and impelled to write regarding the impingement +of the outer life of our far dominions, through individual character, +upon the complicated, traditional, orderly life of England. That feeling +found expression in The Translation of a Savage, and I think that +in neither case the issue of the plot or the plot--if such it may be +called--nor the main incident, was exaggerated. Whether the treatment +was free from exaggeration, it is not my province to say. I only know +what I attempted to do. The sense produced by the contact of the outer +life with a refined, and perhaps overrefined, and sensitive, not to say +meticulous, civilisation, is always more sensational than the touch +of the representative of “the thousand years” with the wide, loosely +organised free life of what is still somewhat hesitatingly called the +Colonies, though the same remark could be applied to all new lands, +such as the United States. The representative of the older life makes +no signs, or makes little collision at any rate, when he touches the new +social organisms of the outer circle. He is not emphatic; he is typical, +but not individual; he seeks seclusion in the mass. It is not so with +the more dynamic personality of the over-sea citizen. For a time +at least he remains in the old civilisation an entity, an isolated, +unabsorbed fact which has capacities for explosion. All this was in my +mind when The Trespasser was written, and its converse was ‘The Pomp of +the Lavilettes’, which showed the invasion of the life of the outer land +by the representative of the old civilisation. + +I do not know whether I had the thought that the treatment of such +themes was interesting or not. The idea of The Trespasser was there in +my mind, and I had to use it. At the beginning of one’s career, if one +were to calculate too carefully, impulse, momentum, daring, original +conception would be lost. To be too audacious, even to exaggerate, is +no crime in youth nor in the young artist. As a farmer once said to me +regarding a frisky mount, it is better to smash through the top bar than +to have spring-halt. + +The Trespasser took its place, and, as I think, its natural place, in +the development of my literary life. I did not stop to think whether +it was a happy theme or not, or whether it had popular elements. These +things did not concern me. When it was written I should not have known +what was a popular theme. It was written under circumstances conducive +to its artistic welfare; if it has not as many friends as ‘The Right +of Way’ or ‘The Seats of the Mighty’ or ‘The Weavers’ or ‘The Judgment +House’, that is not the fault of the public or of the critics. + + + + +TO DOUGLAS ROBINSON, Esq., + +AND + +FRANK A. HILTON, Esq. + +My dear Douglas and Frank: + +I feel sure that this dedication will give you as much pleasure as it +does me. It will at least be evidence that I do not forget good days +in your company here and there in the world. I take pleasure in linking +your names; for you, who have never met, meet thus in the porch of a +little house that I have built. + +You, my dear Douglas, will find herein scenes, times, and things +familiar to you; and you, my dear Frank, reflections of hours when we +camped by an idle shore, or drew about the fire of winter nights, and +told tales worth more than this, for they were of the future, and it is +of the past. + + Always sincerely yours, + GILBERT PARKER. + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + + + + +CHAPTER I. ONE IN SEARCH OF A KINGDOM + +Why Gaston Belward left the wholesome North to journey afar, Jacques +Brillon asked often in the brawling streets of New York, and oftener in +the fog of London as they made ready to ride to Ridley Court. There was +a railway station two miles from the Court, but Belward had had enough +of railways. He had brought his own horse Saracen, and Jacques’s broncho +also, at foolish expense, across the sea, and at a hotel near Euston +Station master and man mounted and set forth, having seen their worldly +goods bestowed by staring porters, to go on by rail. + +In murky London they attracted little notice; but when their hired guide +left them at the outskirts, and they got away upon the highway towards +the Court, cottagers stood gaping. For, outside the town there was no +fog, and the fresh autumn air drew the people abroad. + +“What is it makes ‘em stare, Jacques?” asked Belward, with a humorous +sidelong glance. + +Jacques looked seriously at the bright pommel of his master’s saddle and +the shining stirrups and spurs, dug a heel into the tender skin of his +broncho, and replied: + +“Too much silver all at once.” + +He tossed his curling black hair, showing up the gold rings in his ears, +and flicked the red-and-gold tassels of his boots. + +“You think that’s it, eh?” rejoined Belward, as he tossed a shilling to +a beggar. + +“Maybe, too, your great Saracen to this tot of a broncho, and the grand +homme to little Jacques Brillon.” Jacques was tired and testy. + +The other laid his whip softly on the half-breed’s shoulder. + +“See, my peacock: none of that. You’re a spanking good servant, but +you’re in a country where it’s knuckle down man to master; and what they +do here you’ve got to do, or quit--go back to your pea-soup and caribou. +That’s as true as God’s in heaven, little Brillon. We’re not on the +buffalo trail now. You understand?” + +Jacques nodded. + +“Hadn’t you better say it?” + +The warning voice drew up the half-breed’s face swiftly, and he replied: + +“I am to do what you please.” + +“Exactly. You’ve been with me six years--ever since I turned Bear Eye’s +moccasins to the sun; and for that you swore you’d never leave me. Did +it on a string of holy beads, didn’t you, Frenchman?” + +“I do it again.” + +He drew out a rosary, and disregarding Belward’s outstretched hand, +said: + +“By the Mother of God, I will never leave you!” There was a kind of +wondering triumph in Belward’s eyes, though he had at first shrunk from +Jacques’s action, and a puzzling smile came. + +“Wherever I go, or whatever I do?” + +“Whatever you do, or wherever you go.” + +He put the rosary to his lips, and made the sign of the cross. + +His master looked at him curiously, intently. Here was a vain, +naturally indolent half-breed, whose life had made for selfishness and +independence, giving his neck willingly to a man’s heel, serving with +blind reverence, under a voluntary vow. + +“Well, it’s like this, Jacques,” Belward said presently; “I want you, +and I’m not going to say that you’ll have a better time than you did +in the North, or on the Slope; but if you’d rather be with me than not, +you’ll find that I’ll interest you. There’s a bond between us, anyway. +You’re half French, and I’m one-fourth French, and more. You’re half +Indian, and I’m one-fourth Indian--no more. That’s enough. So far, I +haven’t much advantage. But I’m one-half English--King’s English, for +there’s been an offshoot of royalty in our family somewhere, and there’s +the royal difference. That’s where I get my brains--and manners.” + +“Where did you get the other?” asked Jacques, shyly, almost furtively. + +“Money?” + +“Not money--the other.” + +Belward spurred, and his horse sprang away viciously. A laugh came back +on Jacques, who followed as hard as he could, and it gave him a feeling +of awe. They were apart for a long time, then came together again, and +rode for miles without a word. At last Belward, glancing at a sign-post +before an inn door, exclaimed at the legend--“The Whisk o’ Barley,”--and +drew rein. He regarded the place curiously for a minute. The landlord +came out. Belward had some beer brought. + +A half-dozen rustics stood gaping, not far away. He touched his horse +with a heel. Saracen sprang towards them, and they fell back alarmed. +Belward now drank his beer quietly, and asked question after question of +the landlord, sometimes waiting for an answer, sometimes not--a kind of +cross-examination. Presently he dismounted. + +As he stood questioning, chiefly about Ridley Court and its people, a +coach showed on the hill, and came dashing down and past. He lifted his +eyes idly, though never before had he seen such a coach as swings away +from Northumberland Avenue of a morning. He was not idle, however; but +he had not come to England to show surprise at anything. As the coach +passed his face lifted above the arm on the neck of the horse, keen, +dark, strange. A man on the box-seat, attracted at first by the uncommon +horses and their trappings, caught Belward’s eyes. Not he alone, but +Belward started then. Some vague intelligence moved the minds of both, +and their attention was fixed till the coach rounded a corner and was +gone. + +The landlord was at Belward’s elbow. + +“The gentleman on the box-seat be from Ridley Court. That’s Maister Ian +Belward, sir.” + +Gaston Belward’s eyes half closed, and a sombre look came, giving his +face a handsome malice. He wound his fingers in his horse’s mane, and +put a foot in the stirrup. + +“Who is ‘Maister Ian’?” + +“Maister Ian be Sir William’s eldest, sir. On’y one that’s left, sir. +On’y three to start wi’: and one be killed i’ battle, and one had +trouble wi’ his faither and Maister Ian; and he went away and never was +heard on again, sir. That’s the end on him.” + +“Oh, that’s the end on him, eh, landlord? And how long ago was that?” + +“Becky, lass,” called the landlord within the door, “wheniver was it +Maister Robert turned his back on the Court--iver so while ago? Eh, a +fine lad that Maister Robert as iver I see!” + +Fat laborious Becky hobbled out, holding an apple and a knife. She +blinked at her husband, and then at the strangers. + +“What be askin’ o’ the Court?” she said. Her husband repeated the +question. + +She gathered her apron to her eyes with an unctuous sob: + +“Doan’t a’ know when Maister Robert went! He comes, i’ the house ‘ere +and says, ‘Becky, gie us a taste o’ the red-top-and where’s Jock?’ He +was always thinkin’ a deal o’ my son Jock. ‘Jock be gone,’ I says, ‘and +I knows nowt o’ his comin’ back’--meanin’, I was, that day. ‘Good for +Jock!’ says he, ‘and I’m goin’ too, Becky, and I knows nowt o’ my comin’ +back.’ ‘Where be goin’, Maister Robert?’ I says. ‘To hell, Becky,’ says +he, and he laughs. ‘From hell to hell. I’m sick to my teeth o’ one, I’ll +try t’other’--a way like that speaks he.” + +Belward was impatient, and to hurry the story he made as if to start on. +Becky, seeing, hastened. “Dear a’ dear! The red-top were afore him, and +I tryin’ to make what become to him. He throws arm ‘round me, smacks me +on the cheek, and says he: ‘Tell Jock to keep the mare, Becky.’ Then he +flings away, and never more comes back to the Court. And that day one +year my Jock smacks me on the cheek, and gets on the mare; and when I +ask: ‘Where be goin’?’ he says: ‘For a hunt i’ hell wi’ Maister Robert, +mother.’ And from that day come back he never did, nor any word. There +was trouble wi’ the lad-wi’ him and Maister Robert at the Court; but I +never knowed nowt o’ the truth. And it’s seven-and-twenty years since +Maister Robert went.” + +Gaston leaned over his horse’s neck, and thrust a piece of silver into +the woman’s hands. + +“Take that, Becky Lawson, and mop your eyes no more.” + +She gaped. + +“How dost know my name is Becky Lawson? I havena been ca’d so these +three-and-twenty years--not since a’ married good man here, and put +Jock’s faither in ‘s grave yander.” + +“The devil told me,” he answered, with a strange laugh, and, spurring, +they were quickly out of sight. They rode for a couple of miles without +speaking. Jacques knew his master, and did not break the silence. +Presently they came over a hill, and down upon a little bridge. Belward +drew rein, and looked up the valley. About two miles beyond the roofs +and turrets of the Court showed above the trees. A whimsical smile came +to his lips. + +“Brillon,” he said, “I’m in sight of home.” + +The half-breed cocked his head. It was the first time that Belward had +called him “Brillon”--he had ever been “Jacques.” This was to be a part +of the new life. They were not now hunting elk, riding to “wipe out” a +camp of Indians or navvies, dining the owner of a rancho or a deputation +from a prairie constituency in search of a member, nor yet with +a senator at Washington, who served tea with canvas-back duck and +tooth-picks with dessert. Once before had Jacques seen this new +manner--when Belward visited Parliament House at Ottawa, and was +presented to some notable English people, visitors to Canada. It had +come to these notable folk that Mr. Gaston Belward had relations at +Ridley Court, and that of itself was enough to command courtesy. But +presently, they who would be gracious for the family’s sake, were +gracious for the man’s. He had that which compelled interest--a +suggestive, personal, distinguished air. Jacques knew his master better +than any one else knew him; and yet he knew little, for Belward was of +those who seem to give much confidence, and yet give little--never more +than he wished. + +“Yes, monsieur, in sight of home,” Jacques replied, with a dry cadence. + +“Say ‘sir,’ not ‘monsieur,’ Brillon; and from the time we enter the +Court yonder, look every day and every hour as you did when the judge +asked you who killed Tom Daly.” + +Jacques winced, but nodded his head. Belward continued: + +“What you hear me tell is what you can speak of; otherwise you are +blind and dumb. You understand?” Jacques’s face was sombre, but he said +quickly: “Yes--sir.” + +He straightened himself on his horse, as if to put himself into +discipline at once--as lead to the back of a racer. + +Belward read the look. He drew his horse close up. Then he ran an arm +over the other’s shoulder. + +“See here, Jacques. This is a game that’s got to be played up to the +hilt. A cat has nine lives, and most men have two. We have. Now listen. +You never knew me mess things, did you? Well, I play for keeps in this; +no monkeying. I’ve had the life of Ur of the Chaldees; now for Babylon. +I’ve lodged with the barbarian; here are the roofs of ivory. I’ve had +my day with my mother’s people; voila! for my father’s. You heard what +Becky Lawson said. My father was sick of it at twenty-five, and got out. +We’ll see what my father’s son will do.... I’m going to say my say to +you, and have done with it. As like as not there isn’t another man that +I’d have brought with me. You’re all right. But I’m not going to rub +noses. I stick when I do stick, but I know what’s got to be done here; +and I’ve told you. You’ll not have the fun out of it that I will, but +you won’t have the worry. Now, we start fresh. I’m to be obeyed; I’m +Napoleon. I’ve got a devil, yet it needn’t hurt you, and it won’t. But +if I make enemies here--and I’m sure to--let them look out. Give me your +hand, Jacques; and don’t you forget that there are two Gaston Belwards, +and the one you have hunted and lived with is the one you want to +remember when you get raw with the new one. For you’ll hear no more +slang like this from me, and you’ll have to get used to lots of things.” + +Without waiting reply, Belward urged on his horse, and at last paused +on the top of a hill, and waited for Jacques. It was now dusk, and the +landscape showed soft, sleepy, and warm. + +“It’s all of a piece,” Belward said to himself, glancing from the trim +hedges, the small, perfectly-tilled fields and the smooth roads, to +Ridley Court itself, where many lights were burning and gates opening +and shutting. There was some affair on at the Court, and he smiled to +think of his own appearance among the guests. + +“It’s a pity I haven’t clothes with me, Brillon; they have a show going +there.” + +He had dropped again into the new form of master and man. His voice was +cadenced, gentlemanly. Jacques pointed to his own saddle-bag. + +“No, no, they are not the things needed. I want the evening-dress which +cost that cool hundred dollars in New York.” + +Still Jacques was silent. He did not know whether, in his new position, +he was expected to suggest. Belward understood, and it pleased him. + +“If we had lost the track of a buck moose, or were nosing a cache of +furs, you’d find a way, Brillon.” + +“Voila,” said Jacques; “then, why not wear the buckskin vest, the +red-silk sash, and the boots like these?”--tapping his own leathers. +“You look a grand seigneur so.” + +“But I am here to look an English gentleman, not a grand seigneur, nor +a company’s trader on a break. Never mind, the thing will wait till we +stand in my ancestral halls,” he added, with a dry laugh. + +They neared the Court. The village church was close by the Court-wall. +It drew Belward’s attention. One by one lights were springing up in it. +It was a Friday evening, and the choir were come to practise. They saw +buxom village girls stroll in, followed by the organist, one or two +young men and a handful of boys. Presently the horsemen were seen, and a +staring group gathered at the church door. An idea came to Belward. + +“Kings used to make pilgrimages before they took their crowns, why +shouldn’t I?” he said half-jestingly. Most men placed similarly would +have been so engaged with the main event that they had never thought +of this other. But Belward was not excited. He was moving deliberately, +prepared for every situation. He had a great game in hand, and he had no +fear of his ability to play it. He suddenly stopped his horse, and threw +the bridle to Jacques, saying: + +“I’ll be back directly, Brillon.” + +He entered the churchyard, and passed to the door. As he came the group +under the crumbling arch fell back, and at the call of the organist went +to the chancel. Belward came slowly up the aisle, and paused about the +middle. Something in the scene gave him a new sensation. The church was +old, dilapidated; but the timbered roof, the Norman and Early English +arches incongruously side by side, with patches of ancient distemper +and paintings, and, more than all, the marble figures on the tombs, with +hands folded so foolishly,--yet impressively too, brought him up with +a quick throb of the heart. It was his first real contact with England; +for he had not seen London, save at Euston Station and in the north-west +district. But here he was in touch with his heritage. He rested his hand +upon a tomb beside him, and looked around slowly. + +The choir began the psalm for the following Sunday. At first he did not +listen; but presently the organist was heard alone, and then the choir +afterwards sang: + + “Woe is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Mesech: + And to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar.” + +Simple, dusty, ancient church, thick with effigies and tombs; with +inscriptions upon pillars to virgins departed this life; and tablets +telling of gentlemen gone from great parochial virtues: it wakened in +Belward’s brain a fresh conception of the life he was about to live--he +did not doubt that he would live it. He would not think of himself as +inacceptable to old Sir William Belward. He glanced to the tomb under +his hand. There was enough daylight yet to see the inscription on the +marble. Besides, a single candle was burning just over his head. He +stooped and read: + + SACRED TO THE MEMORY + OF + SIR GASTON ROBERT BELWARD, BART., + OF RIDLEY COURT, IN THIS PARISH OF GASTONBURY, + WHO, + AT THE AGE OF ONE AND FIFTY YEARS, + AFTER A LIFE OF DISTINGUISHED SERVICE FOR HIS KING + AND COUNTRY, + AND GRAVE AND CONSTANT CARE OF THOSE EXALTED WORKS + WHICH BECAME A GENTLEMAN OF ENGLAND; + MOST NOTABLE FOR HIS LOVE OF ARTS AND LETTERS; + SENSIBLE IN ALL GRACES AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS; + GIFTED WITH SINGULAR VIRTUES AND INTELLECTS; + AND + DELIGHTING AS MUCH IN THE JOYS OF PEACE + AS IN THE HEAVY DUTIES OF WAR: + WAS SLAIN BY THE SIDE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, + THE BELOVED AND ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT, + AT THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, + IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD MDCXLV. + + “A Sojourner as all my Fathers were.” + +“‘Gaston Robert Belward’!” + +He read the name over and over, his fingers tracing the letters. + +His first glance at the recumbent figure had been hasty. Now, however, +he leaned over and examined it. It lay, hands folded, in the dress of +Prince Rupert’s cavaliers, a sword at side, and great spurs laid beside +the heels. + +“‘Gaston Robert Belward’!” + +As this other Gaston Robert Belward looked at the image of his dead +ancestor, a wild thought came: Had he himself not fought with Prince +Rupert? Was he not looking at himself in stone? Was he not here to show +England how a knight of Charles’s time would look upon the life of the +Victorian age? Would not this still cold Gaston be as strange at +Ridley Court as himself fresh from tightening a cinch on the belly of a +broncho? Would he not ride from where he had been sojourning as much a +stranger in his England as himself? + +For a moment the idea possessed him. He was Sir Gaston Robert Belward, +Baronet. He remembered now how, at Prince Rupert’s side, he had sped on +after Ireton’s horse, cutting down Roundheads as he passed, on and on, +mad with conquest, yet wondering that Rupert kept so long in pursuit +while Charles was in danger with Cromwell: how, as the word came to +wheel back, a shot tore away the pommel of his saddle; then another, and +another, and with a sharp twinge in his neck he fell from his horse. He +remembered how he raised himself on his arm and shouted “God save the +King!” How he loosed his scarf and stanched the blood at his neck, then +fell back into a whirring silence, from which he was roused by feeling +himself in strong arms, and hearing a voice say: “Courage, Gaston.” Then +came the distant, very distant, thud of hoofs, and he fell asleep; and +memory was done. + +He stood for a moment oblivious to everything: the evening bird +fluttering among the rafters, the song of the nightingale without, the +sighing wind in the tower entry, the rustics in the doorway, the group +in the choir. Presently he became conscious of the words sung: + + “A thousand ages in Thy sight + Are like an evening gone; + Short as the watch that ends the night + Before the rising sun. + + “Time, like an ever-rolling stream, + Bears all its sons away; + They fly, forgotten, as a dream + Dies at the opening day.” + +He was himself again in an instant. He had been in a kind of dream. It +seemed a long time since he had entered the church--in reality but a few +moments. He caught his moustache in his fingers, and turned on his heel +with a musing smile. His spurs clinked as he went down the aisle; and, +involuntarily, he tapped a boot-leg with his riding-whip. The singing +ceased. His spurs made the only sound. The rustics at the door fell back +before him. He had to go up three steps to reach the threshold. As he +stood on the top one he paused and turned round. + +So, this was home: this church more so even than the Court hard by. Here +his ancestors--for how long he did not know, probably since the time of +Edward III--idled time away in the dust; here Gaston Belward had been +sleeping in effigy since Naseby Field. A romantic light came into his +face. Again, why not? Even in the Hudson’s Bay country and in the Rocky +Mountains, he had been called, “Tivi, The Man of the Other.” He had been +counted the greatest of Medicine Men--one of the Race: the people of the +Pole, who lived in a pleasant land, gifted as none others of the race of +men. Not an hour before Jacques had asked him where he got “the other.” + No man can live in the North for any time without getting the strain of +its mystery and romance in him. Gaston waved his hand to the tomb, and +said half-believingly: + +“Gaston Robert Belward, come again to your kingdom.” + +He turned to go out, and faced the rector of the parish,--a bent, +benign-looking man,--who gazed at him astonished. He had heard the +strange speech. His grave eyes rested on the stalwart stranger with +courteous inquiry. Gaston knew who it was. Over his left brow there was +a scar. He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon +Varcoe was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had +thrown a stick at his brother. It had struck the clergyman, leaving a +scar. + +Gaston now raised his hat. As he passed, the rector looked after him, +puzzled; the words he had heard addressed to the effigy returning. His +eyes followed the young man to the gate, and presently, with a quick +lifting of the shoulders, he said: + +“Robert Belward!” Then added: “Impossible! But he is a Belward.” + +He saw Gaston mount, then entered and went slowly up the aisle. He +paused beside the tomb of that other Belward. His wrinkled hand rested +on it. + +“That is it,” he said at last. “He is like the picture of this Sir +Gaston. Strange.” + +He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings +with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and +affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure, +and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe +was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be +useful. As he stood musing and listening to the music of the choir, a +girl came softly up the aisle, and touched him on the arm. + +“Grandfather, dear,” she said, “aren’t you going to the Court? You have +a standing invitation for this night in the week. You have not been +there for so long.” + +He fondled the hand on his arm. + +“My dearest, they have not asked me for a long time.” + +“But why not to-night? I have laid out everything nicely for you--your +new gaiters, and your D. C. L. coat with the pretty buttons and cord.” + +“How can I leave you, my dear? And they do not ask you!” + +The voice tried for playfulness, but the eyes had a disturbed look. + +“Me? Oh! they never ask me to dinner-you know that. Tea and formal +visits are enough for Lady Belward, and almost too much for me. There +is yet time to dress. Do say you will go. I want you to be friendly with +them.” + +The old man shook his head. + +“I do not care to leave you, my dearest.” + +“Foolish old fatherkins! Who would carry me off?--‘Nobody, no, not I, +nobody cares for me.’” Suddenly a new look shot up in her face. + +“Did you see that singular handsome man who came from the church--like +some one out of an old painting? Not that his dress was so strange; but +there was something in his face--something that you would expect to find +in--in a Garibaldi. Silly, am I not? Did you see him?” + +He looked at her gravely. + +“My dear,” he said at last, “I think I will go after all, though I shall +be a little late.” + +“A sensible grandfather. Come quickly, dear.” He paused again. + +“But I fear I sent a note to say I could not dine.” + +“No, you did not. It has been lying on your table for two days.” + +“Dear me--dear me! I am getting very old.” + +They passed out of the church. Presently, as they hurried to the rectory +near by, the girl said: + +“But you haven’t answered. Did you see the stranger? Do you know who he +is?” + +The rector turned, and pointed to the gate of Ridley Court. Gaston and +Brillon were just entering. “Alice,” he said, in a vague, half-troubled +way, “the man is a Belward, I think.” + +“Why, of course!” the girl replied with a flash of excitement. “But he’s +so dark, and foreign-looking! What Belward is he?” + +“I do not know yet, my dear.” + +“I shall be up when you come back. But mind, don’t leave just after +dinner. Stay and talk; you must tell me everything that’s said and +done--and about the stranger.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN + +Meanwhile, without a word, Gaston had mounted, ridden to the castle, and +passed through the open gates into the court-yard. Inside he paused. +In the main building many lights were burning. There came a rattle of +wheels behind him, and he shifted to let a carriage pass. Through the +window of the brougham he could see the shimmer of satin, lace, and soft +white fur, and he had an instant’s glance of a pretty face. + +The carriage drew up to the steps, and presently three ladies and +a brusque gentleman passed into the hall-way, admitted by powdered +footmen. The incident had a manner, an air, which struck Gaston, he knew +not why. Perhaps it was the easy finesse of ceremonial. He looked at +Brillon. He had seen him sit arms folded like that, looking from the top +of a bluff down on an Indian village or a herd of buffaloes. There was +wonder, but no shyness or agitation, on his face; rather the naive, +naked look of a child. Belward laughed. + +“Come, Brillon; we are at home.” + +He rode up to the steps, Jacques following. A foot man appeared and +stared. Gaston looked down on him neutrally, and dismounted. Jacques did +the same. The footman still stared. Another appeared behind. Gaston eyed +the puzzled servant calmly. + +“Why don’t you call a groom?” he presently said. There was a cold gleam +in his eye. + +The footman shrank. + +“Yessir, yessir,” he said confusedly, and signalled. The other footman +came down, and made as if to take the bridle. Gaston waved him back. +None too soon, for the horse lunged at him. + +“A rub down, a pint of beer, and water and feed in an hour, and +I’ll come to see him myself late to-night.” Jacques had loosened the +saddle-bags and taken them off. Gaston spoke to the horse, patted his +neck, and gave him to the groom. Then he went up the steps, followed by +Jacques. He turned at the door to see the groom leading both horses off, +and eyeing Saracen suspiciously. He laughed noiselessly. + +“Saracen ‘ll teach him things,” he said. “I might warn him, but it’s +best for the horses to make their own impressions.” + +“What name, sir?” asked a footman. + +“You are--?” + +“Falby, Sir.” + +“Falby, look after my man Brillon here, and take me to Sir William.” + +“What name, sir?” + +Gaston, as if with sudden thought, stepped into the light of the +candles, and said in a low voice: “Falby, don’t you know me?” + +The footman turned a little pale, as his eyes, in spite of themselves, +clung to Gaston’s. A kind of fright came, and then they steadied. + +“Oh yes, sir,” he said mechanically. + +“Where have you seen me?” + +“In the picture on the wall, sir.” + +“Whose picture, Falby?” + +“Sir Gaston Belward, Sir.” + +A smile lurked at the corners of Gaston’s mouth. + +“Gaston Belward. Very well, then you know what to say to Sir William. +Show me into the library.” + +“Or the justices’ room, sir?” + +“The justices’ room will do.” + +Gaston wondered what the justices’ room was. A moment after he stood in +it, and the dazed Falby had gone, trying vainly to reconcile the picture +on the wall, which, now that he could think, he knew was very old, with +this strange man who had sent a curious cold shiver through him. But, +anyhow, he was a Belward, that was certain: voice, face, manner showed +it. But with something like no Belward he had ever seen. Left to +himself, Gaston looked round on a large, severe room. Its use dawned on +him. This was part of the life: Sir William was a Justice of the Peace. +But why had he been brought here? Why not to the library as himself had +suggested? There would be some awkward hours for Falby in the future. +Gaston had as winning a smile, as sweet a manner, as any one in the +world, so long as a straight game was on; but to cross his will with +the other--he had been too long a power in that wild country where his +father had also been a power! He did not quite know how long he waited, +for he was busy with plans as to his career at Ridley Court. He was +roused at last by Falby’s entrance. A keen, cold look shot from under +his straight brows. + +“Well?” he asked. + +“Will you step into the library, sir? Sir William will see you there.” + +Falby tried to avoid his look, but his eyes were compelled, and Gaston +said: + +“Falby, you will always hate to enter this room.” Falby was agitated. + +“I hope not, sir.” + +“But you will, Falby, unless--” + +“Yessir?” + +“Unless you are both the serpent and the dove, Falby.” + +“Yessir.” + +As they entered the hall, Brillon with the saddle-bags was being taken +in charge, and Gaston saw what a strange figure he looked beside the +other servants and in these fine surroundings. He could not think that +himself was so bizarre. Nor was he. But he looked unusual; as one of +high civilisation might, through long absence in primitive countries, +return in uncommon clothing, and with a manner of distinguished +strangeness: the barbaric to protect the refined, as one has seen a +bush of firs set to shelter a wheat-field from a seawind, or a wind-mill +water cunningly-begotten flowers. + +As he went through the hall other visitors were entering. They passed +him, making for the staircase. Ladies with the grand air looked at +him curiously, and two girls glanced shyly from the jingling spurs and +tasselled boots to his rare face. + +One of the ladies suddenly gave a little gasping cry, and catching the +arm of her companion, said: + +“Reine, how like Robert Belward! Who--who is he?” + +The other coolly put up her pince-nez. She caught Gaston’s profile and +the turn of his shoulder. + +“Yes, like, Sophie; but Robert never had such a back, nor anything like +the face.” + +She spoke with no attempt to modulate her voice, and it carried +distinctly to Gaston. He turned and glanced at them. + +“He’s a Belward, certainly, but like what one I don’t know; and he’s +terribly eccentric, my dear! Did you see the boots and the sash? Why, +bless me, if you are not shaking! Don’t be silly--shivering at the +thought of Robert Belward after all these years.” + +So saying, Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne tapped Lady Dargan on the arm, and then +turned sharply to see if her daughters had been listening. She saw that +they had; and though herself and not her sister was to blame, she said: + +“Sophie, you are very indiscreet! If you had daughters of your own, you +would probably be more careful--though Heaven only knows, for you were +always difficult!” + +With this they vanished up the staircase, Mrs. Gasgoyne’s daughters, +Delia and Agatha, smiling at each other and whispering about Gaston. + +Meanwhile the seeker after a kingdom was shown into Sir William +Belward’s study. No one was there. He walked to the mantelpiece, and, +leaning his arm on it, looked round. Directly in front of him on the +wall was the picture of a lady in middle-life, sitting in an arbour. A +crutch lay against one arm of her chair, and her left hand leaned on an +ebony silver-topped cane. There was something painful, haunting, in the +face--a weirdness in the whole picture. The face was looking into the +sunlight, but the effect was rather of moonlight--distant, mournful. He +was fascinated; why, he could not tell. Art to him was an unknown book, +but he had the instinct, and he was quick to feel. This picture struck +him as being out of harmony with everything else in the room. Yet it +had, a strange compelling charm. + +Presently he started forward with an exclamation. Now he understood the +vague, eerie influence. Looking out from behind the foliage was a face, +so dim that one moment it seemed not to be there, and then suddenly to +flash in--as a picture from beyond sails, lightning-like, across the +filmy eyes of the dying. It was the face of a youth, elf-like, unreal, +yet he saw his father’s features in it. + +He rubbed his eyes and looked again. It seemed very dim. Indeed, +so delicately, vaguely, had the work been done that only eyes like +Gaston’s, trained to observe, with the sight of a hawk and a sense of +the mysterious, could have seen so quickly or so distinctly. He drew +slowly back to the mantel again, and mused. What did it mean? He was +sure that the woman was his grandmother. + +At that moment the door opened, and an alert, white-haired man stepped +in quickly, and stopped in the centre of the room, looking at his +visitor. His deep, keen eyes gazed out with an intensity that might +almost be fierceness, and the fingers of his fine hands opened and shut +nervously. Though of no great stature, he had singular dignity. He was +in evening-dress, and as he raised a hand to his chin quickly, as if in +surprise or perplexity, Gaston noticed that he wore a large seal-ring. +It is singular that while he was engaged with his great event, he was +also thinking what an air of authority the ring gave. + +For a moment the two men stood at gaze without speaking, though Gaston +stepped forward respectfully. A bewildered, almost shrinking look came +into Sir William’s eyes, as the other stood full in the light of the +candles. + +Presently the old man spoke. In spite of conventional smoothness, his +voice had the ring of distance, which comes from having lived through +and above painful things. + +“My servant announced you as Sir Gaston Belward. There is some mistake?” + +“There is a mistake,” was the slow reply. “I did not give my name as Sir +Gaston Belward. That was Falby’s conclusion, sir. But I am Gaston Robert +Belward, just the same.” + +Sir William was dazed, puzzled. He presently made a quick gesture, as if +driving away some foolish thought, and, motioning to a chair, said: + +“Will you be seated?” + +They both sat, Sir William by his writing-table. His look was now steady +and penetrating, but he met one just as firm. + +“You are--Gaston Robert Belward? May I ask for further information?” + +There was furtive humour playing at Gaston’s mouth. The old man’s manner +had been so unlike anything he had ever met, save, to an extent, in his +father, that it interested him. He replied, with keen distinctness: “You +mean, why I have come--home?” + +Sir William’s fingers trembled on a paper-knife. “Are you-at home?” + +“I have come home to ask for my heritage--with interest compounded, +sir.” + +Sir William was now very pale. He got to his feet, came to the young +man, peered into his face, then drew back to the table and steadied +himself against it. Gaston rose also: his instinct of courtesy was +acute--absurdly civilised--that is, primitive. He waited. “You are +Robert’s son?” + +“Robert Belward was my father.” + +“Your father is dead?” + +“Twelve years ago.” + +Sir William sank back in his chair. His thin fingers ran back and forth +along his lips. Presently he took out his handkerchief and coughed into +it nervously. His lips trembled. With a preoccupied air he arranged a +handful of papers on the table. + +“Why did you not come before?” he asked at last, in a low, mechanical +voice. + +“It was better for a man than a boy to come.” + +“May I ask why?” + +“A boy doesn’t always see a situation--gives up too soon--throws away +his rights. My father was a boy.” + +“He was twenty-five when he went away.” + +“I am fifty!” + +Sir William looked up sharply, perplexed. “Fifty?” + +“He only knew this life: I know the world.” + +“What world?” + +“The great North, the South, the seas at four corners of the earth.” + +Sir William glanced at the top-boots, the peeping sash, the strong, +bronzed face. + +“Who was your mother?” he asked abruptly. + +“A woman of France.” + +The baronet made a gesture of impatience, and looked searchingly at the +young man. + +All at once Gaston shot his bolt, to have it over. “She had Indian blood +also.” + +He stretched himself to his full height, easily, broadly, with a +touch of defiance, and leaned an arm against the mantel, awaiting Sir +William’s reply. + +The old man shrank, then said coldly: “Have you the +marriage-certificate?” + +Gaston drew some papers from his pockets. + +“Here, sir, with a letter from my father, and one from the Hudson’s Bay +Company.” + +His grandfather took them. With an effort he steadied himself, then +opened and read them one by one, his son’s brief letter last--it was +merely a calm farewell, with a request that justice should be done his +son. + +At that moment Falby entered and said: + +“Her ladyship’s compliments, and all the guests have arrived, sir.” + +“My compliments to her ladyship, and ask her to give me five minutes +yet, Falby.” + +Turning to his grandson, there seemed to be a moment’s hesitation, then +he reached out his hand. + +“You have brought your luggage? Will you care to dine with us?” + +Gaston took the cold outstretched fingers. + +“Only my saddle-bag, and I have no evening-dress with me, else I should +be glad.” + +There was another glance up and down the athletic figure, a +half-apprehensive smile as the baronet thought of his wife, and then he +said: + +“We must see if anything can be done.” + +He pulled a bell-cord. A servant appeared. + +“Ask the housekeeper to come for a moment, please.” Neither spoke till +the housekeeper appeared. “Hovey,” he said to the grim woman, “give Mr. +Gaston the room in the north tower. Then, from the press in the same +room lay out the evening-dress which you will find there.... They were +your father’s,” he added, turning to the young man. “It was my wife’s +wish to keep them. Have they been aired lately, Hovey?” + +“Some days ago, sir.” + +“That will do.” The housekeeper left, agitated. “You will probably be in +time for the fish,” he added, as he bowed to Robert. + +“If the clothes do not fit, sir?” + +“Your father was about your height and nearly as large, and fashions +have not changed much.” + +A few moments afterwards Gaston was in the room which his father had +occupied twenty-seven years before. The taciturn housekeeper, eyeing him +excitedly the while, put out the clothes. He did not say anything till +she was about to go. Then: + +“Hovey, were you here in my father’s time?” + +“I was under-parlourmaid, sir,” she said. + +“And you are housekeeper now--good!” + +The face of the woman crimsoned, hiding her dour wrinkles. She turned +away her head. + +“I’d have given my right hand if he hadn’t gone, sir.” + +Gaston whistled softly, then: + +“So would he, I fancy, before he died. But I shall not go, so you will +not need to risk a finger for me. I am going to stay, Hovey. Good-night. +Look after Brillon, please.” + +He held out his hand. Her fingers twitched in his, then grasped them +nervously. + +“Yes, sir. Good-night, Sir. It’s--it’s like him comin’ back, sir.” + +Then she suddenly turned and hurried from the room, a blunt figure to +whom emotion was not graceful. “H’m!” said Gaston, as he shut the door. +“Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! ‘Voici le sabre de mon +pere!’” + + + + +CHAPTER III. HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE + +Gaston Belward was not sentimental: that belongs to the middle-class +Englishman’s ideal of civilisation. But he had a civilisation akin to +the highest; incongruous, therefore, to the general as the sympathy +between the United States and Russia. The highest civilisation can be +independent. The English aristocrat is at home in the lodge of a Sioux +chief or the bamboo-hut of a Fijian, and makes brothers of “savages,” + when those other formal folk, who spend their lives in keeping their +dignity, would be lofty and superior. + +When Gaston looked at his father’s clothes and turned them over, he +had a twinge of honest emotion; but his mind was on the dinner and +his heritage, and he only said, as he frowned at the tightness of the +waistband: + +“Never mind, we’ll make ‘em pay, shot and wadding, for what you lost, +Robert Belward; and wherever you are, I hope you’ll see it.” + +In twelve minutes from the time he entered the bedroom he was ready. +He pulled the bell-cord, and then passed out. A servant met him on +the stairs, and in another minute he was inside the dining-room. Sir +William’s eyes flashed up. There was smouldering excitement in his face, +but one could not have guessed at anything unusual. A seat had been +placed for Gaston beside him. The situation was singular and trying. It +would have been easier if he had merely come into the drawing-room after +dinner. This was in Sir William’s mind when he asked him to dine; but it +was as it was. Gaston’s alert glance found the empty seat. He was about +to make towards it, but he caught Sir William’s eye and saw it signal +him to the end of the table near him. His brain was working with +celerity and clearness. He now saw the woman whose portrait had so +fascinated him in the library. As his eyes fastened on her here, he +almost fancied he could see the boy’s--his father’s-face looking over +her shoulder. + +He instantly went to her, and said: “I am sorry to be late.” + +His first impulse had been to offer his hand, as, naturally, he +would have done in “barbaric” lands, but the instinct of this other +civilisation was at work in him. He might have been a polite casual +guest, and not a grandson, bringing the remembrance, the culmination of +twenty-seven years’ tragedy into a home; she might have been a hostess +with whom he wished to be on terms: that was all. + +If the situation was trying for him, it was painful for her. She had had +only a whispered announcement before Sir William led the way to dinner. +Yet she was now all her husband had been, and more. Repression had been +her practice for unnumbered years, and the only heralds of her feelings +were the restless wells of her dark eyes: the physical and mental misery +she had endured lay hid under the pale composure of her face. She was +now brought suddenly before the composite image of her past. Yet she +merely lifted a slender hand with long, fine fingers, which, as +they clasped his, all at once trembled, and then pressed them hotly, +nervously. To his surprise, it sent a twinge of colour to his cheek. “It +was good of you to come down after such a journey,” she said. Nothing +more. + +Then he passed on, and sat down to Sir William’s courteous gesture. The +situation had its difficulties for the guests--perfect guests as they +were. Every one was aware of a dramatic incident, for which there +had been no preparation save Sir William’s remark that a grandson had +arrived from the North Pole or thereabouts; and to continue conversation +and appear casual put their resources to some test. But they stood +it well, though their eyes were busy, and the talk was cheerfully +mechanical. So occupied were they with Gaston’s entrance, that they did +not know how near Lady Dargan came to fainting. + +At the button-hole of the coat worn by Gaston hung a tiny piece of red +ribbon which she had drawn from her sleeve on the terrace twenty-seven +years ago, and tied there with the words: + +“Do you think you will wear it till we meet again?” And the man had +replied: + +“You’ll not see me without it, pretty girl--pretty girl.” + +A woman is not so unaccountable after all. She has more imagination than +a man; she has not many resources to console her for disappointments, +and she prizes to her last hour the swift moments when wonderful things +seemed possible. That man is foolish who shows himself jealous of a +woman’s memories or tokens--those guarantees of her womanliness. + +When Lady Dargan saw the ribbon, which Gaston in his hurry had not +disturbed, tied exactly as she had tied it, a weird feeling came to +her, and she felt choking. But her sister’s eyes were on her, and Mrs. +Gasgoyne’s voice came across the table clearly: + +“Sophie, what were Fred Bideford’s colours at Sandown? You always +remember that kind of thing.” The warning was sufficient. Lady Dargan +could make no effort of memory, but she replied without hesitation--or +conscience: + +“Yellow and brown.” + +“There,” said Mrs. Gasgoyne, “we are both wrong, Captain Maudsley. +Sophie never makes a mistake.” Maudsley assented politely, but, stealing +a look at Lady Dargan, wondered what the little by-play meant. Gaston +was between Sir William and Mrs. Gasgoyne. He declined soup and fish, +which had just been served, because he wished for time to get his +bearings. He glanced at the menu as if idly interested, conscious that +he was under observation. He felt that he had, some how, the situation +in his hands. Everything had gone well, and he knew that his part had +been played with some aplomb--natural, instinctive. Unlike most large +men, he had a mind always alert, not requiring the inspiration of +unusual moments. What struck him most forcibly now was the tasteful +courtesy which had made his entrance easy. He instinctively compared it +to the courtesy in the lodge of an Indian chief, or of a Hudson’s Bay +factor who has not seen the outer world for half a century. It was so +different, and yet it was much the same. He had seen a missionary, a +layreader, come intoxicated into a council of chiefs. The chiefs did not +show that they knew his condition till he forced them to do so. Then two +of the young men rose, suddenly pinned him in their arms, carried him +out, and tied him in a lodge. The next morning they sent him out of +their country. Gaston was no philosopher, but he could place a thing +when he saw it: which is a kind of genius. + +Presently Sir William said quietly: + +“Mrs. Gasgoyne, you knew Robert well; his son ought to know you.” + +Gaston turned to Mrs. Gasgoyne, and said in his father’s manner as much +as possible, for now his mind ran back to how his father talked and +acted, forming a standard for him: + +“My father once told me a tale of the Keithley Hunt--something ‘away +up,’ as they say in the West--and a Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne was in it.” + +He made an instant friend of Mrs. Gasgoyne--made her so purposely. This +was one of the few things from his father’s talks upon his past life. He +remembered the story because it was interesting, the name because it had +a sound. + +She flushed with pleasure. That story of the Hunt was one of her +sweetest recollections. For her bravery then she had been voted by the +field “a good fellow,” and an admiral present declared that she had a +head “as long as the maintop bow-line.” She loved admiration, though she +had no foolish sentiment; she called men silly creatures, and yet would +go on her knees across country to do a deserving man-friend a +service. She was fifty and over, yet she had the springing heart of a +girl--mostly hid behind a brusque manner and a blunt, kindly tongue. + +“Your father could always tell a good story,” she said. + +“He told me one of you: what about telling me one of him?” + +Adaptable, he had at once fallen in with her direct speech; the more +so because it was his natural way; any other ways were “games,” as he +himself said. + +She flashed a glance at her sister, and smiled half-ironically. + +“I could tell you plenty,” she said softly. “He was a startling fellow, +and went far sometimes; but you look as if you could go farther.” + +Gaston helped himself to an entree, wondering whether a knife was used +with sweetbreads. + +“How far could he go?” he asked. + +“In the hunting-field with anybody, with women endlessly, with meanness +like a snail, and when his blood was up, to the most nonsensical place +you can think of.” + +Forks only for sweetbreads! Gaston picked one up. “He went there.” + +“Who told you?” + +“I came from there.” + +“Where is it?” + +“A few hundred miles from the Arctic circle.” + +“Oh, I didn’t think it was that climate!” + +“It never is till you arrive. You are always out in the cold there.” + +“That sounds American.” + +“Every man is a sinner one way or another.” + +“You are very clever--cleverer than your father ever was. + +“I hope so.” + +“Why?” + +“He went--there. I’ve come--from there.” + +“And you think you will stay--never go back?” + +“He was out of it for twenty years, and died. If I am in it for that +long, I shall have had enough.” + +Their eyes met. The woman looked at him steadily. “You won’t be,” she +replied, this time seriously, and in a very low voice. + +“No? Why?” + +“Because you will tire of it all--though you’ve started very well.” + +She then answered a question of Captain Maudsley’s and turned again to +Gaston. + +“What will make me tire of it?” he inquired. She sipped her champagne +musingly. + +“Why, what is in you deeper than all this; with the help of some woman +probably.” + +She looked at him searchingly, then added: + +“You seem strangely like and yet unlike your father to-night.” + +“I am wearing his clothes,” he said. + +She had plenty of nerve, but this startled her. She shrank a little: it +seemed uncanny. Now she remembered that ribbon in the button-hole. + +“Poor Sophie!” she thought. “And this one will make greater mischief +here.” Then, aloud to him: “Your father was a good fellow, but he did +wild things.” + +“I do not see the connection,” he answered. “I am not a good man, and I +shall do wilder things--is that it?” + +“You will do mad things,” she replied hardly above a whisper, and talked +once more with Captain Maudsley. Gaston now turned to his grandfather, +who had heard a sentence here and there, and felt that the young man +carried off the situation well enough. He then began to talk in a +general way about Gaston’s voyage, of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and +expeditions to the Arctic, drawing Lady Dargan into the conversation. + +Whatever might be said of Sir William Belward he was an excellent host. +He had a cool, unmalicious wit, but that man was unwise who offered +himself to its severity. To-night he surpassed himself in suggestive +talk, until, all at once, seeing Lady Dargan’s eyes fixed on Gaston, +he went silent, sitting back in his chair abstracted. Soon, however, a +warning glance from his wife brought him back and saved Lady Dargan from +collapse; for it seemed impossible to talk alone to this ghost of her +past. + +At this moment Gaston heard a voice near: + +“As like as if he’d stepped out of the picture, if it weren’t for the +clothes. A Gaston too!” + +The speaker was Lord Dargan. He was talking to Archdeacon Varcoe. + +Gaston followed Lord Dargan’s glance to the portrait of that Sir Gaston +Belward whose effigy he had seen. He found himself in form, feature, +expression; the bold vigilance of eye, the primitive activity of +shoulder, the small firm foot, the nervous power of the hand. The eyes +seemed looking at him. He answered to the look. There was in him the +romantic strain, and something more! In the remote parts of his being +there was the capacity for the phenomenal, the strange. Once again, as +in the church, he saw the field of Naseby, King Charles, Ireton’s men, +Cromwell and his Ironsides, Prince Rupert and the swarming rush of +cavalry, and the end of it all! Had it been a tale of his father’s at +camp-fire? Had he read it somewhere? He felt his blood thump in his +veins. Another half-hour, wherein he was learning every minute, nothing +escaping him, everything interesting him; his grandfather and Mrs. +Gasgoyne especially, then the ladies retired slowly with their crippled +hostess, who gave Gaston, as she rose, a look almost painfully intense. +It haunted him. + +Now Gaston had his chance. He had no fear of what he could do with +men: he had measured himself a few times with English gentlemen as +he travelled, and he knew where his power lay--not in making himself +agreeable, but in imposing his personality. + +The guests were not soon to forget the talk of that hour. It played into +Gaston’s hands. He pretended to nothing; he confessed ignorance here and +there with great simplicity; but he had the gift of reducing things, +as it were, to their original elements. He cut away to the core of a +matter, and having simple, fixed ideas, he was able to focus the talk, +which had begun with hunting stories, and ended with the morality of +duelling. Gaston’s hunting stories had made them breathless, his views +upon duelling did not free their lungs. + +There were sentimentalists present; others who, because it had become +etiquette not to cross swords, thought it indecent. Archdeacon Varcoe +would not be drawn into discussion, but sipped his wine, listened, and +watched Gaston. + +The young man measured his grandfather’s mind, and he drove home his +points mercilessly. + +Captain Maudsley said something about “romantic murder.” + +“That’s the trouble,” Gaston said. “I don’t know who killed duelling +in England, but behind it must have been a woman or a shopkeeper: +sentimentalism, timidity, dead romance. What is patriotism but romance? +Ideals is what they call it somewhere. I’ve lived in a land full of hard +work and dangers, but also full of romance. What is the result? Why, a +people off there whom you pity, and who don’t need pity. Romance? See: +you only get square justice out of a wise autocrat, not out of your +‘twelve true men’; and duelling is the last decent relic of autocracy. +Suppose the wronged man does get killed; that is all right: it wasn’t +merely blood he was after, but the right to hit a man in the eye for +a wrong done. What is all this hullaballoo--about saving human life? +There’s as much interest--and duty--in dying as living, if you go the +way your conscience tells you.” + +A couple of hours later, Gaston, after having seen to his horse, stood +alone in the drawing-room with his grandfather and grandmother. As +yet Lady Belward had spoken not half a dozen words to him. Sir William +presently said to him: + +“Are you too tired to join us in the library?” + +“I’m as fresh as paint, sir,” was the reply. + +Lady Belward turned without a word, and slowly passed from the room. +Gaston’s eyes followed the crippled figure, which yet had a rare +dignity. He had a sudden impulse. He stepped to her and said with an +almost boyish simplicity: + +“You are very tired; let me carry you--grandmother.” + +He could hear Sir William gasp a little as he laid a quick warm hand +on hers that held the cane. She looked at him gravely, sadly, and then +said: + +“I will take your arm, if you please.” + +He took the cane, and she put a hand towards him. He ran his strong arm +around her waist with a little humouring laugh, her hand rested on his +shoulder, and he timed his step to hers. Sir William was in an eddy +of wonder--a strong head was “mazed.” He had looked for a different +reception of this uncommon kinsman. How quickly had the new-comer +conquered himself! And yet he had a slight strangeness of accent--not +American, but something which seemed unusual. He did not reckon with a +voice which, under cover of easy deliberation, had a convincing quality; +with a manner of old-fashioned courtesy and stateliness. As Mrs. +Gasgoyne had said to the rector, whose eyes had followed Gaston +everywhere in the drawing-room: + +“My dear archdeacon, where did he get it? Why, he has lived most of his +life with savages!” + +“Vandyke might have painted the man,” Lord Dargan had added. + +“Vandyke did paint him,” had put in Delia Gasgoyne from behind her +mother. + +“How do you mean, Delia?” Mrs. Gasgoyne had added, looking curiously at +her. + +“His picture hangs in the dining-room.” + +Then the picture had been discussed, and the girl’s eyes had followed +Gaston--followed him until he had caught their glance. Without an +introduction, he had come and dropped into conversation with her, till +her mother cleverly interrupted. + +Inside the library Lady Belward was comfortably placed, and looking up +at Gaston, said: + +“You have your father’s ways: I hope that you will be wiser.” + +“If you will teach me!” he answered gently. + +There came two little bright spots on her cheeks, and her hands clasped +in her lap. They all sat down. Sir William spoke: + +“It is much to ask that you should tell us of your life now, but it is +better that we should start with some knowledge of each other.” + +At that moment Gaston’s eyes caught the strange picture on the wall. + +“I understand,” he answered. “But I would be starting in the middle of a +story.” + +“You mean that you wish to hear your father’s history? Did he not tell +you?” + +“Trifles--that is all.” + +“Did he ever speak of me?” asked Lady Belward with low anxiety. + +“Yes, when he was dying.” + +“What did he say?” + +“He said: ‘Tell my mother that Truth waits long, but whips hard. Tell +her that I always loved her.’” She shrank in her chair as if from a +blow, and then was white and motionless. + +“Let us hear your story,” Sir William said with a sort of hauteur. “You +know your own, much of your father’s lies buried with him.” + +“Very well, sir.” + +Sir William drew a chair up beside his wife. Gaston sat back, and for a +moment did not speak. He was looking into distance. Presently the blue +of his eyes went all black, and with strange unwavering concentration he +gazed straight before him. A light spread over his face, his hands felt +for the chair-arms and held them firmly. He began: + +“I first remember swinging in a blanket from a pine-tree at a +buffalo-hunt while my mother cooked the dinner. There were scores of +tents, horses, and many Indians and half-breeds, and a few white men. My +father was in command. I can see my mother’s face as she stood over the +fire. It was not darker than mine; she always seemed more French than +Indian, and she was thought comely.” + +Lady Belward shuddered a little, but Gaston did not notice. + +“I can remember the great buffalo-hunt. You heard a heavy rumbling +sound; you saw a cloud on the prairie. It heaved, a steam came from it, +and sometimes you caught the flash of ten thousand eyes as the beasts +tossed their heads and then bent them again to the ground and rolled on, +five hundred men after them, our women shouting and laughing, and arrows +and bullets flying.... I can remember a time also when a great Indian +battle happened just outside the fort, and, with my mother crying after +him, my father went out with a priest to stop it. My father was wounded, +and then the priest frightened them, and they gathered their dead +together and buried them. We lived in a fort for a long time, and my +mother died there. She was a good woman, and she loved my father. I have +seen her on her knees for hours praying when he was away.--I have her +rosary now. They called her Ste. Heloise. Afterwards I was always with +my father. He was a good man, but he was never happy; and only at +the last would he listen to the priest, though they were always great +friends. He was not a Catholic of course, but he said that didn’t +matter.” + +Sir William interrupted huskily. “Why did he never come back?” + +“I do not know quite, but he said to me once, ‘Gaston, you’ll tell them +of me some day, and it will be a soft pillow for their heads! You can +mend a broken life, but the ring of it is gone.’ I think he meant +to come back when I was about fourteen; but things happened, and he +stayed.” + +There was a pause. Gaston seemed brooding, and Lady Belward said: + +“Go on, please.” + +“There isn’t so very much to tell. The life was the only one I had +known, and it was all right. But my father had told me of this life. He +taught me himself--he and Father Decluse and a Moravian missionary for +awhile. I knew some Latin and history, a bit of mathematics, a good +deal of astronomy, some French poets, and Shakespere. Shakespere is +wonderful. ... My father wanted me to come here at once after he died, +but I knew better--I wanted to get sense first. So I took a place in the +Company. It wasn’t all fun. + +“I had to keep my wits sharp. I was only a youngster, and I had to do +with men as crafty and as silly as old Polonius. I was sent to Labrador. +That was not a life for a Christian. Once a year a ship comes to the +port, bringing the year’s mail and news from the world. When you watch +that ship go out again, and you turn round and see the filthy Esquimaux +and Indians, and know that you’ve got to live for another year with +them, sit in their dirty tepees, eat their raw frozen meat, with an +occasional glut of pemmican, and the thermometer 70 degrees below zero, +you get a lump in your throat. + +“Then came one winter. I had one white man, two half-breeds, and an +Indian with me. There was darkness day after day, and because the +Esquimaux and Indians hadn’t come up to the fort that winter, it was +lonely as a tomb. One by one the men got melancholy and then went mad, +and I had to tie them up, and care for them and feed them. The Indian +was all right, but he got afraid, and wanted to start to a mission +station three hundred miles on. It was a bad look-out for me, but I told +him to go. I was left alone. I was only twenty-one, but I was steel to +my toes--good for wear and tear. Well, I had one solid month all alone +with my madmen. Their jabbering made me sea-sick some times. At last one +day I felt I’d go staring mad myself if I didn’t do something exciting +to lift me, as it were. I got a revolver, sat at the opposite end of the +room from the three lunatics, and practised shooting at them. I had got +it into my head that they ought to die, but it was only fair, I thought, +to give them a chance. I would try hard to shoot all round them--make a +halo of bullets for the head of every one, draw them in silhouettes of +solid lead on the wall. + +“I talked to them first, and told them what I was going to do. They +seemed to understand, and didn’t object. I began with the silhouettes, +of course. I had a box of bullets beside me. They never squealed. I sent +the bullets round them as pretty as the pattern of a milliner. Then I +began with their heads. I did two all right. They sat and never stirred. +But when I came to the last something happened. It was Jock Lawson.” + +Sir William interposed: + +“Jock Lawson--Jock Lawson from here?” + +“Yes. His mother keeps ‘The Whisk o’ Barley.’” + +“So, that is where Jock Lawson went? He followed your father?” + +“Yes. Jock was mad enough when I began--clean gone. But, somehow, the +game I was playing cured him. ‘Steady, Jock!’ I said. ‘Steady!’ for I +saw him move. I levelled for the second bead of the halo. My finger was +on the trigger. ‘My God, don’t shoot!’ he called. It startled me, my +hand shook, the thing went off, and Jock had a bullet through his brain. + +“... Then I waked up. Perhaps I had been mad myself--I don’t know. But +my brain never seemed clearer than when I was playing that game. It was +like a magnifying glass: and my eyes were so clear and strong that I +could see the pores on their skin, and the drops of sweat breaking out +on Jock’s forehead when he yelled.” + +A low moan came from Lady Belward. Her face was drawn and pale, but her +eyes were on Gaston with a deep fascination. Sir William whispered to +her. + +“No,” she said, “I will stay.” + +Gaston saw the impression he had made. + +“Well, I had to bury poor Jock all alone. I don’t think I should have +minded it so much, if it hadn’t been for the faces of those other two +crazy men. One of them sat still as death, his eyes following me with +one long stare, and the other kept praying all the time--he’d been a +lay preacher once before he backslided, and it came back on him now +naturally. Now it would be from Revelation, now out of the Psalms, and +again a swingeing exhortation for the Spirit to come down and convict me +of sin. There was a lot of sanity in it too, for he kept saying at +last: ‘O shut not up my soul with the sinners: nor my life with the +bloodthirsty.’ I couldn’t stand it, with Jock dead there before me, so +I gave him a heavy dose of paregoric out of the Company’s stores. Before +he took it he raised his finger and said to me, with a beastly stare: +‘Thou art the man!’ But the paregoric put him to sleep.... + +“Then I gave the other something to eat, and dragged Jock out to bury +him. I remembered then that he couldn’t be buried, for the ground was +too hard and the ice too thick; so I got ropes, and, when he stiffened, +slung him up into a big cedar tree, and then went up myself and arranged +the branches about him comfortably. It seemed to me that Jock was a baby +and I was his father. You couldn’t see any blood, and I fixed his hair +so that it covered the hole in the forehead. I remember I kissed him on +the cheek, and then said a prayer--one that I’d got out of my father’s +prayer-book: ‘That it may please Thee to preserve all that travel by +land or by water, all women labouring of child, all sick persons and +young children; and to show Thy pity upon all prisoners and captives.’ +Somehow I had got it into my head that Jock was going on a long journey, +and that I was a prisoner and a captive.” + +Gaston broke off, and added presently: + +“Perhaps this is all too awful to hear, but it gives you an idea of what +kind of things went to make me.” Lady Belward answered for both: + +“Tell us all--everything.” + +“It is late,” said Sir William, nervously. + +“What does it matter? It is once in a lifetime,” she answered sadly. + +Gaston took up the thread: + +“Now I come to what will shock you even more, perhaps. So, be prepared. +I don’t know how many days went, but at last I had three visitors--in +time I should think: a Moravian missionary, and an Esquimaux and his +daughter. I didn’t tell the missionary about Jock--there was no use, it +could do no good. They stayed four weeks, and during that time one of +the crazy men died. The other got better, but had to be watched. I could +do anything with him, if I got my eye on him. Somehow, I must tell you, +I’ve got a lot of power that way. I don’t know where it comes from. +Well, the missionary had to go. The old Esquimaux thought that he and +his daughter would stay on if I’d let them. I was only too glad. But it +wasn’t wise for the missionary to take the journey alone--it was a bad +business in any case. I urged the man that had been crazy to go, for I +thought activity would do him good. He agreed, and the two left and got +to the Mission Station all right, after wicked trouble. I was alone +with the Esquimaux and his daughter. You never know why certain things +happen, and I can’t tell why that winter was so weird; why the old +Esquimaux should take sick one morning, and in the evening should +call me and his daughter Lucy--she’d been given a Christian name, of +course--and say that he was going to die, and he wanted me to marry +her” (Lady Belward exclaimed, Sir William’s hands fingered the chair-arm +nervously) “there and then, so that he’d know she would be cared for. +He was a heathen, but he had been primed by the missionaries about +his daughter. She was a fine, clever girl, and well educated--the best +product of their mission. So he called for a Bible. There wasn’t one in +the place, but I had my mother’s Book of the Mass. I went to get it, but +when I set my eyes on it, I couldn’t--no, I couldn’t do it, for I hadn’t +the least idea but what I should bid my lady good-bye when it suited, +and I didn’t want any swearing at all--not a bit. I didn’t do any. But +what happened had to be with or without any ring or book and ‘Forasmuch +as.’ There had been so much funeral and sudden death that a marriage +would be a godsend anyhow. So the old Esquimaux got our two hands in +his, babbled away in half-English, half-Esquimaux, with the girl’s eyes +shining like a she-moose over a dying buck, and about the time we kissed +each other, his head dropped back--and that is all there was about +that.” + +Gaston now kept his eyes on his listeners. He was aware that his story +must sound to them as brutal as might be, but it was a phase of his +life, and, so far as he could, he wanted to start with a clean sheet; +not out of love of confidence, for he was self-contained, but he would +have enough to do to shepherd his future without shepherding his past. +He saw that Lady Belward had a sickly fear in her face, while Sir +William had gone stern and hard. + +He went on: + +“It saved the situation, did that marriage; though it was no marriage +you will say. Neither was it one way, and I didn’t intend at the start +to stand by it an hour longer than I wished. But she was more than I +looked for, and it seems to me that she saved my life that winter, or +my reason anyhow. There had been so much tragedy that I used to wonder +every day what would happen before night; and that’s not a good thing +for the brain of a chap of twenty-one or two. The funny part of it is +that she wasn’t a pagan--not a bit. She could read and speak English +in a sweet old-fashioned way, and she used to sing to me--such a funny, +sorry little voice she had--hymns the Moravians had taught her, and +one or two English songs. I taught her one or two besides, ‘Where the +Hawthorn Tree is Blooming,’ and ‘Allan Water’--the first my father had +taught me, the other an old Scotch trader. It’s different with a woman +and a man in a place like that. Two men will go mad together, but +there’s a saving something in the contact of a man’s brain with a +woman’s. I got fond of her, any man would have, for she had something +that I never saw in any heathen, certainly in no Indian; you’ll see it +in women from Iceland. I determined to marry her in regular style when +spring and a missionary came. You can’t understand, maybe, how one can +settle to a life where you’ve got companionship, and let the world go +by. About that time, I thought that I’d let Ridley Court and the rest +of it go as a boy’s dreams go. I didn’t seem to know that I was only +satisfied in one set of my instincts. Spring came, so did a missionary, +and for better or worse it was.” + +Sir William came to his feet. “Great Heaven!” he broke out. + +His wife tried to rise, but could not. + +“This makes everything impossible,” added the baronet shortly. + +“No, no, it makes nothing impossible--if you will listen.” + +Gaston was cool. He had begun playing for the stakes from one +stand-point, and he would not turn back. + +He continued: + +“I lived with her happily: I never expect to have happiness like that +again,--never,--and after two years at another post in Labrador, came +word from the Company that I might go to Quebec, there to be given +my choice of posts. I went. By this time I had again vague ideas that +sometime I should come here, but how or why I couldn’t tell; I was +drifting, and for her sake willing to drift. I was glad to take her to +Quebec, for I guessed she would get ideas, and it didn’t strike me that +she would be out of place. So we went. But she was out of place in +many ways. It did not suit at all. We were asked to good houses, for I +believe I have always had enough of the Belward in me to keep my end up +anywhere. The thing went on pretty well, but at last she used to beg me +to go without her to excursions and parties. There were always one +or two quiet women whom she liked to sit with, and because she seemed +happier for me to go, I did. I was popular, and got along with women +well; but I tell you honestly I loved my wife all the time; so that when +a Christian busy-body poured into her ears some self-made scandal, +it was a brutal, awful lie--brutal and awful, for she had never known +jealousy; it did not belong to her old social creed. But it was in the +core of her somewhere, and an aboriginal passion at work naked is a +thing to be remembered. I had to face it one night.... + +“I was quiet, and did what I could. After that I insisted on her going +with me wherever I went, but she had changed, and I saw that, in spite +of herself, the thing grew. One day we went on an excursion down the St. +Lawrence. We were merry, and I was telling yarns. We were just nearing a +landing-stage, when a pretty girl, with more gush than sense, caught me +by the arm and begged some ridiculous thing of me--an autograph, or what +not. A minute afterwards I saw my wife spring from the bulwarks down on +the landing-stage, and rush up the shore into the woods.... We were two +days finding her. That settled it. I was sick enough at heart, and I +determined to go back to Labrador. We did so. Every thing had gone on +the rocks. My wife was not, never would be, the same again. She taunted +me and worried me, and because I would not quarrel, seemed to have a +greater grievance--jealousy is a kind of madness. One night she was +most galling, and I sat still and said nothing. My life seemed gone of +a heap: I was sick--sick to the teeth; hopeless, looking forward to +nothing. I imagine my hard quietness roused her. She said something +hateful--something about having married her, and not a woman from +Quebec. I smiled--I couldn’t help it; then I laughed, a bit wild, I +suppose. I saw the flash of steel. ... I believe I laughed in her +face as I fell. When I came to she was lying with her head on my +breast--dead--stone dead.” + +Lady Belward sat with closed eyes, her fingers clasping and unclasping +on the top of her cane; but Sir William wore a look half-satisfied, +half-excited. + +He now hurried his story. + +“I got well, and after that stayed in the North for a year. Then I +passed down the continent to Mexico and South America. There I got a +commission to go to New Zealand and Australia to sell a lot of horses. +I did so, and spent some time in the South Sea Islands. Again I drifted +back to the Rockies and over into the plains; found Jacques Brillon, my +servant, had a couple of years’ work and play, gathered together some +money, as good a horse and outfit as the North could give, and started +with Brillon and his broncho--having got both sense and experience, I +hope--for Ridley Court. And here I am. There’s a lot of my life that +I haven’t told you of, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s adventure +mostly, and it can be told at any time; but these are essential facts, +and it is better that you should hear them. And that is all, grandfather +and grandmother.” + +After a minute Lady Belward rose, leaned on her crutch, and looked at +him wistfully. Sir William said: “Are you sure that you will suit this +life, or it you?” + +“It is the only idea I have at present; and, anyhow, it is my rightful +home, sir.” + +“I was not thinking of your rights, but of the happiness of us all.” + +Lady Belward limped to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. + +“You have had one great tragedy, so have we: neither could bear another. +Try to be worthy--of your home.” + +Then she solemnly kissed him on the cheek. Soon afterwards they went to +their rooms. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. AN HOUR WITH HIS FATHER’S PAST + +In his bedroom Gaston made a discovery. He chanced to place his hand in +the tail-pocket of the coat he had worn. He drew forth a letter. The ink +was faded, and the lines were scrawled. It ran: + + It’s no good. Mr. Ian’s been! It’s face the musik now. If you + want me, say so. I’m for kicks or ha’pence--no diffrense. + Yours, J. + +He knew the writing very well--Jock Lawson’s. There had been some +trouble, and Mr. Ian had “been,” bringing peril. What was it? His father +and Jock had kept the secret from him. + +He put his hand in the pocket again. There was another note--this time +in a woman’s handwriting: + + Oh, come to me, if you would save us both! Do not fail. God help + us! Oh, Robert! + +It was signed “Agnes.” + +Well, here was something of mystery; but he did not trouble himself +about that. He was not at Ridley Court to solve mysteries, to probe into +the past, to set his father’s wrongs right; but to serve himself, to +reap for all those years wherein his father had not reaped. He enjoyed +life, and he would search this one to the full of his desires. Before he +retired he studied the room, handling things that lay where his father +placed them so many years before. He was not without emotions in this, +but he held himself firm. + +As he stood ready to get into bed, his eyes chanced upon a portrait of +his uncle Ian. + +“There’s where the tug comes!” he said, nodding at it. “Shake hands, and +ten paces, Uncle Ian?” + +Then he blew out the candle, and in five minutes was sound asleep. + +He was out at six o’clock. He made for the stables, and found Jacques +pacing the yard. He smiled at Jacques’s dazed look. + +“What about the horse, Brillon?” he said, nodding as he came up. + +“Saracen’s had a slice of the stable-boy’s shoulder--sir.” + +Amusement loitered in Gaston’s eyes. The “sir” had stuck in Jacques’s +throat. + +“Saracen has established himself, then? Good! And the broncho?” + +“Bien, a trifle only. They laugh much in the kitchen--” + +“The hall, Brillon.” + +“--in the hall last night. That hired man over there--” + +“That groom, Brillon.” + +“--that groom, he was a fool, and fat. He was the worst. This morning +he laugh at my broncho. He say a horse like that is nothing: no pace, +no travel. I say the broncho was not so ver’ bad, and I tell him try the +paces. I whisper soft, and the broncho stand like a lamb. He mount, +and sneer, and grin at the high pommel, and start. For a minute it was +pretty; and then I give a little soft call, and in a minute there was +the broncho bucking--doubling like a hoop, and dropping same as lead. +Once that--groom--come down on the pommel, then over on the ground like +a ball, all muck and blood.” + +The half-breed paused, looking innocently before him. Gaston’s mouth +quirked. + +“A solid success, Brillon. Teach them all the tricks you can. At ten +o’clock come to my room. The campaign begins then.” + +Jacques ran a hand through his long black hair, and fingered his sash. +Gaston understood. + +“The hair and ear-rings may remain, Brillon; but the beard and clothes +must go--except for occasions. Come along.” + +For the next two hours Gaston explored the stables and the grounds. +Nothing escaped him. He gathered every incident of the surroundings, +and talked to the servants freely, softly, and easily, yet with a +superiority, which suddenly was imposed in the case of the huntsman at +the kennels--for the Whipshire hounds were here. Gaston had never ridden +to hounds. It was not, however, his cue to pretend knowledge. He was +strong enough to admit ignorance. He stood leaning against the door of +the kennels, arms folded, eyes half-closed, with the sense of a painter, +before the turning bunch of brown and white, getting the charm of +distance and soft tones. His blood beat hard, for suddenly he felt as if +he had been behind just such a pack one day, one clear desirable day of +spring. He saw people gathering at the kennels; saw men drink beer +and eat sandwiches at the door of the huntsman’s house,--a long, low +dwelling, with crumbling arched doorways like those of a monastery, +watched them get away from the top of the moor, he among them; heard the +horn, the whips; and saw the fox break cover. + +Then came a rare run for five sweet miles--down a long valley--over +quick-set hedges, with stiffish streams--another hill--a great combe--a +lovely valley stretching out--a swerve to the right--over a gate--and +the brush got at a farmhouse door. + +Surely, he had seen it all; but what kink of the brain was it that the +men wore flowing wigs and immense boot-legs, and sported lace in the +hunting-field? And why did he see within that picture another of two +ladies and a gentleman hawking? + +He was roused from his dream by hearing the huntsman say in a quizzical +voice: + +“How do you like the dogs, sir?” + +To his last day Lugley, the huntsman, remembered the slow look of cold +surprise, of masterful malice, scathing him from head to foot. The +words that followed the look, simple as they were, drove home the naked +reproof: + +“What is your name, my man?” + +“Lugley, sir.” + +“Lugley! Lugley! H’m! Well, Lugley, I like the hounds better than I like +you. Who is Master of the Hounds, Lugley?” + +“Captain Maudsley, sir.” + +“Just so. You are satisfied with your place, Lugley?” + +“Yes, sir,” said the man in a humble voice, now cowed. + +The news of the arrival of the strangers had come to him late at night, +and, with Whipshire stupidity, he had thought that any one coming from +the wilds of British America must be but a savage after all. + +“Very well; I wouldn’t throw myself out of a place, if I were you.” + +“Oh, no, sir! Beg pardon, sir, I--” + +“Attend to your hounds there, Lugley.” + +So saying, Gaston nodded Jacques away with him, leaving the huntsman +sick with apprehension. + +“You see how it is to be done, Brillon?” said Gaston. Jacques’s brown +eyes twinkled. + +“You have the grand trick, sir.” + +“I enjoy the game; and so shall you, if you will. You’ve begun well. I +don’t know much of this life yet; but it seems to me that they are +all part of a machine, not the idea behind the machine. They have no +invention. Their machine is easy to learn. Do not pretend; but for every +bit you learn show something better, something to make them dizzy now +and then.” + +He paused on a knoll and looked down. The castle, the stables, the +cottages of labourers and villagers lay before them. In a certain +highly-cultivated field, men were working. It was cut off in squares and +patches. It had an air which struck Gaston as unusual; why, he could +not tell. But he had a strange divining instinct, or whatever it may be +called. He made for the field and questioned the workmen. + +The field was cut up into allotment gardens. Here, at a nominal rent, +the cottager could grow his vegetables; a little spot of the great +acre of England, which gave the labourer a tiny sense of ownership, of +manhood. Gaston was interested. More, he was determined to carry that +experiment further, if he ever got the chance. There was no socialism +in him. The true barbarian is like the true aristocrat: more a giver +of gifts than a lover of co-operation; conserving ownership by right +of power and superior independence, hereditary or otherwise. Gaston was +both barbarian and aristocrat. + +“Brillon,” he said, as they walked on, “do you think they would be +happier on the prairies with a hundred acres of land, horses, cows, and +a pen of pigs?” + +“Can I be happy here all at once, sir?” + +“That’s just it. It’s too late for them. They couldn’t grasp it unless +they went when they were youngsters. They’d long for ‘Home and Old +England’ and this grub-and-grind life. Gracious heaven, look at +them--crumpled-up creatures! And I’ll stake my life, they were as pretty +children as you’d care to see. They are out of place in the landscape, +Brillon; for it is all luxury and lush, and they are crumples--crumples! +But yet there isn’t any use being sorry for them, for they don’t grasp +anything outside the life they are living. Can’t you guess how they +live? Look at the doors of the houses shut, and the windows sealed; yet +they’ve been up these three hours! And they’ll suck in bad air, and +bad food; and they’ll get cancer, and all that; and they’ll die and +be trotted away to the graveyard for ‘passun’ to hurry them into their +little dark cots, in the blessed hope of everlasting life! I’m going +to know this thing, Brillon, from tooth to ham-string; and, however +it goes, we’ll have lived up and down the whole scale; and that’s +something.” + +He suddenly stopped, and then added: + +“I’m likely to go pretty far in this. I can’t tell how or why, but it’s +so. Now, once more, as yesterday afternoon, for good or for bad, for +long or for short, for the gods or for the devil, are you with me? +There’s time to turn back even yet, and I’ll say no word to your going.” + +“But no, no! a vow is a vow. When I cannot run I will walk, when I +cannot walk I will crawl after you--comme ca!” + +Lady Belward did not appear at breakfast. Sir William and Gaston +breakfasted alone at half past nine o’clock. The talk was of the stables +and the estate generally. + +The breakfast-room looked out on a soft lawn, stretching away into a +broad park, through which a stream ran; and beyond was a green hillside. +The quiet, the perfect order and discipline, gave a pleasant tingle +to Gaston’s veins. It was all so easy, and yet so admirable--elegance +without weight. He felt at home. He was not certain of some trifles +of etiquette; but he and Sir William were alone, and he followed his +instincts. Once he frankly asked his grandfather of a matter of form, +of which he was uncertain the evening before. The thing was done so +naturally that the conventional mind of the baronet was not disturbed. +The Belwards were notable for their brains, and Sir William saw that +the young man had an unusual share. He also felt that this startling +individuality might make a hazardous future; but he liked the fellow, +and he had a debt to pay to the son of his own dead son. Of course, if +their wills came into conflict, there could be but one thing--the young +man must yield; or, if he played the fool, there must be an end. Still, +he hoped the best. When breakfast was finished, he proposed going to the +library. + +There Sir William talked of the future, asked what Gaston’s ideas were, +and questioned him as to his present affairs. Gaston frankly said that +he wanted to live as his father would have done, and that he had no +property, and no money beyond a hundred pounds, which would last him a +couple of years on the prairies, but would be fleeting here. + +Sir William at once said that he would give him a liberal allowance, +with, of course, the run of his own stables and their house in town: and +when he married acceptably, his allowance would be doubled. + +“And I wish to say, Gaston,” he added, “that your uncle Ian, though +heir to the title, does not necessarily get the property, which is not +entailed. Upon that point I need hardly say more. He has disappointed +us. + +“Through him Robert left us. Of his character I need not speak. Of his +ability the world speaks variably: he is an artist. Of his morals I need +only say that they are scarcely those of an English gentleman, though +whether that is because he is an artist, I cannot say--I really cannot +say. I remember meeting a painter at Lord Dunfolly’s,--Dunfolly is +a singular fellow--and he struck me chiefly as harmless, distinctly +harmless. I could not understand why he was at Dunfolly’s, he seemed of +so little use, though Lady Malfire, who writes or something, mooned +with him a good deal. I believe there was some scandal or something +afterwards. I really do not know. But you are not a painter, and I +believe you have character--I fancy so.” + +“If you mean that I don’t play fast and loose, sir, you are right. What +I do, I do as straight as a needle.” The old man sighed carefully. + +“You are very like Robert, and yet there is something else. I don’t +know, I really don’t know what!” + +“I ought to have more in me than the rest of the family, sir.” + +This was somewhat startling. Sir William’s fingers stroked his beardless +cheek uncertainly. “Possibly--possibly.” + +“I’ve lived a broader life, I’ve got wider standards, and there are +three races at work in me.” + +“Quite so, quite so;” and Sir William fumbled among his papers +nervously. + +“Sir,” said Gaston suddenly, “I told you last night the honest story of +my life. I want to start fair and square. I want the honest story of my +father’s life here; how and why he left, and what these letters mean.” + +He took from his pocket the notes he had found the night before, and +handed them. Sir William read them with a disturbed look, and turned +them over and over. Gaston told where he had found them. + +Sir William spoke at last. + +“The main story is simple enough. Robert was extravagant, and Ian was +vicious and extravagant also. Both got into trouble. I was younger then, +and severe. Robert hid nothing, Ian all he could. One day things came +to a climax. In his wild way, Robert--with Jock Lawson--determined to +rescue a young man from the officers of justice, and to get him out of +the country. There were reasons. He was the son of a gentleman; and, +as we discovered afterwards, Robert had been too intimate with the +wife--his one sin of the kind, I believe. Ian came to know, and +prevented the rescue. Meanwhile, Robert was liable to the law for the +attempt. There was a bitter scene here, and I fear that my wife and I +said hard things to Robert.” + +Gaston’s eyes were on Lady Belward’s portrait. “What did my grandmother +say?” + +There was a pause, then: + +“That she would never call him son again, I believe; that the shadow of +his life would be hateful to her always. I tell you this because I +see you look at that portrait. What I said, I think, was no less. So, +Robert, after a wild burst of anger, flung away from us out of the +house. His mother, suddenly repenting, ran to follow him, but fell on +the stone steps at the door, and became a cripple for life. At first +she remained bitter against Robert, and at that time Ian painted that +portrait. It is clever, as you may see, and weird. But there came a time +when she kept it as a reproach to herself, not Robert. She is a good +woman--a very good woman. I know none better, really no one.” + +“What became of the arrested man?” Gaston asked quietly, with the +oblique suggestiveness of a counsel. + +“He died of a broken blood-vessel on the night of the intended rescue, +and the matter was hushed up.” + +“What became of the wife?” + +“She died also within a year.” + +“Were there any children?” + +“One--a girl.” + +“Whose was the child?” + +“You mean--?” + +“The husband’s or the lover’s?” There was a pause. + +“I cannot tell you.” + +“Where is the girl?” + +“My son, do not ask that. It can do no good--really no good.” + +“Is it not my due?” + +“Do not impose your due. Believe me, I know best. If ever there is +need to tell you, you shall be told. Trust me. Has not the girl her due +also?” + +Gaston’s eyes held Sir William’s a moment. “You are right, sir,” he +said, “quite right. I shall not try to know. But if--” He paused. + +Sir William spoke: + +“There is but one person in the world who knows the child’s father; and +I could not ask him, though I have known him long and well--indeed, no.” + +“I do not ask to understand more,” Gaston replied. “I almost wish I had +known nothing. And yet I will ask one thing: is the girl in comfort and +good surroundings?” + +“The best--ah, yes, the very best.” + +There was a pause, in which both sat thinking; then Sir William wrote +out a cheque and offered it, with a hint of emotion. He was recalling +how he had done the same with this boy’s father. + +Gaston understood. He got up, and said: “Honestly, sir, I don’t know how +I shall turn out here; for, if I didn’t like it, it couldn’t hold me, +or, if it did, I should probably make things uncomfortable. But I +think I shall like it, and I will do my best to make things go well. +Good-morning, sir.” + +With courteous attention Sir William let his grandson out of the room. + +And thus did a young man begin his career as Gaston Belward, gentleman. + + + + +CHAPTER V. WHEREIN HE FINDS HIS ENEMY + +How that career was continued there are many histories: Jock Lawson’s +mother tells of it in her way, Mrs. Gasgoyne in hers, Hovey in hers, +Captain Maudsley in his; and so on. Each looks at it from an individual +stand-point. But all agree on two matters: that he did things hitherto +unknown in the countryside; and that he was free and affable, but could +pull one up smartly if necessary. + +He would sit by the hour and talk with Bimley, the cottager; with +Rosher, the hotel-keeper, who when young had travelled far; with a +sailorman, home for a holiday, who said he could spin a tidy yarn; and +with Pogan, the groom, who had at last won Saracen’s heart. But one day +when the meagre village chemist saw him cracking jokes with Beard, the +carpenter, and sidled in with a silly air of equality, which was merely +insolence, Gaston softly dismissed him, with his ears tingling. The +carpenter proved his right to be a friend of Gaston’s by not changing +countenance and by never speaking of the thing afterwards. + +His career was interesting during the eighteen months wherein society +papers chatted of him amiably and romantically. He had entered into the +joys of hunting with enthusiasm and success, and had made a fast and +admiring friend of Captain Maudsley; while Saracen held his own grandly. +He had dined with country people, and had dined them; had entered upon +the fag-end of the London season with keen, amused enjoyment; and had +engrafted every little use of the convention. The art was learned, but +the man was always apart from it; using it as a toy, yet not despising +it; for, as he said, it had its points, it was necessary. There was +yachting in the summer; but he was keener to know the life of England +and his heritage than to roam afar, and most of the year was spent on +the estate and thereabouts: with the steward, with the justices of the +peace, in the fields, in the kennels, among the accounts. + +To-day he was in London, haunting Tattersall’s, the East End, the +docks, his club, the London Library--he had a taste for English history, +especially for that of the seventeenth century; he saturated himself +with it: to-morrow he would present to his grandfather a scheme for +improving the estate and benefiting the cottagers. Or he would suddenly +enter the village school, and daze and charm the children by asking them +strange yet simple questions, which sent a shiver of interest to their +faces. + +One day at the close of his second hunting-season there was to be a ball +at the Court, the first public declaration of acceptance by his people; +for, at his wish, they did not entertain for him in town the previous +season--Lady Belward had not lived in town for years. But all had +gone so well, if not with absolute smoothness, and with some +strangeness,--that Gaston had become an integral part of their life, and +they had ceased to look for anything sensational. + +This ball was to be the seal of their approval. It had been mentioned in +‘Truth’ with that freshness and point all its own. What character +than Gaston’s could more appeal to his naive imagination? It said in a +piquant note that he did not wear a dagger and sombrero. + +Everything was ready. Decorations were up, the cook and the butler had +done their parts. At eleven in the morning Gaston had time on his hands. +Walking out, he saw two or three children peeping in at the gateway. + +He would visit the village school. He found the junior curate troubling +the youthful mind with what their godfathers and godmothers did for +them, and begging them to do their duty “in that state of life,” etc. +He listened, wondering at the pious opacity, and presently asked the +children to sing. With inimitable melancholy they sang: “Oh, the Roast +Beef of Old England!” + +Gaston sat back and laughed softly till the curate felt uneasy, till the +children, waking to his humour, gurgled a little in the song. With his +thumbs caught lightly in his waistcoat pockets, he presently began to +talk with the children in an easy, quiet voice. He asked them little +out-of-the-way questions, he lifted the school-room from their minds, +and then he told them a story, showing them on the map where the place +was, giving them distances, the kind of climate, and a dozen other +matters of information, without the nature of a lesson. Then he taught +them the chorus--the Board forbade it afterwards--of a negro song, +which told how those who behaved themselves well in this world should +ultimately: + +“Blow on, blow on, blow on dat silver horn!” + +It was on this day that, as he left the school, he saw Ian Belward +driving past. He had not met his uncle since his arrival,--the artist +had been in Morocco,--nor had he heard of him save through a note in a +newspaper which said that he was giving no powerful work to the world, +nor, indeed, had done so for several years; and that he preferred the +purlieus of Montparnasse to Holland Park. + +They recognised each other. Ian looked his nephew up and down with a +cool kind of insolence as he passed, but did not make any salutation. +Gaston went straight to the castle. He asked for his uncle, and was told +that he had gone to Lady Belward. He wandered to the library: it was +empty. He lit a cigar, took down a copy of Matthew Arnold’s poems, +opening at “Sohrab and Rustum,” read it with a quick-beating heart, and +then came to “Tristram and Iseult.” He knew little of “that Arthur” and +his knights of the Round Table, and Iseult of Brittany was a new figure +of romance to him. In Tennyson, he had got no further than “Locksley +Hall,” which, he said, had a right tune and wrong words; and “Maud,” + which “was big in pathos.” The story and the metre of “Tristram and +Iseult” beat in his veins. He got to his feet, and, standing before the +window, repeated a verse aloud: + + “Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, + O hunter! and without a fear + Thy golden-tassell’d bugle blow, + And through the glades thy pasture take + For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! + For these thou seest are unmoved; + Cold, cold as those who lived and loved + A thousand years ago.” + +He was so engrossed that he did not hear the door open. He again +repeated the lines with the affectionate modulation of a musician. He +knew that they were right. They were hot with life--a life that was no +more a part of this peaceful landscape than a palm-tree would be. He +felt that he ought to read the poem in a desert, out by the Polar Sea, +down on the Amazon, yonder at Nukualofa; that it would fit in +with bearding the Spaniards two hundred years ago. Bearding the +Spaniards--what did he mean by that? He shut his eyes and saw a picture: +A Moorish castle, men firing from the battlements under a blazing sun, a +multitude of troops before a tall splendid-looking man, in armour chased +with gold and silver, and fine ribbons flying. A woman was lifted upon +the battlements. He saw the gold of her necklace shake on her flesh like +sunlight on little waves. He heard a cry: + +At that moment some one said behind him: “You have your father’s +romantic manner.” + +He quietly put down the book, and met the other’s eyes with a steady +directness. + +“Your memory is good, sir.” + +“Less than thirty years--h’m, not so very long!” + +“Looking back--no. You are my father’s brother, Ian Belward?” + +“Your uncle Ian.” + +There was a kind of quizzical loftiness in Ian Belward’s manner. + +“Well, Uncle Ian, my father asked me to say that he hoped you would get +as much out of life as he had, and that you would leave it as honest.” + +“Thank you. That is very like Robert. He loved making little speeches. +It is a pity we did not pull together; but I was hasty, and he was rash. +He had a foolish career, and you are the result. My mother has told me +the story--his and yours.” + +He sat down, ran his fingers through his grey-brown hair, and looking +into a mirror, adjusted the bow of his tie, and flipped the flying ends. +The kind of man was new to Gaston: self-indulgent, intelligent, heavily +nourished, nonchalant, with a coarse kind of handsomeness. He felt that +here was a man of the world, equipped mentally cap-a-pie, as keen as +cruel. Reading that in the light of the past, he was ready. + +“And yet his rashness will hurt you longer than your haste hurt him.” + +The artist took the hint bravely. + +“That you will have the estate, and I the title, eh? Well, that looks +likely just now; but I doubt it all the same. You’ll mess the thing one +way or another.” + +He turned from the contemplation of himself, and eyed Gaston lazily. +Suddenly he started. + +“Begad,” he said, “where did you get it?” He rose. + +Gaston understood that he saw the resemblance to Sir Gaston Belward. + +“Before you were, I am. I am nearer the real stuff.” + +The other measured his words insolently: + +“But the Pocahontas soils the stream--that’s plain.” + +A moment after Gaston was beside the prostrate body of his uncle, +feeling his heart. + +“Good God,” he said, “I didn’t think I hit so hard!” He felt the pulse, +looked at the livid face, then caught open the waistcoat and put his +ear to the chest. He did it all coolly, though swiftly--he was’ born for +action and incident. And during that moment of suspense he thought of +a hundred things, chiefly that, for the sake of the family--the +family!--he must not go to trial. There were easier ways. + +But presently he found that the heart beat. + +“Good! good!” he said, undid the collar, got some water, and rang a +bell. Falby came. Gaston ordered some brandy, and asked for Sir William. +After the brandy had been given, consciousness returned. Gaston lifted +him up. + +He presently swallowed more brandy, and while yet his head was at +Gaston’s shoulder, said: + +“You are a hard hitter. But you’ve certainly lost the game now.” + +Here he made an effort, and with Gaston’s assistance got to his feet. At +that moment Falby entered to say that Sir William was not in the house. +With a wave of the hand Gaston dismissed him. Deathly pale, his uncle +lifted his eyebrows at the graceful gesture. + +“You do it fairly, nephew,” he said ironically yet faintly,--“fairly +in such little things; but a gentleman, your uncle, your elder, with +fists--that smacks of low company!” + +Gaston made a frank reply as he smothered his pride + +“I am sorry for the blow, sir; but was the fault all mine?” + +“The fault? Is that the question? Faults and manners are not the same. +At bottom you lack in manners; and that will ruin you at last.” + +“You slighted my mother!” + +“Oh, no! and if I had, you should not have seen it.” + +“I am not used to swallow insults. It is your way, sir. I know your +dealings with my father.” + +“A little more brandy, please. But your father had manners, after all. +You are as rash as he; and in essential matters clownish--which he was +not.” + +Gaston was well in hand now, cooler even than his uncle. + +“Perhaps you will sum up your criticism now, sir, to save future +explanation; and then accept my apology.” + +“To apologise for what no gentleman pardons or does, or acknowledges +openly when done--H’m! Were it not well to pause in time, and go back +to your wild North? Why so difficult a saddle--Tartarin after Napoleon? +Think--Tartarin’s end!” + +Gaston deprecated with a gesture: “Can I do anything for you, sir?” + +His uncle now stood up, but swayed a little, and winced from sudden +pain. A wave of malice crossed his face. + +“It’s a pity we are relatives, with France so near,” he said, “for I see +you love fighting.” After an instant he added, with a carelessness as +much assumed as natural: “You may ring the bell, and tell Falby to come +to my room. And because I am to appear at the flare-up to-night--all in +honour of the prodigal’s son--this matter is between us, and we meet as +loving relatives. You understand my motives, Gaston Robert Belward?” + +“Thoroughly.” + +Gaston rang the bell, and went to open the door for his uncle to pass +out. Ian Belward buttoned his close-fitting coat, cast a glance in the +mirror, and then eyed Gaston’s fine figure and well-cut clothes. In the +presence of his nephew, there grew the envy of a man who knew that youth +was passing while every hot instinct and passion remained. For his age +he was impossibly young. Well past fifty he looked thirty-five, no +more. His luxurious soul loathed the approach of age. Unlike many men +of indulgent natures, he loved youth for the sake of his art, and he +had sacrificed upon that altar more than most men-sacrificed others. His +cruelty was not as that of the roughs of Seven Dials or Belleville, but +it was pitiless. He admitted to those who asked him why and wherefore +when his selfishness became brutality, that everything had to give way +for his work. His painting of Ariadne represented the misery of two +women’s lives. And of such was his kingdom of Art. + +As he now looked at Gaston he was again struck with the resemblance to +the portrait in the dining-room, with his foreign out-of-the-way air: +something that should be seen beneath the flowing wigs of the Stuart +period. He had long wanted to do a statue of the ill-fated Monmouth, and +another greater than that. Here was the very man: with a proud, daring, +homeless look, a splendid body, and a kind of cavalier conceit. It was +significant of him, of his attitude towards himself where his work was +concerned, that he suddenly turned and shut the door again, telling +Falby, who appeared, to go to his room; and then said: + +“You are my debtor, Cadet--I shall call you that: you shall have a +chance of paying.” + +“How?” + +In a few concise words he explained, scanning the other’s face eagerly. + +Gaston showed nothing. He had passed the apogee of irritation. + +“A model?” he questioned drily. + +“Well, if you put it that way. ‘Portrait’ sounds better. It shall be +Gaston Belward, gentleman; but we will call it in public, ‘Monmouth the +Trespasser.’” + +Gaston did not wince. He had taken all the revenge he needed. The idea +rather pleased him than other wise. He had instincts about art, and he +liked pictures; statuary, poetry, romance; but he had no standards. He +was keen also to see the life of the artist, to touch that aristocracy +more distinguished by mind than manners. + +“If that gives ‘clearance,’ yes. And your debt to me?” + +“I owe you nothing. You find your own meaning in my words. I was +railing, you were serious. Do not be serious. Assume it sometimes, if +you will; be amusing mostly. So, you will let me paint you--on your own +horse, eh?” + +“That is asking much. Where?” + +“Well, a sketch here this afternoon, while the thing is hot--if this +damned headache stops! Then at my studio in London in the spring, +or”--here he laughed--“in Paris. I am modest, you see.” + +“As you will.” + +Gaston had had a desire for Paris, and this seemed to give a cue for +going. He had tested London nearly all round. He had yet to be presented +at St. James’s, and elected a member of the Trafalgar Club. Certainly he +had not visited the Tower, Windsor Castle, and the Zoo; but that would +only disqualify him in the eyes of a colonial. + +His uncle’s face flushed slightly. He had not expected such good +fortune. He felt that he could do anything with this romantic figure. He +would do two pictures: Monmouth, and an ancient subject--that legend of +the ancient city of Ys, on the coast of Brittany. He had had it in his +mind for years. He came back and sat down, keen, eager. + +“I’ve a big subject brewing,” he said; “better than the Monmouth, though +it is good enough as I shall handle it. It shall be royal, melancholy, +devilish: a splendid bastard with creation against him; the best, most +fascinating subject in English history. The son dead on against the +father--and the uncle!” + +He ceased for a minute, fashioning the picture in his mind; his face +pale, but alive with interest, which his enthusiasm made into dignity. +Then he went on: + +“But the other: when the king takes up the woman--his mistress--and +rides into the sea with her on his horse, to save the town! By Heaven, +with you to sit, it’s my chance! You’ve got it all there in you--the +immense manner. You, a nineteenth century gentleman, to do this game +of Ridley Court, and paddle round the Row? Not you! You’re clever, and +you’re crafty, and you’ve a way with you. But you’ll come a cropper at +this as sure as I shall paint two big pictures--if you’ll stand to your +word.” + +“We need not discuss my position here. I am in my proper place--in my +father’s home. But for the paintings and Paris, as you please.” + +“That is sensible--Paris is sensible; for you ought to see it right, and +I’ll show you what half the world never see, and wouldn’t appreciate if +they did. You’ve got that old, barbaric taste, romance, and you’ll find +your metier in Paris.” + +Gaston now knew the most interesting side of his uncle’s +character--which few people ever saw, and they mostly women who came to +wish they had never felt the force of that occasional enthusiasm. He had +been in the National Gallery several times, and over and over again +he had visited the picture places in Bond Street as he passed; but he +wanted to get behind art life, to dig out the heart of it. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS + +A few hours afterwards Gaston sat on his horse, in a quiet corner of the +grounds, while his uncle sketched him. After a time he said that Saracen +would remain quiet no longer. His uncle held up the sketch. Gaston could +scarcely believe that so strong and life-like a thing were possible in +the time. It had force and imagination. He left his uncle with a nod, +rode quietly through the park, into the village, and on to the moor. +At the top he turned and looked down. The perfectness of the landscape +struck him; it was as if the picture had all grown there--not a suburban +villa, not a modern cottage, not one tall chimney of a manufactory, but +just the sweet common life. The noises of the village were soothing, +the soft smell of the woodland came over. He watched a cart go by idly, +heavily clacking. + +As he looked, it came to him: was his uncle right after all? Was he out +of place here? He was not a part of this, though he had adapted himself +and had learned many fine social ways. He knew that he lived not exactly +as though born here and grown up with it all. But it was also true that +he had a native sense of courtesy which people called distinguished. +There was ever a kind of mannered deliberation in his bearing--a part of +his dramatic temper, and because his father had taught him dignity where +there were no social functions for its use. His manner had, therefore, a +carefulness which in him was elegant artifice. + +It could not be complained that he did not act after the fashion of +gentle people when with them. But it was equally true that he did many +things which the friends of his family could not and would not have +done. For instance, none would have pitched a tent in the grounds, slept +in it, read in it, and lived in it--when it did not rain. Probably no +one of them would have, at individual expense, sent the wife of the +village policeman to a hospital in London, to be cured--or to die--of +cancer. None would have troubled to insist that a certain stagnant pool +in the village be filled up. Nor would one have suddenly risen in court +and have acted as counsel for a gipsy! At the same time, all were too +well-bred to think that Gaston did this because the gipsy had a daughter +with him, a girl of strong, wild beauty, with a look of superiority over +her position. + +He thought of all the circumstances now. + +It was very many months ago. The man had been accused of stealing and +assault, but the evidence was unconvincing to Gaston. The feeling in +court was against the gipsy. Fearing a verdict against him, Gaston rose +and cross-examined the witnesses, and so adroitly bewildered both them +and the justices who sat with his grandfather on the case, that, at +last, he secured the man’s freedom. The girl was French, and knew +English imperfectly. Gaston had her sworn, and made the most of her +evidence. Then, learning that an assault had been made on the gipsy’s +van by some lads who worked at mills in a neighbouring town, he pushed +for their arrest, and himself made up the loss to the gipsy. + +It is possible that there was in the mind of the girl what some common +people thought: that the thing was done for her favour; for she viewed +it half-gratefully, half-frowningly, till, on the village green, Gaston +asked her father what he wished to do--push on or remain to act against +the lads. + +The gipsy, angry as he was, wished to move on. Gaston lifted his hat to +the girl and bade her good-bye. Then she saw that his motives had been +wholly unselfish--even quixotic, as it appeared to her--silly, she would +have called it, if silliness had not seemed unlikely in him. She +had never met a man like him before. She ran her fingers through her +golden-brown hair nervously, caught at a flying bit of old ribbon at her +waist, and said in French: + +“He is honest altogether, sir. He did not steal, and he was not there +when it happened.” + +“I know that, my girl. That is why I did it.” + +She looked at him keenly. Her eyes ran up and down his figure, then met +his curiously. Their looks swam for a moment. Something thrilled in them +both. The girl took a step nearer. + +“You are as much a Romany here as I am,” she said, touching her bosom +with a quick gesture. “You do not belong; you are too good for it. +How do I know? I do not know; I feel. I will tell your fortune,” she +suddenly added, reaching for his hand. “I have only known three that +I could do it with honestly and truly, and you are one. It is no lie. +There is something in it. My mother had it; but it’s all sham mostly.” + Then, under a tree on the green, he indifferent to village gossip, she +took his hand and told him--not of his fortune alone. In half-coherent +fashion she told him of the past--of his life in the North. She then +spoke of his future. She told him of a woman, of another, and another +still; of an accident at sea, and of a quarrel; then, with a low, wild +laugh, she stopped, let go his hand, and would say no more. But her face +was all flushed, and her eyes like burning beads. Her father stood near, +listening. Now he took her by the arm. + +“Here, Andree, that’s enough,” he said, with rough kindness; “it’s no +good for you or him.” + +He turned to Gaston, and said in English: + +“She’s sing’lar, like her mother afore her. But she’s straight.” + +Gaston lit a cigar. + +“Of course.” He looked kindly at the girl. “You are a weird sort, +Andree, and perhaps you are right that I’m a Romany too; but I don’t +know where it begins and where it ends. You are not English gipsies?” he +added, to the father. + +“I lived in England when I was young. Her mother was a Breton--not +a Romany. We’re on the way to France now. She wants to see where her +mother was born. She’s got the Breton lingo, and she knows some English; +but she speaks French mostly.” + +“Well, well,” rejoined Gaston, “take care of yourself, and good luck to +you. Good-bye--good-bye, Andree.” He put his hand in his pocket to give +her some money, but changed his mind. Her eye stopped him. He shook +hands with the man, then turned to her again. Her eyes were on him--hot, +shining. He felt his blood throb, but he returned the look with +good-natured nonchalance, shook her hand, raised his hat, and walked +away, thinking what a fine, handsome creature she was. Presently he +said: “Poor girl, she’ll look at some fellow like that one day, with +tragedy the end thereof!” + +He then fell to wondering about her almost uncanny divination. He +knew that all his life he himself had had strange memories, as well +as certain peculiar powers which had put the honest phenomena and the +trickery of the Medicine Men in the shade. He had influenced people +by the sheer force of presence. As he walked on, he came to a group of +trees in the middle of the common. He paused for a moment, and looked +back. The gipsy’s van was moving away, and in the doorway stood the +girl, her hand over her eyes, looking towards him. He could see the raw +colour of her scarf. “She’ll make wild trouble,” he said to himself. + +As Gaston thought of this event, he moved his horse slowly towards a +combe, and looked out over a noble expanse--valley, field, stream, +and church-spire. As he gazed, he saw seated at some distance a girl +reading. Not far from her were two boys climbing up and down the combe. +He watched them. Presently he saw one boy creep along a shelf of rock +where the combe broke into a quarry, let himself drop upon another shelf +below, and then perch upon an overhanging ledge. He presently saw that +the lad was now afraid to return. He heard the other lad cry out, saw +the girl start up, and run forward, look over the edge of the combe, and +then make as if to go down. He set his horse to the gallop, and called +out. The girl saw him, and paused. In two minutes he was off his horse +and beside her. + +It was Alice Wingfield. She had brought out three boys, who had come +with her from London, where she had spent most of the year nursing their +sick mother, her relative. + +“I’ll have him up in a minute,” he said, as he led Saracen to a sapling +near. “Don’t go near the horse.” + +He swung himself down from ledge to ledge, and soon was beside the boy. +In another moment he had the youngster on his back, came slowly up, and +the adventurer was safe. + +“Silly Walter,” the girl said, “to frighten yourself and give Mr. +Belward trouble.” + +“I didn’t think I’d be afraid,” protested the lad; “but when I looked +over the ledge my head went round, and I felt sick--like with the +channel.” + +Gaston had seen Alice Wingfield several times at church and in +the village, and once when, with Lady Belward, he had returned the +archdeacon’s call; but she had been away most of the time since his +arrival. She had impressed him as a gentle, wise, elderly little +creature, who appeared to live for others, and chiefly for her +grandfather. She was not unusually pretty, nor yet young,--quite as +old as himself,--and yet he wondered what it was that made her so +interesting. He decided that it was the honesty of her nature, her +beautiful thoroughness; and then he thought little more about her. But +now he dropped into quiet, natural talk with her, as if they had known +each other for years. But most women found that they dropped quickly +into easy talk with him. That was because he had not learned the +small gossip which varies little with a thousand people in the same +circumstances. But he had a naive fresh sense, everything interested +him, and he said what he thought with taste and tact, sometimes with +wit, and always in that cheerful contemplative mood which influences +women. Some of his sayings were so startling and heretical that they had +gone the rounds, and certain crisp words out of the argot of the North +were used by women who wished to be chic and amusing. + +Not quite certain why he stayed, but talking on reflectively, Gaston at +last said: + +“You will be coming to us to-night, of course? We are having a barbecue +of some kind.” + +“Yes, I hope so; though my grandfather does not much care to have me +go.” + +“I suppose it is dull for him.” + +“I am not sure it is that.” + +“No? What then?” + +She shook her head. + +“The affair is in your honour, Mr. Belward, isn’t it? + +“Does that answer my question?” he asked genially. + +She blushed. + +“No, no, no! That is not what I meant.” + +“I was unfair. Yes, I believe the matter does take that colour; though +why, I don’t know.” + +She looked at him with simple earnestness. + +“You ought to be proud of it; and you ought to be glad of such a high +position where you can do so much good, if you will.” + +He smiled, and ran his hand down his horse’s leg musingly before he +replied: + +“I’ve not thought much of doing good, I tell you frankly. I wasn’t +brought up to think about it; I don’t know that I ever did any good in +my life. I supposed it was only missionaries and women who did that sort +of thing.” + +“But you wrong yourself. You have done good in this village. Why, we all +have talked of it; and though it wasn’t done in the usual way--rather +irregularly--still it was doing good.” + +He looked down at her astonished. + +“Well, here’s a pretty libel! Doing good ‘irregularly’? Why, where have +I done good at all?” + +She ran over the names of several sick people in the village whose bills +he had paid, the personal help and interest he had given to many, and, +last of all, she mentioned the case of the village postmaster. + +Since Gaston had come, postmasters had been changed. The little +pale-faced man who had first held the position disappeared one night, +and in another twenty-four hours a new one was in his place. Many +stories had gone about. It was rumoured that the little man was short +in his accounts, and had been got out of the way by Gaston Belward. +Archdeacon Varcoe knew the truth, and had said that Gaston’s sin was not +unpardonable, in spite of a few squires and their dames who declared it +was shocking that a man should have such loose ideas, that no good could +come to the county from it, and that he would put nonsense into the +heads of the common people. Alice Wingfield was now to hear Gaston’s +view of the matter. + +“So that’s it, eh? Live and let live is doing good? In that case it +is easy to be a saint. What else could a man do? You say that I am +generous--How? What have I spent out of my income on these little +things? My income--how did I get it? I didn’t earn it; neither did my +father. Not a stroke have I done for it. I sit high and dry there in the +Court, they sit low there in the village; and you know how they live. +Well, I give away a little money which these people and their fathers +earned for my father and me; and for that you say I am doing good, and +some other people say I am doing harm--‘dangerous charity,’ and all +that! I say that the little I have done is what is always done where man +is most primitive, by people who never heard ‘doing good’ preached.” + +“We must have names for things, you know,” she said. + +“I suppose so, where morality and humanity have to be taught as +Christian duty, and not as common manhood.” + +“Tell me,” she presently said, “about Sproule, the postmaster.” + +“Oh, that? Well, I will. The first time I entered the post-office I saw +there was something on the man’s mind. A youth of twenty-three oughtn’t +to look as he did--married only a year or two also, with a pretty wife +and child. I used to talk to them a good deal, and one day I said to +him: ‘You look seedy; what’s the matter?’ He flushed, and got nervous. +I made up my mind it was money. If I had been here longer, I should have +taken him aside and talked to him like a father. As it was, things slid +along. I was up in town, and here and there. One evening as I came back +from town I saw a nasty-looking Jew arrive. The little postmaster met +him, and they went away together. He was in the scoundrel’s hands; +had been betting, and had borrowed first from the Jew, then from the +Government. The next evening I was just starting down to have a talk +with him, when an official came to my grandfather to swear out a +warrant. I lost no time; got my horse and trap, went down to the office, +gave the boy three minutes to tell me the truth, and then I sent him +away. I fixed it up with the authorities, and the wife and child follow +the youth to America next week. That’s all.” + +“He deserved to get free, then?” + +“He deserved to be punished, but not as he would have been. There wasn’t +really a vicious spot in the man. And the wife and child--what was a +little justice to the possible happiness of those three? Discretion is a +part of justice, and I used it, as it is used every day in business and +judicial life, only we don’t see it. When it gets public, why, some +one gets blamed. In this case I was the target; but I don’t mind in the +least--not in the least.... Do you think me very startling or lawless?” + +“Never lawless; but one could not be quite sure what you would do in any +particular case.” She looked up at him admiringly. + +They had not noticed the approach of Archdeacon Varcoe till he was very +near them. His face was troubled. He had seen how earnest was their +conversation, and for some reason it made him uneasy. The girl saw him +first, and ran to meet him. He saw her bright delighted look, and he +sighed involuntarily. “Something has worried you,” she said caressingly. +Then she told him of the accident, and they all turned and went back +towards the Court, Gaston walking his horse. Near the church they met +Sir William and Lady Belward. There were salutations, and presently +Gaston slowly followed his grandfather and grandmother into the +courtyard. + +Sir William, looking back, said to his wife: “Do you think that Gaston +should be told?” + +“No, no, there is no danger. Gaston, my dear, shall marry Delia +Gasgoyne.” + +“Shall marry? wherefore ‘shall’? Really, I do not see.” + +“She likes him, she is quite what we would have her, and he is +interested in her. My dear, I have seen--I have watched for a year.” + +He put his hand on hers. + +“My wife, you are a goodly prophet.” + +When Archdeacon Varcoe entered his study on returning, he sat down in +a chair, and brooded long. “She must be told,” he said at last, aloud. +“Yes, yes, at once. God help us both!” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET + +“Sophie, when you talk with the man, remember that you are near fifty, +and faded. Don’t be sentimental.” So said Mrs. Gasgoyne to Lady Dargan, +as they saw Gaston coming down the ballroom with Captain Maudsley. + +“Reine, you try one’s patience. People would say you were not quite +disinterested.” + +“You mean Delia! Now, listen. I haven’t any wish but that Gaston Belward +shall see Delia very seldom indeed. He will inherit the property no +doubt, and Sir William told me that he had settled a decent fortune on +him; but for Delia--no--no--no. Strange, isn’t it, when Lady Harriet +over there aches for him, Indian blood and all? And why? Because this is +a good property, and the fellow is distinguished and romantic-looking: +but he is impossible--perfectly impossible. Every line of his face says +shipwreck.” + +“You are not usually so prophetic.” + +“Of course. But I am prophetic now, for Delia is more than interested, +silly chuck! Did you ever read the story of the other Gaston--Sir +Gaston--whom this one resembles? No? Well, you will find it thinly +disguised in The Knight of Five Joys. He was killed at Naseby, my dear; +killed, not by the enemy, but by a page in Rupert’s cavalry. The page +was a woman! It’s in this one too. Indian and French blood is a sad +tincture. He is not wicked at heart, not at all; but he will do mad +things yet, my dear. For he’ll tire of all this, and then--half-mourning +for some one!” + +Gaston enjoyed talking with Mrs. Gasgoyne as to no one else. Other +women often flattered him, she never did. Frankly, crisply, she told him +strange truths, and, without mercy, crumbled his wrong opinions. He had +a sense of humour, and he enjoyed her keen chastening raillery. Besides, +her talk was always an education in the fine lights and shadows of this +social life. He came to her now with a smile, greeted her heartily, and +then turned to Lady Dargan. Captain Maudsley carried off Mrs. Gasgoyne, +and the two were left together--the second time since the evening of +Gaston’s arrival, so many months before. Lady Dargan had been abroad, +and was just returned. + +They talked a little on unimportant things, and presently Lady Dargan +said: + +“Pardon my asking, but will you tell me why you wore a red ribbon in +your button-hole the first night you came?” + +He smiled, and then looked at her a little curiously. “My luggage had +not come, and I wore an old suit of my father’s.” + +Lady Dargan sighed deeply. + +“The last night he was in England he wore that coat at dinner,” she +murmured. + +“Pardon me, Lady Dargan--you put that ribbon there?” + +“Yes.” + +Her eyes were on him with a candid interest and regard. + +“I suppose,” he went on, “that his going was abrupt to you?” + +“Very--very!” she answered. + +She longed to ask if his father ever mentioned her name, but she dared +not. Besides, as she said to herself, to what good now? But she asked +him to tell her something about his father. He did so quietly, picking +out main incidents, and setting them forth, as he had the ability, with +quiet dramatic strength. He had just finished when Delia Gasgoyne came +up with Lord Dargan. + +Presently Lord Dargan asked Gaston if he would bring Lady Dargan to the +other end of the room, where Miss Gasgoyne was to join her mother. As +they went, Lady Dargan said a little breathlessly: + +“Will you do something for me?” + +“I would do much for you,” was his reply, for he understood! + +“If ever you need a friend, if ever you are in trouble, will you let me +know? I wish to take an interest in you. Promise me.” + +“I cannot promise, Lady Dargan,” he answered, “for such trouble as I +have had before I have had to bear alone, and the habit is fixed, I +fear. Still, I am grateful to you just the same, and I shall never +forget it. But will you tell me why people regard me from so tragical a +stand-point?” + +“Do they?” + +“Well, there’s yourself, and there’s Mrs. Gasgoyne, and there’s my uncle +Ian.” + +“Perhaps we think you may have trouble because of your uncle Ian.” + +Gaston shook his head enigmatically, and then said ironically: + +“As they would put it in the North, Lady Dargan, he’ll cut no figure in +that matter. I remember for two.” + +“That is right--that is right. Always think that Ian Belward is bad--bad +at heart. He is as fascinating as--” + +“As the Snake?” + +“--as the Snake, and as cruel! It is the cruelty of wicked selfishness. +Somehow, I forget that I am talking to his nephew. But we all know Ian +Belward--at least, all women do.” + +“And at least one man does,” he answered gravely. The next minute Gaston +walked down the room with Delia Gasgoyne on his arm. The girl delicately +showed her preference, and he was aware of it. It pleased him--pleased +his unconscious egoism. The early part of his life had been spent among +Indian women, half-breeds, and a few dull French or English folk, whose +chief charm was their interest in that wild, free life, now so distant. +He had met Delia many times since his coming; and there was that in +her manner--a fine high-bred quality, a sweet speaking reserve--which +interested him. He saw her as the best product of this convention. + +She was no mere sentimental girl, for she had known at least six +seasons, and had refused at least six lovers. She had a proud mind, not +wide, suited to her position. Most men had flattered her, had yielded to +her; this man, either with art or instinctively, mastered her, secured +her interest by his personality. Every woman worth the having, down in +her heart, loves to be mastered: it gives her a sense of security, and +she likes to lean; for, strong as she may be at times, she is often +singularly weak. She knew that her mother deprecated “that Belward +enigma,” but this only sent her on the dangerous way. + +To-night she questioned him about his life, and how he should spend the +summer. Idling in France, he said. And she? She was not sure; but she +thought that she also would be idling about France in her father’s +yacht. So they might happen to meet. Meanwhile? Well, meanwhile, there +were people coming to stay at Peppingham, their home. August would see +that over. Then freedom. + +Was it freedom, to get away from all this--from England and rule and +measure? No, she did not mean quite that. She loved the life with all +its rules; she could not live without it. She had been brought up to +expect and to do certain things. She liked her comforts, her luxuries, +many pretty things about her, and days without friction. To travel? Yes, +with all modern comforts, no long stages, a really good maid, and some +fresh interesting books. + +What kind of books? Well, Walter Pater’s essays; “The Light of Asia”; +a novel of that wicked man Thomas Hardy; and something light--“The +Innocents Abroad”--with, possibly, a struggle through De Musset, to keep +up her French. + +It did not seem exciting to Gaston, but it did sound honest, and it was +in the picture. He much preferred Meredith, and Swinburne, and Dumas, +and Hugo; but with her he did also like the whimsical Mark Twain. + +He thought of suggestions that Lady Belward had often thrown out; of +those many talks with Sir William, excellent friends as they were, in +which the baronet hinted at the security he would feel if there was +a second family of Belwards. What if he--? He smiled strangely, and +shrank. + +Marriage? There was the touchstone. + +After the dance, when he was taking her to her mother, he saw a pale +intense face looking out to him from a row of others. He smiled, and +the smile that came in return was unlike any he had ever seen Alice +Wingfield wear. He was puzzled. It flashed to him strange pathos, +affection, and entreaty. He took Delia Gasgoyne to her mother, talked to +Lady Belward a little, and then went quietly back to where he had seen +Alice. She was gone. Just then some people from town came to speak to +him, and he was detained. When he was free he searched, but she was +nowhere to be found. He went to Lady Belward. Yes, Miss Wingfield had +gone. Lady Belward looked at Gaston anxiously, and asked him why he was +curious. “Because she’s a lonely-looking little maid,” he said, “and I +wanted to be kind to her. She didn’t seem happy a while ago.” + +Lady Belward was reassured. + +“Yes, she is a sweet creature, Gaston,” she said, and added: “You are a +good boy to-night, a very good host indeed. It is worth the doing,” she +went on, looking out on the guests proudly. “I did not think I should +ever come to it again with any heart, but I do it for you gladly. Now, +away to your duty,” she added, tapping his breast affectionately with +her fan, “and when everything is done, come and take me to my room.” + +Ian Belward passed Gaston as he went. He had seen the affectionate +passages. + +“‘For a good boy!’ ‘God bless our Home!”’ he said, ironically. + +Gaston saw the mark of his hand on his uncle’s chin, and he forbore +ironical reply. + +“The home is worth the blessing,” he rejoined quietly, and passed on. + +Three hours later the guests had all gone, and Lady Belward, leaning on +her grandson’s arm, went to her boudoir, while Ian and his father sought +the library. Ian was going next morning. The conference was not likely +to be cheerful. + +Inside her boudoir, Lady Belward sank into a large chair, and let her +head fall back and her eyes close. She motioned Gaston to a seat. Taking +one near, he waited. After a time she opened her eyes and drew herself +up. + +“My dear,” she said, “I wish to talk with you.” + +“I shall be very glad; but isn’t it late? and aren’t you tired, +grandmother?” + +“I shall sleep better after,” she responded, gently. She then began +to review the past; her own long unhappiness, Robert’s silence, her +uncertainty as to his fate, and the after hopelessness, made greater +by Ian’s conduct. In low, kind words she spoke of his coming and the +renewal of her hopes, coupled with fear also that he might not fit in +with his new life, and--she could say it now--do something unbearable. +Well, he had done nothing unworthy of their name; had acted, on the +whole, sensibly; and she had not been greatly surprised at certain +little oddnesses, such as the tent in the grounds, an impossible +deer-hunt, and some unusual village charities and innovations on the +estate. Nor did she object to Brillon, though he had sometimes thrown +servants’-hall into disorder, and had caused the stablemen and the +footmen to fight. His ear-rings and hair were startling, but they were +not important. Gaston had been admired by the hunting-field--of which +they were glad, for it was a test of popularity. She saw that most +people liked him. Lord Dunfolly and Admiral Highburn were enthusiastic. +For her own part, she was proud and grateful. She could enjoy every +grain of comfort he gave them; and she was thankful to make up to +Robert’s son what Robert himself had lost--poor boy--poor boy! + +Her feelings were deep, strong, and sincere. Her grandson had come, +strong, individual, considerate, and had moved the tender courses of +her nature. At this moment Gaston had his first deep feeling of +responsibility. + +“My dear,” she said at last, “people in our position have important +duties. Here is a large estate. Am I not clear? You will never be quite +part of this life till you bring a wife here. That will give you a sense +of responsibility. You will wake up to many things then. Will you not +marry? There is Delia Gasgoyne. Your grandfather and I would be so glad. +She is worthy in every way, and she likes you. She is a good girl. She +has never frittered her heart away; and she would make you proud of +her.” + +She reached out an anxious hand, and touched his shoulder. His eyes were +playing with the pattern of the carpet; but he slowly raised them to +hers, and looked for a moment without speaking. Suddenly, in spite of +himself, he laughed--laughed outright, but not loudly. + +Marriage? Yes, here was the touchstone. Marry a girl whose family had +been notable for hundreds of years? For the moment he did not remember +his own family. This was one of the times when he was only conscious +that he had savage blood, together with a strain of New World French, +and that his life had mostly been a range of adventure and common toil. +This new position was his right, but there were times when it seemed to +him that he was an impostor; others, when he felt himself master of it +all, when he even had a sense of superiority--why he could not tell; +but life in this old land of tradition and history had not its due +picturesqueness. With his grandmother’s proposal there shot up in him +the thought that for him this was absurd. He to pace the world beside +this fine queenly creature--Delia Gasgoyne--carrying on the traditions +of the Belwards! Was it, was it possible? + +“Pardon me,” he said at last gently, as he saw Lady Belward shrink and +then look curiously at him, “something struck me, and I couldn’t help +it.” + +“Was what I said at all ludicrous?” + +“Of course not; you said what was natural for you to say, and I thought +what was natural for me to think, at first blush.” + +“There is something wrong,” she urged fearfully. “Is there any reason +why you cannot marry? Gaston,”--she trembled towards him,--“you have not +deceived us--you are not married?” + +“My wife is dead, as I told you,” he answered gravely, musingly. + +“Tell me: there is no woman who has a claim on you?” + +“None that I know of--not one. My follies have not run that way.” + +“Thank God! Then there is no reason why you should not marry. Oh, when +I look at you I am proud, I am glad that I live! You bring my youth, my +son back; and I long for a time when I may clasp your child in my arms, +and know that Robert’s heritage will go on and on, and that there will +be made up to him, somehow, all that he lost. Listen: I am an old, +crippled, suffering woman; I shall soon have done with all this coming +and going, and I speak to you out of the wisdom of sorrow. Had Robert +married, all would have gone well. He did not: he got into trouble, then +came Ian’s hand in it all; and you know the end. I fear for you, I do +indeed. You will have sore temptations. Marry--marry soon, and make us +happy.” + +He was quiet enough now. He had seen the grotesque image, now he was +facing the thing behind it. “Would it please you so very much?” he said, +resting a hand gently on hers. + +“I wish to see a child of yours in my arms, dear.” + +“And the woman you have chosen is Delia Gasgoyne?” + +“The choice is for you; but you seem to like each other, and we care for +her.” + +He sat thinking for a time, then he got up, and said slowly: + +“It shall be so, if Miss Gasgoyne will have me. And I hope it may turn +out as you wish.” + +Then he stooped and kissed her on the cheek. The proud woman, who had +unbent little in her lifetime, whose eyes had looked out so coldly on +the world, who felt for her son Ian an almost impossible aversion, drew +down his head and kissed it. + +“Indian and all?” he asked, with a quaint bitterness. + +“Everything, my dear,” she answered. “God bless you! Good-night.” + +A few moments after, Gaston went to the library. He heard the voices of +Sir William and his uncle. He knocked and entered. Ian, with exaggerated +courtesy, rose. Gaston, with easy coolness, begged him to sit, lit a +cigar, and himself sat. + +“My father has been feeding me with raw truths, Cadet,” said his uncle; +“and I’ve been eating them unseasoned. We have not been, nor are likely +to be, a happy family, unless in your saturnian reign we learn to say, +pax vobiscum--do you know Latin? For I’m told the money-bags and the +stately pile are for you. You are to beget children before the Lord, and +sit in the seat of Justice: ‘tis for me to confer honour on you all by +my genius!” + +Gaston sat very still, and, when the speech was ended, said tentatively: + +“Why rob yourself?” + +“In honouring you all?” + +“No, sir; in not yourself having ‘a saturnian reign’.” + +“You are generous.” + +“No: I came here to ask for a home, for what was mine through my father. +I ask, and want, nothing more--not even to beget children before the +Lord!” + +“How mellow the tongue! Well, Cadet, I am not going to quarrel. Here +we are with my father. See, I am willing to be friends. But you mustn’t +expect that I will not chasten your proud spirit now and then. That you +need it, this morning bears witness.” + +Sir William glanced from one to the other curiously. He was cold and +calm, and looked worn. He had had a trying half-hour with his son, and +it had told on him. + +Gaston at once said to his grandfather: “Of this morning, sir, I will +tell you. I--” + +Ian interrupted him. + +“No, no; that is between us. Let us not worry my father.” + +Sir William smiled ironically. + +“Your solicitude is refreshing, Ian.” + +“Late fruit is the sweetest, sir.” + +Presently Sir William asked Gaston the result of the talk with Lady +Belward. Gaston frankly said that he was ready to do as they wished. Sir +William then said they had chosen this time because Ian was there, and +it was better to have all open and understood. + +Ian laughed. + +“Taming the barbarian! How seriously you all take it. I am the jester +for the King. In the days of the flood I’ll bring the olive leaf. You +are all in the wash of sentiment: you’ll come to the wicked uncle one +day for common-sense. But, never mind, Cadet; we are to be friends. Yes, +really. I do not fear for my heritage, and you’ll need a helping hand +one of these days. Besides, you are an interesting fellow. So, if you +will put up with my acid tongue, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t hit +it off.” + +To Sir William’s great astonishment, Ian held out his hand with a genial +smile, which was tolerably honest, for his indulgent nature was as +capable of great geniality as incapable of high moral conceptions. Then, +he had before his eye, “Monmouth” and “The King of Ys.” + +Gaston took his hand, and said: “I have no wish to be an enemy.” + +Sir William rose, looking at them both. He could not understand Ian’s +attitude, and he distrusted. Yet peace was better than war. Ian’s truce +was also based on a belief that Gaston would make skittles of things. A +little while afterwards Gaston sat in his room, turning over events +in his mind. Time and again his thoughts returned to the one +thing--marriage. That marriage with his Esquimaux wife had been in one +sense none at all, for the end was sure from the beginning. It was +in keeping with his youth, the circumstances, the life, it had no +responsibilities. But this? To become an integral part of the life--the +English country gentleman; to be reduced, diluted, to the needs of the +convention, and no more? Let him think of the details:--a justice of +the peace: to sit on a board of directors; to be, perhaps, Master of the +Hounds; to unite with the Bishop in restoring the cathedral; to make +an address at the annual flower show. His wife to open bazaars, give +tennis-parties, and be patron to the clergy; himself at last, no doubt, +to go into Parliament; to feel the petty, or serious, responsibilities +of a husband and a landlord. Monotony, extreme decorum, civility to +the world; endless politeness to his wife; with boys at Eton and girls +somewhere else; and the kind of man he must be to do his duty in all and +to all! + +It seemed impossible. He rose and paced the floor. Never till this +moment had the full picture of his new life come close. He felt +stifled. He put on a cap, and, descending the stairs, went out into +the court-yard and walked about, the cool air refreshing him. Gradually +there settled upon him a stoic acceptance of the conditions. But would +it last? + +He stood still and looked at the pile of buildings before him; then he +turned towards the little church close by, whose spire and roof could be +seen above the wall. He waved his hand, as when within it on the day of +his coming, and said with irony: + +“Now for the marriage-linen, Sir Gaston!” + +He heard a low knocking at the gate. He listened. Yes, there was no +mistake. He went to it, and asked quietly: + +“Who is there?” + +There was no reply. Still the knocking went on. He quietly opened the +gate, and threw it back. A figure in white stepped through and slowly +passed him. It was Alice Wingfield. He spoke to her. She did not answer. +He went close to her and saw that she was asleep! + +She was making for the entrance door. He took her hand gently, and led +her into a side door, and on into the ballroom. She moved towards a +window through which the moonlight streamed, and sat on a cushioned +bench beneath it. It was the spot where he had seen her at the dance. +She leaned forward, looking into space, as she did at him then. He moved +and got in her line of vision. + +The picture was weird. She wore a soft white chamber-gown, her hair +hung loose on her shoulders, her pale face cowled it in. The look +was inexpressibly sad. Over her fell dim, coloured lights from the +stained-glass windows; and shadowy ancestors looked silently down from +the armour-hung walls. + +To Gaston, collected as he was, it gave an ominous feeling. Why did she +come here even in her sleep? What did that look mean? He gazed intently +into her eyes. + +All at once her voice came low and broken, and a sob followed the words: + +“Gaston, my brother, my brother!” + +He stood for a moment stunned, gazing helplessly at her passive figure. + +“Gaston, my brother!” he repeated to himself. Then the painful matter +dawned upon him. This girl, the granddaughter of the rector of the +parish, was his father’s daughter--his own sister. He had a sudden +spring of new affection--unfelt for those other relations, his by the +rights of the law and the gospel. The pathos of the thing caught him in +the throat--for her how pitiful, how unhappy! He was sure that, somehow, +she had only come to know of it since the afternoon. Then there had been +so different a look in her face! + +One thing was clear: he had no right to this secret, and it must be +for now as if it had never been. He came to her, and took her hand. She +rose. He led her from the room, out into the court-yard, and from there +through the gate into the road. + +All was still. They passed over to the rectory. Just inside the gate, +Gaston saw a figure issue from the house, and come quickly towards them. +It was the rector, excited, anxious. + +Gaston motioned silence, and pointed to her. Then he briefly whispered +how she had come. The clergyman said that he had felt uneasy about her, +had gone to her room, and was just issuing in search of her. Gaston +resigned her, softly advised not waking her, and bade the clergyman +good-night. + +But presently he turned, touched the arm of the old man, and said +meaningly: + +“I know.” + +The rector’s voice shook as he replied: “You have not spoken to her?” + +“No.” + +“You will not speak of it?” + +“No.” + +“Unless I should die, and she should wish it?” + +“Always as she wishes.” + +They parted, and Gaston returned to the Court. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION + +The next morning Brillon brought a note from Ian Belward, which said +that he was starting, and asked Gaston to be sure and come to Paris. +The note was carelessly friendly. After reading it, he lay thinking. +Presently he chanced to see Jacques look intently at him. + +“Well, Brillon, what is it?” he asked genially. Jacques had come on +better than Gaston had hoped for, but the light play of his nature was +gone--he was grave, almost melancholy; and, in his way, as notable as +his master. Their life in London had changed him much. A valet in St. +James’s Street was not a hunting comrade on the Coppermine River. Often +when Jacques was left alone he stood at the window looking out on the +gay traffic, scarcely stirring; his eyes slow, brooding. Occasionally, +standing so, he would make the sacred gesture. One who heard him +swear now and then, in a calm, deliberate way,--at the cook and the +porter,--would have thought the matters in strange contrast. But his +religion was a central habit, followed as mechanically as his appetite +or the folding of his master’s clothes. Besides, like most woodsmen, he +was superstitious. Gaston was kind with him, keeping, however, a firm +hand till his manner had become informed by the new duties. Jacques’s +greatest pleasure was his early morning visits to the stables. Here were +Saracen and Jim the broncho-sleek, savage, playful. But he touched the +highest point of his London experience when they rode in the Park. + +In this Gaston remained singular. He rode always with Jacques. Perhaps +he wished to preserve one possible relic of the old life, perhaps he +liked this touch of drama; or both. It created notice, criticism, but +he was superior to that. Time and again people asked him to ride, but +he always pleaded another engagement. He would then be seen with Jacques +plus Jacques’s earrings and the wonderful hair, riding grandly in the +Row. Jacques’s eyes sparkled and a snatch of song came to his lips at +these times. + +No figures in the Park were so striking. There was nothing bizarre, +but Gaston had a distinguished look, and women who had felt his hand at +their waists in the dance the night before, now knew him, somehow, at a +grave distance. Though Gaston did not say it to himself, these were the +hours when he really was with the old life--lived it again--prairie, +savannah, ice-plain, alkali desert. When, dismounting, the horses were +taken and they went up the stairs, Gaston would softly lay his whip +across Jacques’s shoulders without speaking. This was their only ritual +of camaraderie, and neglect of it would have fretted the half-breed. +Never had man such a servant. No matter at what hour Gaston returned, he +found Jacques waiting; and when he woke he found him ready, as now, on +this morning, after a strange night. + +“What is it, Jacques?” he repeated. + +The old name! Jacques shivered a little with pleasure. Presently he +broke out with: + +“Monsieur, when do we go back?” + +“Go back where?” + +“To the North, monsieur.” + +“What’s in your noddle now, Brillon?” + +The impatient return to “Brillon” cut Jacques like a whip. + +“Monsieur,” he suddenly said, his face glowing, his hands opening +nervously, “we have eat, we have drunk, we have had the dance and the +great music here: is it enough? Sometimes as you sleep you call out, and +you toss to the strokes of the tower-clock. When we lie on the Plains of +Yath from sunset to sunrise, you never stir then. You remember when we +sleep on the ledge of the Voshti mountain--so narrow that we were tied +together? Well, we were as babes in blankets. In the Prairie of the Ten +Stars your fingers were on the trigger firm as a bolt; here I have watch +them shake with the coffee-cup. Monsieur, you have seen: is it enough? +You have lived here: is it like the old lodge and the long trail?” + +Gaston sat up in bed, looked in the mirror opposite, ran his fingers +through his hair, regarded his hands, turning them over, and then, with +sharp impatience, said: + +“Go to hell!” + +The little man’s face flushed to his hair; he sucked in the air with +a gasp. Without a word, he went to the dressing-table, poured out the +shaving-water, threw a towel over his arm, and turned to come to the +bed; but, all at once, he sidled back, put down the water, and furtively +drew a sleeve across his eyes. + +Gaston saw, and something suddenly burned in him. He dropped his eyes, +slid out of bed, into his dressing-gown, and sat down. + +Jacques made ready. He was not prepared to have Gaston catch him by the +shoulders with a nervous grip, search his eyes, and say: + +“You damned little fool, I’m not worth it!” Jacques’s face shone. + +“Every great man has his fool--alors!” was the happy reply. + +“Jacques,” Gaston presently said, “what’s on your mind?” + +“I saw--last night, monsieur,” he said. + +“You saw what?” + +“I saw you in the court-yard with the lady.” Gaston was now very grave. + +“Did you recognise her?” + +“No: she moved all as a spirit.” + +“Jacques, that matter is between you and me. I’m going to tell you, +though, two things; and--where’s your string of beads?” + +Jacques drew out his rosary. + +“That’s all right. Mum as Manitou! She was asleep; she is my sister. And +that is all, till there’s need for you to know more.” + +In this new confidence Jacques was content. The life was a gilded mess, +but he could endure it now. Three days passed. During that time Gaston +was up to town twice; lunched at Lady Dargan’s, and dined at Lord +Dunfolly’s. For his grandfather, who was indisposed, he was induced +to preside at a political meeting in the interest of a wealthy local +brewer, who confidently expected the seat, and, through gifts to the +party, a knighthood. Before the meeting, in the gush of--as he put it +“kindred aims,” he laid a finger familiarly in Gaston’s button-hole. +Jacques, who was present, smiled, for he knew every change in his +master’s face, and he saw a glitter in his eye. He remembered when they +two were in trouble with a gang of river-drivers, and one did this +same thing rudely: how Gaston looked down, and said, with a devilish +softness: “Take it away.” And immediately after the man did so. + +Mr. Sylvester Gregory Babbs, in a similar position, heard a voice say +down at him, with a curious obliqueness: + +“If you please!” + +The keenest edge of it was lost on the flaring brewer, but his fingers +dropped, and he twisted his heavy watchchain uneasily. The meeting +began. Gaston in a few formal words, unconventional in idea, introduced +Mr. Babbs as “a gentleman whose name was a household word in the county, +who would carry into Parliament the civic responsibility shown in his +private life, who would render his party a support likely to fulfil its +purpose.” + +When he sat down, Captain Maudsley said: “That’s a trifle vague, +Belward.” + +“How can one treat him with importance?” + +“He’s the sort that makes a noise one way or another.” + +“Yes. Obituary: ‘At his residence in Babbslow Square, yesterday, Sir S. +G. Babbs, M. P., member of the London County Council. Sir S. G. Babbs, +it will be remembered, gave L100,000 to build a home for the propagation +of Vice, and--’” + +“That’s droll!” + +“Why not Vice? ‘Twould be just the same in his mind. He doesn’t give +from a sense of moral duty. Not he; he’s a bungowawen!” + +“What is that?” + +“That’s Indian. You buy a lot of Indian or halfbreed loafers with +beaver-skins and rum, go to the Mount of the Burning Arrows, and these +fellows dance round you and call you one of the lost race, the Mighty +Men of the Kimash Hills. And they’ll do that while the rum lasts. +Meanwhile you get to think yourself a devil of a swell--you and the +gods!... And now we had better listen to this bungowawen, hadn’t we?” + +The room was full, and on the platform were gentlemen come to support +Sir William Belward. They were interested to see how Gaston would carry +it off. + +Mr. Babbs’s speech was like a thousand others by the same kind of man. +More speeches--some opposing--followed, and at last came the chairman to +close the meeting. He addressed himself chiefly to a bunch of farmers, +artisans, and labouring-men near. After some good-natured raillery at +political meetings in general, the bigotry of party, the difficulty in +getting the wheat from the chaff, and some incisive thrusts at those +who promised the moon and gave a green cheese, who spent their time in +berating their opponents, he said: + +“There’s a game that sailors play on board ship--men-o’-war and +sailing-ships mostly. I never could quite understand it, nor could any +officers ever tell me--the fo’castle for the men and the quarter-deck +for the officers, and what’s English to one is Greek to the other. Well, +this was all I could see in the game. They sat about, sometimes talking, +sometimes not. All at once a chap would rise and say, ‘Allow me to +speak, me noble lord,’ and follow this by hitting some one of the party +wherever the blow got in easiest--on the head, anywhere! [Laughter.] +Then he would sit down seriously, and someone else spoke to his noble +lordship. Nobody got angry at the knocks, and Heaven only knows what +it was all about. That is much the way with politics, when it is played +fair. But here is what I want particularly to say: We are not all born +the same, nor can we live the same. One man is born a brute, and another +a good sort; one a liar, and one an honest man; one has brains, and the +other hasn’t. Now, I’ve lived where, as they say, one man is as good +as another. But he isn’t, there or here. A weak man can’t run with a +strong. We have heard to-night a lot of talk for something and against +something. It is over. Are you sure you have got what was meant clear in +your mind? [Laughter, and ‘Blowed if we’ave!’] Very well; do not worry +about that. We have been playing a game of ‘Allow me to speak, me noble +lord!’ And who is going to help you to get the most out of your country +and your life isn’t easy to know. But we can get hold of a few clear +ideas, and measure things against them. I know and have talked with a +good many of you here [‘That’s so! That’s so!’], and you know my ideas +pretty well--that they are honest at least, and that I have seen the +countries where freedom is ‘on the job,’ as they say. Now, don’t put +your faith in men and in a party that cry, ‘We will make all things +new,’ to the tune of, ‘We are a band of brothers.’ Trust in one that +says, ‘You cannot undo the centuries. Take off the roof, remove a wall, +let in the air, throw out a wing, but leave the old foundations.’ And +that is the real difference between the other party and mine; and these +political games of ours come to that chiefly.” + +Presently he called for the hands of the meeting. They were given for +Mr. Babbs. + +Suddenly a man’s strong, arid voice came from the crowd: + +“‘Allow me to speak, me noble lord!’ [Great laughter. Then a pause.] +Where’s my old chum, Jock Lawson?” + +The audience stilled. Gaston’s face went grave. He replied, in a firm, +clear voice. + +“In Heaven, my man. You’ll never see him more.” There was silence for a +moment, a murmur, then a faint burst of applause. Presently John Cawley, +the landlord of “The Whisk o’ Barley,” made towards Gaston. Gaston +greeted him, and inquired after his wife. He was told that she was very +ill, and had sent her husband to beg Gaston to come. Gaston had dreaded +this hour, though he knew it would come one day. A woman on a death-bed +has a right to ask for and get the truth. He had forborne telling her of +her son; and she, whenever she had seen him, had contented herself with +asking general questions, dreading in her heart that Jock had died a +dreadful or shameful death, or else this gentleman would, voluntarily, +say more. But, herself on her way out of the world, as she feared, +wished the truth, whatever it might be. + +Gaston told Cawley that he would drive over at once, and then asked who +it was had called out at him. A drunken, poaching fellow, he was told, +who in all the years since Jock had gone, had never passed the inn +without stopping to say: “Where’s my old chum, Jock Lawson?” In the past +he and Jock had been in more than one scrape together. He had learned +from Mrs. Cawley that Gaston had known Jock in Canada. + +When Cawley had gone, Gaston turned to the other gentlemen present. + +“An original speech, upon my word, Belward,” said Captain Maudsley. + +Mr. Warren Gasgoyne came. + +“You are expected to lunch or something to-morrow, Belward, you +remember? Devil of a speech that! But, if you will ‘allow me to speak, +me noble lord,’ you are the rankest Conservative of us all.” + +“Don’t you know that the easiest constitutional step is from a republic +to an autocracy, and vice versa?” + +“I don’t know it, and I don’t know how you do it.” + +“Do what?” + +“Make them think as you do.” + +He waved his hand to the departing crowd. + +“I don’t. I try to think as they do. I am always in touch with the +primitive mind.” + +“You ought to do great things here, Belward,” said the other seriously. +“You have the trick; and we need wisdom at Westminster.” + +“Don’t be mistaken; I am only adaptable. There’s frank confession.” + +At this point Mr. Babbs came up and said good-night in a large, +self-conscious way. Gaston hoped that his campaign would not be wasted, +and the fluffy gentleman retired. When he got out of earshot in +the shadows, he turned and shook his fist towards Gaston, saying: +“Half-breed upstart!” Then he refreshed his spirits by swearing at his +coachman. + +Gaston and Jacques drove quickly over to “The Whisk o’ Barley.” Gaston +was now intent to tell the whole truth. He wished that he had done it +before; but his motives had been good--it was not to save himself. Yet +he shrank. Presently he thought: + +“What is the matter with me? Before I came here, if I had an idea I +stuck to it, and didn’t have any nonsense when I knew I was right. I am +getting sensitive--the thing I find everywhere in this country: fear of +feeling or giving pain; as though the bad tooth out isn’t better than +the bad tooth in. When I really get sentimental I’ll fold my Arab +tent--so help me, ye seventy Gods of Yath!” + +A little while after he was at Mrs. Cawley’s bed, the landlord handing +him a glass of hot grog, Jock’s mother eyeing him feverishly from the +quilt. Gaston quietly felt her wrist, counting the pulse-beats; then +told Cawley to wet a cloth and hand it to him. He put it gently on the +woman’s head. The eyes of the woman followed him anxiously. He sat +down again, and in response to her questioning gaze, began the story of +Jock’s life as he knew it. + +Cawley stood leaning on the foot-board; the woman’s face was cowled +in the quilt with hungry eyes; and Gaston’s voice went on in a low +monotone, to the ticking of the great clock in the next room. Gaston +watched her face, and there came to him like an inspiration little +things Jock did, which would mean more to his mother than large +adventures. Her lips moved now and again, even a smile flickered. At +last Gaston came to his father’s own death and the years that followed; +then the events in Labrador. + +He approached this with unusual delicacy: it needed bravery to look into +the mother’s eyes, and tell the story. He did not know how dramatically +he told it--how he etched it without a waste word. When he came to that +scene in the Fort, the three men sitting, targets for his bullets,--he +softened the details greatly. He did not tell it as he told it at the +Court, but the simpler, sparser language made it tragically clear. There +was no sound from the bed, none from the foot-board, but he heard a door +open and shut without, and footsteps somewhere near. + +How he put the body in the tree, and prayed over it and left it there, +was all told; and then he paused. He turned a little sick as he saw the +white face before him. She drew herself up, her fingers caught away +the night-dress at her throat; she stared hard at him for a moment, and +then, with a wild, moaning voice, cried out: + +“You killed my boy! You killed my boy! You killed my boy!” + +Gaston was about to take her hand, when he heard a shuffle and a rush +behind him. He rose, turned swiftly, saw a bottle swinging, threw up his +hand... and fell backwards against the bed. + +The woman caught his bleeding head to her breast and hugged it. + +“My Jock, my poor boy!” she cried in delirium now. Cawley had thrown his +arms about the struggling, drunken assailant--Jock’s poaching friend. + +The mother now called out to the pinioned man, as she had done to +Gaston: + +“You have killed my boy!” She kissed Gaston’s bloody face. + +A messenger was soon on the way to Ridley Court, and in a little upper +room Jacques was caring for his master. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. HE FINDS NEW SPONSORS + +Gaston lay for many days at “The Whisk o’ Barley.” During that time the +inn was not open to customers. The woman also for two days hung at +the point of death, and then rallied. She remembered the events of the +painful night, and often asked after Gaston. Somehow, her horror of her +son’s death at his hands was met by the injury done him now. She vaguely +felt that there had been justice and punishment. She knew that in the +room at Labrador Gaston Belward had been scarcely less mad than her son. + +Gaston, as soon as he became conscious, said that his assailant must be +got out of the way of the police, and to that end bade Jacques send for +Mr. Warren Gasgoyne. Mr. Gasgoyne and Sir William arrived at the same +time, but Gaston was unconscious again. Jacques, however, told them +what his master’s wishes were, and they were carried out; Jock’s friend +secretly left England forever. Sir William and Mr. Gasgoyne got the +whole tale from the landlord, whom they asked to say nothing publicly. + +Lady Belward drove down each day, and sat beside him for a couple of +hours-silent, solicitous, smoothing his pillow or his wasting hand. The +brain had been injured, and recovery could not be immediate. Hovey the +housekeeper had so begged to be installed as nurse, that her wish was +granted, and she was with him night and day. Now she shook her head at +him sadly, now talked in broken sentences to herself, now bustled about +silently, a tyrant to the other servants sent down from the Court. +Every day also the headgroom and the huntsman came, and in the village +Gaston’s humble friends discussed the mystery, stoutly defending him +when some one said it was “more nor gabble, that theer saying o’ the +poacher at the meetin.’” + +But the landlord and his wife kept silence, the officers of the law took +no action, and the town and country newspapers could do no more than +speak of “A vicious assault upon the heir of Ridley Court.” It had +become the custom now to leave Ian out of that question. But the wonder +died as all wonders do, and Gaston made his fight for health. + +The day before he was removed to the Court, Mrs. Cawley was helped +up-stairs to see him. She was gaunt and hollow-eyed. Lady Belward and +Mrs. Gasgoyne were present. The woman made her respects, and then stood +at Gaston’s bedside. He looked up with a painful smile. + +“Do you forgive me?” he asked. “I’ve almost paid!” + +He touched his bandaged head. + +“It ain’t for mothers to forgi’e the thing,” she replied, in a steady +voice, “but I can forgi’e the man. ‘Twere done i’ madness--there beant +the will workin’ i’ such. ‘Twere a comfort that he’d a prayin’ over un.” + +Gaston took the gnarled fingers in his. It had never struck him +how dreadful a thing it was--so used had he been to death in many +forms--till he had told the story to this mother. + +“Mrs. Cawley,” he said, “I can’t make up to you what Jock would have +been; but I can do for you in one way as much as Jock. This house is +yours from to-day.” + +He drew a deed from the coverlet, and handed it to her. He had got it +from Sir William that morning. The poor and the crude in mind can only +understand an objective emotion, and the counters for these are this +world’s goods. Here was a balm in Gilead. The love of her child was +real, but the consolation was so practical to Mrs. Cawley that the lips +which might have cursed, said: + +“Ah, sir, the wind do be fittin’ the shore lamb! I’ the last Judgen, +I’ll no speak agen ‘ee. I be sore fretted harm come to ‘ee.” + +At this Mrs. Gasgoyne rose, and in her bustling way dismissed the +grateful peasant, who fondled the deed and called eagerly down the +stairs to her husband as she went. + +Mrs. Gasgoyne then came back, sat down, and said: “Now you needn’t fret +about that any longer--barbarian!” she added, shaking a finger. “Didn’t +I say that you would get into trouble? that you would set the country +talking? Here you were, in the dead of night, telling ghost stories, and +raking up your sins, with no cause whatever, instead of in your bed. You +were to have lunched with us the next day--I had asked Lady Harriet to +meet you, too!--and you didn’t; and you have wretched patches where +your hair ought to be. How can you promise that you’ll not make a madder +sensation some day?” + +Gaston smiled up at her. Her fresh honesty, under the guise of banter, +was always grateful to him. He shook his head, smiled, and said nothing. + +She went on. + +“I want a promise that you will do what your godfather and godmother +will swear for you.” + +She acted on him like wine. + +“Of course, anything. Who are my godfather and godmother?” + +She looked him steadily, warmly in the eyes: “Warren and myself.” + +Now he understood: his promise to his grandmother and grandfather. So, +they had spoken! He was sure that Mrs. Gasgoyne had objected. He +knew that behind her playful treatment of the subject there was real +scepticism of himself. It put him on his mettle, and yet he knew she +read him deeper than any one else, and flattered him least. + +He put out his hand, and took hers. + +“You take large responsibilities,” he said, “but I will try and justify +you--honestly, yes.” + +In her hearty way, she kissed him on the cheek. “There,” she responded, +“if you and Delia do make up your minds, see that you treat her +well. And you are to come, just as soon as you are able, to stay at +Peppingham. Delia, silly child, is anxious, and can’t see why she +mustn’t call with me now.” + +In his room at the Court that night, Gaston inquired of Jacques about +Alice Wingfield, and was told that on the day of the accident she had +left with her grandfather for the Continent. He was not sorry. For his +own sake he could have wished an understanding between them. But now he +was on the way to marriage, and it was as well that there should be no +new situations. The girl could not wish the thing known. There would +be left him, in this case, to befriend her should it ever be needed. He +remembered the spring of pleasure he felt when he first saw other faces +like his father’s--his grandfather’s, his grandmother’s. But this +girl’s was so different to him; having the tragedy of the lawless, that +unconscious suffering stamped by the mother upon the child. There was, +however, nothing to be done. He must wait. + +Two days later Lady Dargan called to inquire after him. He was lying in +his study with a book, and Lady Belward sent to ask him if he would care +to see her and Lord Dargan’s nephew, Cluny Vosse. Lady Belward did not +come; Sir William brought them. Lady Dargan came softly to him, smiled +more with her eyes than her lips, and told him how sorry she had been to +hear of his illness. Some months before Gaston had met Cluny Vosse, +who at once was his admirer. Gaston liked the youth. He was fresh, +high-minded, extravagant, idle; but he had no vices, and no particular +vanity save for his personal appearance. His face was ever radiant +with health, shining with satisfaction. People liked him, and did not +discount it by saying that he had nothing in him. Gaston liked him most +because he was so wholly himself, without guile, beautifully honest. + +Now Cluny sat down, tapped the crown of his hat, looked at him cheerily, +and said: + +“Got in a cracker, didn’t he?” + +Gaston nodded, amused. + +“The fellows at Brooke’s had a talkee-talkee, and they’d twenty +different stories. Of course it was rot. We were all cut up though +and hoped you’d pull through. Of course there couldn’t be any doubt of +that--you’ve been through too many, eh?” + +Cluny always assumed that Gaston had had numberless tragical adventures +which, if told, must make Dumas turn in his grave with envy. + +Gaston smiled, and laid a hand upon the other’s knee. “I’m not +shell-proof, Vosse, and it was rather a narrow squeak, I’m told. But I’m +kept, you see, for a worse fate and a sadder.” + +“I say, Belward, you don’t mean that! Your eyes go so queer sometimes, +that a chap doesn’t know what to think. You ought to live to a hundred. +You’ll have to. You’ve got it all--” + +“Oh no, my boy, I haven’t got anything.” He waved his hand pleasantly +towards his grandfather. “I’m on the knees of the gods merely.” + +Cluny turned on Sir William. + +“It isn’t any secret, is it, sir? He gets the lot, doesn’t he?” + +Sir William’s occasional smile came. + +“I fancy there’s some condition about the plate, the pictures, and the +title; but I do not suppose that matters meanwhile.” + +He spoke half-musingly and with a little unconscious irony, and the boy, +vaguely knowing that there was a cross-current somewhere, drifted. + +“No, of course not; he can have fun enough without them, can’t he?” + +Lady Dargan here soothingly broke in, inquiring about Gaston’s illness, +and showing a tactful concern. But the nephew persisted: + +“I say, Belward, Aunt Sophie was cut up no end when she heard of it. She +wouldn’t go out to dinner that night at Lord Dunfolly’s, and, of course, +I didn’t go. And I wanted to; for Delia Gasgoyne was to be there, and +she’s ripping.” + +Lady Dargan, in spite of herself, blushed, but without confusion, and +Gaston adroitly led the conversation otherwhere. Presently she said that +they were to be at their villa in France during the late summer, and if +he chanced to be abroad would he come? He said that he intended to visit +his uncle in Paris, but that afterwards he would be glad to visit them +for a short time. + +She looked astonished. “With your uncle Ian!” + +“Yes. He is to show me art-life, and all that.” + +She looked troubled. He saw that she wished to say something. + +“Yes, Lady Dargan?” he asked. + +She spoke with fluttering seriousness. + +“I asked you once to come to me if you ever needed a friend. I do not +wait for that. I ask you not to go to your uncle.” + +“Why?” + +He was thinking that, despite social artifice and worldliness, she was +sentimental. + +“Because there will be trouble. I can see it. You may trust a woman’s +instinct; and I know that man!” He did not reply at once, but presently +said: + +“I fancy I must keep my promise.” + +“What is the book you are reading?” she said, changing the subject, for +Sir William was listening. + +He opened it, and smiled musingly. + +“It is called Affairs of Some Consequence in the Reign of Charles I. +In reading it I seemed to feel that it was incorrect, and my mind +kept wandering away into patches of things--incidents, scenes, bits +of talk--as I fancied they really were, not apocryphal or ‘edited’ as +here.” + +“I say,” said Cluny, “that’s rum, isn’t it?” + +“For instance,” Gaston continued, “this tale of King Charles and +Buckingham.” He read it. “Now here is the scene as I picture it.” In +quick elliptical phrases he gave the tale from a different stand-point. + +Sir William stared curiously at Gaston, then felt for some keys in his +pocket. He got up and rang the bell. Gaston was still talking. He gave +the keys to Falby with a whispered word. In a few moments Falby placed a +small leather box beside Sir William, and retired at a nod. Sir William +presently said: “Where did you read those things?” + +“I do not know that I ever read them.” + +“Did your father tell you them?” + +“I do not remember so, though he may have.” + +“Did you ever see this box?” + +“Never before.” + +“You do not know what is in it?” + +“Not in the least.” + +“And you have never seen this key?” + +“Not to my knowledge.” + +“It is very strange.” He opened the box. “Now, here are private papers +of Sir Gaston Belward, more than two hundred years old, found almost +fifty years ago by myself in the office of our family solicitor. +Listen.” + +He then began to read from the faded manuscript. A mysterious feeling +pervaded the room. Once or twice Cluny gave a dry nervous kind of laugh. +Much of what Gaston had said was here in stately old-fashioned language. +At a certain point the MS. ran: + +“I drew back and said, ‘As your grace will have it, then--“’ + +Here Gaston came to a sitting posture, and interrupted. + +“Wait, wait!” + +He rose, caught one of two swords that were crossed on the wall, and +stood out. + +“This is how it was. ‘As your grace will have it, then, to no waste +of time!’ We fell to. First he came carefully and made strange feints, +learned at King Louis’s Court, to try my temper. But I had had these +tricks of my cousin Secord, and I returned his sport upon him. Then he +came swiftly, and forced me back upon the garden wall. I gave to him +foot by foot, for he was uncommon swift and dexterous. He pinched me +sorely once under the knee, and I returned him one upon the wrist, which +sent a devilish fire into his eyes. At that his play became so delicate +and confusing that I felt I should go dizzy if it stayed; so I tried the +one great trick cousin Secord taught me, making to run him through, as +a last effort. The thing went wrong, but checking off my blunder he +blundered too,--out of sheer wonder, perhaps, at my bungling,--and I +disarmed him. So droll was it that I laughed outright, and he, as quick +in humour as in temper, stood hand on hip, and presently came to a +smile. With that my cousin Secord cried: ‘The king! the king!’ I got me +up quickly--” + +Here Gaston, who had in a kind of dream acted the whole scene, swayed +with faintness, and Cluny caught him, saving him from a fall. Cluny’s +colour was all gone. Lady Dargan had sat dazed, and Sir William’s face +was anxious, puzzled. + +A few hours later Sir William was alone with Gaston, who was recovered +and cool. + +“Gaston,” he said, “I really do not understand this faculty of memory, +or whatever it is. Have you any idea how you come by it?” + +“Have we any idea how life comes and goes, sir?” + +“I confess not. I confess not, really.” + +“Well, I’m in the dark about it too; but I sometimes fancy that I’m +mixed up with that other Gaston.” + +“It sounds fantastic.” + +“It is fantastic. Now, here is this manuscript, and here is a letter I +wrote this morning. Put them together.” + +Sir William did so. + +“The handwriting is singularly like.” + +“Well,” continued Gaston, smiling whimsically, “suppose that I am Sir +Gaston Belward, Baronet, who is thought to lie in the church yonder, the +title is mine, isn’t it?” + +Sir William smiled also. + +“The evidence is scarce enough to establish succession.” + +“But there would be no succession. A previous holder of the title isn’t +dead: ergo, the present holder, has no right.” + +Gaston had shaded his eyes with his hand, and he was watching Sir +William’s face closely, out of curiosity chiefly. Sir William regarded +the thing with hesitating humour. + +“Well, well, suppose so. The property was in the hands of a younger +branch of the family then. There was no entail, as now.” + +“Wasn’t there?” said Gaston enigmatically. + +He was thinking of some phrases in a manuscript which he had found in +this box. + +“Perhaps where these papers came from there are others,” he added. + +Sir William lifted his eyebrows ironically. “I hardly think so.” + +Gaston laughed, not wishing him to take the thing at all seriously. He +continued airily: + +“It would be amusing if the property went with the title after all, +wouldn’t it, sir?” + +Sir William got to his feet and said testily: “That should never be +while I lived!” + +“Of course not, sir.” + +Sir William saw the bull, and laughed, heartily for him. + +They bade each other good-night. + +“I’ll have a look in the solicitor’s office all the same,” said Gaston +to himself. + + + + +CHAPTER X. HE COMES TO “THE WAKING OF THE FIRE” + +A few days afterwards Gaston joined a small party at Peppingham. Without +any accent life was made easy for him. He was alone much, and yet, to +himself, he seemed to have enough of company. + +The situation did not impose itself conspicuously. Delia gave him no +especial reason to be vain. She had not an exceeding wit, but she had +charm, and her talk was interesting to Gaston, who had come, for the +first time, into somewhat intimate relations with an English girl. He +was struck with her conventional delicacy and honour on one side, and +the limitation of her ideas on the other. But with it all she had some +slight touch of temperament which lifted her from the usual level. And +just now her sprightliness was more marked than it had ever been. + +Her great hour seemed come to her. She knew that there had been talk +among the elders, and what was meant by Gaston’s visit. Still, they were +not much alone together. Gaston saw her mostly with others. Even a woman +with a tender strain for a man knows what will serve for her ascendancy: +the graciousness of her disposition, the occasional flash of her +mother’s temper, and her sense of being superior to a situation--the +gift of every well-bred English girl. + +Cluny Vosse was also at the house, and his devotion was divided between +Delia and Gaston. Cluny was a great favourite, and Agatha Gasgoyne, who +had a wild sense of humour, egged him on with her sister, which gave +Delia enough to do. At last Cluny, in a burst of confidence, declared +that he meant to propose to Delia. Agatha then became serious, and said +that Delia was at least four years older than himself, that he was just +her--Agatha’s--age, and that the other match would be very unsuitable. +This put Cluny on Delia’s defence, and he praised her youth, and hinted +at his own elderliness. He had lived, he had seen It (Cluny called the +world and all therein “It”), he was aged; he was in the large eye of +experience; he had outlived the vices and the virtues of his time, +which, told in his own naive staccato phrases, made Agatha hug herself. +She advised him to go and ask Mr. Belward’s advice; begged him not to +act until he had done so. And Cluny, who was blind as a bat when a woman +mocked him, went to Gaston and said: + +“See, old chap,--I know you don’t mind my calling you that--I’ve come +for advice. Agatha said I’d better. A fellow comes to a time when he +says, ‘Here, I want a shop of my own,’ doesn’t he? He’s seen It, he’s +had It all colours, he’s ready for family duties, and the rest. That’s +so, isn’t it?” + +Gaston choked back a laugh, and, purposely putting himself on the wrong +scent, said: + +“And does Agatha agree?” + +“Agatha? Come, Belward, that youngster! Agatha’s only in on a +sisterly-brotherly basis. Now, see I’ve got a little load of L s. d., +and I’m to get more, especially if Uncle Dick keeps on thinking I am +artless. Well, why shouldn’t I marry?” + +“No reason against it, if husband and father in you yearn for bibs and +petticoats.” + +“I say, Belward, don’t laugh!” + +“I never was more serious. Who is the girl?” + +“She looks up to you as I do-of course that’s natural; and if it comes +off, no one’ll have a jollier corner chez nous. It’s Delia.” + +“Delia? Delia who?” + +“Why, Delia Gasgoyne. I haven’t done the thing quite regular, I know. I +ought to have gone to her people first; but they know all about me, +and so does Delia, and I’m on the spot, and it wouldn’t look well to be +taking advantage of that with her father and mother-they’d feel bound to +be hospitable. So I’ve just gone on my own tack, and I’ve come to Agatha +and you. Agatha said to ask you if I’d better speak to Delia now.” + +“My dear Cluny, are you very much in love?” + +“That sounds religious, doesn’t it--a kind of Nonconformist business? I +think she’s the very finest. A fellow’d hold himself up, ‘d be a deuce +of a swell--and, hang it all, I hate breakfasting alone!” + +“Yes, yes, Cluny; but what about a pew in church, with regular +attendance, and a justice of the peace, and little Cluny Vosses on the +carpet?” + +Cluny’s face went crimson. + +“I say, Belward, I’ve seen It all, of course; I know It backwards, and +I’m not squeamish, but that sounds--flippant-that, with her.” + +Gaston reached out and caught the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t do it, Cluny. +Spare yourself. It couldn’t come off. Agatha knows that, I fancy. She is +a little sportsman. I might let you go and speak; but I think my chances +are better than yours, Cluny. Hadn’t you better let me try first? Then, +if I fail, your chances are still the same, eh?” + +Cluny gasped. His warm face went pale, then shot to purple, and finally +settled into a grey ruddiness. “Belward,” he said at last, “I didn’t +know; upon my soul, I didn’t know, or I’d have cut off my head first.” + +“My dear Cluny, you shall have your chance; but let me go first, I’m +older.” + +“Belward, don’t take me for a fool. Why, my trying what you go to do is +like--is like--” + +Cluny’s similes failed to come. + +“Like a fox and a deer on the same trail?” + +“I don’t understand that. Like a yeomanry steeplechase to Sandown--is +that it? Belward, I’m sorry. Playing it so low on a chap you like!” + +“Don’t say a word, Cluny; and, believe me, you haven’t yet seen all of +It. There’s plenty of time. When you really have had It, you will learn +to say of a woman, not that she’s the very finest, and that you hate +breakfasting alone, but something that’ll turn your hair white, or keep +you looking forty when you’re sixty.” + +That evening Gaston dressed with unusual care. When he entered the +drawing-room, he looked as handsome as a man need in this world. +His illness had refined his features and form, and touched off his +cheerfulness with a fine melancholy. Delia glowed as she saw the +admiring glances sent his way, but burned with anger when she also saw +that he was to take in Lady Gravesend to dinner; for Lady Gravesend +had spoken slightingly of Gaston--had, indeed, referred to his “nigger +blood!” And now her mother had sent her in to dinner on his arm, she +affable, too affable by a great deal. Had she heard the dry and subtle +suggestion of Gaston’s talk, she would, however, have justified her +mother. + +About half past nine Delia was in the doorway, talking to one of the +guests, who, at the call of some one else, suddenly left her. She heard +a voice behind her. “Will you not sing?” + +She thrilled, and turned to say: “What shall I sing, Mr. Belward?” + +“The song I taught you the other day--‘The Waking of the Fire.’” + +“But I’ve never sung it before anybody.” + +“Do I not count?--But, there, that’s unfair! Believe me, you sing it +very well.” + +She lifted her eyes to his: + +“You do not pay compliments, and I believe you. Your ‘very well’ means +much. If you say so, I will do my best.” + +“I say so. You are amenable. Is that your mood to-night?” He smiled +brightly. + +Her eyes flashed with a sweet malice. + +“I am not at all sure. It depends on how your command to sing is +justified.” + +“You cannot help but sing well.” + +“Why?” + +“Because I will help you--make you.” + +This startled her ever so little. Was there some fibre of cruelty in +him, some evil in this influence he had over her? She shrank, and yet +again she said that she would rather have his cruelty than another man’s +tenderness, so long as she knew that she had his--She paused, and did +not say the word. She met his eyes steadily--their concentration dazed +her--then she said almost coldly, her voice sounding far away: + +“How, make me?” + +“How fine, how proud!” he said to himself, then added: + +“I meant ‘make’ in the helpful sense. I know the song: I’ve heard it +sung, I’ve sung it; I’ve taught you; my mind will act on yours, and you +will sing it well.” + +“Won’t you sing it yourself? Do, please.” + +“No; to-night I wish to hear you.” + +“Why?” + +“I will tell you later. Can you play the accompaniment? If not, I--” + +“Oh, will you? I could sing it then, I think. You played it so +beautifully the other day--with all those strange chords.” + +He smiled. + +“It is one of the few things that I can play. I always had a taste +for music; and up in one of the forts there was an old melodeon, so I +hammered away for years. I had to learn difficult things at the start, +or none at all, or else those I improvised; and that’s how I can play +one or two of Beethoven’s symphonies pretty well, and this song, and a +few others, and go a cropper with a waltz. Will you come?” + +They moved to the piano. No one at first noticed them. When he sat down, +he said: + +“You remember the words?” + +“Yes, I learned them by heart.” + +“Good!” + +He gently struck the chords. His gentleness had, however, a firmness, +a deep persuasiveness, which drew every face like a call. A few chords +waving, as it were, over the piano, and then he whispered: + +“Now.” + +“Please go on for a minute longer,” she begged. + +“My throat feels dry all at once.” + +“Face away from the rest, towards me,” he said gently. + +She did so. His voice took a note softly, and held it. Presently her +voice as softly joined it, his stopped, and hers went on: + + “In the lodge of the Mother of Men, + In the land of Desire, + Are the embers of fire, + Are the ashes of those who return, + Who return to the world: + Who flame at the breath + Of the Mockers of Death. + O Sweet, we will voyage again + To the camp of Love’s fire, + Nevermore to return!” + +“How am I doing?” she said at the end of this verse. She really did +not know--her voice seemed an endless distance away. But she felt the +stillness in the drawing-room. + +“Well,” he said. “Now for the other. Don’t be afraid; let your voice, +let yourself, go.” + +“I can’t let myself go.” + +“Yes, you can: just swim with the music.” + +She did swim with it. Never before had Peppingham drawing-room heard a +song like this; never before, never after, did any of Delia Gasgoyne’s +friends hear her sing as she did that night. And Lady Gravesend +whispered for a week afterwards that Delia Gasgoyne sang a wild love +song in the most abandoned way with that colonial Belward. Really a song +of the most violent sentiment! + +There had been witchery in it all. For Gaston lifted the girl on the +waves of his music, and did what he pleased with her, as she sang: + + “O love, by the light of thine eye + We will fare oversea, + We will be + As the silver-winged herons that rest + By the shallows, + The shallows of sapphire stone; + No more shall we wander alone. + As the foam to the shore + Is my spirit to thine; + And God’s serfs as they fly,-- + The Mockers of Death + They will breathe on the embers of fire: + We shall live by that breath,-- + Sweet, thy heart to my heart, + As we journey afar, + No more, nevermore, to return!” + +When the song was ended there was silence, then an eager murmur, and +requests for more; but Gaston, still lengthening the close of the +accompaniment, said quietly: + +“No more. I wanted to hear you sing that song only.” + +He rose. + +“I am so very hot,” she said. + +“Come into the hall.” + +They passed into the long corridor, and walked up and down, for a time +in silence. + +“You felt that music?” he asked at last. + +“As I never felt music before,” she replied. + +“Do you know why I asked you to sing it?” + +“How should I know?” + +“To see how far you could go with it.” + +“How far did I go?” + +“As far as I expected.” + +“It was satisfactory?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“But why--experiment--on me?” + +“That I might see if you were not, after all, as much a barbarian as I.” + +“Am I?” + +“No. That was myself singing as well as you. You did not enjoy it +altogether, did you?” + +“In a way, yes. But--shall I be honest? I felt, too, as if, somehow, it +wasn’t quite right; so much--what shall I call it?” + +“So much of old Adam and the Garden? Sit down here for a moment, will +you?” + +She trembled a little, and sat. + +“I want to speak plainly and honestly to you,” he said, looking +earnestly at her. “You know my history--about my wife who died in +Labrador, and all the rest?” + +“Yes, they have told me.” + +“Well, I have nothing to hide, I think; nothing more that you ought to +know: though I’ve been a scamp one way and another.” + +“‘That I ought to know’?” she repeated. + +“Yes: for when a man asks a woman to be his wife, he should be prepared +to open the cupboard of skeletons.” She was silent; her heart was +beating so hard that it hurt her. + +“I am going to ask you to be my wife, Delia.” + +She was silent, and sat motionless, her hands clasped in her lap. + +He went on + +“I don’t know that you will be wise to accept me, but if you will take +the risk--” + +“Oh, Gaston, Gaston!” she said, and her hands fluttered towards his. + +An hour later, he said to her, as they parted for the night: + +“I hope, with all my heart, that you will never repent of it, Delia.” + +“You can make me not repent of it. It rests with you, Gaston; indeed, +indeed, all with you.” + +“Poor girl!” he said, unconsciously, as he entered his room. He could +not have told why he said it. “Why will you always sit up for me, +Brillon?” he asked a moment afterwards. + +Jacques saw that something had occurred. “I have nothing else to do, +sir,” he replied. “Brillon,” Gaston added presently, “we’re in a devil +of a scrape now.” + +“What shall we do, monsieur?” + +“Did we ever turn tail?” + +“Yes, from a prairie fire.” + +“Not always. I’ve ridden through.” + +“Alors, it’s one chance in ten thousand!” + +“There’s a woman to be thought of--Jacques.” + +“There was that other time.” + +“Well, then?” + +Presently Jacques said: “Who is she, monsieur?” + +Gaston did not answer. He was thinking hard. Jacques said no more. +The next morning early the guests knew who the woman was, and by noon +Jacques also. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST + +Gaston let himself drift. The game of love and marriage is exciting, the +girl was affectionate and admiring, the world was genial, and all things +came his way. Towards the end of the hunting season Captain Maudsley +had an accident. It would prevent him riding to hounds again, and at +his suggestion, backed by Lord Dunfolly and Lord Dargan, Gaston became +Master of the Hounds. His grandfather and great-grandfather had been +Master of the Hounds before him. Hunting was a keen enjoyment--one +outlet for wild life in him--and at the last meet of the year he rode +in Captain Maudsley’s place. They had a good run, and the taste of it +remained with Gaston for many a day; he thought of it sometimes as he +rode in the Park now every morning--with Delia and her mother. + +Jacques and his broncho came no more, or if they did it was at +unseasonable hours, and then to be often reprimanded (and twice +arrested) for furious riding. Gaston had a bad moment when he told +Jacques that he need not come with him again. He did it casually, but, +cool as he was, a cold sweat came on his cheek. He had to take a little +brandy to steady himself--yet he had looked into menacing rifle-barrels +more than once without a tremor. It was clear, on the face of it, that +Delia and her mother should be his companions in the Park, and not +this grave little half-breed; but, somehow, it got on his nerves. He +hesitated for days before he could cast the die against Jacques. It had +been the one open bond of the old life; yet the man was but a servant, +and to be treated as such, and was, indeed, except on rarest occasions. +If Delia had known that Gaston balanced the matter between her and +Jacques, her indignation might perhaps have sent matters to a crisis. +But Gaston did the only possible thing; and the weeks drifted on. + +Happy? It was inexplicable even to himself that at times, when he left +Delia, he said unconsciously: “Well, it’s a pity!” + +But she was happy in her way. His dark, mysterious face with its +background of abstraction, his unusual life, distinguished presence, +and the fact that people of great note sought his conversation, all +strengthened the bonds, and deepened her imagination; and imagination is +at the root of much that passes for love. Gaston was approached at Lord +Dargan’s house by the Premier himself. It was suggested that he should +stand for a constituency in the Conservative interest. Lord Faramond, +himself picturesque, acute, with a keen knowledge of character and a +taste for originality, saw material for a useful supporter--fearless, +independent, with a gift for saying ironical things, and some primitive +and fundamental principles well digested. + +Gaston, smiling, said that he would only be a buffalo fretting on a +chain. + +Lord Faramond replied: + +“And why the chain?” He followed this up by saying: “It is but a case of +playing lion-tamer down there. Have one little gift all your own, +know when to impose it, and you have the pleasure of feeling that your +fingers move a great machine, the greatest in the world--yes the very +greatest. There is Little Grapnel just vacant: the faithful Glynn is +gone. Come: if you will, I’ll send my secretary to-morrow morning-eh?” + +“You are not afraid of the buffalo, sir?” + +Lord Faramond’s fingers touched his arm, drummed it “My greatest +need--one to roar as gently as the sucking-dove.” + +“But what if I, not knowing the rules of the game, should think myself +on the corner of the veldt or in an Indian’s tepee, and hit out?” + +“You do not carry derringers?” + +He smiled. “No; but--” + +He glanced down at his arms. + +“Well, well; that will come one day, perhaps!” Lord Faramond paused, +abstracted, then added: “But not through you. Good-bye, then, good-bye. +Little Grapnel in ten days!” + +And it was so. Little Grapnel was Conservative. It was mostly a matter +of nomination, and in two weeks Gaston, in a kind of dream, went down +to Westminster, lunched with Lord Faramond, and was introduced to +the House. The Ladies Gallery was full, for the matter was in all the +papers, and a pretty sensation had been worked up one way and another. + +That night, after dinner, Gaston rose to make his maiden speech on a +bill dealing with an imminent social question. He was not an amateur. +Time upon time he had addressed gatherings in the North, and had once +stood at the bar of the Canadian Commons to plead the cause of the +half-breeds. He was pale, but firm, and looked striking. His eyes went +slowly round the House, and he began in a low, clear, deliberate voice, +which got attention at once. The first sentence was, however, a surprise +to every one, and not the least to his own party, excepting Lord +Faramond. He disclaimed detailed and accurate knowledge of the subject. +He said this with an honesty which took away the breath of the House. In +a quiet, easy tone he then referred to what had been previously said in +the debate. + +The first thing he did was to crumble away with a regretful kind of +superiority the arguments of two Conservative speakers, to the sudden +amusement of the Opposition, who presently cheered him. He looked up as +though a little surprised, waited patiently, and went on. The iconoclasm +proceeded. He had one or two fixed ideas in his mind, simple principles +on social questions of which he had spoken to his leader, and he never +wavered from the sight of them, though he had yet to state them. The +Premier sat, head cocked, with an ironical smile at the cheering, but +he was wondering whether, after all, his man was sure; whether he could +stand this fire, and reverse his engine quite as he intended. One of the +previous speakers was furious, came over and appealed to Lord Faramond, +who merely said, “Wait.” + +Gaston kept on. The flippant amusement of the Opposition continued. +Something, however, in his grim steadiness began to impress his own +party as the other, while from more than one quarter of the House there +came a murmur of sympathy. His courage, his stone-cold strength, the +disdain which was coming into his voice, impressed them, apart from his +argument or its bearing on the previous debate. Lord Faramond heard the +occasional murmurs of approval and smiled. Then there came a striking +silence, for Gaston paused. He looked towards the Ladies Gallery. As if +in a dream--for his brain was working with clear, painful power--he saw, +not Delia nor her mother, nor Lady Dargan, but Alice Wingfield! He had +a sting, a rush in his blood. He felt that none had an interest in him +such as she: shamed, sorrowful, denied the compensating comfort which +his brother’s love might give her. Her face, looking through the +barriers, pale, glowing, anxious, almost weird, seemed set to the bars +of a cage. + +Gaston turned upon the House, and flashed a glance towards Lord +Faramond, who, turned round on the Treasury Bench, was looking up at +him. He began slowly to pit against his former startling admissions the +testimony of his few principles, and to buttress them on every side with +apposite observations, naive, pungent. Presently there came a poignant +edge to his trailing tones. After giving the subject new points of view, +showing him to have studied Whitechapel as well as Kicking Horse Pass, +he contended that no social problem could be solved by a bill so crudely +radical, so impractical. + +He was saying: “In the history of the British Parliament--” when some +angry member cried out, “Who coached you?” + +Gaston’s quick eye found the man. + +“Once,” he answered instantly, “one honourable gentleman asked that +of another in King Charles’s Parliament, and the reply then is mine +now--‘You, sir!’” + +“How?” returned the puzzled member. + +Gaston smiled: + +“The nakedness of the honourable gentleman’s mind!” + +The game was in his hands. Lord Faramond twisted a shoulder with +satisfaction, tossed a whimsical look down the line of the Treasury +Bench, and from that Bench came unusual applause. + +“Where the devil did he get it?” queried a Minister. + +“Out on the buffalo-trail,” replied Lord Faramond. “Good fellow!” + +In the Ladies Gallery, Delia clasped her mother’s hand with delight; in +the Strangers Gallery, a man said softly, “Not so bad, Cadet.” + +Alice Wingfield’s face had a light of aching pleasure. “Gaston, Gaston!” + she said, in a whisper heard only by the woman sitting next to her, who +though a stranger gave a murmur of sympathy. + +Gaston made his last effort in a comparison of the state of the English +people now and before she became Cromwell’s Commonwealth, and then +incisively traced the social development onwards. It was the work of a +man with a dramatic nature and a mathematical turn. He put the time, the +manners, the movements, the men, as in a picture. + +Presently he grew scornful. His words came hotly, like whip-lashes. +He rose to force and power, though his voice was never loud, rather +concentrated, resonant. It dropped suddenly to a tone of persuasiveness +and conciliation, and declaring that the bill would be merely vicious +where it meant to be virtuous, ended with the question: + +“Shall we burn the house to roast the pig?” + +“That sounds American,” said the member for Burton-Halsey, “but he +hasn’t an accent. Pig is vulgar though--vulgar.” + +“Make it Lamb--make it Lamb!” urged his neighbour. + +Meanwhile both sides applauded. Maiden speeches like this were not +common. Lord Faramond turned round to him. Another member made way +and Gaston leaned towards the Premier, who nodded and smiled. “Most +excellent buffalo!” he said. + +“One day we will chain you--to the Treasury Bench.” + +Gaston smiled. + +“You are thought prudent, sir!” + +“Ah! an enemy hath said this.” + +Gaston looked towards the Ladies Gallery. Delia’s eyes were on him; +Alice was gone. + +A half-hour later he stood in the lobby, waiting for Mrs. Gasgoyne, Lady +Dargan, and Delia to come. He had had congratulations in the House; he +was having them now. Presently some one touched him on the arm. + +“Not so bad, Cadet.” + +Gaston turned and saw his uncle. They shook hands. “You’ve a gift that +way,” Ian Belward continued, “but to what good? Bless you, the pot on +the crackling thorns! Don’t you find it all pretty hollow?” + +Gaston was feeling reaction from the nervous work. “It is exciting.” + +“Yes, but you’ll never have it again as to-night. The place reeks with +smugness, vanity, and drudgery. It’s only the swells--Derby, Gladstone, +and the few--who get any real sport out of it. I can show you much more +amusing things.” + +“For instance?” + +“‘Hast thou forgotten me?’ You hungered for Paris and Art and the joyous +life. Well, I’m ready. I want you. Paris, too, is waiting, and a good +cuisine in a cheery menage. Sup with me at the Garrick, and I’ll tell +you. Come along. Quis separabit?” + +“I have to wait for Mrs. Gasgoyne--and Delia.” + +“Delia! Delia! Goddess of proprieties, has it come to that!” + +He saw a sudden glitter in Gaston’s eyes, and changed his tone. + +“Well, an’ a man will he will, and he must be wished good-luck. So, +good-luck to you! I’m sorry, though, for that cuisine in Paris, and the +grand picnic at Fontainebleau, and Moban and Cerise. But it can’t be +helped.” + +He eyed Gaston curiously. Gaston was not in the least deceived. His +uncle added presently, “But you will have supper with me just the same?” + +Gaston consented, and at this point the ladies appeared. He had a thrill +of pleasure at hearing their praises, but, somehow, of all the fresh +experiences he had had in England, this, the weightiest, left him least +elated. He had now had it all: the reaction was begun, and he knew it. + +“Well, Ian Belward, what mischief are you at now?” said Mrs. Gasgoyne. + +“A picture merely, and to offer homage. How have you tamed our lion, and +how sweetly does he roar! I feed him at my Club to-night.” + +“Ian Belward, you are never so wicked as when you ought most to be +decent.--I wish I knew your place in this picture,” she added brusquely. + +“Merely a little corner at their fireside.” He nodded towards Delia and +Gaston. + +“The man has sense, and Delia is my daughter!” + +“Precisely why I wish a place in their affections.” + +“Why don’t you marry one of the women you have--spoiled, and spend the +rest of your time in living yourself down? You are getting old.” + +“For their own sakes, I don’t. Put that to my credit. I’ll have but one +mistress only as the sand gets low. I’ve been true to her.” + +“You, true to anything!” + +“The world has said so.” + +“Nonsense! You couldn’t be.” + +“Visit my new picture in three months--my biggest thing. You will say my +mistress fares well at my hands.” + +“Mere talk. I have seen your mistress, and before every picture I have +thought of those women! A thing cannot be good at your price: so don’t +talk that sentimental stuff to me.” + +“Be original; you said that to me thirty years ago.” + +“I remember perfectly: that did not require much sense.” + +“No; you tossed it off, as it were. Yet I’d have made you a good +husband. You are the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.” + +“The compliment is not remarkable. Now, Ian Belward, don’t try to say +clever things. And remember that I will have no mischief-making.” + +“At thy command--” + +“Oh, cease acting, and take Sophie to her carriage.” Two hours later, +Delia Gasgoyne sat in her bedroom wondering at Gaston’s abstraction +during the drive home. Yet she had a proud elation at his success, and a +happy tear came to her eye. + +Meanwhile Gaston was supping with his uncle. Ian was in excellent +spirits: brilliant, caustic, genial, suggestive. After a little while +Gaston rose to the temper of his host. Already the scene in the Commons +was fading from him, and when Ian proposed Paris immediately, he did not +demur. The season was nearly over. + +Ian said; very well, why remain? His attendance at the House? Well, it +would soon be up for the session. Besides, the most effective thing he +could do was to disappear for the time. Be unexpected--that was the key +to notoriety. Delia Gasgoyne? Well, as Gaston had said, they were to +meet in the Mediterranean in September; meanwhile a brief separation +would be good for both. Last of all--he did not wish to press it--but +there was a promise! + +Gaston answered quietly, at last: “I will redeem the promise.” + +“When?” + +“Within thirty-six hours.” + +“That is, you will be at my studio in Paris within thirty-six hours from +now?” + +“That is it.” + +“Good! I shall start at eight to-morrow morning. You will bring your +horse, Cadet?” + +“Yes, and Brillon.” + +“He isn’t necessary.” Ian’s brow clouded slightly. + +“Absolutely necessary.” + +“A fantastic little beggar. You can get a better valet in France. Why +have one at all?” + +“I shall not decline from Brillon on a Parisian valet. Besides, he comes +as my camarade.” + +“Goth! Goth! My friend the valet! Cadet, you’re a wonderful fellow, but +you’ll never fit in quite.” + +“I don’t wish to fit in; things must fit me.” Ian smiled to himself. + +“He has tasted it all--it’s not quite satisfying--revolution next! What +a smash-up there’ll be! The romantic, the barbaric overlaps. Well, I +shall get my picture out of it, and the estate too.” + +Gaston toyed with his wine-glass, and was deep in thought. Strange to +say, he was seeing two pictures. The tomb of Sir Gaston in the little +church at Ridley: A gipsy’s van on the crest of a common, and a girl +standing in the doorway. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS + +The next morning he went down to the family solicitor’s office. He had +done so, off and on, for weeks. He spent the time in looking through old +family papers, fishing out ancient documents, partly out of curiosity, +partly from an unaccountable presentiment. He had been there about an +hour this morning when a clerk brought him a small box, which, he said, +had been found inside another box belonging to the Belward-Staplings, a +distant branch of the family. These had asked for certain ancient papers +lately, and a search had been made, with this result. The little box +was not locked, and the key was in it. How the accident occurred was +not difficult to imagine. Generations ago there had probably been +a conference of the two branches of the family, and the clerk had +inadvertently locked the one box within the other. This particular box +of the Belward-Staplings was not needed again. Gaston felt that here +was something. These hours spent among old papers had given him strange +sensations, had, on the one hand, shown him his heritage; but had also +filled him with the spirit of that by-gone time. He had grown further +away from the present. He had played his part as in a drama: his real +life was in the distant past and out in the land of the heathen. + +Now he took out a bundle of papers with broken seals, and wound with a +faded tape. He turned the rich important parchments over in his hands. +He saw his own name on the outside of one: “Sir Gaston Robert Belward.” + And there was added: “Bart.” He laughed. Well, why not complete the +reproduction? He was an M. P.--why not a Baronet? He knew how it was +done. There were a hundred ways. Throw himself into the arbitration +question between Canada and the United States: spend ten thousand pounds +of--his grandfather’s--money on the Party? His reply to himself was +cynical: the game was not worth the candle. What had he got out of +it all? Money? Yes: and he enjoyed that--the power that it +gave--thoroughly. The rest? He knew that it did not strike as deep as it +ought: the family tradition, the social scheme--the girl. + +“What a brute I am!” he said. “I’m never wholly of it. I either want to +do as they did when George Villiers had his innings, or play the gipsy +as I did so many years.” + +The gipsy! As he held the papers in his hand he thought as he had done +last night, of the gipsy-van on Ridley Common, and of--how well he +remembered her name!--of Andree. + +He suddenly threw his head back, and laughed. “Well, well, but it is +droll! Last night, an English gentleman, an honourable member with the +Treasury Bench in view; this morning an adventurer, a Romany. I itch +for change. And why? Why? I have it all, yet I could pitch it away this +moment for a wild night on the slope, or a nigger hunt on the Rivas. +Chateau-Leoville, Goulet, and Havanas at a bob?--Jove, I thirst for +a swig of raw Bourbon and the bite of a penny Mexican! Games, Gaston, +games! Why the devil did little Joe worry at being made ‘move on’? I’ve +got ‘move on’ in every pore: I’m the Wandering Jew. Oh, a gentleman born +am I! But the Romany sweats from every inch of you, Gaston Belward! What +was it that sailor on the Cyprian said of the other? ‘For every hair of +him was rope-yarn, and every drop of blood Stockholm tar!’” + +He opened a paper. Immediately he was interested. Another; then, +quickly, two more; and at last, getting to his feet with an exclamation, +he held a document to the light, and read it through carefully. He was +alone in the room. He calmly folded it up, put it in his pocket, placed +the rest of the papers back, locked the box, and passing into the next +room, gave it to the clerk. Then he went out, a curious smile on his +face. He stopped presently on the pavement. + +“But it wouldn’t hold good, I fancy, after all these years. Yet Law is a +queer business. Anyhow, I’ve got it.” + +An hour later he called on Mrs. Gasgoyne and Delia. Mrs. Gasgoyne was +not at home. After a little while, Gaston, having listened to some +extracts from the newspapers upon his “brilliant, powerful, caustic +speech, infinite in promise of an important career,” quietly told her +that he was starting for Paris, and asked when they expected to go +abroad in their yacht. Delia turned pale, and could not answer for a +moment. Then she became very still, and as quietly answered that they +expected to get away by the middle of August. He would join them? +Yes, certainly, at Marseilles, or perhaps, Gibraltar. Her manner, so +well-controlled, though her features seemed to shrink all at once, if it +did not deceive him, gave him the wish to say an affectionate thing. He +took her hand and said it. She thanked him, then suddenly dropped her +fingers on his shoulder, and murmured with infinite gentleness and +pride: + +“You will miss me; you ought to!” + +He drew the hand down. + +“I could not forget you, Delia,” he said. + +Her eyes came up quickly, and she looked steadily, wonderingly at him. + +“Was it necessary to say that?” + +She was hurt--inexpressibly,--and she shrank. He saw that she +misunderstood him; but he also saw that, on the face of it, the phrase +was not complimentary. His reply was deeply kind, effective. There was +a pause--and the great moment for them both passed. Something ought to +have happened. It did not. If she had had that touch of abandon shown +when she sang “The Waking of the Fire,” Gaston might, even at this +moment, have broken his promise to his uncle; but, somehow, he knew +himself slipping away from her. With the tenderness he felt, he still +knew that he was acting; imitating, reproducing other, better, moments +with her. He felt the disrespect to her, but it could not be helped--it +could not be helped. + +He said that he would call and say good-bye to her and Mrs. Gasgoyne +at four o’clock. Then he left. He went to his chambers, gave Jacques +instructions, did some writing, and returned at four. Mrs. Gasgoyne had +not come back. She had telegraphed that she would not be in for lunch. +There was nothing remarkable in Gaston’s and Delia’s farewell. She +thought he looked worn, and ought to have change, showing in every word +that she trusted him, and was anxious that he should be, as she put it +gaily, “comfy.” She was composed. The cleverest men are blind in the +matter of a woman’s affections; and Gaston was only a mere man, after +all. He thought that she had gone about as far in the way of feeling as +she could go. + +Nevertheless, in his hansom, he frowned, and said: “I oughtn’t to go. +But I’m choking here. I can’t play the game an hour longer without a +change. I’ll come back all right. I’ll meet her in the Mediterranean +after my kick-up, and it’ll be all O. K. Jacques and I will ride down +through Spain to Gibraltar, and meet the Kismet there. I shall have got +rid of this restlessness then, and I’ll be glad enough to settle down, +pose for throne and constitution, cultivate the olive branch, and have +family prayers.” + +At eight o’clock he appeared at Ridley Court, and bade his grandfather +and grandmother good-bye. They were full of pride, and showed their +affection in indirect ways--Sir William most by offering his opinion +on the Bill and quoting Gaston frequently; Lady Belward, by saying that +next year she would certainly go up to town--she had not done so for +five years! They both agreed that a scamper on the Continent would now +be good for him. At nine o’clock he passed the rectory, on his way, +strange to note, to the church. There was one light burning, but it +was not in the study nor in Alice’s window. He supposed they had not +returned. He paused and thought. If anything happened, she should know. +But what should happen? He shook his head. He moved on to the church. +The doors were unlocked. He went in, drew out a little pocket-lantern, +lit it, and walked up the aisle. + +“A sentimental business this: I don’t know why I do it,” he thought. + +He stopped at the tomb of Sir Gaston Belward, put his hand on it, and +stood looking at it. + +“I wonder if there is anything in it?” he said aloud: “if he does +influence me? if we’ve got anything to do with each other? What he did I +seem to know somehow, more or less. A little dwarf up in my brain drops +the nuts down now and then. Well, Sir Gaston Belward, what is going +to be the end of all this? If we can reach across the centuries, why, +good-night and goodbye to you. Good-bye.” + +He turned and went down the aisle. At the door a voice, a whispering +voice, floated to him: “Good-bye.” + +He stopped short and listened. All was still. He walked up the aisle, +and listened again.-Nothing! He stood before the tomb, looking at it +curiously. He was pale, but collected. He raised the light above his +head, and looked towards the altar.--Nothing! Then he went to the door +again, and paused.--Nothing! + +Outside he said + +“I’d stake my life I heard it!” + +A few minutes afterwards, a girl rose up from behind the organ in the +chancel, and felt her way outside. It was Alice Wingfield, who had gone +to the church to pray. It was her good-bye which had floated down to +Gaston. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. HE JOURNEYS AFAR + +Politicians gossiped. Where was the new member? His friends could not +tell, further than that he had gone abroad. Lord Faramond did not know, +but fetched out his lower lip knowingly. + +“The fellow has instinct for the game,” he said. Sketches, portraits +were in the daily and weekly journals, and one hardy journalist even +gave an interview--which had never occurred. But Gaston remained a +picturesque nine-days’ figure, and then Parliament rose for the year. + +Meanwhile he was in Paris, and every morning early he could be seen with +Jacques riding up the Champs Elysee and out to the Bois de Boulogne. +Every afternoon at three he sat for “Monmouth” or the “King of Ys” with +his horse in his uncle’s garden. + +Ian Belward might have lived in a fashionable part; he preferred the +Latin Quarter, with incursions into the other at fancy. Gaston lived for +three days in the Boulevard Haussman, and then took apartments, neither +expensive nor fashionable, in a quiet street. He was surrounded +by students and artists, a few great men and a host of small men: +Collarossi’s school here and Delacluse’s there: models flitting in and +out of the studios in his court-yard, who stared at him as he rode, and +sought to gossip with Jacques--accomplished without great difficulty. + +Jacques was transformed. A cheerful hue grew on his face. He had been an +exile, he was now at home. His French tongue ran, now with words in the +patois of Normandy, now of Brittany; and all with the accent of French +Canada, an accent undisturbed by the changes and growths of France. He +gossiped, but no word escaped him which threw any light on his master’s +history. + +Soon, in the Latin Quarter, they were as notable as they had been at +Ridley Court or in London. On the Champs Elysee side people stared +at the two: chiefly because of Gaston’s splendid mount and Jacques’s +strange broncho. But they felt that they were at home. Gaston’s French +was not perfect, but it was enough for his needs. He got a taste of that +freedom which he had handed over to the dungeons of convention two years +before. He breathed. Everything interested him so much that the life he +had led in England seemed very distant. + +He wrote to Delia, of course. His letters were brief, most interesting, +not tenderly intimate, and not daily. From the first they puzzled her +a little, and continued to do so; but because her mother said, “What an +impossible man!” she said, “Perfectly possible! Of course he is not like +other men; he is a genius.” + +And the days went on. + +Gaston little loved the purlieus of the Place de l’Opera. One evening +at a club in the Boulevard Malesherbes bored him. It was merely +Anglo-American enjoyment, dashed with French drama. The Bois was more to +his taste, for he could stretch his horse’s legs; but every day he could +be found before some simple cafe in Montparnasse, sipping vermouth, and +watching the gay, light life about him. He sat up with delight to see an +artist and his “Madame” returning from a journey in the country, seated +upon sheaves of corn, quite unregarded by the world; doing as they +listed with unabashed simplicity. He dined often at the little Hotel St. +Malo near the Gare Montparnasse, where the excellent landlord played +the host, father, critic, patron, comrade--often benefactor--to his +bons enfants. He drank vin ordinaire, smoked caporal cigarettes, +made friends, and was in all as a savage--or a much-travelled English +gentleman. + +His uncle Ian had introduced him here as at other places of the kind, +and, whatever his ulterior object was, had an artist’s pleasure at +seeing a layman enjoy the doings of Paris art life. Himself lived more +luxuriously. In an avenue not far from the Luxembourg he had a small +hotel with a fine old-fashioned garden behind it, and here distinguished +artists, musicians, actors, and actresses came at times. + +The evening of Gaston’s arrival he took him to a cafe and dined him, and +afterwards to the Boullier--there, merely that he might see; but this +place had nothing more than a passing interest for him. His mind had +the poetry of a free, simple--even wild-life, but he had no instinct for +vice in the name of amusement. But the later hours spent in the garden +under the stars, the cheerful hum of the boulevards coming to them +distantly, stung his veins like good wine. They sat and talked, with no +word of England in it at all, Jacques near, listening. + +Ian Belward was at his best: genial, entertaining, with the art of the +man of no principles, no convictions, and a keen sense of life’s sublime +incongruities. Even Jacques, whose sense of humour had grown by long +association with Gaston, enjoyed the piquant conversation. The next +evening the same. About ten o’clock a few men dropped in: a sculptor, +artists, and Meyerbeer, an American newspaper correspondent--who, +however, was not known as such to Gaston. + +This evening Ian determined to make Gaston talk. To deepen a man’s love +for a thing, get him to talk of it to the eager listener--he passes from +the narrator to the advocate unconsciously. Gaston was not to talk of +England, but of the North, of Canada, of Mexico, the Lotos Isles. He did +so picturesquely, yet simply too, in imperfect but sufficient French. +But as he told of one striking incident in the Rockies, he heard Jacques +make a quick expression of dissent. He smiled. He had made some mistake +in detail. Now, Jacques had been in his young days in Quebec the +village story-teller; one who, by inheritance or competency, becomes +semi-officially a raconteur for the parish; filling in winter evenings, +nourishing summer afternoons, with tales, weird, childlike, daring. + +Now Gaston turned and said to Jacques: + +“Well, Brillon, I’ve forgotten, as you see; tell them how it was.” + +Two hours later when Jacques retired on some errand, amid ripe applause, +Ian said: + +“You’ve got an artist there, Cadet: that description of the fight with +the loop garoo was as good as a thing from Victor Hugo. Hugo must have +heard just such yarns, and spun them on the pattern. Upon my soul, it’s +excellent stuff. You’ve lived, you two.” + +Another night Ian Belward gave a dinner, at which were present an +actress, a singer of some repute, the American journalist, and others. +Something that was said sent Gaston’s mind to the House of Commons. +Presently he saw himself in a ridiculous picture: a buffalo dragging the +Treasury Bench about the Chamber; as one conjures things in an absurd +dream. He laughed outright, at a moment when Mademoiselle Cerise was +telling of a remarkable effect she produced one night in “Fedora,” + unpremeditated, inspired; and Mademoiselle Cerise, with smiling lips and +eyes like daggers, called him a bear. This brought him to him self, and +he swam with the enjoyment. He did enjoy it, but not as his uncle wished +and hoped. Gaston did not respond eagerly to the charms of Mademoiselle +Cerise and Madame Juliette. + +Was Delia, then, so strong in the barbarian’s mind? He could not think +so, but Gaston had not shown yet, either for model, for daughter of joy, +or for the mademoiselles of the stage any disposition to an amour or a +misalliance; and either would be interesting and sufficient! Models went +in and out of Ian’s studio and the studios of others, and Gaston chatted +with them at times; and once he felt the bare arm and bare breast of +a girl as she sat for a nymph, and said in an interested way that her +flesh was as firm and fine as a Tongan’s. He even disputed with his +uncle on the tints of her skin, on seeing him paint it in, showing +a fine eye for colour. But there was nothing more; he was impressed, +observant, interested--that was all. His uncle began to wonder if the +Englishman was, after all, deeper in the grain than the savage. He +contented himself with the belief that the most vigorous natures are the +most difficult to rouse. Mademoiselle Cerise sang, with chic and abandon +very fascinating to his own sensuous nature, a song with a charming air +and sentiment. It was after a night at the opera when they had seen her +in “Lucia,” and the contrast, as she sang in his garden, softly lighted, +showed her at the most attractive angles. She drifted from a sparkling +chanson to the delicate pathos of a song of De Musset’s. + +Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman--no. He had seen a new +life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could +still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had +come to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle +Cerise said to Ian at last: + +“Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no +matter.” + +She made another effort to interest him, however. It galled her that he +did not fall at her feet as others had done. Even Ian had come there +in his day, but she knew him too well. She had said to him at the time: +“You, monsieur? No, thank you. A week, a month, and then the brute in +you would out. You make a woman fond, and then--a mat for your feet, and +your wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol +or the Seine. Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing +more. I will sing to you, dance to you, even pray for you--we poor +sinners do that sometimes, and go on sinning; but, again, nothing more.” + +Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been +good friends. He had told her of his nephew’s coming, had hinted at his +fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him, +even at marriage. She could not read his purpose, but she knew there +was something, and answering him with a yes, had waited. Had Gaston have +come to her feet she would probably have got at the truth somehow, and +have worked in his favour--the joy vice takes to side with virtue, at +times--when it is at no personal sacrifice. But Gaston was superior in +a grand way. He was simple, courteous, interested only. This stung her, +and she would bring him to his knees, if she could. This night she had +rung all the changes, and had done no more than get his frank applause. +She became petulant in an airy, exacting way. She asked him about his +horse. This interested him. She wanted to see it. To-morrow? No, no, +now. Perhaps to-morrow she would not care to; there was no joy in +deliberate pleasure. Now--now--now! He laughed. Well then, now, as she +wished! + +Jacques was called. She said to him: + +“Come here, little comrade.” Jacques came. “Look at me,” she added. +She fixed her eyes on him, and smiled. She was in the soft flare of the +lights. + +“Well,” she said after a moment, “what do you think of me?” + +Jacques was confused. “Madame is beautiful.” + +“The eyes?” she urged. + +“I have been to Gaspe, and west to Esquimault, and in England, but I +have never seen such as those,” he said. Race and primitive man spoke +there. + +She laughed. “Come closer, little man.” + +He did so. She suddenly rose, dropped her hands on his shoulders, and +kissed his cheek. + +“Now bring the horse, and I will kiss him too.” + +Did she think she could rouse Gaston by kissing his servant? Yet it did +not disgust him. He knew it was a bit of acting, and it was well done. +Besides, Jacques Brillon was not a mere servant, and he, too, had done +well. She sat back and laughed lightly when Jacques was gone. Then she +said: “The honest fellow!” and hummed an air: + + “‘The pretty coquette + Well she needs to be wise, + Though she strike to the heart + By a glance of her eyes. + + “‘For the daintiest bird + Is the sport of the storm, + And the rose fadeth most + When the bosom is warm.’” + +In twenty minutes the gate of the garden opened, and Jacques appeared +with Saracen. The horse’s black skin glistened in the lights, and he +tossed his head and champed his bit. Gaston rose. Mademoiselle Cerise +sprang to her feet and ran forward. Jacques put out his hand to stop +her, and Gaston caught her shoulder. “He’s wicked with strangers,” + Gaston said. “Chat!” she rejoined, stepped quickly to the horse’s +head and, laughing, put out her hand to stroke him. Jacques caught the +beast’s nose, and stopped a lunge of the great white teeth. + +“Enough, madame, he will kill you!” + +“Yet I am beautiful--is it not so?” + +“The poor beast is ver’ blind.” + +“A pretty compliment,” she rejoined, yet angry at the beast. + +Gaston came, took the animal’s head in his hands, and whispered. Saracen +became tranquil. Gaston beckoned to Mademoiselle Cerise. She came. He +took her hand in his and put it at the horse’s lips. The horse whinnied +angrily at first, but permitted a caress from the actress’s fingers. + +“He does not make friends easily,” said Gaston. “Nor does his master.” + +Her eyes lifted to his, the lids drooping suggestively. “But when the +pact is made--!” + +“Till death us do part?” + +“Death or ruin.” + +“Death is better.” + +“That depends!” + +“Ah! I understand,” she said. + +“On--the woman?” + +“Yes.” + +Then he became silent. “Mount the horse,” she urged. + +Gaston sprang at one bound upon the horse’s bare back. Saracen reared +and wheeled. + +“Splendid!” she said; then, presently: “Take me up with you.” + +He looked doubting for a moment, then whispered to the horse. + +“Come quickly,” he said. + +She came to the side of the horse. He stooped, caught her by the waist, +and lifted her up. Saracen reared, but Gaston had him down in a moment. + +Ian Belward suddenly called out: + +“For God’s sake, keep that pose for five minutes--only five!” He caught +up some canvas. “Hold candles near them,” he said to the others. They +did so. With great swiftness he sketched in the strange picture. It +looked weird, almost savage: Gaston’s large form, his legs loose at the +horse’s side, the woman in her white drapery clinging to him. + +In a little time the artist said: + +“There; that will do. Ten such sittings and my ‘King of Ys’ will have +its day with the world. I’d give two fortunes for the chance of it.” + +The woman’s heart had beat fast with Gaston’s arm around her. He felt +the thrill of the situation. Man, woman, and horse were as of a piece. + +But Cerise knew, when Gaston let her to the ground again, that she had +not conquered. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED + +Next morning Gaston was visited by Meyerbeer the American journalist, of +whose profession he was still ignorant. He saw him only as a man of raw +vigour of opinion, crude manners, and heavy temperament. He had not been +friendly to him at night, and he was surprised at the morning visit. The +hour was such that Gaston must ask him to breakfast. The two were soon +at the table of the Hotel St. Malo. Meyerbeer sniffed the air when he +saw the place. The linen was ordinary, the rooms small; but all--he did +not take this into account--irreproachably clean. The walls were covered +with pictures; some taken for unpaid debts, gifts from students since +risen to fame or gone into the outer darkness,--to young artists’ eyes, +the sordid moneymaking world,--and had there been lost; from a great +artist or two who remembered the days of his youth and the good host who +had seen many little colonies of artists come and go. + +They sat down to the table, which was soon filled with students and +artists. Then Meyerbeer began to see, not only an interesting thing, but +“copy.” He was, in fact, preparing a certain article which, as he said +to himself, would “make ‘em sit up” in London and New York. He had +found out Gaston’s history, had read his speech in the Commons, had seen +paragraphs speculating as to where he was; and now he, Salem Meyerbeer, +would tell them what the wild fellow was doing. The Bullier, the +cafes in the Latin Quarter, apartments in a humble street, dining for +one-franc-fifty, supping with actresses, posing for the King of Ys with +that actress in his arms--all excellent in their way. But now there was +needed an entanglement, intrigue, amour, and then America should shriek +at his picture of one of the British aristocracy, and a gentleman of the +Commons, “on the loose,” as he put it. + +He would head it: + + “ARISTOCRAT, POLITICIAN, LIBERTINE!” + +Then, under that he would put: + + “CAN THE ETHIOPIAN CHANGE HIS SKIN, OR THE + LEOPARD HIS SPOTS?” Jer. xi. 23. + +The morality of such a thing? Morality only had to do with ruining a +girl’s name, or robbery. How did it concern this? + +So Mr. Meyerbeer kept his ears open. Presently one of the students said +to Bagshot, a young artist: “How does the dompteuse come on?” + +“Well, I think it’s chic enough. She’s magnificent. The colour of her +skin against the lions was splendid to-day: a regular rich gold with a +sweet stain of red like a leaf of maize in September. There’s never been +such a Una. I’ve got my chance; and if I don’t pull it off, + + ‘Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket, + And say a poor buffer lies low!’” + +“Get the jacket ready,” put in a young Frenchman, sneering. + +The Englishman’s jaw hardened, but he replied coolly + +“What do you know about it?” + +“I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her.” + +“How the devil does that concern my painting her?” There was iron in +Bagshot’s voice. + +“Who says you are painting her?” + +The insult was conspicuous. Gaston quickly interposed. His clear strong +voice rang down the table: “Will you let me come and see your canvas +some day soon, Mr. Bagshot? I remember your picture ‘A Passion in the +Desert,’ at the Academy this year. A fine thing: the leopard was free +and strong. As an Englishman, I am proud to meet you.” + +The young Frenchman stared. The quarrel had passed to a new and +unexpected quarter. Gaston’s large, solid body, strong face, and +penetrating eyes were not to be sneered out of sight. The Frenchman, an +envious, disappointed artist, had had in his mind a bloodless duel, to +give a fillip to an unacquired fame. He had, however, been drinking. He +flung an insolent glance to meet Gaston’s steady look, and said: + +“The cock crows of his dunghill!” + +Gaston looked at the landlord, then got up calmly and walked down the +table. The Frenchman, expecting he knew not what, sprang to his feet, +snatching up a knife; but Gaston was on him like a hawk, pinioning his +arms and lifting him off the ground, binding his legs too, all so tight +that the Frenchman squealed for breath. + +“Monsieur,” said Gaston to the landlord, “from the door or the window?” + +The landlord was pale. It was in some respects a quarrel of races. For, +French and English at the tables had got up and were eyeing each other. +As to the immediate outcome of the quarrel, there could be no doubt. +The English and Americans could break the others to pieces; but neither +wished that. The landlord decided the matter: + +“Drop him from this window.” + +He pushed a shutter back, and Gaston dropped the fellow on the hard +pavement--a matter of five feet. The Frenchman got up raging, and made +for the door; but this time he was met by the landlord, who gave him his +hat, and bade him come no more. There was applause from both English and +French. The journalist chuckled--another column! + +Gaston had acted with coolness and common-sense; and when he sat down +and began talking of the Englishman’s picture again as if nothing had +happened, the others followed, and the meal went on cheerfully. + +Presently another young English painter entered, and listened to the +conversation, which Gaston brought back to Una and the lions. It was his +way to force things to his liking, if possible; and he wanted to hear +about the woman--why, he did not ask himself. The new arrival, Fancourt +by name, kept looking at him quizzically. Gaston presently said that he +would visit the menagerie and see this famous dompteuse that afternoon. + +“She’s a brick,” said Bagshot. “I was in debt, a year behind with my +Pelletier here, and it took all I got for ‘A Passion in the Desert’ to +square up. I’d nothing to go on with. I spent my last sou in visiting +the menagerie. There I got an idea. I went to her, told her how I was +fixed, and begged her to give me a chance. By Jingo! she brought the +water to my eyes. Some think she’s a bit of a devil; but she can be a +devil of a saint, that’s all I’ve got to say.” + +“Zoug-Zoug’s responsible for the devil,” said Fancourt to Bagshot. + +“Shut up, Fan,” rejoined Bagshot, hurriedly, and then whispered to him +quickly. + +Fancourt sent self-conscious glances down the table towards Gaston; and +then a young American, newly come to Paris, said: + +“Who’s Zoug-Zoug, and what’s Zoug-Zoug?” + +“It’s milk for babes, youngster,” answered Bagshot quickly, and changed +the conversation. + +Gaston saw something strange in the little incident; but he presently +forgot it for many a day, and then remembered it for many a day, when +the wheel had spun through a wild arc. + +When they rose from the table, Meyerbeer went to Bagshot, and said: + +“Say, who’s Zoug-Zoug, anyway?” Bagshot coolly replied: + +“I’m acting for another paper. What price?” + +“Fifty dollars,” in a low voice, eagerly. Bagshot meditated. + +“H’m, fifty dollars! Two hundred and fifty francs, or thereabouts. +Beggarly!” + +“A hundred, then.” + +Bagshot got to his feet, lighting a cigarette. + +“Want to have a pretty story against a woman, and to smutch a man, do +you? Well, I’m hard up; I don’t mind gossip among ourselves; but sell +the stuff to you--I’ll see you damned first!” + +This was said sufficiently loud; and after that, Meyerbeer could not ask +Fancourt, so he departed with Gaston, who courteously dismissed him, +to his astonishment and regret, for he had determined to visit the +menagerie with his quarry. + +Gaston went to his apartments, and cheerily summoned Jacques. + +“Now, little man, for a holiday! The menagerie: lions, leopards, and a +grand dompteuse; and afterwards dinner with me at the Cafe Blanche. +I want a blow-out of lions and that sort. I’d like to be a lion-tamer +myself for a month, or as long as might be.” + +He caught Jacques by the shoulders--he had not done so since that +memorable day at Ridley Court. “See, Jacques, we’ll do this every year. +Six months in England, and three months on the Continent,--in your +France, if you like,--and three months in the out-of-the-wayest place, +where there’ll be big game. Hidalgos for six months, Goths for the +rest.” + +A half-hour later they were in the menagerie. They sat near the +doors where the performers entered. For a long time they watched +the performance with delight, clapping and calling bravo like +boys. Presently the famous dompteuse entered,--Mademoiselle +Victorine,--passing just below Gaston. He looked down, interested, +at the supple, lithe creature making for the cages of lions in the +amphitheatre. The figure struck him as familiar. Presently the girl +turned, throwing a glance round the theatre. He caught the dash of the +dark, piercing eyes, the luminous look, the face unpainted--in its own +natural colour: neither hot health nor paleness, but a thing to bear the +light of day. “Andree the gipsy!” he exclaimed in a low tone. + +In less than two years this! Here was fame. A wanderer, an Ishmael then, +her handful of household goods and her father in the grasp of the Law: +to-day, Mademoiselle Victorine, queen of animal-tamers! And her name +associated with the Comte Ploare! + +With the Comte Ploare? Had it come to that? He remembered the look in +her face when he bade her good-bye. Impossible! Then, immediately he +laughed. + +Why impossible? And why should he bother his head about it? People +of this sort: Mademoiselle Cerise, Madame Juliette, Mademoiselle +Victorine--what were they to him, or to themselves? + +There flashed through his brain three pictures: when he stood by the +bedside of the old dying Esquimaux in Labrador, and took a girl’s hand +in his; when among the flowers at Peppingham he heard Delia say: “Oh, +Gaston! Gaston!” and Alice’s face at midnight in the moonlit window at +Ridley Court. + +How strange this figure--spangled, gaudy, standing among her +lions--seemed by these. To think of her, his veins thumping thus, was +an insult to all three: to Delia, one unpardonable. And yet he could not +take his eyes off her. Her performance was splendid. He was interested, +speculative. She certainly had flown high; for, again, why should not a +dompteuse be a decent woman? And here were money, fame of a kind, and an +occupation that sent his blood bounding. A dompteur! He had tamed moose, +and young mountain lions, and a catamount, and had had mad hours with +pumas and arctic bears; and he could understand how even he might easily +pass from M.P. to dompteur. It was not intellectual, but it was power +of a kind; and it was decent, and healthy, and infinitely better than +playing the Jew in business, or keeping a tavern, or “shaving” notes, +and all that. Truly, the woman was to be admired, for she was earning +an honest living; and no doubt they lied when they named her with Count +Ploare. He kept coming back to that--Count Ploare! Why could they not +leave these women alone? Did they think none of them virtuous? He would +stake his life that Andree--he would call her that--was as straight as +the sun. + +“What do you think of her, Jacques?” he said suddenly. + +“It is grand. Mon Dieu, she is wonderful--and a face all fire!” + +Presently she came out of the cage, followed by two great lions. She +walked round the ring, a hand on the head of each: one growling, the +other purring against her, with a ponderous kind of affection. She +talked to them as they went, giving occasionally a deep purring sound +like their own. Her talk never ceased. She looked at the audience, +but only as in a dream. Her mind was all with the animals. There was +something splendid in it: she, herself, was a noble animal; and she +seemed entirely in place where she was. The lions were fond of her, and +she of them; but the first part of her performance had shown that they +could be capricious. A lion’s love is but a lion’s love after all--and +hers likewise, no doubt! The three seemed as one in their beauty, the +woman superbly superior. Meyerbeer, in a far corner, was still on the +trail of his sensation. He thought that he might get an article out of +it--with the help of Count Ploare and Zoug-Zoug. Who was Zoug-Zoug? He +exulted in her picturesqueness, and he determined to lie in wait. +He thought it a pity that Comte Ploare was not an Englishman or an +American; but it couldn’t be helped. Yes, she was, as he said to +himself, “a stunner.” Meanwhile he watched Gaston, noted his intense +interest. + +Presently the girl stopped beside the cage. A chariot was brought out, +and the two lions were harnessed to it. Then she called out another +larger lion, which came unwillingly at first. She spoke sharply, and +then struck him. He growled, but came on. Then she spoke softly to him, +and made that peculiar purr, soft and rich. Now he responded, walked +round her, coming closer, till his body made a half-circle about +her, and his head was at her knees. She dropped her hand on it. Great +applause rang through the building. This play had been quite accidental. +But there lay one secret of the girl’s success. She was original; she +depended greatly on the power of the moment for her best effects, and +they came at unexpected times. + +It was at this instant that, glancing round the theatre in +acknowledgment of the applause, her eyes rested mechanically on Gaston’s +box. There was generally some one important in that box: from a foreign +prince to a young gentleman whose proudest moment was to take off his +hat in the Bois to the queen of a lawless court. She had tired of being +introduced to princes. What could it mean to her? And for the young +bloods, whose greatest regret was that they could not send forth a +daughter of joy into the Champs Elysee in her carriage, she had ever +sent them about their business. She had no corner of pardon for them. +She kissed her lions, she hugged the lion’s cub that rode back and +forth with her to the menagerie day by day--her companion in her modest +apartments; but sell one of these kisses to a young gentleman of Paris, +whose ambition was to master all the vices, and then let the vices +master him!--she had not come to that, though, as she said in some +bitter moments, she had come far. + +Count Ploare--there was nothing in that. A blase man of the world, +who had found it all not worth the bothering about, neither code nor +people--he saw in this rich impetuous nature a new range of emotions, a +brief return to the time when he tasted an open strong life in Algiers, +in Tahiti. And he would laugh at the world by marrying her--yes, +actually marrying her, the dompteuse! Accident had let him render her +a service, not unimportant, once at Versailles, and he had been so +courteous and considerate afterwards, that she had let him see her +occasionally, but never yet alone. He soon saw that an amour was +impossible. At last he spoke of marriage. She shook her head. She ought +to have been grateful, but she was not. Why should she be? She did +not know why he wished to marry her; but, whatever the reason, he was +selfish. Well, she would be selfish. She did not care for him. If she +married him, it would be because she was selfish: because of position, +ease; for protection in this shameless Paris; and for a home, she who +had been a wanderer since her birth. + +It was mere bargaining. But at last her free, independent nature +revolted. No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of +man, for three months that were burned into her brain--no more! If +ever she loved--all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the +affection she gave her lions freely. + +The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered +a price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as +such a man could be. She even visited his wife occasionally, and gave +gifts to his children; and the mother trusted her and told her her +trials. And so the thing went on, and the people talked. + +As we said, she turned her eyes to Gaston’s box. Instantly they became +riveted, and then a deep flush swept slowly up her face and burned into +her splendid hair. Meyerbeer was watching through his opera-glasses. He +gave an exclamation of delight: + +“By the holy smoke, here’s something!” he said aloud. + +For an instant Gaston and the girl looked at each other intently. He +made a slight sign of recognition with his hand, and then she turned +away, gone a little pale now. She stood looking at her lions, as if +trying to recollect herself. The lion at her feet helped her. He had +a change of temper, and, possibly fretting under inaction, growled. At +once she summoned him to get into the chariot. He hesitated, but did so. +She put the reins in his paws and took her place behind. Then a robe +of purple and ermine was thrown over her shoulders by an attendant; +she gave a sharp command, and the lions came round the ring, to wild +applause. Even a Parisian audience had never seen anything like this. It +was amusing too; for the coachman-lion was evidently disgusted with his +task, and growled in a helpless kind of way. + +As they passed Gaston’s box, they were very near. The girl threw one +swift glance; but her face was well controlled now. She heard, however, +a whispered word come to her: + +“Andree!” + +A few moments afterwards she retired, and the performance was in other +and less remarkable hands. Presently the manager himself came, and said +that Mademoiselle Victorine would be glad to see Monsieur Belward if he +so wished. Gaston left Jacques, and went. + +Meyerbeer noticed the move, and determined to see the meeting if +possible. There was something in it, he was sure. He would invent an +excuse, and make his way behind. + +Gaston and the manager were in the latter’s rooms waiting for Victorine. +Presently a messenger came, saying that Monsieur Belward would find +Mademoiselle in her dressing-room. Thither Gaston went, accompanied by +the manager, who, however, left him at the door, nodding good-naturedly +to Victorine, and inwardly praying that here was no danger to his +business, for Victorine was a source of great profit. Yet he had failed +himself, and all others had failed in winning her--why should this man +succeed, if that was his purpose? + +There was present an elderly, dark-featured Frenchwoman, who was always +with Victorine, vigilant, protective, loving her as her own daughter. + +“Monsieur!” said Andree, a warm colour in her cheek. Gaston shook her +hand cordially, and laughed. “Mademoiselle--Andree?” + +He looked inquiringly. “Yes, to you,” she said. + +“You have it all your own way now--isn’t it so?” + +“With the lions, yes. Please sit down. This is my dear keeper,” she +said, touching the woman’s shoulder. Then, to the woman: “Annette, you +have heard me speak of this gentleman?” + +The woman nodded, and modestly touched Gaston’s outstretched hand. + +“Monsieur was kind once to my dear Mademoiselle,” she said. + +Gaston cheerily smiled: + +“Nothing, nothing, upon my word!” Presently he continued: + +“Your father, what of him?” She sighed and shivered a little. + +“He died in Auvergne three months after you saw him.” + +“And you?” He waved a hand towards the menagerie. + +“It is a long story,” she answered, not meeting his eyes. “I hated the +Romany life. I became an artist’s model; sickened of that,”--her voice +went quickly here, “joined a travelling menagerie, and became what I am. +That in brief.” + +“You have done well,” he said admiringly, his face glowing. + +“I am a successful dompteuse,” she replied. + +She then asked him who was his companion in the box. He told her. +She insisted on sending for Jacques. Meanwhile they talked of her +profession, of the animals. She grew eloquent. Jacques arrived, and +suddenly remembered Andree--stammered, was put at his ease, and dropped +into talk with Annette. Gaston fell into reminiscences of wild game, and +talked intelligently, acutely of her work. He must wait, she said, until +the performance closed, and then she would show him the animals as a +happy family. Thus a half-hour went by. + +Meanwhile, Meyerbeer had asked the manager to take him to Mademoiselle; +but was told that Victorine never gave information to journalists, and +would not be interviewed. Besides, she had a visitor. Yes, Meyerbeer +knew it--Mr. Gaston Belward; but that did not matter. The manager +thought it did matter. Then, with an idea of the future, Meyerbeer asked +to be shown the menagerie thoroughly--he would write it up for England +and America. + +And so it happened that there were two sets of people inspecting the +menagerie after the performance. Andree let a dozen of the animals +out--lions, leopards, a tiger, and a bear,--and they gambolled round her +playfully, sometimes quarrelling with each other, but brought up smartly +by her voice and a little whip, which she always carried--the only sign +of professional life about her, though there was ever a dagger hid in +her dress. For the rest, she looked a splendid gipsy. + +Gaston suddenly asked if he might visit her. At the moment she was +playing with the young tiger. She paused, was silent, preoccupied. The +tiger, feeling neglected, caught her hand with its paw, tearing the +skin. Gaston whipped out his handkerchief, and stanched the blood. She +wrapped the handkerchief quickly round her hand, and then, recovering +herself, ordered the animals back into their cages. They trotted away, +and the attendant locked them up. Meanwhile Jacques had picked up and +handed to Gaston a letter, dropped when he drew out his handkerchief. It +was one received two days before from Delia Gasgoyne. He had a pang of +confusion, and hastily put it into his pocket. + +Up to this time there had been no confusion in his mind. He was going +back to do his duty; to marry the girl, union with whom would be an +honour; to take his place in his kingdom. He had had no minute’s doubt +of that. It was necessary, and it should be done. The girl? Did he not +admire her, honour her, care for her? Why, then, this confusion? + +Andree said to him that he might come the next morning for breakfast. +She said it just as the manager and Meyerbeer passed her. Meyerbeer +heard it, and saw the look in the faces of both: in hers, bewildered, +warm, penetrating; in Gaston’s, eager, glowing, bold, with a distant +kind of trouble. + +Here was a thickening plot for Paul Pry. He hugged himself. But who was +Zoug-Zoug? If he could but get at that! He asked the manager, who said +he did not know. He asked a dozen men that evening, but none knew. He +would ask Ian Belward. What a fool not to have thought of him at first. +He knew all the gossip of Paris, and was always communicative--but was +he, after all? He remembered now that the painter had a way of talking +at discretion: he had never got any really good material from him. But +he would try him in this. + +So, as Gaston and Jacques travelled down the Boulevard Montparnasse, +Meyerbeer was not far behind. The journalist found Ian Belward at home, +in a cynical indolent mood. + +“Wherefore Meyerbeer?” he said, as he motioned the other to a chair, and +pushed over vermouth and cigarettes. + +“To ask a question.” + +“One question? Come, that’s penance. Aren’t you lying as usual?” + +“No; one only. I’ve got the rest of it.” + +“Got the rest of it, eh? Nasty mess you’ve got, whatever it is, I’ll be +bound. What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers!” + +“That’s all right. This vermouth is good enough. Well, will you answer +my question?” + +“Possibly, if it’s not personal. But Lord knows where your insolence may +run! You may ask if I’ll introduce you to a decent London club!” + +Meyerbeer flushed at last. + +“You’re rubbing it in,” he said angrily. + +He did wish to be introduced to a good London club. “The question isn’t +personal, I guess. It’s this: Who’s Zoug-Zoug?” + +Smoke had come trailing out of Belward’s nose, his head thrown back, his +eyes on the ceiling. It stopped, and came out of his mouth on one long, +straight whiff. Then the painter brought his head to a natural position +slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said: + +“Who is what?” + +“Who’s Zoug-Zoug?” + +“That is your one solitary question, is it?” + +“That’s it.” + +“Very well. Now, I’ll be scavenger. What is the story? Who is the +woman--for you’ve got a woman in it, that’s certain?” + +“Will you tell me, then, whether you know Zoug-Zoug?” + +“Yes.” + +“The woman is Mademoiselle Victorine, the dompteuse.” + +“Ah, I’ve not seen her yet. She burst upon Paris while I was away. Now, +straight: no lies: who are the others?” + +Meyerbeer hesitated; for, of course, he did not wish to speak of Gaston +at this stage in the game. But he said: + +“Count Ploare--and Zoug-Zoug.” + +“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” + +“I do. Now, who is Zoug-Zoug?” + +“Find out.” + +“You said you’d tell me.” + +“No. I said I’d tell you if I knew Zoug-Zoug. I do.” + +“That’s all you’ll tell me?” + +“That’s all. And see, scavenger, take my advice and let Zoug-Zoug alone. +He’s a man of influence; and he’s possessed of a devil. He’ll make you +sorry, if you meddle with him!” + +He rose, and Meyerbeer did the same, saying: “You’d better tell me.” + +“Now, don’t bother me. Drink your vermouth, take that bundle of +cigarettes, and hunt Zoug-Zoug else where. If you find him, let me know. +Good-bye.” + +Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic. + +“I’ll give a sweet savour to your family name,” he said with an oath, as +he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at +the ceiling reflectively. + +“H’m!” he said at last. “What the devil does this mean? Not Andree, +surely not Andree! Yet I wasn’t called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was +Bagshot’s insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!” + +He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, +put them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half +quizzically. + +“It was rough on you, Andree; but you were hard to please, and I am +constant to but one. Yet, begad, you had solid virtues; and I wish, for +your sake, I had been a different kind of fellow. Well, well, we’ll meet +again some time, and then we’ll be good friends, no doubt.” + +He turned away from the sketches and picked up some illustrated +newspapers. In one was a portrait. He looked at it, then at the sketches +again and again. + +“There’s a resemblance,” he said. “But no, it’s not possible. +Andree-Mademoiselle Victorine! That would be amusing. I’d go to-morrow +and see, if I weren’t off to Fontainebleau. But there’s no hurry: when I +come back will do.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN + +At Ridley Court and Peppingham all was serene to the eye. Letters had +come to the Court at least once every two weeks from Gaston, and the +minds of the Baronet and his wife were at ease. They even went so far as +to hope that he would influence his uncle; for it was clear to them both +that whatever Gaston’s faults were, they were agreeably different from +Ian’s. His fame and promise were sweet to their nostrils. Indeed, the +young man had brought the wife and husband nearer than they had +been since Robert vanished over-sea. Each had blamed the other in an +indefinite, secret way; but here was Robert’s son, on whom they could +lavish--as they did--their affection, long since forfeited by Ian. +Finally, one day, after a little burst of thanksgiving, on getting an +excellent letter from Gaston, telling of his simple, amusing life in +Paris, Sir William sent him one thousand pounds, begging him to buy a +small yacht, or to do what he pleased with it. + +“A very remarkable man, my dear,” Sir William said, as he enclosed the +cheque. “Excellent wisdom--excellent!” + +“Who could have guessed that he knew so much about the poor and the +East End, and all those social facts and figures?” Lady Belward answered +complacently. + +“An unusual mind, with a singular taste for history, and yet a deep +observation of the present. I don’t know when and how he does it. I +really do not know.” + +“It is nice to think that Lord Faramond approves of him.” + +“Most noticeable. And we have not been a Parliamentary family since +the first Charles’s time. And then it was a Gaston. Singular--quite +singular! Coincidences of looks and character. Nature plays strange +games. Reproduction--reproduction!” + +“The Pall Mall Gazette says that he may soon reach the Treasury Bench.” + +Sir William was abstracted. He was thinking of that afternoon in +Gaston’s bedroom, when his grandson had acted, before Lady Dargan and +Cluny Vosse, Sir Gaston’s scene with Buckingham. + +“Really, most mysterious, most unaccountable. But it’s one of the +virtues of having a descent. When it is most needed, it counts, it +counts.” + +“Against the half-breed mother!” Lady Belward added. + +“Quite so, against the--was it Cree or Blackfoot? I’ve heard him speak +of both, but which is in him I do not remember.” + +“It is very painful; but, poor fellow, it is not his fault, and we ought +to be content.” + +“Indeed, it gives him great originality. Our old families need +refreshing now and then.” + +“Ah, yes, I said so to Mrs. Gasgoyne the other day, and she replied that +the refreshment might prove intoxicating. Reine was always rude.” + +Truth is, Mrs. Gasgoyne was not quite satisfied. That very day she said +to her husband: + +“You men always stand by each other; but I know you, and you know that I +know.” + +“‘Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts’; well, then, you know how we +love you. So, be merciful.” + +“Nonsense, Warren! I tell you he oughtn’t to have gone when he did. He +has the wild man in him, and I am not satisfied.” + +“What do you want--me to play the spy?” + +“Warren, you’re a fool! What do I want? I want the first of September +to come quickly, that we may have him with us. With Delia he must go +straight. She influences him, he admires her--which is better than mere +love. Away from her just now, who can tell what mad adventure--! You +see, he has had the curb so long!” + +But in a day or two there came a letter-unusually long for Gaston--to +Mrs. Gasgoyne herself. It was simple, descriptive, with a dash of +epigram. It acknowledged that he had felt the curb, and wanted a touch +of the unconventional. It spoke of Ian Belward in a dry phrase, and it +asked for the date of the yacht’s arrival at Gibraltar. + +“Warren, the man is still sensible,” she said. “This letter is honest. +He is much a heathen at heart, but I believe he hasn’t given Delia cause +to blush--and that’s a good deal! Dear me, I am fond of the fellow--he +is so clever. But clever men are trying.” + +As for Delia, like every sensible English girl, she enjoyed herself in +the time of youth, drinking in delightedly the interest attaching +to Gaston’s betrothed. His letters had been regular, kind yet not +emotionally affectionate, interesting, uncommon. He had a knack of +saying as much in one page as most people did in five. Her imagination +was not great, but he stimulated it. If he wrote a pungent line on +Daudet or Whistler, on Montaigne or Fielding, she was stimulated to know +them. One day he sent her Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, which he had picked +up in New York on his way to England. This startled her. She had +never heard of Whitman. To her he seemed coarse, incomprehensible, +ungentlemanly. She could not understand how Gaston could say beautiful +things about Montaigne and about Whitman too. She had no conception how +he had in him the strain of that first Sir Gaston Belward, and was also +the son of a half-heathen. + +He interested her all the more. Her letters were hardly so fascinating +to him. She was beautifully correct, but she could not make a sentence +breathe. He was grateful, but nothing stirred in him. He could live +without her--that he knew regretfully. But he did his part with sincere +intention. + +That was up to the day when he saw Andree as Mademoiselle Victorine. +Then came a swift change. Day after day he visited her, always in the +presence of Annette. Soon they dined often together, still in Annette’s +presence, and the severity of that rule was never relaxed. + +Count Ploare came no more; he had received his dismissal. Occasionally +Gaston visited the menagerie, but generally after the performance, when +Victorine had a half-hour’s or an hour’s romp with her animals. This was +a pleasant time to Gaston. The wild life in him responded. + +These were hours when the girl was quite naive and natural, when she +spent herself in ripe enjoyment--almost child-like, healthy. At other +times there was an indefinable something which Gaston had not noticed in +England. But then he had only seen her once. She, too, saw something in +him unnoticed before. It was on his tongue a hundred times to tell her +that that something was Delia Gasgoyne. He did not. Perhaps because it +seemed so grotesque, perhaps because it was easier to drift. Besides, as +he said to himself, he would soon go to join the yacht at Gibraltar, +and all this would be over-over. All this? All what? A gipsy, a +dompteuse--what was she to him? She interested him, he liked her, and +she liked him, but there had been nothing more between them. Near as he +was to her now, he very often saw her in his mind’s eye as she passed +over Ridley Common, looking towards him, her eyes shaded by her hand. + +She, too, had continually said to herself that this man could be nothing +to her--nothing, never! Yet, why not? Count Ploare had offered her his +hand. But she knew what had been in Count Ploare’s mind. Gaston Belward +was different--he had befriended her father. She had not singular +scruples regarding men, for she despised most of them. She was not a +Mademoiselle Cerise, nor a Madame Juliette, though they were higher on +the plane of art than she; or so the world put it. She had not known a +man who had not, one time or another, shown himself common or insulting. +But since the first moment she had seen Gaston, he had treated her as a +lady. + +A lady? She had seen enough to smile at that. She knew that she hadn’t +it in her veins, that she was very much an actress, except in this man’s +company, when she was mostly natural--as natural as one can be who has +a painful secret. They had talked together--for how many hours? She +knew exactly. And he had never descended to that which--she felt +instinctively--he would not have shown to the ladies of his English +world. She knew what ladies were. In her first few weeks in Paris, +her fame mounting, she had lunched with some distinguished people, who +entertained her as they would have done one of her lions, if that +were possible. She understood. She had a proud, passionate nature; she +rebelled at this. Invitations were declined at first on pink note-paper +with gaudy flowers in a corner, afterwards on cream-laid vellum, when +she saw what the great folk did. + +And so the days went on, he telling her of his life from his boyhood +up--all but the one thing! But that one thing she came to know, partly +by instinct, partly by something he accidentally dropped, partly from +something Jacques once said to him. Well, what did it matter to her? He +would go back; she would remain. It didn’t matter.--Yet, why should she +lie to herself? It did matter. And why should she care about that girl +in England? She was not supposed to know. The other had everything in +her favour; what had Andree the gipsy girl, or Mademoiselle Victorine, +the dompteuse? + +One Sunday evening, after dining together, she asked him to take her +to see Saracen. It was a long-standing promise. She had never seen him +riding; for their hours did not coincide until the late afternoon +or evening. Taking Annette, they went to his new apartments. He +had furnished a large studio as a sitting-room, not luxuriantly but +pleasantly. It opened into a pretty little garden, with a few plants +and trees. They sat there while Jacques went for the horse. Next door +a number of students were singing a song of the boulevards. It was +followed by one in a woman’s voice, sweet and clear and passionate, +pitifully reckless. It was, as if in pure contradiction, the opposite of +the other--simple, pathetic. At first there were laughing interruptions +from the students; but the girl kept on, and soon silence prevailed, +save for the voice: + + “And when the wine is dry upon the lip, + And when the flower is broken by the hand, + And when I see the white sails of thy ship + Fly on, and leave me there upon the sand: + Think you that I shall weep? Nay, I shall smile: + The wine is drunk, the flower it is gone, + One weeps not when the days no more beguile, + How shall the tear-drops gather in a stone?” + +When it was ended, Andree, who had listened intently, drew herself up +with a little shudder. She sat long, looking into the garden, the cub +playing at her feet. Gaston did not disturb her. He got refreshments and +put them on the table, rolled a cigarette, and regarded the scene. Her +knee was drawn up slightly in her hands, her hat was off, her rich brown +hair fell loosely about her head, framing it, her dark eyes glowed under +her bent brows. The lion’s cub crawled up on the divan, and thrust its +nose under an arm. Its head clung to her waist. Who was she? thought +Gaston. Delilah, Cleopatra--who? She was lost in thought. She remained +so until the garden door opened, and Jacques entered with Saracen. + +She looked. Suddenly she came to her feet with a cry of delight, and +ran out towards the horse. There was something essentially child-like +in her, something also painfully wild-an animal, and a philosopher, and +twenty-three. + +Jacques put out his hand as he had done with Mademoiselle Cerise. + +“No, no; he is savage.” + +“Nonsense!” she rejoined, and came closer. + +Gaston watched, interested. He guessed what she would do. + +“A horse!” she added. “Why, you have seen my lions! Leave him free: +stand away from him.” + +Her words were peremptory, and Jacques obeyed. The horse stood alone, +a hoof pawing the ground. Presently it sprang away, then half-turned +towards the girl, and stood still. She kept talking to him and calling +softly, making a coaxing, animal-like sound, as she always did with her +lions. + +She stepped forward a little and paused. The horse suddenly turned +straight towards her, came over slowly, and, with arched neck, dropped +his head on her shoulder. She felt the folds of his neck and kissed him. +He followed her about the garden like a dog. She brought him to Gaston, +locked up, and said with a teasing look, “I have conquered him: he is +mine!” + +Gaston looked her in her eyes. “He is yours.” + +“And you?” + +“He is mine.” His look burned into her soul-how deep, how joyful! + +She turned away, her face going suddenly pale. She kept the horse for +some time, but at last gave him up again to Jacques. Gaston stepped from +the doorway into the garden and met her. It was now dusk. Annette was +inside. They walked together in silence for a time. Presently she drew +close to him. He felt his veins bounding. Her hand slid into his arm, +and, dark as it was, he could see her eyes lifting to his, shining, +profound. They had reached the end of the garden, and now turned to come +back again. + +Suddenly he said, his eyes holding hers: “The horse is yours--and mine.” + +She stood still; but he could see her bosom heaving hard. She threw up +her head with a sound half sob, half laugh.... + +“You are mad!” she said a moment afterwards, as she lifted her head from +his breast. + +He laughed softly, catching her cheek to his. “Why be sane? It was to +be.” + +“The gipsy and the gentleman?” + +“Gipsies all!” + +“And the end of it?” + +“Do you not love me, Andree?” She caught her hands over her eyes. + +“I do not know what it is--only that it is madness! I see, oh, I see a +hundred things.” + +Her hot eyes were on space. “What do you see?” he urged. She gave a +sudden cry: + +“I see you at my feet--dead.” + +“Better than you at mine, Andree.” + +“Let us go,” she said hurriedly. + +“Wait,” he whispered. + +They talked for a little time. Then they entered the studio. Annette was +asleep in her chair. Andree waked her, and they bade Gaston good-night. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. WHEREIN LOVE KNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN’S WILL. + +In another week it was announced that Mademoiselle Victorine would take +a month’s holiday; to the sorrow of her chief, and to the delight of Mr. +Meyerbeer, who had not yet discovered his man, though he had a pretty +scandal well-nigh brewed. + +Count Ploare was no more, Gaston Belward was. Zoug-Zoug was in the +country at Fontainebleau, working at his picture. He had left on the +morning after Gaston discovered Andree. He had written, asking his +nephew to come for some final sittings. Possibly, he said, Mademoiselle +Cerise and others would be down for a Sunday. Gaston had not gone, had +briefly declined. His uncle shrugged his shoulders, and went on with +other work. It would end in his having to go to Paris and finish the +picture there, he said. Perhaps the youth was getting into mischief? +So much the better. He took no newspapers.--What did an artist need of +them? He did not even read the notices sent by a press-cutting agency. +He had a model with him. She amused him for the time, but it was +unsatisfactory working on “The King of Ys” from photographs. He loathed +it, and gave it up. + +One evening Gaston and Andree met at the Gare Montparnasse. Jacques +was gone on, but Annette was there. Meyerbeer was there also, at a safe +distance. He saw Gaston purchase tickets, arrange his baggage, and enter +the train. He passed the compartment, looking in. Besides the three, +there was a priest and a young soldier. + +Gaston saw him, and guessed what brought him there. He had an impulse to +get out and shake him as would Andree’s cub a puppy. But the train moved +off. Meyerbeer found Gaston’s porter. A franc did the business. + +“Douarnenez, for Audierne, Brittany,” was the legend written in +Meyerbeer’s note-book. And after that: “Journey twenty hours--change at +Rennes, Redon, and Quimpere.” + +“Too far. I’ve enough for now,” said Meyerbeer, chuckling, as he walked +away. “But I’d give five hundred dollars to know who Zoug-Zoug is. I’ll +make another try.” + +So he held his sensation back for a while yet. Of the colony at the +Hotel St. Malo, not one of the three who knew would tell him. Bagshot +had sworn the others to secrecy. + +Jacques had gone on with the horses. He was to rent a house, or get +rooms at a hotel. He did very well. The horses were stalled at the Hotel +de France. He had rented an old chateau perched upon a hill, with steps +approaching, steps flanking; near it strange narrow alleys, leading +where one cared not to search; a garden of pears and figs, and grapes, +and innumerable flowers and an arbour; a pavilion, all windows, over +an entranceway, with a shrine in it--a be-starred shrine below it; bare +floors, simple furniture, primitiveness at every turn. + +Gaston and Andree came, of choice, with a courier in a racketing old +diligence from Douarnenez, and they laughed with delight, tired as they +were, at the new quarters. It must be a gipsy kind of existence at the +most. + +There were rooms for Jacques and Annette, who at once set to work with +the help of a little Breton maid. Jacques had not ordered a dinner at +the hotel, but had got in fresh fish, lobsters, chickens, eggs, and +other necessaries; and all was ready for a meal which could be got in an +hour. + +Jacques had now his hour of happiness. He knew not of these morals--they +were beyond him; but after a cheerful dinner in the pavilion, with an +omelette made by Andree herself, Annette went to her room and cried +herself to sleep. She was civilised, poor soul, and here they were +a stone’s throw from the cure and the church! Gaston and Andree, +refreshed, travelled down the long steps to the village, over the place, +along the quay, to the lighthouse and the beach, through crowds of +sardine fishers and simple hard-tongued Bretons. Cheerful, buoyant at +dinner, there now came upon the girl an intense quiet and fatigue. She +stood and looked long at the sea. Gaston tried to rouse her. + +“This is your native Brittany, Andree,” he said. She pointed far over +the sea: + +“Near that light at Penmark I was born.” + +“Can you speak the Breton language?” + +“Far worse than you speak Parisian French.” + +He laughed. “You are so little like these people!” + +She had vanity. That had been part of her life. Her beauty had brought +trade when she was a gipsy; she had been the admired of Paris: she was +only twenty three. Presently she became restless, and shrank from him. +Her eyes had a flitting hunted look. Once they met his with a wild +sort of pleading or revolt, he could not tell which, and then were +continually turned away. + +If either could have known how hard the little dwarf of sense and memory +was trying to tell her something. + +This new phase stunned him. What did it mean? He touched her hand. +It was hot, and withdrew from his. He put his arm around her, and she +shivered, cringed. But then she was a woman, he thought. He had met one +unlike any he had ever known. He would wait. He would be patient. Would +she come--home? She turned passively and took his arm. He talked, but he +knew he was talking poorly, and at last he became silent also. But when +they came to the steep steps leading to the chateau, he lifted her in +his arms, carried her to the house, and left her at their chamber-door. + +Then he went to the pavilion to smoke. He had no wish to think--at +least of anything but the girl. It was not a time for retrospect, but +to accept a situation. The die had been cast. He had followed what--his +nature, his instincts? The consequence? + +He heard Andree’s voice. He went to her. + +The next morning they were in the garden walking about. They had been +speaking, but now both were silent. At last he turned again to her. + +“Andree, who was the other man?” he asked quietly, but with a strange +troubled look in his eyes. + +She shrank away confused, a kind of sickness in her eyes. + +“What does it matter?” she said. + +“Of course, of course,” he returned in a low, nerveless tone. + +They were silent for a long time. Meanwhile, she seemed to beat up a +feverish cheerfulness. At last she said: + +“Where do we go this afternoon, Gaston?” + +“We will see,” he replied. + +The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was +impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned, +entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion to +redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much. + +They rode, they took excursions in fishing-boats and little sail-boats. +Andree entered into these with zest: talked to the sailors, to Jacques, +caressed children, and was not indifferent to the notice she attracted +in the village; but was obviously distrait. Gaston was patient--and +unhappy. So, this was the merchandise for which he had bartered all! +But he had a will, he was determined; he had sowed, he would reap his +harvest to the useless stubble. + +“Do you wish to go back to your work?” he said quietly, once. + +“I have no work,” she answered apathetically. He said no more just then. + +The days and weeks went by. The situation was impossible, not to be +understood. Gaston made his final move. He hoped that perhaps a forced +crisis might bring about a change. If it failed--he knew not what! She +was sitting in the garden below--he alone in the window, smoking. A +bundle of letters and papers, brought by the postman that evening, were +beside him. He would not open them yet. He felt that there was trouble +in them--he saw phrases, sentences flitting past him. But he would play +this other bitter game out first. He let them lie. He heard the bells in +the church ringing the village commerce done--it was nine o’clock. The +picture of that other garden in Paris came to him: that night when +he had first taken this girl into his arms. She sat below talking to +Annette and singing a little Breton chanson: + + “Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la lire! + Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la, la!” + +He called down to her presently. “Andree!” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you come up for a moment, please?” + +“Surely.” + +She came up, leaving the room door open, and bringing the cub with her. + +He called Jacques. + +“Take the cub to its quarters, Jacques,” he said, quietly. + +She seemed about to protest, but sat back and watched him. He shut the +door--locked it. Then he came and sat down before her. + +“Andree,” he said, “this is all impossible.” + +“What is impossible?” + +“You know well. I am not a mere brute. The only thing that can redeem +this life is love.” + +“That is true,” she said, coldly. “What then?” + +“You do not redeem it. We must part.” + +She laughed fitfully. “We must--?” + +She leaned towards him. + +“To-morrow evening you will go back to Paris. To-night we part, however: +that is, our relations cease.” + +“I shall go from here when it pleases me, Gaston!” + +His voice came low and stern, but courteous: + +“You must go when I tell you. Do you think I am the weaker?” + +He could see her colour flying, her fingers lacing and interlacing. + +“Aren’t you afraid to tell me that?” she asked. + +“Afraid? Of my life--you mean that? That you will be as common as that? +No: you will do as I tell you.” + +He fixed his eyes on hers, and held them. She sat, looking. Presently +she tried to take her eyes away. She could not. She shuddered and +shrank. + +He withdrew his eyes for a moment. “You will go?” he asked. + +“It makes no difference,” she answered; then added sharply: “Who are +you, to look at me like that, to--!” + +She paused. + +“I am your friend and your master!” + +He rose. “Good-night,” he said, at the door, and went out. + +He heard the key turn in the lock. He had forgotten his papers and +letters. It did not matter. He would read them when she was gone--if she +did go. He was far from sure that he had succeeded. He went to bed in +another room, and was soon asleep. + +He was waked in the very early morning by feeling a face against his, +wet, trembling. + +“What is it, Andree?” he asked. Her arms ran round his neck. + +“Oh, mon amour! Mon adore! Je t’aime! Je t’aime!” + +In the evening of this day she said she knew not how it was, but on that +first evening in Audierne there suddenly came to her a strange terrible +feeling, which seemed to dry up all the springs of her desire for him. +She could not help it. She had fought against it, but it was no use; yet +she knew that she could not leave him. After he had told her to go, she +had had a bitter struggle: now tears, now anger, and a wish to hate. At +last she fell asleep. When she awoke she had changed, she was her old +self, as in Paris, when she had first confessed her love. She felt that +she must die if she did not go to him. All the first passion returned, +the passion that began on the common at Ridley Court. “And now--now,” + she said, “I know that I cannot live without you.” + +It seemed so. Her nature was emptying itself. Gaston had got the +merchandise for which he had given a price yet to be known. + +“You asked me of the other man,” she said. “I will tell you.” + +“Not now,” he said. “You loved him?” + +“No--ah God, no!” she answered. + +An hour after, when she was in her room, he opened the little bundle of +correspondence.--A memorandum with money from his bankers. A letter from +Delia, and also one from Mrs. Gasgoyne, saying that they expected +to meet him at Gibraltar on a certain day, and asking why he had not +written; Delia with sorrowful reserve, Mrs. Gasgoyne with impatience. +His letters had missed them--he had written on leaving Paris, saying +that his plans were indefinite, but he would write them definitely soon. +After he came to Audierne it seemed impossible to write. How could he? +No, let the American journalist do it. Better so. Better himself in the +worst light, with the full penalty, than his own confession--in itself +an insult. So it had gone on. He slowly tore up the letters. The next +were from his grandfather and grandmother--they did not know yet. He +could not read them. A few loving sentences, and then he said: + +“What’s the good! Better not.” He tore them up also. Another--from his +uncle. It was brief: + + You’ve made a sweet mess of it, Cadet. It’s in all the papers + to-day. Meyerbeer telegraphed it to New York and London. I’ll + probably come down to see you. I want to finish my picture on the + site of the old City of Ys, there at Point du Raz. Your girl can + pose with you. I’ll do all I can to clear the thing up. But a + British M.P.--that’s a tough pill for Clapham! + +Gaston’s foot tapped the floor angrily. He scattered the pieces of the +letter at his feet. Now for the newspapers. He opened Le Petit Journal, +Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it +was there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation. +Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all +unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand: + +There was a previous friend of the lady, unknown to the public, called +Zoug-Zoug. + +He remembered that day at the Hotel St. Malo! Well, the bolt was shot: +the worst was over. Quid refert? Justify himself? + +Certainly, to all but Delia Gasgoyne. + +Thousands of men did the same--did it in cold blood, without one honest +feeling. He did it, at least under a powerful influence. He could not +help but smile now at the thought of how he had filled both sides of +the equation. On his father’s side, bringing down the mad record +from Naseby; on his mother’s, true to the heathen, by following his +impulses--sacred to primitive man, justified by spear, arrow, and +a strong arm. Why sheet home this as a scandal? How did they--the +libellers--know but that he had married the girl? Exactly. He would see +to that. He would play his game with open sincerity now. He could +have wished secrecy for Delia Gasgoyne, and for his grandfather and +grandmother,--he was not wilfully brutal,--but otherwise he had no shame +at all; he would stand openly for his right. Better one honest passion +than a life of deception and miserable compromise. A British M.P.?--He +had thrown away his reputation, said the papers. By this? The girl was +no man’s wife, he was no woman’s husband! + +Marry her? Yes, he would marry her; she should be his wife. His people? +It was a pity. Poor old people--they would fret and worry. He had been +selfish, had not thought of them? Well, who could foresee this outrage +of journalism? The luck had been dead against him. Did he not know +plenty of men in London--he was going to say the Commons, but he was +fairer to the Commons than it, as a body, would be to him--who did much +worse? These had escaped: the hunters had been after him. What would +he do? Take the whip? He got to his feet with an oath. Take the whip? +Never--never! He would fight this thing tooth and nail. Had he come +to England to let them use him for a sensation only--a sequence of +surprises, to end in a tragedy, all for the furtive pleasure of the +British breakfast-table? No, by the Eternal! What had the first Gaston +done? He had fought--fought Villiers and others, and had held up his +head beside his King and Rupert till the hour of Naseby. + +When the summer was over he would return to Paris, to London. The +journalist--punish him? No; too little--a product of his time. But the +British people he would fight, and he would not give up Ridley Court. +He could throw the game over when it was all his, but never when it was +going dead against him. + +That speech in the Commons? He remembered gladly that he had contended +for conceptions of social miseries according to surrounding influences +of growth and situation. He had not played the hypocrite. + +No, not even with Delia. He had acted honestly at the beginning, +and afterwards he had done what he could so long as he could. It was +inevitable that she must be hurt, even if he had married, not giving +her what he had given this dompteuse. After all, was it so terrible? It +could not affect her much in the eyes of the world. And her heart? He +did not flatter himself. Yet he knew that it would be the thing--the +fallen idol--that would grieve her more than thought of the man. He +wished that he could have spared her in the circumstances. But it had +all come too suddenly: it was impossible. He had spared, he could spare, +nobody. There was the whole situation. What now to do?--To remain here +while it pleased them, then Paris, then London for his fight. + +Three days went round. There were idle hours by the sea, little +excursions in a sail-boat to Penmark, and at last to Point du Raz. It +was a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze, and the point was glorified. +The boat ran in lightly between the steep dark shore and the comb of +reef that looked like a host of stealthy pumas crumbling the water. They +anchored in the Bay des Trepasses. An hour on shore exploring the caves, +and lunching, and then they went back to the boat, accompanied by a +Breton sailor, who had acted as guide. + +Gaston lay reading,--they were in the shade of the cliff,--while Andree +listened to the Breton tell the legends of the coast. At length Gaston’s +attention was attracted. The old sailor was pointing to the shore, and +speaking in bad French. + +“Voila, madame, where the City of Ys stood long before the Bretons came. +It was a foolish ride.” + +“I do not know the story. Tell me.” + +“There are two or three, but mine is the oldest. A flood came--sent by +the gods, for the woman was impious. The king must ride with her into +the sea and leave her there, himself to come back, and so save the +city.” + +The sailor paused to scan the sea--something had struck him. He shook +his head. Gaston was watching Andree from behind his book. + +“Well, well,” she said, impatiently, “what then? What did he do?” + +“The king took up the woman, and rode into the water as far as where you +see the great white stone--it has been there ever since. There he had +a fight--not with the woman, but in his heart. He turned to the people, +and cried: ‘Dry be your streets, and as ashes your eyes for your king!’ +And then he rode on with the woman till they saw him no more--never!” + Andree said instantly: + +“That was long ago. Now the king would ride back alone.” + +She did not look at Gaston, but she knew that his eyes were on her. +He closed the book, got up, came forward to the sailor, who was again +looking out to sea, and said carelessly over his shoulder: + +“Men who lived centuries ago would act the same now, if they were here.” + +Her response seemed quite as careless as his: “How do you know?” + +“Perhaps I had an innings then,” he answered, smiling whimsically. + +She was about to speak again, but the guide suddenly said: + +“You must get away. There’ll be a change of wind and a bad cross-current +soon.” + +In a few minutes the two were bearing out--none too soon, for those +pumas crowded up once or twice within a fathom of their deck, devilish +and devouring. But they wore away with a capricious current, and down a +tossing sea made for Audierne. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE + +In a couple of hours they rounded Point de Leroily, and ran for the +harbour. By hugging the quay in the channel to the left of the bar, they +were sure of getting in, though the tide was low. The boat was docile +to the lug-sail and the helm. As they were beating in they saw a large +yacht running straight across a corner of the bar for the channel. It +was Warren Gasgoyne’s Kismet. + +The Kismet had put into Audierne rather than try to pass Point du Raz +at night. At Gibraltar a telegram had come telling of the painful +sensation, and the yacht was instantly headed for England; Mrs. Gasgoyne +crossing the Continent, Delia preferring to go back with her father--his +sympathy was more tender. They had seen no newspapers, and they did not +know that Gaston was at Audierne. Gasgoyne knowing, as all the world +knew, that there was a bar at the mouth of the harbour, allowed himself, +as he thought, sufficient room, but the wind had suddenly drawn ahead, +and he was obliged to keep away. Presently the yacht took the ground +with great force. + +Gasgoyne put the helm hard down, but she would not obey. He tried at +once to get in his sails, but the surf was running very strong, and +presently a heavy sea broke clean over her. Then came confusion and +dismay: the flapping of the wet, half-lowered sails, and the whipping +of the slack ropes, making all effort useless. There was no chance +of her-holding. Foot by foot she was being driven towards the rocks. +Sailors stood motionless on the shore. The lifeboat would be of little +use: besides, it could not arrive for some time. + +Gaston had recognised the Kismet. He turned to Andree. + +“There’s danger, but perhaps we can do it. Will you go?” + +She flushed. + +“Have I ever been a coward, Gaston? Tell me what to do.” + +“Keep the helm firm, and act instantly on my orders.” + +Instead of coming round into the channel, he kept straight on past the +lighthouse towards the yacht, until he was something to seaward of her. +Then, luffing quickly, he dropped sail, let go the anchor, and unshipped +the mast, while Andree got the oars into the rowlocks. It was his idea +to dip under the yacht’s stern, but he found himself drifting alongside, +and in danger of dashing broadside on her. He got an oar and backed with +all his strength towards the stern, the anchor holding well. Then he +called to those on board to be ready to jump. Once in line with the +Kismet’s counter, he eased off the painter rapidly, and now dropped +towards the stern of the wreck. + +Gaston was quite cool. He did not now think of the dramatic nature of +this meeting, apart from the physical danger. Delia also had recognised +him, and guessed who the girl was. Not to respond to Gaston’s call was +her first instinct. But then, life was sweet. Besides, she had to think +of others. Her father, too, was chiefly concerned for her safety and for +his yacht. He had almost determined to get Delia on Gaston’s boat, and +himself take the chances with the Kismet; but his sailors dissuaded him, +declaring that the chances were against succour. + +The only greetings were words of warning and direction from Gaston. +Presently there was an opportunity. Gaston called sharply to Delia, and +she, standing ready, jumped. He caught her in his arms as she came. The +boat swayed as the others leaped, and he held her close meanwhile. Her +eyes closed, she shuddered and went white. When he put her down, she +covered her face with her hands, trembling. Then, suddenly she came +huddling in a heap, and burst into tears. + +They slipped the painter, a sailor took Andree’s place at the helm, the +oars were got out, and they made over to the channel, grazing the bar +once or twice, by reason of the now heavy load. + +Warren Gasgoyne and Gaston had not yet spoken in the way of greeting. +The former went to Delia now and said a few cheery words, but, from +behind her handkerchief, she begged him to leave her alone for a moment. + +“Nerves, all nerves, Mr. Belward,” he said, turning towards Gaston. +“But, then, it was ticklish-ticklish.” + +They did not shake hands. Gaston was looking at Delia, and he did not +reply. + +Mr. Gasgoyne continued: + +“Nasty sea coming on--afraid to try Point du Raz. Of course we didn’t +know you were here.” + +He looked at Andree curiously. He was struck by the girl’s beauty and +force. But how different from Delia! + +He suddenly turned, and said bluntly, in a low voice: “Belward, what +a fool--what a fool! You had it all at your feet: the best--the very +best.” + +Gaston answered quietly: + +“It’s an awkward time for talking. The rocks will have your yacht in +half an hour.” + +Gasgoyne turned towards it. + +“Yes, she’ll get a raking fore and aft.” Then, he added, suddenly: “Of +course you know how we feel about our rescue. It was plucky of you.” + +“Pluckier in the girl,” was the reply. “Brave enough,” the honest +rejoinder. + +Gaston had an impulse to say, “Shall I thank her for you?” but he was +conscious how little right he had to be ironical with Warren Gasgoyne, +and he held his peace. + +While the two were now turned away towards the Kismet, Andree came to +Delia. She did not quite know how to comfort her, but she was a woman, +and perhaps a supporting arm would do something. + +“There, there,” she said, passing a hand round her shoulder, “you are +all right now. Don’t cry!” + +With a gasp of horror, Delia got to her feet, but swayed, and fell +fainting--into Andree’s arms. + +She awoke near the landing-place, her father beside her. Meanwhile +Andree had read the riddle. As Mr. Gasgoyne bathed Delia’s face, and +Gaston her wrists, and gave her brandy, she sat still and intent, +watching. Tears and fainting! Would she--Andree-have given way like that +in the same circumstances? No. But this girl--Delia--was of a different +order: was that it? All nerves and sentiment! At one of those lunches +in the grand world she had seen a lady burst into tears suddenly at some +one’s reference to Senegal. She herself had only cried four times, +that she remembered; when her mother died; when her father was called a +thief; when, one day, she suffered the first great shame of her life in +the mountains of Auvergne; and the night when she waked a second time to +her love for Gaston. She dared to call it love, though good Annette had +called it a mortal sin. + +What was to be done? The other woman must suffer. + +The man was hers--hers for ever. He had said it: for ever. Yet her heart +had a wild hunger for that something which this girl had and she had +not. But the man was hers; she had won him away from this other. + +Delia came upon the quay bravely, passing through the crowd of staring +fishermen, who presently gave Gaston a guttural cheer. Three of them, +indeed, had been drinking his health. They embraced him and kissed him, +begging him to come with them for absinthe. He arranged the matter with +a couple of francs. + +Then he wondered what now was to be done. He could not insult the +Gasgoynes by asking them to come to the chateau. He proposed the Hotel +de France to Mr. Gasgoyne, who assented. It was difficult to separate +here on the quay: they must all walk together to the hotel. Gaston +turned to speak to Andree, but she was gone. She had saved the +situation. + +The three spoke little, and then but formally, as they walked to the +hotel. Mr. Gasgoyne said that they would leave by train for Paris the +next day, going to Douarnenez that evening. They had saved nothing from +the yacht. + +Delia did not speak. She was pale, composed now. In the hotel Mr. +Gasgoyne arranged for rooms, while Gaston got some sailors together, +and, in Mr. Gasgoyne’s name, offered a price for the recovery of the +yacht or of certain things in her. Then he went into the hotel to see if +he could do anything further. The door of the sitting-room was open, and +no answer coming to his knock, he entered. + +Delia was standing in the window. Against her will her father had gone +to find a doctor. Gaston would have drawn back if she had not turned +round wearily to him. + +Perhaps it were well to get it over now. He came forward. She made no +motion. + +“I hope you feel better?” he said. “It was a bad accident.” + +“I am tired and shaken, of course,” she responded. “It was very brave of +you.” + +He hesitated, then said: + +“We were more fortunate than brave.” + +He was determined to have Andree included. She deserved that; the wrong +to Delia was not hers. + +But she answered after the manner of a woman: “The girl--ah, yes, please +thank her for us. What is her name?” + +“She is known in Audierne as Madame Belward.” The girl started. Her +face had a cold, scornful pride. “The Bretons, then, have a taste for +fiction?” + +“No, they speak as they are taught.” + +“They understand, then, as little as I.” + +How proud, how ineffaceably superior she was! + +“Be ignorant for ever,” he answered quietly. + +“I do not need the counsel, believe me.” + +Her hand trembled, though it rested against the window-trembled with +indignation: the insult of his elopement kept beating up her throat in +spite of her. + +At that moment a servant knocked, entered, and said that a parcel +had been brought for mademoiselle. It was laid upon the table. +Delia, wondering, ordered it to be opened. A bundle of clothes was +disclosed--Andree’s! Gaston recognised them, and caught his breath with +wonder and confusion. + +“Who has sent them?” Delia said to the servant. “They come from the +Chateau Ronan, mademoiselle.” + +Delia dismissed the servant. + +“The Chateau Ronan?” she asked of Gaston. “Where I am living.” + +“It is not necessary to speak of this?” She flushed. + +“Not at all. I will have them sent back. There is a little shop near by +where you can get what you may need.” + +Andree had acted according to her lights. It was not an olive-branch, +but a touch of primitive hospitality. She was Delia’s enemy at sight, +but a woman must have linen. + +Mr. Gasgoyne entered. Gaston prepared to go. “Is there anything more +that I can do?” he said, as it were, to both. + +The girl replied. “Nothing at all, thank you.” They did not shake hands. + +Mr. Gasgoyne could not think that all had necessarily ended. The thing +might be patched up one day yet. This affair with the dompteuse was mad +sailing, but the man might round-to suddenly and be no worse for the +escapade. + +“We are going early in the morning,” he said. “We can get along all +right. Good-bye. When do you come to England?” + +The reply was prompt. “In a few weeks.” + +He looked at both. The girl, seeing that he was going to speak further, +bowed and left the room. + +His eyes followed her. After a moment, he said firmly + +“Mr. Gasgoyne, I am going to face all.” + +“To live it down, Belward?” + +“I am going to fight it down.” + +“Well, there’s a difference. You have made a mess of things, and shocked +us all. I needn’t say what more. It’s done, and now you know what such +things mean to a good woman--and, I hope also, to the father of a good +woman.” + +The man’s voice broke a little. He added: + +“They used to come to swords or pistols on such points. We can’t settle +it in that way. Anyhow, you have handicapped us to-day.” Then, with +a burst of reproach, indignation, and trouble: “Great God, as if +you hadn’t been the luckiest man on earth! Delia, the estate, the +Commons--all for a dompteuse!” + +“Let us say nothing more,” said Gaston, choking down wrath at the +reference to Andree, but sorrowful, and pitying Mr. Gasgoyne. Besides, +the man had a right to rail. + +Soon after they parted courteously. + +Gaston went to the chateau. As he came up the stone steps he met a +procession--it was the feast-day of the Virgin--of priests and people +and little children, filing up from the village and the sea, singing as +they came. He drew up to the wall, stood upon the stone seat, and took +off his hat while the procession passed. He had met the cure, first +accidentally on the shore, and afterwards in the cure’s house, finding +much in common--he had known many priests in the North, known much good +of them. The cure glanced up at him now as they passed, and a half-sad +smile crossed his face. Gaston caught it as it passed. The cure read +his case truly enough and gently enough too. In some wise hour he would +plead with Gaston for the woman’s soul and his own. + +Gaston did not find Andree at the chateau. She had gone out alone +towards the sea, Annette said, by a route at the rear of the village. He +went also, but did not find her. As he came again to the quay he saw +the Kismet beating upon the rocks--the sailors had given up any idea +of saving her. He stood and watched the sea breaking over her, and +the whole scene flashed back on him. He thought how easily he could be +sentimental over the thing. But that was not his nature. He had made his +bed, but he would not lie in it--he would carry it on his back. They all +said that he had gone on the rocks. He laughed. + +“I can turn that tide: I can make things come my way,” he said. “All +they want is sensation, it isn’t morals that concerns them. Well, IT +give them sensation. They expect me to hide, and drop out of the game. +Never--so help me Heaven! I’ll play it so they’ll forget this!” + +He rolled and lighted a cigarette, and went again to the chateau. Dinner +was ready--had been ready for some time. He sat down, and presently +Andree came. There was a look in her face that he could not understand. +They ate their dinner quietly, not mentioning the events of the +afternoon. + +Presently a telegram was brought to him. It read: “Come. My office, +Downing Street, Friday. Expect you.” It was signed “Faramond.” At the +same time came letters: from his grandfather, from Captain Maudsley. The +first was stern, imperious, reproachful.--Shame for those that took him +in and made him, a ruined reputation, a spoiled tradition: he had been +but a heathen after all! There was only left to bid him farewell, and to +enclose a cheque for two thousand pounds. + +Captain Maudsley called him a fool, and asked him what he meant to +do--hoped he would give up the woman at once, and come back. He owed +something to his position as Master of the Hounds--a tradition that +oughtn’t to be messed about. + +There it all was: not a word about radical morality or immorality; but +the tradition of Family, the Commons, Master of the Hounds! + +But there was another letter. He did not recognise the handwriting, and +the envelope had a black edge. He turned it over and over, forgetting +that Andree was watching him. Looking up, he caught her eyes, with +their strange, sad look. She guessed what was in these letters. She knew +English well enough to under stand them. He interpreted her look, and +pushed them over. + +“You may read them, if you wish; but I wouldn’t, if I were you.” + +She read the telegram first, and asked who “Faramond” was. Then she read +Sir William Belward’s letter, and afterwards Captain Maudsley’s. + +“It has all come at once,” she said: “the girl and these! What will you +do? Give ‘the woman’ up for the honour of the Master of the Hounds?” + +The tone was bitter, exasperating. Gaston was patient. + +“What do you think, Andree?” + +“It has only begun,” she said. “Wait, King of Ys. Read that other +letter.” + +Her eyes were fascinated by the black border. He opened it with a +strange slowness. It began without any form of address, it had the +superscription of a street in Manchester Square: + + If you were not in deep trouble I would not write. But because I + know that more hard things than kind will be said by others, I want + to say what is in my heart, which is quick to feel for you. I know + that you have sinned, but I pray for you every day, and I cannot + believe that God will not answer. Oh! think of the wrong that you + have done: of the wrong to the girl, to her soul’s good. Think of + that, and right the wrong in so far as you can. Oh, Gaston, my + brother, I need not explain why I write thus. My grandfather, + before he died, three weeks ago, told me that you know!--and I also + have known ever since the day you saved the boy. Ah, think of one + who would give years of her life to see you good and noble and + happy.... + +Then followed a deep, sincere appeal to his manhood, and afterwards a +wish that their real relations should be made known to the world if he +needed her, or if disaster came; that she might share and comfort his +life, whatever it might be. Then again: + + If you love her, and she loves you, and is sorry for what she has + done, marry her and save her from everlasting shame. I am staying + with my grandfather’s cousin, the Dean of Dighbury, the father of + the boy you saved. He is very kind, and he knows all. May God + guide you aright, and may you believe that no one speaks more + truthfully to you than your sorrowful and affectionate sister, + + ALICE WINGFIELD. + +He put the letter down beside him, made a cigarette, and poured out some +coffee for them both. He was holding himself with a tight hand. This +letter had touched him as nothing in his life had done since his +father’s death. It had nothing of noblesse oblige, but straight +statement of wrong, as she saw it. And a sister without an open right +to the title: the mere fidelity of blood! His father had brought this +sorrowful life into the world and he had made it more sorrowful--poor +little thing--poor girl! + +“What are you going to do?” asked Andree. “Do you go back--with Delia?” + +He winced. Yet why should he expect of her too great refinement? She +had not had a chance, she had not the stuff for it in her veins; she had +never been taught. But behind it all was her passion--her love--for him. + +“You know that’s altogether impossible!” he answered. + +“She would not take you back.” + +“Probably not. She has pride.” + +“Pride-chat! She’d jump at the chance!” + +“That sounds rude, Andree; and it is contradictory.” + +“Rude! Well, I’m only a gipsy and a dompteuse!” + +“Is that all, my girl?” + +“That’s all, now.” Then, with a sudden change and a quick sob: “But I +may be--Oh, I can’t say it, Gaston!” She hid her face for a moment on +his shoulder. “My God!” + +He got to his feet. He had not thought of that--of another besides +themselves. He had drifted. A hundred ideas ran back and forth. He went +to the window and stood looking out. Alice’s letter was still in his +fingers. + +She came and touched his shoulder. + +“Are you going to leave me, Gaston? What does that letter say?” + +He looked at her kindly, with a protective tenderness. + +“Read the letter, Andree,” he said. + +She did so, at first slowly, then quickly, then over and over again. +He stood motionless in the window. She pushed the letter between his +fingers. He did not turn. “I cannot understand everything, but what she +says she means. Oh, Gaston, what a fool, what a fool you’ve been!” + +After a moment, however, she threw her arms about him with animal-like +fierceness. + +“But I can’t give you up--I can’t.” Then, with another of those sudden +changes, she added, with a wild little laugh: “I can’t, I can’t, O +Master of the Hounds!” + +There came a knock at the door. Annette entered with a letter. The +postman had not delivered it on his rounds, because the address was not +correct. It was for madame. Andree took it, started at the handwriting, +tore open the envelope, and read: + + Zoug-Zoug congratulates you on the conquest of his nephew. Zoug-- + Zoug’s name is not George Maur, as you knew him. Allah’s blessing, + with Zoug-Zoug’s! + + What fame you’ve got now--dompteuse, and the sweet scandal! + +The journalist had found out Zoug-Zoug at last, and Ian Belward had +talked with the manager of the menagerie. + +Andree shuddered and put the letter in her pocket. Now she understood +why she had shrunk from Gaston that first night and those first days +in Audierne: that strange sixth sense, divination--vague, helpless +prescience. And here, suddenly, she shrank again, but with a different +thought. She hurriedly left the room and went to her chamber. + +In a few moments he came to her. She was sitting upright in a chair, +looking straight before her. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes were +burning. He came and took her hands. + +“What is it, Andree?” he said. “That letter, what is it?” + +She looked at him steadily. “You’ll be sorry if you read it.” But she +gave it to him. He lighted a candle, put it on a little table, sat down, +and read. The shock went deep; so deep that it made no violent sign on +the surface. He spread the letter out before him. The candle showed +his face gone grey and knotted with misery. He could bear all the rest: +fight, do all that was right to the coming mother of his child; but this +made him sick and dizzy. He felt as he did when he waked up in Labrador, +with his wife’s dead lips pressed to his neck. It was strange too that +Andree was as quiet as he: no storm-misery had gone deep with her also. + +“Do you care to tell me about it?” he asked. + +She sat back in her chair, her hands over her eyes. Presently, still +sitting so, she spoke. + +Ian Belward had painted them and their van in the hills of Auvergne, and +had persuaded her to sit for a picture. He had treated her courteously +at first. Her father was taken ill suddenly, and died. She was alone +for a few days afterwards. Ian Belward came to her. Of that miserable, +heart-rending, cruel time,--the life-sorrow of a defenceless +girl,--Gaston heard with a hard sort of coldness. The promised marriage +was a matter for the man’s mirth a week later. They came across three +young artists from Paris--Bagshot, Fancourt, and another--who camped one +night beside them. It was then she fully realised the deep shame of her +position. The next night she ran away and joined a travelling menagerie. +The rest he knew. When she had ended there was silence for a time, +broken only by one quick gasping sob from Gaston. The girl sat still as +death, her eyes on him intently. + +“Poor Andree! Poor girl!” he said at last. She sighed pitifully. + +“What shall we do?” she asked. He scarcely spoke above a whisper: + +“There must be time to think. I will go to London.” + +“You will come back?” + +“Yes--in five days, if I live.” + +“I believe you,” she said quietly. “You never lied to me. When you +return we will know what to do.” Her manner was strangely quiet. “A +little trading schooner goes from Douarnenez to England to-morrow +morning,” she went on. “There is a notice of it in the market-place. +That would save the journey to Paris.’” + +“Yes, that will do very well. I will start for Douarnenez at once.” + +“Will Jacques go too?” + +“No.” + +An hour later he passed Delia and her father on the road to Douarnenez. +He did not recognise them, but Delia, seeing him, shrank away in a +corner of the carriage, trembling. + +Jacques had wished to go to London with Gaston, but had been denied. He +was to care for the horses. When he saw his master ride down over the +place, waving a hand back towards him, he came in and said to Andree: + +“Madame, there is trouble--I do not know what. But I once said I would +never leave him, wherever he go or whatever he did. Well, I never will +leave him--or you, madame--no.” + +“That is right, that is right,” she said earnestly; “you must never +leave him, Jacques. He is a good man.” + +When Jacques had gone she shut herself up in her room. She was gathering +all her life into the compass of an hour. She felt but one thing: the +ruin of her happiness and Gaston’s. + +“He is a good man,” she said over and over to herself. And the +other--Ian Belward? All the barbarian in her was alive. + +The next morning she started for Paris, saying to Jacques and Annette +that she would return in four days. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. “RETURN, O SHULAMITE!” + +Almost the first person that Gaston recognised in London was Cluny +Vosse. He had been to Victoria Station to see a friend off by the train, +and as he was leaving, Gaston and he recognised each other. The lad’s +greeting was a little shy until he saw that Gaston was cool and composed +as usual--in effect, nothing had happened. Cluny was delighted, and +opened his mind: + +“They’d kicked up a deuce of a row in the papers, and there’d been no +end of talk; but he didn’t see what all the babble was about, and he’d +said so again and again to Lady Dargan.” + +“And Lady Dargan, Cluny?” asked Gaston quietly. Cluny could not be +dishonest, though he would try hard not to say painful things. + +“Well, she was a bit fierce at first--she’s a woman, you know; but +afterwards she went like a baby; cried, and wouldn’t stay at Cannes any +longer: so we’re back in town. We’re going down to the country, though, +to-morrow or next day.” + +“Do you think I had better call, Cluny?” Gaston ventured suggestively. + +“Yes, yes, of course,” Cluny replied, with great eagerness, as if to +justify the matter to himself. Gaston smiled, said that he might,--he +was only in town for a few days, and dropped Cluny in Pall Mall. Cluny +came running back. + +“I say, Belward, things’ll come around just as they were before, won’t +they? You’re going to cut in, and not let ‘em walk on you?” + +“Yes, I’m ‘going to cut in,’ Cluny boy.” Cluny brightened. + +“And of course it isn’t all over with Delia, is it?” He blushed. + +Gaston reached out and dropped a hand on Cluny’s shoulder. + +“I’m afraid it is all over, Cluny.” Cluny spoke without thinking. + +“I say, it’s rough on her, isn’t it?” + +Then he was confused, hurriedly offered Gaston a cigarette, a hasty +good-bye was said, and they parted. Gaston went first to Lord Faramond. +He encountered inquisition, cynical humour, flashes of sympathy, with a +general flavour of reproach. The tradition of the Commons! Ah, one way +only: he must come back alone--alone--and live it down. Fortunately, it +wasn’t an intrigue--no matter of divorce--a dompteuse, he believed. +It must end, of course, and he would see what could be done. Such a +chance--such a chance as he had had! Make it up with his grandfather, +and reverse the record--reverse the record: that was the only way. This +meeting must, of course, be strictly between themselves. But he was +really interested for him, for his people, and for the tradition of the +Commons. + +“I am Master of the Hounds too,” said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught +the meaning, and smiled grimly. + +Then came Gaston’s decision--he would come back--not to live the thing +down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight. + +Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. “Without her?” + +“I cannot say that.” + +“With her, I can promise nothing--nothing. You cannot fight it so. +No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of +pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case.” + +The Premier’s face had gone cold and disdainful. Why should a clever +man like Belward be so infatuated? He rose, Gaston thanked him for +the meeting, and was about to go, when the Prime Minister, tapping his +shoulder kindly, said: + +“Mr. Belward, you are not playing to the rules of the game.” He waved +his hand towards the Chamber of the House. “It is the greatest game +in the world. She must go! Do not reply. You will come back without +her--good-bye!” + +Then came Ridley Court. He entered on Sir William and Lady Belward +without announcement. Sir William came to his feet, austere and pale. +Lady Belward’s fingers trembled on the lace she held. They looked many +years older. Neither spoke his name, nor did they offer their hands. +Gaston did not wince, he had expected it. He owed these old people +something. They lived according to their lights, they had acted +righteously as by their code, they had used him well--well always. + +“Will you hear the whole story?” he said. He felt that it would be best +to tell them all. “Can it do any good?” asked Sir William. He looked +towards his wife. + +“Perhaps it is better to hear it,” she murmured. She was clinging to a +vague hope. + +Gaston told the story plainly, briefly, as he had told his earlier +history. Its concision and simplicity were poignant. From the day he +first saw Andree in the justice’s room till the hour when she opened Ian +Belward’s letter, his tale went. Then he paused. + +“I remember very well,” Sir William said, with painful meditation: “a +strange girl, with a remarkable face. You pleaded for her father then. +Ah, yes, an unhappy case!” + +“There is more?” asked Lady Belward, leaning on her cane. She seemed +very frail. + +Then with a terrible brevity Gaston told them of his uncle, of the +letter to Andree: all, except that Andree was his wife. He had no idea +of sparing Ian Belward now. A groan escaped Lady Belward. + +“And now--now, what will you do?” asked the baronet. + +“I do not know. I am going back first to Andree.” Sir William’s face was +ashy. + +“Impossible!” + +“I promised, and I will go back.” Lady Belward’s voice quivered: + +“Stay, ah, stay, and redeem the past! You can, you can outlive it.” + +Always the same: live it down! + +“It is no use,” he answered; “I must return.” + +Then in a few words he thanked them for all, and bade them good-bye. +He did not offer his hand, nor did they. But at the door he heard Lady +Belward say in a pleading voice: + +“Gaston!” + +He returned. She held out her hand. + +“You must not do as your father did,” she said. “Give the woman up, and +come back to us. Am I nothing to you--nothing?” + +“Is there no other way?” he asked, gravely, sorrowfully. + +She did not reply. He turned to his grandfather. “There is no other +way,” said the old man, sternly. Then in a voice almost shrill with +pain and indignation, he cried out as he had never done in his +life: “Nothing, nothing, nothing but disgrace! My God in heaven! a +lion-tamer--a gipsy! An honourable name dragged through the mire! Go +back,” he said grandly; “go back to the woman and her lions--savages, +savages, savages!” + +“Savages after the manner of our forefathers,” Gaston answered quietly. +“The first Gaston showed us the way. His wife was a strolling player’s +daughter. Good-bye, sir.” + +Lady Belward’s face was in her hands. “Good-bye-grandmother,” he said at +the door, and then he was gone. + +At the outer door the old housekeeper stepped forward, her gloomy face +most agitated. + +“Oh, sir, oh, sir, you will come back again? Oh, don’t go like your +father!” + +He suddenly threw an arm about her shoulder, and kissed her on the +cheek. + +“I’ll come back--yes I’ll come back here--if I can. Good-bye, Hovey.” + +In the library Sir William and Lady Belward sat silent for a time. +Presently Sir William rose, and walked up and down. He paused at last, +and said, in a strange, hesitating voice, his hands chafing each other: + +“I forgot myself, my dear. I fear I was violent. I would like to ask his +pardon. Ah, yes, yes!” + +Then he sat down and took her hand, and held it long in the silence. + +“It all feels so empty--so empty,” she said at last, as the tower-clock +struck hollow on the air. + +The old man could not reply, but he drew her close to him, and Hovey, +from the door, saw his tears dropping on her white hair. + +Gaston went to Manchester Square. He half dreaded a meeting with Alice, +and yet he wished it. He did not find her. She had gone to Paris with +her uncle, the servant said. He got their address. There was little left +to do but to avoid reporters, two of whom almost forced themselves +in upon him. He was to go back to Douarnenez by the little boat that +brought him, and at seven o’clock in the morning he watched the mists of +England recede. + +He chanced to put his hand into a light overcoat which he had got at his +chambers before he started. He drew out a paper, the one discovered in +the solicitor’s office in London. It was an ancient deed of entail of +the property, drawn by Sir Gaston Belward, which, through being lost, +was never put into force. He was not sure that it had value. If it had, +all chance of the estate was gone for him; it would be his uncle’s. +Well, what did it matter? Yes, it did matter: Andree! For her? No, not +for her. He would play straight. He would take his future as it came: he +would not drop this paper into the water. + +He smiled bitterly, got an envelope at a publichouse on the quay, wrote +a few words in pencil on the document, and in a few moments it was on +its way to Sir William Belward, who when he received it said: + +“Worthless, quite worthless, but he has an honest mind--an honest mind!” + +Meanwhile, Andree was in Paris. Leaving her bag at the Gare +Montparnasse, she had gone straight to Ian Belward’s house. She had +lived years in the last few hours. She had had no sleep on the journey, +and her mind had been strained unbearably. It had, however, a fixed +idea, which shuttled in and out in a hundred shapes, but ever pointing +to one end. She had determined on a painful thing--the only way. + +She reached the house, and was admitted. In answer to questions, she had +an appointment with monsieur. He was not within. Well, she would wait. +She was motioned into the studio. She was outwardly calm. The servant +presently recognised her. He had been to the menagerie, and he had seen +her with Gaston. His manner changed instantly. Could he do anything? No, +nothing. She was left alone. For a long time she sat motionless, then a +sudden restlessness seized her. Her brain seemed a burning atmosphere, +in which every thought, every thing showed with an unbearable intensity. +The terrible clearness of it all--how it made her eyes, her heart ache! +Her blood was beating hard against every pore. She felt that she would +go mad if he did not come. Once she took out the stiletto she had +concealed in the bosom of her cloak, and looked at it. She had always +carried it when among the beasts at the menagerie, but had never yet +used it. + +Time passed. She felt ill; she became blind with pain. Presently the +servant entered with a telegram. His master would not be back until the +next morning. + +Very well, she would return in the morning. She gave him money. He was +not to say that she had called. In the Boulevard Montparnasse she took +a cab. To the menagerie, she said to the driver. How strange it all +looked: the Invalides, Notre Dame, the Tuileries Gardens, the Place de +la Concorde! The innumerable lights were so near and yet so far: it was +a kink of the brain, but she seemed withdrawn from them, not they from +her. A woman passed with a baby in her arms. The light from a kiosk fell +on it as she passed. What a pretty, sweet face it had. Why did it not +have a pretty, delicate Breton cap? As she went on, that kept beating +in her brain--why did not the child wear a dainty Breton cap--a white +Breton cap? The face kept peeping from behind the lights--without the +dainty Breton cap. + +The menagerie at last. She dismissed the cab, went to a little door at +the back of the building, and knocked. She was admitted. The care-taker +exclaimed with pleasure. She wished to visit the animals? He would go +with her; and he picked up a light. No, she would go alone. How were +Hector and Balzac, and Antoinette? She took the keys. How cool and +pleasant they were to the touch! The steel of the lantern too--how +exquisitely soothing! He must lie down again: she would wake him as she +came out. No, no, she would go alone. + +She went to cage after cage. At last to that of the largest lions. There +was a deep answering purr to her soft call. As she entered, she saw a +heap moving in one corner--a lion lately bought. She spoke, and there +was an angry growl. She wheeled to leave the cage, but her cloak caught +the door, and it snapped shut. + +Too late. A blow brought her to the ground. She had made no cry, and now +she lay so still! + +The watchman had fallen asleep again. In the early morning he +remembered. The greyish golden dawn was creeping in, when he found +her with two lions protecting, keeping guard over her, while another +crouched snarling in a corner. There was no mark on her face. + +The point of the stiletto which she had carried in her cloak had pierced +her when she fell. + +In a hotel near the Arc de Triomphe Alice Wingfield read the news. It +was she who tenderly prepared the body for burial, who telegraphed to +Gaston at Audierne, getting a reply from Jacques that he was not yet +back from London. The next day Andree was found a quiet place in the +cemetery at Montmartre. + +In the evening Alice and her relative started for Audierne. + + ......................... + +On board the Fleur d’Orange Gaston struggled with the problem. There was +one thought ever coming. He shut it out at this point, and it crept in +at that. He remembered when two men, old friends, discovered that one, +unknowingly, had been living with the wife of the other. There was one +too many--the situation was impossible. The men played a game of cards +to see which should die. But they did not reckon with the other factor. +It was the woman who died. + +Was not his own situation far worse? With his uncle living--but no, +no, it was out of the question! Yet Ian Belward had been shameless, a +sensualist, who had wrecked the girl’s happiness and his. He himself +had done a mad thing in the eyes of the world, but it was more mad than +wicked. Had this happened in the North with another man, how easily +would the problem have been solved! + +Go to his uncle and tell him that he must remove himself for ever from +the situation? Demand it, force it? Impossible--this was Europe. + +They arrived at Douarnenez. The diligence had gone. A fishing-boat was +starting for Audierne. He decided to go by it. Breton fishermen are +usually shy of storm to foolishness, and one or two of the crew urged +the drunken skipper not to start, for there were signs of a south-west +wind, too friendly to the Bay des Trepasses. The skipper was, however, +cheerfully reckless, and growled down objection. + +The boat came on with a sweet wind off the land for a time. Suddenly, +when in the neighbourhood of Point du Raz, the wind drew ahead very +squally, with rain in gusts out of the south-west. The skipper put the +boat on the starboard tack, close-hauled and close-reefed the sails, +keeping as near the wind as possible, with the hope of weathering the +rocky point at the western extremity of the Bay des Trepasses. By that +time there was a heavy sea running; night came on, and the weather grew +very thick. They heard the breakers presently, but they could not make +out the Point. Old sailor as he was, and knowing as well as any man +the perilous ground, the skipper lost his drunken head this time, and +presently lost his way also in the dark and murk of the storm. + +At eight o’clock she struck. She was thrown on her side, a heavy sea +broke over her, and they were all washed off. No one raised a cry. They +were busy fighting Death. + +Gaston was a strong swimmer. It did not occur to him that perhaps this +was the easiest way out of the maze. He had ever been a fighter. +The seas tossed him here and there. He saw faces about him for an +instant--shaggy wild Breton faces--but they dropped away, he knew not +where. The current kept driving him inshore. As in a dream, he could +hear the breakers--the pumas on their tread-mill of death. How +long would it last? How long before he would be beaten upon that +tread-mill--fondled to death by those mad paws? Presently dreams +came-kind, vague, distant dreams. His brain flew like a drunken dove to +far points of the world and back again. A moment it rested. Andree! He +had made no provision for her, none at all. He must live, he must fight +on for her, the homeless girl, his wife. + +He fought on and on. No longer in the water, as it seemed to him. He had +travelled very far. He heard the clash of sabres, the distant roar of +cannon, the beating of horses’ hoofs--the thud-thud, tread-tread of +an army. How reckless and wild it was! He stretched up his arm to +strike-what was it? Something hard that bruised: then his whole body was +dashed against the thing. He was back again, awake. With a last effort +he drew himself up on a huge rock that stands lonely in the wash of the +bay. Then he cried out, “Andree!” and fell senseless--safe. + +The storm went down. The cold, fast-travelling moon came out, saw the +one living thing in that wild bay, and hurried on into the dark again; +but came and went so till morning, playing hide-and-seek with the man +and his Ararat. + +Daylight saw him, wet, haggard, broken, looking out over the waste of +shaken water. Upon the shore glared the stone of the vanished City of +Ys in the warm sun, and the fierce pumas trod their grumbling way. +Sea-gulls flew about the quiet set figure, in whose brooding eyes there +were at once despair and salvation. + +He was standing between two worlds. He had had his great crisis, and his +wounded soul rested for a moment ere he ventured out upon the highways +again. He knew not how it was, but there had passed into him the dignity +of sorrow and the joy of deliverance at the same time. He saw life’s +responsibilities clearer, duties swam grandly before him. It was a large +dream, in which, for the time, he was not conscious of those troubles +which, yesterday, had clenched his hands and knotted his forehead. +He had come a step higher in the way of life, and into his spirit had +flowed a new and sobered power. His heart was sore, but his mind was +lifted up. The fatal wrangle of the pumas there below, the sound of it, +would be in his ears for ever, but he had come above it; the searching +vigour of the sun entered into his bones. + +He knew that he was going back to England--to ample work and strong +days, but he did not know that he was going alone. He did not know +that Andree was gone forever; that she had found her true place: in his +undying memory. + +So intent was he, that at first he did not see a boat making into the +bay towards him. + + + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + Clever men are trying + Down in her heart, loves to be mastered + He had no instinct for vice in the name of amusement + He was strong enough to admit ignorance + I don’t wish to fit in; things must fit me + Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love + Live and let live is doing good + Not to show surprise at anything + Truth waits long, but whips hard + What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Trespasser, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 6222-0.txt or 6222-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/2/6222/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Trespasser, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6222] +Last Updated: August 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + THE TRESPASSER + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Gilbert Parker + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0002"> TO DOUGLAS ROBINSON, Esq., </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>THE TRESPASSER</b> </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> ONE IN SEARCH OF A + KINGDOM <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> IN + WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. + </a> HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> AN HOUR WITH HIS + FATHER’S PAST <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> WHEREIN + HE FINDS HIS ENEMY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> WHICH + TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER + VII. </a> WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> HE ANSWERS AN + AWKWARD QUESTION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> HE + FINDS NEW SPONSORS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> HE + COMES TO “THE WAKING OF THE FIRE” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> + CHAPTER XI. </a> HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO + WORLDS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> HE + JOURNEYS AFAR <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> IN + WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER + XV. </a> WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> WHEREIN LOVE KNOWS + NO LAW SAVE THE MAN’S WILL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER + XVII. </a> THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> "RETURN, + O SHULAMITE!” <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + While I was studying the life of French Canada in the winter of 1892, in + the city of Quebec or in secluded parishes, there was forwarded to me from + my London home a letter from Mr. Arrowsmith, the publisher, asking me to + write a novel of fifty thousand or sixty thousand words for what was + called his Annual. In this Annual had appeared Hugh Conway’s ‘Called Back’ + and Anthony Hope’s ‘Prisoner of Zenda’, among other celebrated works of + fiction. I cabled my acceptance of the excellent offer made me, and the + summer of 1893 found me at Audierne, in Brittany, with some artist friends—more + than one of whom has since come to eminence—living what was really + an out-door literary life; for the greater part of ‘The Trespasser’ was + written in a high-walled garden on a gentle hill, and the remainder in a + little tower-like structure of the villa where I lodged, which was all + windows. The latter I only used when it rained, and the garden was my + workshop. There were peaches and figs on the walls, pleasant shrubs + surrounded me, and the place was ideally quiet and serene. Coffee or tea + and toast was served me at 6.30 o’clock A.M., my pad was on my knee at 8, + and then there was practically uninterrupted work till 12, when ‘dejeuner + a la fourchette’, with its fresh sardines, its omelettes, and its roast + chicken, was welcome. The afternoon was spent on the sea-shore, which is + very beautiful at Audierne, and there I watched my friends painting + sea-scapes. In the late afternoon came letter-writing and reading, and + after a little and simple dinner at 6.30 came bed at 9.45 or thereabouts. + In such conditions for many weeks I worked on The Trespasser; and I think + the book has an outdoor spirit which such a life would inspire. + </p> + <p> + It was perhaps natural that, having lived in Canada and Australia, and + having travelled greatly in all the outer portions of the Empire, I should + be interested in and impelled to write regarding the impingement of the + outer life of our far dominions, through individual character, upon the + complicated, traditional, orderly life of England. That feeling found + expression in The Translation of a Savage, and I think that in neither + case the issue of the plot or the plot—if such it may be called—nor + the main incident, was exaggerated. Whether the treatment was free from + exaggeration, it is not my province to say. I only know what I attempted + to do. The sense produced by the contact of the outer life with a refined, + and perhaps overrefined, and sensitive, not to say meticulous, + civilisation, is always more sensational than the touch of the + representative of “the thousand years” with the wide, loosely organised + free life of what is still somewhat hesitatingly called the Colonies, + though the same remark could be applied to all new lands, such as the + United States. The representative of the older life makes no signs, or + makes little collision at any rate, when he touches the new social + organisms of the outer circle. He is not emphatic; he is typical, but not + individual; he seeks seclusion in the mass. It is not so with the more + dynamic personality of the over-sea citizen. For a time at least he + remains in the old civilisation an entity, an isolated, unabsorbed fact + which has capacities for explosion. All this was in my mind when The + Trespasser was written, and its converse was ‘The Pomp of the Lavilettes’, + which showed the invasion of the life of the outer land by the + representative of the old civilisation. + </p> + <p> + I do not know whether I had the thought that the treatment of such themes + was interesting or not. The idea of The Trespasser was there in my mind, + and I had to use it. At the beginning of one’s career, if one were to + calculate too carefully, impulse, momentum, daring, original conception + would be lost. To be too audacious, even to exaggerate, is no crime in + youth nor in the young artist. As a farmer once said to me regarding a + frisky mount, it is better to smash through the top bar than to have + spring-halt. + </p> + <p> + The Trespasser took its place, and, as I think, its natural place, in the + development of my literary life. I did not stop to think whether it was a + happy theme or not, or whether it had popular elements. These things did + not concern me. When it was written I should not have known what was a + popular theme. It was written under circumstances conducive to its + artistic welfare; if it has not as many friends as ‘The Right of Way’ or + ‘The Seats of the Mighty’ or ‘The Weavers’ or ‘The Judgment House’, that + is not the fault of the public or of the critics. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO DOUGLAS ROBINSON, Esq., + </h2> + <h3> + AND + </h3> + <p> + FRANK A. HILTON, Esq. + </p> + <p> + My dear Douglas and Frank: + </p> + <p> + I feel sure that this dedication will give you as much pleasure as it does + me. It will at least be evidence that I do not forget good days in your + company here and there in the world. I take pleasure in linking your + names; for you, who have never met, meet thus in the porch of a little + house that I have built. + </p> + <p> + You, my dear Douglas, will find herein scenes, times, and things familiar + to you; and you, my dear Frank, reflections of hours when we camped by an + idle shore, or drew about the fire of winter nights, and told tales worth + more than this, for they were of the future, and it is of the past. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Always sincerely yours, + GILBERT PARKER. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE TRESPASSER + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. ONE IN SEARCH OF A KINGDOM + </h2> + <p> + Why Gaston Belward left the wholesome North to journey afar, Jacques + Brillon asked often in the brawling streets of New York, and oftener in + the fog of London as they made ready to ride to Ridley Court. There was a + railway station two miles from the Court, but Belward had had enough of + railways. He had brought his own horse Saracen, and Jacques’s broncho + also, at foolish expense, across the sea, and at a hotel near Euston + Station master and man mounted and set forth, having seen their worldly + goods bestowed by staring porters, to go on by rail. + </p> + <p> + In murky London they attracted little notice; but when their hired guide + left them at the outskirts, and they got away upon the highway towards the + Court, cottagers stood gaping. For, outside the town there was no fog, and + the fresh autumn air drew the people abroad. + </p> + <p> + “What is it makes ‘em stare, Jacques?” asked Belward, with a humorous + sidelong glance. + </p> + <p> + Jacques looked seriously at the bright pommel of his master’s saddle and + the shining stirrups and spurs, dug a heel into the tender skin of his + broncho, and replied: + </p> + <p> + “Too much silver all at once.” + </p> + <p> + He tossed his curling black hair, showing up the gold rings in his ears, + and flicked the red-and-gold tassels of his boots. + </p> + <p> + “You think that’s it, eh?” rejoined Belward, as he tossed a shilling to a + beggar. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe, too, your great Saracen to this tot of a broncho, and the grand + homme to little Jacques Brillon.” Jacques was tired and testy. + </p> + <p> + The other laid his whip softly on the half-breed’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “See, my peacock: none of that. You’re a spanking good servant, but you’re + in a country where it’s knuckle down man to master; and what they do here + you’ve got to do, or quit—go back to your pea-soup and caribou. + That’s as true as God’s in heaven, little Brillon. We’re not on the + buffalo trail now. You understand?” + </p> + <p> + Jacques nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Hadn’t you better say it?” + </p> + <p> + The warning voice drew up the half-breed’s face swiftly, and he replied: + </p> + <p> + “I am to do what you please.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. You’ve been with me six years—ever since I turned Bear + Eye’s moccasins to the sun; and for that you swore you’d never leave me. + Did it on a string of holy beads, didn’t you, Frenchman?” + </p> + <p> + “I do it again.” + </p> + <p> + He drew out a rosary, and disregarding Belward’s outstretched hand, said: + </p> + <p> + “By the Mother of God, I will never leave you!” There was a kind of + wondering triumph in Belward’s eyes, though he had at first shrunk from + Jacques’s action, and a puzzling smile came. + </p> + <p> + “Wherever I go, or whatever I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever you do, or wherever you go.” + </p> + <p> + He put the rosary to his lips, and made the sign of the cross. + </p> + <p> + His master looked at him curiously, intently. Here was a vain, naturally + indolent half-breed, whose life had made for selfishness and independence, + giving his neck willingly to a man’s heel, serving with blind reverence, + under a voluntary vow. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s like this, Jacques,” Belward said presently; “I want you, and + I’m not going to say that you’ll have a better time than you did in the + North, or on the Slope; but if you’d rather be with me than not, you’ll + find that I’ll interest you. There’s a bond between us, anyway. You’re + half French, and I’m one-fourth French, and more. You’re half Indian, and + I’m one-fourth Indian—no more. That’s enough. So far, I haven’t much + advantage. But I’m one-half English—King’s English, for there’s been + an offshoot of royalty in our family somewhere, and there’s the royal + difference. That’s where I get my brains—and manners.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you get the other?” asked Jacques, shyly, almost furtively. + </p> + <p> + “Money?” + </p> + <p> + “Not money—the other.” + </p> + <p> + Belward spurred, and his horse sprang away viciously. A laugh came back on + Jacques, who followed as hard as he could, and it gave him a feeling of + awe. They were apart for a long time, then came together again, and rode + for miles without a word. At last Belward, glancing at a sign-post before + an inn door, exclaimed at the legend—“The Whisk o’ Barley,”—and + drew rein. He regarded the place curiously for a minute. The landlord came + out. Belward had some beer brought. + </p> + <p> + A half-dozen rustics stood gaping, not far away. He touched his horse with + a heel. Saracen sprang towards them, and they fell back alarmed. Belward + now drank his beer quietly, and asked question after question of the + landlord, sometimes waiting for an answer, sometimes not—a kind of + cross-examination. Presently he dismounted. + </p> + <p> + As he stood questioning, chiefly about Ridley Court and its people, a + coach showed on the hill, and came dashing down and past. He lifted his + eyes idly, though never before had he seen such a coach as swings away + from Northumberland Avenue of a morning. He was not idle, however; but he + had not come to England to show surprise at anything. As the coach passed + his face lifted above the arm on the neck of the horse, keen, dark, + strange. A man on the box-seat, attracted at first by the uncommon horses + and their trappings, caught Belward’s eyes. Not he alone, but Belward + started then. Some vague intelligence moved the minds of both, and their + attention was fixed till the coach rounded a corner and was gone. + </p> + <p> + The landlord was at Belward’s elbow. + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman on the box-seat be from Ridley Court. That’s Maister Ian + Belward, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston Belward’s eyes half closed, and a sombre look came, giving his face + a handsome malice. He wound his fingers in his horse’s mane, and put a + foot in the stirrup. + </p> + <p> + “Who is ‘Maister Ian’?” + </p> + <p> + “Maister Ian be Sir William’s eldest, sir. On’y one that’s left, sir. On’y + three to start wi’: and one be killed i’ battle, and one had trouble wi’ + his faither and Maister Ian; and he went away and never was heard on + again, sir. That’s the end on him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s the end on him, eh, landlord? And how long ago was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Becky, lass,” called the landlord within the door, “wheniver was it + Maister Robert turned his back on the Court—iver so while ago? Eh, a + fine lad that Maister Robert as iver I see!” + </p> + <p> + Fat laborious Becky hobbled out, holding an apple and a knife. She blinked + at her husband, and then at the strangers. + </p> + <p> + “What be askin’ o’ the Court?” she said. Her husband repeated the + question. + </p> + <p> + She gathered her apron to her eyes with an unctuous sob: + </p> + <p> + “Doan’t a’ know when Maister Robert went! He comes, i’ the house ‘ere and + says, ‘Becky, gie us a taste o’ the red-top-and where’s Jock?’ He was + always thinkin’ a deal o’ my son Jock. ‘Jock be gone,’ I says, ‘and I + knows nowt o’ his comin’ back’—meanin’, I was, that day. ‘Good for + Jock!’ says he, ‘and I’m goin’ too, Becky, and I knows nowt o’ my comin’ + back.’ ‘Where be goin’, Maister Robert?’ I says. ‘To hell, Becky,’ says + he, and he laughs. ‘From hell to hell. I’m sick to my teeth o’ one, I’ll + try t’other’—a way like that speaks he.” + </p> + <p> + Belward was impatient, and to hurry the story he made as if to start on. + Becky, seeing, hastened. “Dear a’ dear! The red-top were afore him, and I + tryin’ to make what become to him. He throws arm ‘round me, smacks me on + the cheek, and says he: ‘Tell Jock to keep the mare, Becky.’ Then he + flings away, and never more comes back to the Court. And that day one year + my Jock smacks me on the cheek, and gets on the mare; and when I ask: + ‘Where be goin’?’ he says: ‘For a hunt i’ hell wi’ Maister Robert, + mother.’ And from that day come back he never did, nor any word. There was + trouble wi’ the lad-wi’ him and Maister Robert at the Court; but I never + knowed nowt o’ the truth. And it’s seven-and-twenty years since Maister + Robert went.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston leaned over his horse’s neck, and thrust a piece of silver into the + woman’s hands. + </p> + <p> + “Take that, Becky Lawson, and mop your eyes no more.” + </p> + <p> + She gaped. + </p> + <p> + “How dost know my name is Becky Lawson? I havena been ca’d so these + three-and-twenty years—not since a’ married good man here, and put + Jock’s faither in ‘s grave yander.” + </p> + <p> + “The devil told me,” he answered, with a strange laugh, and, spurring, + they were quickly out of sight. They rode for a couple of miles without + speaking. Jacques knew his master, and did not break the silence. + Presently they came over a hill, and down upon a little bridge. Belward + drew rein, and looked up the valley. About two miles beyond the roofs and + turrets of the Court showed above the trees. A whimsical smile came to his + lips. + </p> + <p> + “Brillon,” he said, “I’m in sight of home.” + </p> + <p> + The half-breed cocked his head. It was the first time that Belward had + called him “Brillon”—he had ever been “Jacques.” This was to be a + part of the new life. They were not now hunting elk, riding to “wipe out” + a camp of Indians or navvies, dining the owner of a rancho or a deputation + from a prairie constituency in search of a member, nor yet with a senator + at Washington, who served tea with canvas-back duck and tooth-picks with + dessert. Once before had Jacques seen this new manner—when Belward + visited Parliament House at Ottawa, and was presented to some notable + English people, visitors to Canada. It had come to these notable folk that + Mr. Gaston Belward had relations at Ridley Court, and that of itself was + enough to command courtesy. But presently, they who would be gracious for + the family’s sake, were gracious for the man’s. He had that which + compelled interest—a suggestive, personal, distinguished air. + Jacques knew his master better than any one else knew him; and yet he knew + little, for Belward was of those who seem to give much confidence, and yet + give little—never more than he wished. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, monsieur, in sight of home,” Jacques replied, with a dry cadence. + </p> + <p> + “Say ‘sir,’ not ‘monsieur,’ Brillon; and from the time we enter the Court + yonder, look every day and every hour as you did when the judge asked you + who killed Tom Daly.” + </p> + <p> + Jacques winced, but nodded his head. Belward continued: + </p> + <p> + “What you hear me tell is what you can speak of; otherwise you are blind + and dumb. You understand?” Jacques’s face was sombre, but he said quickly: + “Yes—sir.” + </p> + <p> + He straightened himself on his horse, as if to put himself into discipline + at once—as lead to the back of a racer. + </p> + <p> + Belward read the look. He drew his horse close up. Then he ran an arm over + the other’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “See here, Jacques. This is a game that’s got to be played up to the hilt. + A cat has nine lives, and most men have two. We have. Now listen. You + never knew me mess things, did you? Well, I play for keeps in this; no + monkeying. I’ve had the life of Ur of the Chaldees; now for Babylon. I’ve + lodged with the barbarian; here are the roofs of ivory. I’ve had my day + with my mother’s people; voila! for my father’s. You heard what Becky + Lawson said. My father was sick of it at twenty-five, and got out. We’ll + see what my father’s son will do.... I’m going to say my say to you, and + have done with it. As like as not there isn’t another man that I’d have + brought with me. You’re all right. But I’m not going to rub noses. I stick + when I do stick, but I know what’s got to be done here; and I’ve told you. + You’ll not have the fun out of it that I will, but you won’t have the + worry. Now, we start fresh. I’m to be obeyed; I’m Napoleon. I’ve got a + devil, yet it needn’t hurt you, and it won’t. But if I make enemies here—and + I’m sure to—let them look out. Give me your hand, Jacques; and don’t + you forget that there are two Gaston Belwards, and the one you have hunted + and lived with is the one you want to remember when you get raw with the + new one. For you’ll hear no more slang like this from me, and you’ll have + to get used to lots of things.” + </p> + <p> + Without waiting reply, Belward urged on his horse, and at last paused on + the top of a hill, and waited for Jacques. It was now dusk, and the + landscape showed soft, sleepy, and warm. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all of a piece,” Belward said to himself, glancing from the trim + hedges, the small, perfectly-tilled fields and the smooth roads, to Ridley + Court itself, where many lights were burning and gates opening and + shutting. There was some affair on at the Court, and he smiled to think of + his own appearance among the guests. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a pity I haven’t clothes with me, Brillon; they have a show going + there.” + </p> + <p> + He had dropped again into the new form of master and man. His voice was + cadenced, gentlemanly. Jacques pointed to his own saddle-bag. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, they are not the things needed. I want the evening-dress which + cost that cool hundred dollars in New York.” + </p> + <p> + Still Jacques was silent. He did not know whether, in his new position, he + was expected to suggest. Belward understood, and it pleased him. + </p> + <p> + “If we had lost the track of a buck moose, or were nosing a cache of furs, + you’d find a way, Brillon.” + </p> + <p> + “Voila,” said Jacques; “then, why not wear the buckskin vest, the red-silk + sash, and the boots like these?”—tapping his own leathers. “You look + a grand seigneur so.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am here to look an English gentleman, not a grand seigneur, nor a + company’s trader on a break. Never mind, the thing will wait till we stand + in my ancestral halls,” he added, with a dry laugh. + </p> + <p> + They neared the Court. The village church was close by the Court-wall. It + drew Belward’s attention. One by one lights were springing up in it. It + was a Friday evening, and the choir were come to practise. They saw buxom + village girls stroll in, followed by the organist, one or two young men + and a handful of boys. Presently the horsemen were seen, and a staring + group gathered at the church door. An idea came to Belward. + </p> + <p> + “Kings used to make pilgrimages before they took their crowns, why + shouldn’t I?” he said half-jestingly. Most men placed similarly would have + been so engaged with the main event that they had never thought of this + other. But Belward was not excited. He was moving deliberately, prepared + for every situation. He had a great game in hand, and he had no fear of + his ability to play it. He suddenly stopped his horse, and threw the + bridle to Jacques, saying: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be back directly, Brillon.” + </p> + <p> + He entered the churchyard, and passed to the door. As he came the group + under the crumbling arch fell back, and at the call of the organist went + to the chancel. Belward came slowly up the aisle, and paused about the + middle. Something in the scene gave him a new sensation. The church was + old, dilapidated; but the timbered roof, the Norman and Early English + arches incongruously side by side, with patches of ancient distemper and + paintings, and, more than all, the marble figures on the tombs, with hands + folded so foolishly,—yet impressively too, brought him up with a + quick throb of the heart. It was his first real contact with England; for + he had not seen London, save at Euston Station and in the north-west + district. But here he was in touch with his heritage. He rested his hand + upon a tomb beside him, and looked around slowly. + </p> + <p> + The choir began the psalm for the following Sunday. At first he did not + listen; but presently the organist was heard alone, and then the choir + afterwards sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Woe is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Mesech: + And to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar.” + </pre> + <p> + Simple, dusty, ancient church, thick with effigies and tombs; with + inscriptions upon pillars to virgins departed this life; and tablets + telling of gentlemen gone from great parochial virtues: it wakened in + Belward’s brain a fresh conception of the life he was about to live—he + did not doubt that he would live it. He would not think of himself as + inacceptable to old Sir William Belward. He glanced to the tomb under his + hand. There was enough daylight yet to see the inscription on the marble. + Besides, a single candle was burning just over his head. He stooped and + read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SACRED TO THE MEMORY + OF + SIR GASTON ROBERT BELWARD, BART., + OF RIDLEY COURT, IN THIS PARISH OF GASTONBURY, + WHO, + AT THE AGE OF ONE AND FIFTY YEARS, + AFTER A LIFE OF DISTINGUISHED SERVICE FOR HIS KING + AND COUNTRY, + AND GRAVE AND CONSTANT CARE OF THOSE EXALTED WORKS + WHICH BECAME A GENTLEMAN OF ENGLAND; + MOST NOTABLE FOR HIS LOVE OF ARTS AND LETTERS; + SENSIBLE IN ALL GRACES AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS; + GIFTED WITH SINGULAR VIRTUES AND INTELLECTS; + AND + DELIGHTING AS MUCH IN THE JOYS OF PEACE + AS IN THE HEAVY DUTIES OF WAR: + WAS SLAIN BY THE SIDE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, + THE BELOVED AND ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT, + AT THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, + IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD MDCXLV. + + “A Sojourner as all my Fathers were.” + </pre> + <p> + “‘Gaston Robert Belward’!” + </p> + <p> + He read the name over and over, his fingers tracing the letters. + </p> + <p> + His first glance at the recumbent figure had been hasty. Now, however, he + leaned over and examined it. It lay, hands folded, in the dress of Prince + Rupert’s cavaliers, a sword at side, and great spurs laid beside the + heels. + </p> + <p> + “‘Gaston Robert Belward’!” + </p> + <p> + As this other Gaston Robert Belward looked at the image of his dead + ancestor, a wild thought came: Had he himself not fought with Prince + Rupert? Was he not looking at himself in stone? Was he not here to show + England how a knight of Charles’s time would look upon the life of the + Victorian age? Would not this still cold Gaston be as strange at Ridley + Court as himself fresh from tightening a cinch on the belly of a broncho? + Would he not ride from where he had been sojourning as much a stranger in + his England as himself? + </p> + <p> + For a moment the idea possessed him. He was Sir Gaston Robert Belward, + Baronet. He remembered now how, at Prince Rupert’s side, he had sped on + after Ireton’s horse, cutting down Roundheads as he passed, on and on, mad + with conquest, yet wondering that Rupert kept so long in pursuit while + Charles was in danger with Cromwell: how, as the word came to wheel back, + a shot tore away the pommel of his saddle; then another, and another, and + with a sharp twinge in his neck he fell from his horse. He remembered how + he raised himself on his arm and shouted “God save the King!” How he + loosed his scarf and stanched the blood at his neck, then fell back into a + whirring silence, from which he was roused by feeling himself in strong + arms, and hearing a voice say: “Courage, Gaston.” Then came the distant, + very distant, thud of hoofs, and he fell asleep; and memory was done. + </p> + <p> + He stood for a moment oblivious to everything: the evening bird fluttering + among the rafters, the song of the nightingale without, the sighing wind + in the tower entry, the rustics in the doorway, the group in the choir. + Presently he became conscious of the words sung: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A thousand ages in Thy sight + Are like an evening gone; + Short as the watch that ends the night + Before the rising sun. + + “Time, like an ever-rolling stream, + Bears all its sons away; + They fly, forgotten, as a dream + Dies at the opening day.” + </pre> + <p> + He was himself again in an instant. He had been in a kind of dream. It + seemed a long time since he had entered the church—in reality but a + few moments. He caught his moustache in his fingers, and turned on his + heel with a musing smile. His spurs clinked as he went down the aisle; + and, involuntarily, he tapped a boot-leg with his riding-whip. The singing + ceased. His spurs made the only sound. The rustics at the door fell back + before him. He had to go up three steps to reach the threshold. As he + stood on the top one he paused and turned round. + </p> + <p> + So, this was home: this church more so even than the Court hard by. Here + his ancestors—for how long he did not know, probably since the time + of Edward III—idled time away in the dust; here Gaston Belward had + been sleeping in effigy since Naseby Field. A romantic light came into his + face. Again, why not? Even in the Hudson’s Bay country and in the Rocky + Mountains, he had been called, “Tivi, The Man of the Other.” He had been + counted the greatest of Medicine Men—one of the Race: the people of + the Pole, who lived in a pleasant land, gifted as none others of the race + of men. Not an hour before Jacques had asked him where he got “the other.” + No man can live in the North for any time without getting the strain of + its mystery and romance in him. Gaston waved his hand to the tomb, and + said half-believingly: + </p> + <p> + “Gaston Robert Belward, come again to your kingdom.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to go out, and faced the rector of the parish,—a bent, + benign-looking man,—who gazed at him astonished. He had heard the + strange speech. His grave eyes rested on the stalwart stranger with + courteous inquiry. Gaston knew who it was. Over his left brow there was a + scar. He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon + Varcoe was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had + thrown a stick at his brother. It had struck the clergyman, leaving a + scar. + </p> + <p> + Gaston now raised his hat. As he passed, the rector looked after him, + puzzled; the words he had heard addressed to the effigy returning. His + eyes followed the young man to the gate, and presently, with a quick + lifting of the shoulders, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Robert Belward!” Then added: “Impossible! But he is a Belward.” + </p> + <p> + He saw Gaston mount, then entered and went slowly up the aisle. He paused + beside the tomb of that other Belward. His wrinkled hand rested on it. + </p> + <p> + “That is it,” he said at last. “He is like the picture of this Sir Gaston. + Strange.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings + with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and + affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure, + and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe + was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be + useful. As he stood musing and listening to the music of the choir, a girl + came softly up the aisle, and touched him on the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, dear,” she said, “aren’t you going to the Court? You have a + standing invitation for this night in the week. You have not been there + for so long.” + </p> + <p> + He fondled the hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “My dearest, they have not asked me for a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “But why not to-night? I have laid out everything nicely for you—your + new gaiters, and your D. C. L. coat with the pretty buttons and cord.” + </p> + <p> + “How can I leave you, my dear? And they do not ask you!” + </p> + <p> + The voice tried for playfulness, but the eyes had a disturbed look. + </p> + <p> + “Me? Oh! they never ask me to dinner-you know that. Tea and formal visits + are enough for Lady Belward, and almost too much for me. There is yet time + to dress. Do say you will go. I want you to be friendly with them.” + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I do not care to leave you, my dearest.” + </p> + <p> + “Foolish old fatherkins! Who would carry me off?—‘Nobody, no, not I, + nobody cares for me.’” Suddenly a new look shot up in her face. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see that singular handsome man who came from the church—like + some one out of an old painting? Not that his dress was so strange; but + there was something in his face—something that you would expect to + find in—in a Garibaldi. Silly, am I not? Did you see him?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her gravely. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” he said at last, “I think I will go after all, though I shall + be a little late.” + </p> + <p> + “A sensible grandfather. Come quickly, dear.” He paused again. + </p> + <p> + “But I fear I sent a note to say I could not dine.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you did not. It has been lying on your table for two days.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me—dear me! I am getting very old.” + </p> + <p> + They passed out of the church. Presently, as they hurried to the rectory + near by, the girl said: + </p> + <p> + “But you haven’t answered. Did you see the stranger? Do you know who he + is?” + </p> + <p> + The rector turned, and pointed to the gate of Ridley Court. Gaston and + Brillon were just entering. “Alice,” he said, in a vague, half-troubled + way, “the man is a Belward, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course!” the girl replied with a flash of excitement. “But he’s + so dark, and foreign-looking! What Belward is he?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know yet, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be up when you come back. But mind, don’t leave just after + dinner. Stay and talk; you must tell me everything that’s said and done—and + about the stranger.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN + </h2> + <p> + Meanwhile, without a word, Gaston had mounted, ridden to the castle, and + passed through the open gates into the court-yard. Inside he paused. In + the main building many lights were burning. There came a rattle of wheels + behind him, and he shifted to let a carriage pass. Through the window of + the brougham he could see the shimmer of satin, lace, and soft white fur, + and he had an instant’s glance of a pretty face. + </p> + <p> + The carriage drew up to the steps, and presently three ladies and a + brusque gentleman passed into the hall-way, admitted by powdered footmen. + The incident had a manner, an air, which struck Gaston, he knew not why. + Perhaps it was the easy finesse of ceremonial. He looked at Brillon. He + had seen him sit arms folded like that, looking from the top of a bluff + down on an Indian village or a herd of buffaloes. There was wonder, but no + shyness or agitation, on his face; rather the naive, naked look of a + child. Belward laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Brillon; we are at home.” + </p> + <p> + He rode up to the steps, Jacques following. A foot man appeared and + stared. Gaston looked down on him neutrally, and dismounted. Jacques did + the same. The footman still stared. Another appeared behind. Gaston eyed + the puzzled servant calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you call a groom?” he presently said. There was a cold gleam in + his eye. + </p> + <p> + The footman shrank. + </p> + <p> + “Yessir, yessir,” he said confusedly, and signalled. The other footman + came down, and made as if to take the bridle. Gaston waved him back. None + too soon, for the horse lunged at him. + </p> + <p> + “A rub down, a pint of beer, and water and feed in an hour, and I’ll come + to see him myself late to-night.” Jacques had loosened the saddle-bags and + taken them off. Gaston spoke to the horse, patted his neck, and gave him + to the groom. Then he went up the steps, followed by Jacques. He turned at + the door to see the groom leading both horses off, and eyeing Saracen + suspiciously. He laughed noiselessly. + </p> + <p> + “Saracen ‘ll teach him things,” he said. “I might warn him, but it’s best + for the horses to make their own impressions.” + </p> + <p> + “What name, sir?” asked a footman. + </p> + <p> + “You are—?” + </p> + <p> + “Falby, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Falby, look after my man Brillon here, and take me to Sir William.” + </p> + <p> + “What name, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston, as if with sudden thought, stepped into the light of the candles, + and said in a low voice: “Falby, don’t you know me?” + </p> + <p> + The footman turned a little pale, as his eyes, in spite of themselves, + clung to Gaston’s. A kind of fright came, and then they steadied. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, sir,” he said mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you seen me?” + </p> + <p> + “In the picture on the wall, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose picture, Falby?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Gaston Belward, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + A smile lurked at the corners of Gaston’s mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Gaston Belward. Very well, then you know what to say to Sir William. Show + me into the library.” + </p> + <p> + “Or the justices’ room, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “The justices’ room will do.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston wondered what the justices’ room was. A moment after he stood in + it, and the dazed Falby had gone, trying vainly to reconcile the picture + on the wall, which, now that he could think, he knew was very old, with + this strange man who had sent a curious cold shiver through him. But, + anyhow, he was a Belward, that was certain: voice, face, manner showed it. + But with something like no Belward he had ever seen. Left to himself, + Gaston looked round on a large, severe room. Its use dawned on him. This + was part of the life: Sir William was a Justice of the Peace. But why had + he been brought here? Why not to the library as himself had suggested? + There would be some awkward hours for Falby in the future. Gaston had as + winning a smile, as sweet a manner, as any one in the world, so long as a + straight game was on; but to cross his will with the other—he had + been too long a power in that wild country where his father had also been + a power! He did not quite know how long he waited, for he was busy with + plans as to his career at Ridley Court. He was roused at last by Falby’s + entrance. A keen, cold look shot from under his straight brows. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Will you step into the library, sir? Sir William will see you there.” + </p> + <p> + Falby tried to avoid his look, but his eyes were compelled, and Gaston + said: + </p> + <p> + “Falby, you will always hate to enter this room.” Falby was agitated. + </p> + <p> + “I hope not, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “But you will, Falby, unless—” + </p> + <p> + “Yessir?” + </p> + <p> + “Unless you are both the serpent and the dove, Falby.” + </p> + <p> + “Yessir.” + </p> + <p> + As they entered the hall, Brillon with the saddle-bags was being taken in + charge, and Gaston saw what a strange figure he looked beside the other + servants and in these fine surroundings. He could not think that himself + was so bizarre. Nor was he. But he looked unusual; as one of high + civilisation might, through long absence in primitive countries, return in + uncommon clothing, and with a manner of distinguished strangeness: the + barbaric to protect the refined, as one has seen a bush of firs set to + shelter a wheat-field from a seawind, or a wind-mill water + cunningly-begotten flowers. + </p> + <p> + As he went through the hall other visitors were entering. They passed him, + making for the staircase. Ladies with the grand air looked at him + curiously, and two girls glanced shyly from the jingling spurs and + tasselled boots to his rare face. + </p> + <p> + One of the ladies suddenly gave a little gasping cry, and catching the arm + of her companion, said: + </p> + <p> + “Reine, how like Robert Belward! Who—who is he?” + </p> + <p> + The other coolly put up her pince-nez. She caught Gaston’s profile and the + turn of his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, like, Sophie; but Robert never had such a back, nor anything like + the face.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with no attempt to modulate her voice, and it carried distinctly + to Gaston. He turned and glanced at them. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a Belward, certainly, but like what one I don’t know; and he’s + terribly eccentric, my dear! Did you see the boots and the sash? Why, + bless me, if you are not shaking! Don’t be silly—shivering at the + thought of Robert Belward after all these years.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne tapped Lady Dargan on the arm, and then + turned sharply to see if her daughters had been listening. She saw that + they had; and though herself and not her sister was to blame, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Sophie, you are very indiscreet! If you had daughters of your own, you + would probably be more careful—though Heaven only knows, for you + were always difficult!” + </p> + <p> + With this they vanished up the staircase, Mrs. Gasgoyne’s daughters, Delia + and Agatha, smiling at each other and whispering about Gaston. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the seeker after a kingdom was shown into Sir William Belward’s + study. No one was there. He walked to the mantelpiece, and, leaning his + arm on it, looked round. Directly in front of him on the wall was the + picture of a lady in middle-life, sitting in an arbour. A crutch lay + against one arm of her chair, and her left hand leaned on an ebony + silver-topped cane. There was something painful, haunting, in the face—a + weirdness in the whole picture. The face was looking into the sunlight, + but the effect was rather of moonlight—distant, mournful. He was + fascinated; why, he could not tell. Art to him was an unknown book, but he + had the instinct, and he was quick to feel. This picture struck him as + being out of harmony with everything else in the room. Yet it had, a + strange compelling charm. + </p> + <p> + Presently he started forward with an exclamation. Now he understood the + vague, eerie influence. Looking out from behind the foliage was a face, so + dim that one moment it seemed not to be there, and then suddenly to flash + in—as a picture from beyond sails, lightning-like, across the filmy + eyes of the dying. It was the face of a youth, elf-like, unreal, yet he + saw his father’s features in it. + </p> + <p> + He rubbed his eyes and looked again. It seemed very dim. Indeed, so + delicately, vaguely, had the work been done that only eyes like Gaston’s, + trained to observe, with the sight of a hawk and a sense of the + mysterious, could have seen so quickly or so distinctly. He drew slowly + back to the mantel again, and mused. What did it mean? He was sure that + the woman was his grandmother. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the door opened, and an alert, white-haired man stepped in + quickly, and stopped in the centre of the room, looking at his visitor. + His deep, keen eyes gazed out with an intensity that might almost be + fierceness, and the fingers of his fine hands opened and shut nervously. + Though of no great stature, he had singular dignity. He was in + evening-dress, and as he raised a hand to his chin quickly, as if in + surprise or perplexity, Gaston noticed that he wore a large seal-ring. It + is singular that while he was engaged with his great event, he was also + thinking what an air of authority the ring gave. + </p> + <p> + For a moment the two men stood at gaze without speaking, though Gaston + stepped forward respectfully. A bewildered, almost shrinking look came + into Sir William’s eyes, as the other stood full in the light of the + candles. + </p> + <p> + Presently the old man spoke. In spite of conventional smoothness, his + voice had the ring of distance, which comes from having lived through and + above painful things. + </p> + <p> + “My servant announced you as Sir Gaston Belward. There is some mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “There is a mistake,” was the slow reply. “I did not give my name as Sir + Gaston Belward. That was Falby’s conclusion, sir. But I am Gaston Robert + Belward, just the same.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William was dazed, puzzled. He presently made a quick gesture, as if + driving away some foolish thought, and, motioning to a chair, said: + </p> + <p> + “Will you be seated?” + </p> + <p> + They both sat, Sir William by his writing-table. His look was now steady + and penetrating, but he met one just as firm. + </p> + <p> + “You are—Gaston Robert Belward? May I ask for further information?” + </p> + <p> + There was furtive humour playing at Gaston’s mouth. The old man’s manner + had been so unlike anything he had ever met, save, to an extent, in his + father, that it interested him. He replied, with keen distinctness: “You + mean, why I have come—home?” + </p> + <p> + Sir William’s fingers trembled on a paper-knife. “Are you-at home?” + </p> + <p> + “I have come home to ask for my heritage—with interest compounded, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William was now very pale. He got to his feet, came to the young man, + peered into his face, then drew back to the table and steadied himself + against it. Gaston rose also: his instinct of courtesy was acute—absurdly + civilised—that is, primitive. He waited. “You are Robert’s son?” + </p> + <p> + “Robert Belward was my father.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father is dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Twelve years ago.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William sank back in his chair. His thin fingers ran back and forth + along his lips. Presently he took out his handkerchief and coughed into it + nervously. His lips trembled. With a preoccupied air he arranged a handful + of papers on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not come before?” he asked at last, in a low, mechanical + voice. + </p> + <p> + “It was better for a man than a boy to come.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + “A boy doesn’t always see a situation—gives up too soon—throws + away his rights. My father was a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “He was twenty-five when he went away.” + </p> + <p> + “I am fifty!” + </p> + <p> + Sir William looked up sharply, perplexed. “Fifty?” + </p> + <p> + “He only knew this life: I know the world.” + </p> + <p> + “What world?” + </p> + <p> + “The great North, the South, the seas at four corners of the earth.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William glanced at the top-boots, the peeping sash, the strong, + bronzed face. + </p> + <p> + “Who was your mother?” he asked abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “A woman of France.” + </p> + <p> + The baronet made a gesture of impatience, and looked searchingly at the + young man. + </p> + <p> + All at once Gaston shot his bolt, to have it over. “She had Indian blood + also.” + </p> + <p> + He stretched himself to his full height, easily, broadly, with a touch of + defiance, and leaned an arm against the mantel, awaiting Sir William’s + reply. + </p> + <p> + The old man shrank, then said coldly: “Have you the marriage-certificate?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston drew some papers from his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “Here, sir, with a letter from my father, and one from the Hudson’s Bay + Company.” + </p> + <p> + His grandfather took them. With an effort he steadied himself, then opened + and read them one by one, his son’s brief letter last—it was merely + a calm farewell, with a request that justice should be done his son. + </p> + <p> + At that moment Falby entered and said: + </p> + <p> + “Her ladyship’s compliments, and all the guests have arrived, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “My compliments to her ladyship, and ask her to give me five minutes yet, + Falby.” + </p> + <p> + Turning to his grandson, there seemed to be a moment’s hesitation, then he + reached out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “You have brought your luggage? Will you care to dine with us?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston took the cold outstretched fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Only my saddle-bag, and I have no evening-dress with me, else I should be + glad.” + </p> + <p> + There was another glance up and down the athletic figure, a + half-apprehensive smile as the baronet thought of his wife, and then he + said: + </p> + <p> + “We must see if anything can be done.” + </p> + <p> + He pulled a bell-cord. A servant appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Ask the housekeeper to come for a moment, please.” Neither spoke till the + housekeeper appeared. “Hovey,” he said to the grim woman, “give Mr. Gaston + the room in the north tower. Then, from the press in the same room lay out + the evening-dress which you will find there.... They were your father’s,” + he added, turning to the young man. “It was my wife’s wish to keep them. + Have they been aired lately, Hovey?” + </p> + <p> + “Some days ago, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “That will do.” The housekeeper left, agitated. “You will probably be in + time for the fish,” he added, as he bowed to Robert. + </p> + <p> + “If the clothes do not fit, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Your father was about your height and nearly as large, and fashions have + not changed much.” + </p> + <p> + A few moments afterwards Gaston was in the room which his father had + occupied twenty-seven years before. The taciturn housekeeper, eyeing him + excitedly the while, put out the clothes. He did not say anything till she + was about to go. Then: + </p> + <p> + “Hovey, were you here in my father’s time?” + </p> + <p> + “I was under-parlourmaid, sir,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And you are housekeeper now—good!” + </p> + <p> + The face of the woman crimsoned, hiding her dour wrinkles. She turned away + her head. + </p> + <p> + “I’d have given my right hand if he hadn’t gone, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston whistled softly, then: + </p> + <p> + “So would he, I fancy, before he died. But I shall not go, so you will not + need to risk a finger for me. I am going to stay, Hovey. Good-night. Look + after Brillon, please.” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand. Her fingers twitched in his, then grasped them + nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. Good-night, Sir. It’s—it’s like him comin’ back, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Then she suddenly turned and hurried from the room, a blunt figure to whom + emotion was not graceful. “H’m!” said Gaston, as he shut the door. + “Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! ‘Voici le sabre de mon + pere!’” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE + </h2> + <p> + Gaston Belward was not sentimental: that belongs to the middle-class + Englishman’s ideal of civilisation. But he had a civilisation akin to the + highest; incongruous, therefore, to the general as the sympathy between + the United States and Russia. The highest civilisation can be independent. + The English aristocrat is at home in the lodge of a Sioux chief or the + bamboo-hut of a Fijian, and makes brothers of “savages,” when those other + formal folk, who spend their lives in keeping their dignity, would be + lofty and superior. + </p> + <p> + When Gaston looked at his father’s clothes and turned them over, he had a + twinge of honest emotion; but his mind was on the dinner and his heritage, + and he only said, as he frowned at the tightness of the waistband: + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, we’ll make ‘em pay, shot and wadding, for what you lost, + Robert Belward; and wherever you are, I hope you’ll see it.” + </p> + <p> + In twelve minutes from the time he entered the bedroom he was ready. He + pulled the bell-cord, and then passed out. A servant met him on the + stairs, and in another minute he was inside the dining-room. Sir William’s + eyes flashed up. There was smouldering excitement in his face, but one + could not have guessed at anything unusual. A seat had been placed for + Gaston beside him. The situation was singular and trying. It would have + been easier if he had merely come into the drawing-room after dinner. This + was in Sir William’s mind when he asked him to dine; but it was as it was. + Gaston’s alert glance found the empty seat. He was about to make towards + it, but he caught Sir William’s eye and saw it signal him to the end of + the table near him. His brain was working with celerity and clearness. He + now saw the woman whose portrait had so fascinated him in the library. As + his eyes fastened on her here, he almost fancied he could see the boy’s—his + father’s-face looking over her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + He instantly went to her, and said: “I am sorry to be late.” + </p> + <p> + His first impulse had been to offer his hand, as, naturally, he would have + done in “barbaric” lands, but the instinct of this other civilisation was + at work in him. He might have been a polite casual guest, and not a + grandson, bringing the remembrance, the culmination of twenty-seven years’ + tragedy into a home; she might have been a hostess with whom he wished to + be on terms: that was all. + </p> + <p> + If the situation was trying for him, it was painful for her. She had had + only a whispered announcement before Sir William led the way to dinner. + Yet she was now all her husband had been, and more. Repression had been + her practice for unnumbered years, and the only heralds of her feelings + were the restless wells of her dark eyes: the physical and mental misery + she had endured lay hid under the pale composure of her face. She was now + brought suddenly before the composite image of her past. Yet she merely + lifted a slender hand with long, fine fingers, which, as they clasped his, + all at once trembled, and then pressed them hotly, nervously. To his + surprise, it sent a twinge of colour to his cheek. “It was good of you to + come down after such a journey,” she said. Nothing more. + </p> + <p> + Then he passed on, and sat down to Sir William’s courteous gesture. The + situation had its difficulties for the guests—perfect guests as they + were. Every one was aware of a dramatic incident, for which there had been + no preparation save Sir William’s remark that a grandson had arrived from + the North Pole or thereabouts; and to continue conversation and appear + casual put their resources to some test. But they stood it well, though + their eyes were busy, and the talk was cheerfully mechanical. So occupied + were they with Gaston’s entrance, that they did not know how near Lady + Dargan came to fainting. + </p> + <p> + At the button-hole of the coat worn by Gaston hung a tiny piece of red + ribbon which she had drawn from her sleeve on the terrace twenty-seven + years ago, and tied there with the words: + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you will wear it till we meet again?” And the man had + replied: + </p> + <p> + “You’ll not see me without it, pretty girl—pretty girl.” + </p> + <p> + A woman is not so unaccountable after all. She has more imagination than a + man; she has not many resources to console her for disappointments, and + she prizes to her last hour the swift moments when wonderful things seemed + possible. That man is foolish who shows himself jealous of a woman’s + memories or tokens—those guarantees of her womanliness. + </p> + <p> + When Lady Dargan saw the ribbon, which Gaston in his hurry had not + disturbed, tied exactly as she had tied it, a weird feeling came to her, + and she felt choking. But her sister’s eyes were on her, and Mrs. + Gasgoyne’s voice came across the table clearly: + </p> + <p> + “Sophie, what were Fred Bideford’s colours at Sandown? You always remember + that kind of thing.” The warning was sufficient. Lady Dargan could make no + effort of memory, but she replied without hesitation—or conscience: + </p> + <p> + “Yellow and brown.” + </p> + <p> + “There,” said Mrs. Gasgoyne, “we are both wrong, Captain Maudsley. Sophie + never makes a mistake.” Maudsley assented politely, but, stealing a look + at Lady Dargan, wondered what the little by-play meant. Gaston was between + Sir William and Mrs. Gasgoyne. He declined soup and fish, which had just + been served, because he wished for time to get his bearings. He glanced at + the menu as if idly interested, conscious that he was under observation. + He felt that he had, some how, the situation in his hands. Everything had + gone well, and he knew that his part had been played with some aplomb—natural, + instinctive. Unlike most large men, he had a mind always alert, not + requiring the inspiration of unusual moments. What struck him most + forcibly now was the tasteful courtesy which had made his entrance easy. + He instinctively compared it to the courtesy in the lodge of an Indian + chief, or of a Hudson’s Bay factor who has not seen the outer world for + half a century. It was so different, and yet it was much the same. He had + seen a missionary, a layreader, come intoxicated into a council of chiefs. + The chiefs did not show that they knew his condition till he forced them + to do so. Then two of the young men rose, suddenly pinned him in their + arms, carried him out, and tied him in a lodge. The next morning they sent + him out of their country. Gaston was no philosopher, but he could place a + thing when he saw it: which is a kind of genius. + </p> + <p> + Presently Sir William said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Gasgoyne, you knew Robert well; his son ought to know you.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston turned to Mrs. Gasgoyne, and said in his father’s manner as much as + possible, for now his mind ran back to how his father talked and acted, + forming a standard for him: + </p> + <p> + “My father once told me a tale of the Keithley Hunt—something ‘away + up,’ as they say in the West—and a Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne was in it.” + </p> + <p> + He made an instant friend of Mrs. Gasgoyne—made her so purposely. + This was one of the few things from his father’s talks upon his past life. + He remembered the story because it was interesting, the name because it + had a sound. + </p> + <p> + She flushed with pleasure. That story of the Hunt was one of her sweetest + recollections. For her bravery then she had been voted by the field “a + good fellow,” and an admiral present declared that she had a head “as long + as the maintop bow-line.” She loved admiration, though she had no foolish + sentiment; she called men silly creatures, and yet would go on her knees + across country to do a deserving man-friend a service. She was fifty and + over, yet she had the springing heart of a girl—mostly hid behind a + brusque manner and a blunt, kindly tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Your father could always tell a good story,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “He told me one of you: what about telling me one of him?” + </p> + <p> + Adaptable, he had at once fallen in with her direct speech; the more so + because it was his natural way; any other ways were “games,” as he himself + said. + </p> + <p> + She flashed a glance at her sister, and smiled half-ironically. + </p> + <p> + “I could tell you plenty,” she said softly. “He was a startling fellow, + and went far sometimes; but you look as if you could go farther.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston helped himself to an entree, wondering whether a knife was used + with sweetbreads. + </p> + <p> + “How far could he go?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “In the hunting-field with anybody, with women endlessly, with meanness + like a snail, and when his blood was up, to the most nonsensical place you + can think of.” + </p> + <p> + Forks only for sweetbreads! Gaston picked one up. “He went there.” + </p> + <p> + “Who told you?” + </p> + <p> + “I came from there.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is it?” + </p> + <p> + “A few hundred miles from the Arctic circle.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I didn’t think it was that climate!” + </p> + <p> + “It never is till you arrive. You are always out in the cold there.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds American.” + </p> + <p> + “Every man is a sinner one way or another.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very clever—cleverer than your father ever was. + </p> + <p> + “I hope so.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “He went—there. I’ve come—from there.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think you will stay—never go back?” + </p> + <p> + “He was out of it for twenty years, and died. If I am in it for that long, + I shall have had enough.” + </p> + <p> + Their eyes met. The woman looked at him steadily. “You won’t be,” she + replied, this time seriously, and in a very low voice. + </p> + <p> + “No? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you will tire of it all—though you’ve started very well.” + </p> + <p> + She then answered a question of Captain Maudsley’s and turned again to + Gaston. + </p> + <p> + “What will make me tire of it?” he inquired. She sipped her champagne + musingly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what is in you deeper than all this; with the help of some woman + probably.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him searchingly, then added: + </p> + <p> + “You seem strangely like and yet unlike your father to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I am wearing his clothes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She had plenty of nerve, but this startled her. She shrank a little: it + seemed uncanny. Now she remembered that ribbon in the button-hole. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Sophie!” she thought. “And this one will make greater mischief + here.” Then, aloud to him: “Your father was a good fellow, but he did wild + things.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not see the connection,” he answered. “I am not a good man, and I + shall do wilder things—is that it?” + </p> + <p> + “You will do mad things,” she replied hardly above a whisper, and talked + once more with Captain Maudsley. Gaston now turned to his grandfather, who + had heard a sentence here and there, and felt that the young man carried + off the situation well enough. He then began to talk in a general way + about Gaston’s voyage, of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and expeditions to the + Arctic, drawing Lady Dargan into the conversation. + </p> + <p> + Whatever might be said of Sir William Belward he was an excellent host. He + had a cool, unmalicious wit, but that man was unwise who offered himself + to its severity. To-night he surpassed himself in suggestive talk, until, + all at once, seeing Lady Dargan’s eyes fixed on Gaston, he went silent, + sitting back in his chair abstracted. Soon, however, a warning glance from + his wife brought him back and saved Lady Dargan from collapse; for it + seemed impossible to talk alone to this ghost of her past. + </p> + <p> + At this moment Gaston heard a voice near: + </p> + <p> + “As like as if he’d stepped out of the picture, if it weren’t for the + clothes. A Gaston too!” + </p> + <p> + The speaker was Lord Dargan. He was talking to Archdeacon Varcoe. + </p> + <p> + Gaston followed Lord Dargan’s glance to the portrait of that Sir Gaston + Belward whose effigy he had seen. He found himself in form, feature, + expression; the bold vigilance of eye, the primitive activity of shoulder, + the small firm foot, the nervous power of the hand. The eyes seemed + looking at him. He answered to the look. There was in him the romantic + strain, and something more! In the remote parts of his being there was the + capacity for the phenomenal, the strange. Once again, as in the church, he + saw the field of Naseby, King Charles, Ireton’s men, Cromwell and his + Ironsides, Prince Rupert and the swarming rush of cavalry, and the end of + it all! Had it been a tale of his father’s at camp-fire? Had he read it + somewhere? He felt his blood thump in his veins. Another half-hour, + wherein he was learning every minute, nothing escaping him, everything + interesting him; his grandfather and Mrs. Gasgoyne especially, then the + ladies retired slowly with their crippled hostess, who gave Gaston, as she + rose, a look almost painfully intense. It haunted him. + </p> + <p> + Now Gaston had his chance. He had no fear of what he could do with men: he + had measured himself a few times with English gentlemen as he travelled, + and he knew where his power lay—not in making himself agreeable, but + in imposing his personality. + </p> + <p> + The guests were not soon to forget the talk of that hour. It played into + Gaston’s hands. He pretended to nothing; he confessed ignorance here and + there with great simplicity; but he had the gift of reducing things, as it + were, to their original elements. He cut away to the core of a matter, and + having simple, fixed ideas, he was able to focus the talk, which had begun + with hunting stories, and ended with the morality of duelling. Gaston’s + hunting stories had made them breathless, his views upon duelling did not + free their lungs. + </p> + <p> + There were sentimentalists present; others who, because it had become + etiquette not to cross swords, thought it indecent. Archdeacon Varcoe + would not be drawn into discussion, but sipped his wine, listened, and + watched Gaston. + </p> + <p> + The young man measured his grandfather’s mind, and he drove home his + points mercilessly. + </p> + <p> + Captain Maudsley said something about “romantic murder.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the trouble,” Gaston said. “I don’t know who killed duelling in + England, but behind it must have been a woman or a shopkeeper: + sentimentalism, timidity, dead romance. What is patriotism but romance? + Ideals is what they call it somewhere. I’ve lived in a land full of hard + work and dangers, but also full of romance. What is the result? Why, a + people off there whom you pity, and who don’t need pity. Romance? See: you + only get square justice out of a wise autocrat, not out of your ‘twelve + true men’; and duelling is the last decent relic of autocracy. Suppose the + wronged man does get killed; that is all right: it wasn’t merely blood he + was after, but the right to hit a man in the eye for a wrong done. What is + all this hullaballoo—about saving human life? There’s as much + interest—and duty—in dying as living, if you go the way your + conscience tells you.” + </p> + <p> + A couple of hours later, Gaston, after having seen to his horse, stood + alone in the drawing-room with his grandfather and grandmother. As yet + Lady Belward had spoken not half a dozen words to him. Sir William + presently said to him: + </p> + <p> + “Are you too tired to join us in the library?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m as fresh as paint, sir,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + Lady Belward turned without a word, and slowly passed from the room. + Gaston’s eyes followed the crippled figure, which yet had a rare dignity. + He had a sudden impulse. He stepped to her and said with an almost boyish + simplicity: + </p> + <p> + “You are very tired; let me carry you—grandmother.” + </p> + <p> + He could hear Sir William gasp a little as he laid a quick warm hand on + hers that held the cane. She looked at him gravely, sadly, and then said: + </p> + <p> + “I will take your arm, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + He took the cane, and she put a hand towards him. He ran his strong arm + around her waist with a little humouring laugh, her hand rested on his + shoulder, and he timed his step to hers. Sir William was in an eddy of + wonder—a strong head was “mazed.” He had looked for a different + reception of this uncommon kinsman. How quickly had the new-comer + conquered himself! And yet he had a slight strangeness of accent—not + American, but something which seemed unusual. He did not reckon with a + voice which, under cover of easy deliberation, had a convincing quality; + with a manner of old-fashioned courtesy and stateliness. As Mrs. Gasgoyne + had said to the rector, whose eyes had followed Gaston everywhere in the + drawing-room: + </p> + <p> + “My dear archdeacon, where did he get it? Why, he has lived most of his + life with savages!” + </p> + <p> + “Vandyke might have painted the man,” Lord Dargan had added. + </p> + <p> + “Vandyke did paint him,” had put in Delia Gasgoyne from behind her mother. + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean, Delia?” Mrs. Gasgoyne had added, looking curiously at + her. + </p> + <p> + “His picture hangs in the dining-room.” + </p> + <p> + Then the picture had been discussed, and the girl’s eyes had followed + Gaston—followed him until he had caught their glance. Without an + introduction, he had come and dropped into conversation with her, till her + mother cleverly interrupted. + </p> + <p> + Inside the library Lady Belward was comfortably placed, and looking up at + Gaston, said: + </p> + <p> + “You have your father’s ways: I hope that you will be wiser.” + </p> + <p> + “If you will teach me!” he answered gently. + </p> + <p> + There came two little bright spots on her cheeks, and her hands clasped in + her lap. They all sat down. Sir William spoke: + </p> + <p> + “It is much to ask that you should tell us of your life now, but it is + better that we should start with some knowledge of each other.” + </p> + <p> + At that moment Gaston’s eyes caught the strange picture on the wall. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” he answered. “But I would be starting in the middle of a + story.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that you wish to hear your father’s history? Did he not tell + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Trifles—that is all.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he ever speak of me?” asked Lady Belward with low anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, when he was dying.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He said: ‘Tell my mother that Truth waits long, but whips hard. Tell her + that I always loved her.’” She shrank in her chair as if from a blow, and + then was white and motionless. + </p> + <p> + “Let us hear your story,” Sir William said with a sort of hauteur. “You + know your own, much of your father’s lies buried with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William drew a chair up beside his wife. Gaston sat back, and for a + moment did not speak. He was looking into distance. Presently the blue of + his eyes went all black, and with strange unwavering concentration he + gazed straight before him. A light spread over his face, his hands felt + for the chair-arms and held them firmly. He began: + </p> + <p> + “I first remember swinging in a blanket from a pine-tree at a buffalo-hunt + while my mother cooked the dinner. There were scores of tents, horses, and + many Indians and half-breeds, and a few white men. My father was in + command. I can see my mother’s face as she stood over the fire. It was not + darker than mine; she always seemed more French than Indian, and she was + thought comely.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Belward shuddered a little, but Gaston did not notice. + </p> + <p> + “I can remember the great buffalo-hunt. You heard a heavy rumbling sound; + you saw a cloud on the prairie. It heaved, a steam came from it, and + sometimes you caught the flash of ten thousand eyes as the beasts tossed + their heads and then bent them again to the ground and rolled on, five + hundred men after them, our women shouting and laughing, and arrows and + bullets flying.... I can remember a time also when a great Indian battle + happened just outside the fort, and, with my mother crying after him, my + father went out with a priest to stop it. My father was wounded, and then + the priest frightened them, and they gathered their dead together and + buried them. We lived in a fort for a long time, and my mother died there. + She was a good woman, and she loved my father. I have seen her on her + knees for hours praying when he was away.—I have her rosary now. + They called her Ste. Heloise. Afterwards I was always with my father. He + was a good man, but he was never happy; and only at the last would he + listen to the priest, though they were always great friends. He was not a + Catholic of course, but he said that didn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William interrupted huskily. “Why did he never come back?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know quite, but he said to me once, ‘Gaston, you’ll tell them of + me some day, and it will be a soft pillow for their heads! You can mend a + broken life, but the ring of it is gone.’ I think he meant to come back + when I was about fourteen; but things happened, and he stayed.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. Gaston seemed brooding, and Lady Belward said: + </p> + <p> + “Go on, please.” + </p> + <p> + “There isn’t so very much to tell. The life was the only one I had known, + and it was all right. But my father had told me of this life. He taught me + himself—he and Father Decluse and a Moravian missionary for awhile. + I knew some Latin and history, a bit of mathematics, a good deal of + astronomy, some French poets, and Shakespere. Shakespere is wonderful. ... + My father wanted me to come here at once after he died, but I knew better—I + wanted to get sense first. So I took a place in the Company. It wasn’t all + fun. + </p> + <p> + “I had to keep my wits sharp. I was only a youngster, and I had to do with + men as crafty and as silly as old Polonius. I was sent to Labrador. That + was not a life for a Christian. Once a year a ship comes to the port, + bringing the year’s mail and news from the world. When you watch that ship + go out again, and you turn round and see the filthy Esquimaux and Indians, + and know that you’ve got to live for another year with them, sit in their + dirty tepees, eat their raw frozen meat, with an occasional glut of + pemmican, and the thermometer 70 degrees below zero, you get a lump in + your throat. + </p> + <p> + “Then came one winter. I had one white man, two half-breeds, and an Indian + with me. There was darkness day after day, and because the Esquimaux and + Indians hadn’t come up to the fort that winter, it was lonely as a tomb. + One by one the men got melancholy and then went mad, and I had to tie them + up, and care for them and feed them. The Indian was all right, but he got + afraid, and wanted to start to a mission station three hundred miles on. + It was a bad look-out for me, but I told him to go. I was left alone. I + was only twenty-one, but I was steel to my toes—good for wear and + tear. Well, I had one solid month all alone with my madmen. Their + jabbering made me sea-sick some times. At last one day I felt I’d go + staring mad myself if I didn’t do something exciting to lift me, as it + were. I got a revolver, sat at the opposite end of the room from the three + lunatics, and practised shooting at them. I had got it into my head that + they ought to die, but it was only fair, I thought, to give them a chance. + I would try hard to shoot all round them—make a halo of bullets for + the head of every one, draw them in silhouettes of solid lead on the wall. + </p> + <p> + “I talked to them first, and told them what I was going to do. They seemed + to understand, and didn’t object. I began with the silhouettes, of course. + I had a box of bullets beside me. They never squealed. I sent the bullets + round them as pretty as the pattern of a milliner. Then I began with their + heads. I did two all right. They sat and never stirred. But when I came to + the last something happened. It was Jock Lawson.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William interposed: + </p> + <p> + “Jock Lawson—Jock Lawson from here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. His mother keeps ‘The Whisk o’ Barley.’” + </p> + <p> + “So, that is where Jock Lawson went? He followed your father?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Jock was mad enough when I began—clean gone. But, somehow, the + game I was playing cured him. ‘Steady, Jock!’ I said. ‘Steady!’ for I saw + him move. I levelled for the second bead of the halo. My finger was on the + trigger. ‘My God, don’t shoot!’ he called. It startled me, my hand shook, + the thing went off, and Jock had a bullet through his brain. + </p> + <p> + “... Then I waked up. Perhaps I had been mad myself—I don’t know. + But my brain never seemed clearer than when I was playing that game. It + was like a magnifying glass: and my eyes were so clear and strong that I + could see the pores on their skin, and the drops of sweat breaking out on + Jock’s forehead when he yelled.” + </p> + <p> + A low moan came from Lady Belward. Her face was drawn and pale, but her + eyes were on Gaston with a deep fascination. Sir William whispered to her. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, “I will stay.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston saw the impression he had made. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I had to bury poor Jock all alone. I don’t think I should have + minded it so much, if it hadn’t been for the faces of those other two + crazy men. One of them sat still as death, his eyes following me with one + long stare, and the other kept praying all the time—he’d been a lay + preacher once before he backslided, and it came back on him now naturally. + Now it would be from Revelation, now out of the Psalms, and again a + swingeing exhortation for the Spirit to come down and convict me of sin. + There was a lot of sanity in it too, for he kept saying at last: ‘O shut + not up my soul with the sinners: nor my life with the bloodthirsty.’ I + couldn’t stand it, with Jock dead there before me, so I gave him a heavy + dose of paregoric out of the Company’s stores. Before he took it he raised + his finger and said to me, with a beastly stare: ‘Thou art the man!’ But + the paregoric put him to sleep.... + </p> + <p> + “Then I gave the other something to eat, and dragged Jock out to bury him. + I remembered then that he couldn’t be buried, for the ground was too hard + and the ice too thick; so I got ropes, and, when he stiffened, slung him + up into a big cedar tree, and then went up myself and arranged the + branches about him comfortably. It seemed to me that Jock was a baby and I + was his father. You couldn’t see any blood, and I fixed his hair so that + it covered the hole in the forehead. I remember I kissed him on the cheek, + and then said a prayer—one that I’d got out of my father’s + prayer-book: ‘That it may please Thee to preserve all that travel by land + or by water, all women labouring of child, all sick persons and young + children; and to show Thy pity upon all prisoners and captives.’ Somehow I + had got it into my head that Jock was going on a long journey, and that I + was a prisoner and a captive.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston broke off, and added presently: + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps this is all too awful to hear, but it gives you an idea of what + kind of things went to make me.” Lady Belward answered for both: + </p> + <p> + “Tell us all—everything.” + </p> + <p> + “It is late,” said Sir William, nervously. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter? It is once in a lifetime,” she answered sadly. + </p> + <p> + Gaston took up the thread: + </p> + <p> + “Now I come to what will shock you even more, perhaps. So, be prepared. I + don’t know how many days went, but at last I had three visitors—in + time I should think: a Moravian missionary, and an Esquimaux and his + daughter. I didn’t tell the missionary about Jock—there was no use, + it could do no good. They stayed four weeks, and during that time one of + the crazy men died. The other got better, but had to be watched. I could + do anything with him, if I got my eye on him. Somehow, I must tell you, + I’ve got a lot of power that way. I don’t know where it comes from. Well, + the missionary had to go. The old Esquimaux thought that he and his + daughter would stay on if I’d let them. I was only too glad. But it wasn’t + wise for the missionary to take the journey alone—it was a bad + business in any case. I urged the man that had been crazy to go, for I + thought activity would do him good. He agreed, and the two left and got to + the Mission Station all right, after wicked trouble. I was alone with the + Esquimaux and his daughter. You never know why certain things happen, and + I can’t tell why that winter was so weird; why the old Esquimaux should + take sick one morning, and in the evening should call me and his daughter + Lucy—she’d been given a Christian name, of course—and say that + he was going to die, and he wanted me to marry her” (Lady Belward + exclaimed, Sir William’s hands fingered the chair-arm nervously) “there + and then, so that he’d know she would be cared for. He was a heathen, but + he had been primed by the missionaries about his daughter. She was a fine, + clever girl, and well educated—the best product of their mission. So + he called for a Bible. There wasn’t one in the place, but I had my + mother’s Book of the Mass. I went to get it, but when I set my eyes on it, + I couldn’t—no, I couldn’t do it, for I hadn’t the least idea but + what I should bid my lady good-bye when it suited, and I didn’t want any + swearing at all—not a bit. I didn’t do any. But what happened had to + be with or without any ring or book and ‘Forasmuch as.’ There had been so + much funeral and sudden death that a marriage would be a godsend anyhow. + So the old Esquimaux got our two hands in his, babbled away in + half-English, half-Esquimaux, with the girl’s eyes shining like a + she-moose over a dying buck, and about the time we kissed each other, his + head dropped back—and that is all there was about that.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston now kept his eyes on his listeners. He was aware that his story + must sound to them as brutal as might be, but it was a phase of his life, + and, so far as he could, he wanted to start with a clean sheet; not out of + love of confidence, for he was self-contained, but he would have enough to + do to shepherd his future without shepherding his past. He saw that Lady + Belward had a sickly fear in her face, while Sir William had gone stern + and hard. + </p> + <p> + He went on: + </p> + <p> + “It saved the situation, did that marriage; though it was no marriage you + will say. Neither was it one way, and I didn’t intend at the start to + stand by it an hour longer than I wished. But she was more than I looked + for, and it seems to me that she saved my life that winter, or my reason + anyhow. There had been so much tragedy that I used to wonder every day + what would happen before night; and that’s not a good thing for the brain + of a chap of twenty-one or two. The funny part of it is that she wasn’t a + pagan—not a bit. She could read and speak English in a sweet + old-fashioned way, and she used to sing to me—such a funny, sorry + little voice she had—hymns the Moravians had taught her, and one or + two English songs. I taught her one or two besides, ‘Where the Hawthorn + Tree is Blooming,’ and ‘Allan Water’—the first my father had taught + me, the other an old Scotch trader. It’s different with a woman and a man + in a place like that. Two men will go mad together, but there’s a saving + something in the contact of a man’s brain with a woman’s. I got fond of + her, any man would have, for she had something that I never saw in any + heathen, certainly in no Indian; you’ll see it in women from Iceland. I + determined to marry her in regular style when spring and a missionary + came. You can’t understand, maybe, how one can settle to a life where + you’ve got companionship, and let the world go by. About that time, I + thought that I’d let Ridley Court and the rest of it go as a boy’s dreams + go. I didn’t seem to know that I was only satisfied in one set of my + instincts. Spring came, so did a missionary, and for better or worse it + was.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William came to his feet. “Great Heaven!” he broke out. + </p> + <p> + His wife tried to rise, but could not. + </p> + <p> + “This makes everything impossible,” added the baronet shortly. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, it makes nothing impossible—if you will listen.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston was cool. He had begun playing for the stakes from one stand-point, + and he would not turn back. + </p> + <p> + He continued: + </p> + <p> + “I lived with her happily: I never expect to have happiness like that + again,—never,—and after two years at another post in Labrador, + came word from the Company that I might go to Quebec, there to be given my + choice of posts. I went. By this time I had again vague ideas that + sometime I should come here, but how or why I couldn’t tell; I was + drifting, and for her sake willing to drift. I was glad to take her to + Quebec, for I guessed she would get ideas, and it didn’t strike me that + she would be out of place. So we went. But she was out of place in many + ways. It did not suit at all. We were asked to good houses, for I believe + I have always had enough of the Belward in me to keep my end up anywhere. + The thing went on pretty well, but at last she used to beg me to go + without her to excursions and parties. There were always one or two quiet + women whom she liked to sit with, and because she seemed happier for me to + go, I did. I was popular, and got along with women well; but I tell you + honestly I loved my wife all the time; so that when a Christian busy-body + poured into her ears some self-made scandal, it was a brutal, awful lie—brutal + and awful, for she had never known jealousy; it did not belong to her old + social creed. But it was in the core of her somewhere, and an aboriginal + passion at work naked is a thing to be remembered. I had to face it one + night.... + </p> + <p> + “I was quiet, and did what I could. After that I insisted on her going + with me wherever I went, but she had changed, and I saw that, in spite of + herself, the thing grew. One day we went on an excursion down the St. + Lawrence. We were merry, and I was telling yarns. We were just nearing a + landing-stage, when a pretty girl, with more gush than sense, caught me by + the arm and begged some ridiculous thing of me—an autograph, or what + not. A minute afterwards I saw my wife spring from the bulwarks down on + the landing-stage, and rush up the shore into the woods.... We were two + days finding her. That settled it. I was sick enough at heart, and I + determined to go back to Labrador. We did so. Every thing had gone on the + rocks. My wife was not, never would be, the same again. She taunted me and + worried me, and because I would not quarrel, seemed to have a greater + grievance—jealousy is a kind of madness. One night she was most + galling, and I sat still and said nothing. My life seemed gone of a heap: + I was sick—sick to the teeth; hopeless, looking forward to nothing. + I imagine my hard quietness roused her. She said something hateful—something + about having married her, and not a woman from Quebec. I smiled—I + couldn’t help it; then I laughed, a bit wild, I suppose. I saw the flash + of steel. ... I believe I laughed in her face as I fell. When I came to + she was lying with her head on my breast—dead—stone dead.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Belward sat with closed eyes, her fingers clasping and unclasping on + the top of her cane; but Sir William wore a look half-satisfied, + half-excited. + </p> + <p> + He now hurried his story. + </p> + <p> + “I got well, and after that stayed in the North for a year. Then I passed + down the continent to Mexico and South America. There I got a commission + to go to New Zealand and Australia to sell a lot of horses. I did so, and + spent some time in the South Sea Islands. Again I drifted back to the + Rockies and over into the plains; found Jacques Brillon, my servant, had a + couple of years’ work and play, gathered together some money, as good a + horse and outfit as the North could give, and started with Brillon and his + broncho—having got both sense and experience, I hope—for + Ridley Court. And here I am. There’s a lot of my life that I haven’t told + you of, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s adventure mostly, and it can + be told at any time; but these are essential facts, and it is better that + you should hear them. And that is all, grandfather and grandmother.” + </p> + <p> + After a minute Lady Belward rose, leaned on her crutch, and looked at him + wistfully. Sir William said: “Are you sure that you will suit this life, + or it you?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the only idea I have at present; and, anyhow, it is my rightful + home, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I was not thinking of your rights, but of the happiness of us all.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Belward limped to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You have had one great tragedy, so have we: neither could bear another. + Try to be worthy—of your home.” + </p> + <p> + Then she solemnly kissed him on the cheek. Soon afterwards they went to + their rooms. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. AN HOUR WITH HIS FATHER’S PAST + </h2> + <p> + In his bedroom Gaston made a discovery. He chanced to place his hand in + the tail-pocket of the coat he had worn. He drew forth a letter. The ink + was faded, and the lines were scrawled. It ran: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It’s no good. Mr. Ian’s been! It’s face the musik now. If you + want me, say so. I’m for kicks or ha’pence—no diffrense. + Yours, J. +</pre> + <p> + He knew the writing very well—Jock Lawson’s. There had been some + trouble, and Mr. Ian had “been,” bringing peril. What was it? His father + and Jock had kept the secret from him. + </p> + <p> + He put his hand in the pocket again. There was another note—this + time in a woman’s handwriting: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, come to me, if you would save us both! Do not fail. God help + us! Oh, Robert! +</pre> + <p> + It was signed “Agnes.” + </p> + <p> + Well, here was something of mystery; but he did not trouble himself about + that. He was not at Ridley Court to solve mysteries, to probe into the + past, to set his father’s wrongs right; but to serve himself, to reap for + all those years wherein his father had not reaped. He enjoyed life, and he + would search this one to the full of his desires. Before he retired he + studied the room, handling things that lay where his father placed them so + many years before. He was not without emotions in this, but he held + himself firm. + </p> + <p> + As he stood ready to get into bed, his eyes chanced upon a portrait of his + uncle Ian. + </p> + <p> + “There’s where the tug comes!” he said, nodding at it. “Shake hands, and + ten paces, Uncle Ian?” + </p> + <p> + Then he blew out the candle, and in five minutes was sound asleep. + </p> + <p> + He was out at six o’clock. He made for the stables, and found Jacques + pacing the yard. He smiled at Jacques’s dazed look. + </p> + <p> + “What about the horse, Brillon?” he said, nodding as he came up. + </p> + <p> + “Saracen’s had a slice of the stable-boy’s shoulder—sir.” + </p> + <p> + Amusement loitered in Gaston’s eyes. The “sir” had stuck in Jacques’s + throat. + </p> + <p> + “Saracen has established himself, then? Good! And the broncho?” + </p> + <p> + “Bien, a trifle only. They laugh much in the kitchen—” + </p> + <p> + “The hall, Brillon.” + </p> + <p> + “—in the hall last night. That hired man over there—” + </p> + <p> + “That groom, Brillon.” + </p> + <p> + “—that groom, he was a fool, and fat. He was the worst. This morning + he laugh at my broncho. He say a horse like that is nothing: no pace, no + travel. I say the broncho was not so ver’ bad, and I tell him try the + paces. I whisper soft, and the broncho stand like a lamb. He mount, and + sneer, and grin at the high pommel, and start. For a minute it was pretty; + and then I give a little soft call, and in a minute there was the broncho + bucking—doubling like a hoop, and dropping same as lead. Once that—groom—come + down on the pommel, then over on the ground like a ball, all muck and + blood.” + </p> + <p> + The half-breed paused, looking innocently before him. Gaston’s mouth + quirked. + </p> + <p> + “A solid success, Brillon. Teach them all the tricks you can. At ten + o’clock come to my room. The campaign begins then.” + </p> + <p> + Jacques ran a hand through his long black hair, and fingered his sash. + Gaston understood. + </p> + <p> + “The hair and ear-rings may remain, Brillon; but the beard and clothes + must go—except for occasions. Come along.” + </p> + <p> + For the next two hours Gaston explored the stables and the grounds. + Nothing escaped him. He gathered every incident of the surroundings, and + talked to the servants freely, softly, and easily, yet with a superiority, + which suddenly was imposed in the case of the huntsman at the kennels—for + the Whipshire hounds were here. Gaston had never ridden to hounds. It was + not, however, his cue to pretend knowledge. He was strong enough to admit + ignorance. He stood leaning against the door of the kennels, arms folded, + eyes half-closed, with the sense of a painter, before the turning bunch of + brown and white, getting the charm of distance and soft tones. His blood + beat hard, for suddenly he felt as if he had been behind just such a pack + one day, one clear desirable day of spring. He saw people gathering at the + kennels; saw men drink beer and eat sandwiches at the door of the + huntsman’s house,—a long, low dwelling, with crumbling arched + doorways like those of a monastery, watched them get away from the top of + the moor, he among them; heard the horn, the whips; and saw the fox break + cover. + </p> + <p> + Then came a rare run for five sweet miles—down a long valley—over + quick-set hedges, with stiffish streams—another hill—a great + combe—a lovely valley stretching out—a swerve to the right—over + a gate—and the brush got at a farmhouse door. + </p> + <p> + Surely, he had seen it all; but what kink of the brain was it that the men + wore flowing wigs and immense boot-legs, and sported lace in the + hunting-field? And why did he see within that picture another of two + ladies and a gentleman hawking? + </p> + <p> + He was roused from his dream by hearing the huntsman say in a quizzical + voice: + </p> + <p> + “How do you like the dogs, sir?” + </p> + <p> + To his last day Lugley, the huntsman, remembered the slow look of cold + surprise, of masterful malice, scathing him from head to foot. The words + that followed the look, simple as they were, drove home the naked reproof: + </p> + <p> + “What is your name, my man?” + </p> + <p> + “Lugley, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Lugley! Lugley! H’m! Well, Lugley, I like the hounds better than I like + you. Who is Master of the Hounds, Lugley?” + </p> + <p> + “Captain Maudsley, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so. You are satisfied with your place, Lugley?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said the man in a humble voice, now cowed. + </p> + <p> + The news of the arrival of the strangers had come to him late at night, + and, with Whipshire stupidity, he had thought that any one coming from the + wilds of British America must be but a savage after all. + </p> + <p> + “Very well; I wouldn’t throw myself out of a place, if I were you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, sir! Beg pardon, sir, I—” + </p> + <p> + “Attend to your hounds there, Lugley.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Gaston nodded Jacques away with him, leaving the huntsman sick + with apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “You see how it is to be done, Brillon?” said Gaston. Jacques’s brown eyes + twinkled. + </p> + <p> + “You have the grand trick, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I enjoy the game; and so shall you, if you will. You’ve begun well. I + don’t know much of this life yet; but it seems to me that they are all + part of a machine, not the idea behind the machine. They have no + invention. Their machine is easy to learn. Do not pretend; but for every + bit you learn show something better, something to make them dizzy now and + then.” + </p> + <p> + He paused on a knoll and looked down. The castle, the stables, the + cottages of labourers and villagers lay before them. In a certain + highly-cultivated field, men were working. It was cut off in squares and + patches. It had an air which struck Gaston as unusual; why, he could not + tell. But he had a strange divining instinct, or whatever it may be + called. He made for the field and questioned the workmen. + </p> + <p> + The field was cut up into allotment gardens. Here, at a nominal rent, the + cottager could grow his vegetables; a little spot of the great acre of + England, which gave the labourer a tiny sense of ownership, of manhood. + Gaston was interested. More, he was determined to carry that experiment + further, if he ever got the chance. There was no socialism in him. The + true barbarian is like the true aristocrat: more a giver of gifts than a + lover of co-operation; conserving ownership by right of power and superior + independence, hereditary or otherwise. Gaston was both barbarian and + aristocrat. + </p> + <p> + “Brillon,” he said, as they walked on, “do you think they would be happier + on the prairies with a hundred acres of land, horses, cows, and a pen of + pigs?” + </p> + <p> + “Can I be happy here all at once, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just it. It’s too late for them. They couldn’t grasp it unless + they went when they were youngsters. They’d long for ‘Home and Old + England’ and this grub-and-grind life. Gracious heaven, look at them—crumpled-up + creatures! And I’ll stake my life, they were as pretty children as you’d + care to see. They are out of place in the landscape, Brillon; for it is + all luxury and lush, and they are crumples—crumples! But yet there + isn’t any use being sorry for them, for they don’t grasp anything outside + the life they are living. Can’t you guess how they live? Look at the doors + of the houses shut, and the windows sealed; yet they’ve been up these + three hours! And they’ll suck in bad air, and bad food; and they’ll get + cancer, and all that; and they’ll die and be trotted away to the graveyard + for ‘passun’ to hurry them into their little dark cots, in the blessed + hope of everlasting life! I’m going to know this thing, Brillon, from + tooth to ham-string; and, however it goes, we’ll have lived up and down + the whole scale; and that’s something.” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly stopped, and then added: + </p> + <p> + “I’m likely to go pretty far in this. I can’t tell how or why, but it’s + so. Now, once more, as yesterday afternoon, for good or for bad, for long + or for short, for the gods or for the devil, are you with me? There’s time + to turn back even yet, and I’ll say no word to your going.” + </p> + <p> + “But no, no! a vow is a vow. When I cannot run I will walk, when I cannot + walk I will crawl after you—comme ca!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Belward did not appear at breakfast. Sir William and Gaston + breakfasted alone at half past nine o’clock. The talk was of the stables + and the estate generally. + </p> + <p> + The breakfast-room looked out on a soft lawn, stretching away into a broad + park, through which a stream ran; and beyond was a green hillside. The + quiet, the perfect order and discipline, gave a pleasant tingle to + Gaston’s veins. It was all so easy, and yet so admirable—elegance + without weight. He felt at home. He was not certain of some trifles of + etiquette; but he and Sir William were alone, and he followed his + instincts. Once he frankly asked his grandfather of a matter of form, of + which he was uncertain the evening before. The thing was done so naturally + that the conventional mind of the baronet was not disturbed. The Belwards + were notable for their brains, and Sir William saw that the young man had + an unusual share. He also felt that this startling individuality might + make a hazardous future; but he liked the fellow, and he had a debt to pay + to the son of his own dead son. Of course, if their wills came into + conflict, there could be but one thing—the young man must yield; or, + if he played the fool, there must be an end. Still, he hoped the best. + When breakfast was finished, he proposed going to the library. + </p> + <p> + There Sir William talked of the future, asked what Gaston’s ideas were, + and questioned him as to his present affairs. Gaston frankly said that he + wanted to live as his father would have done, and that he had no property, + and no money beyond a hundred pounds, which would last him a couple of + years on the prairies, but would be fleeting here. + </p> + <p> + Sir William at once said that he would give him a liberal allowance, with, + of course, the run of his own stables and their house in town: and when he + married acceptably, his allowance would be doubled. + </p> + <p> + “And I wish to say, Gaston,” he added, “that your uncle Ian, though heir + to the title, does not necessarily get the property, which is not + entailed. Upon that point I need hardly say more. He has disappointed us. + </p> + <p> + “Through him Robert left us. Of his character I need not speak. Of his + ability the world speaks variably: he is an artist. Of his morals I need + only say that they are scarcely those of an English gentleman, though + whether that is because he is an artist, I cannot say—I really + cannot say. I remember meeting a painter at Lord Dunfolly’s,—Dunfolly + is a singular fellow—and he struck me chiefly as harmless, + distinctly harmless. I could not understand why he was at Dunfolly’s, he + seemed of so little use, though Lady Malfire, who writes or something, + mooned with him a good deal. I believe there was some scandal or something + afterwards. I really do not know. But you are not a painter, and I believe + you have character—I fancy so.” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean that I don’t play fast and loose, sir, you are right. What I + do, I do as straight as a needle.” The old man sighed carefully. + </p> + <p> + “You are very like Robert, and yet there is something else. I don’t know, + I really don’t know what!” + </p> + <p> + “I ought to have more in me than the rest of the family, sir.” + </p> + <p> + This was somewhat startling. Sir William’s fingers stroked his beardless + cheek uncertainly. “Possibly—possibly.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve lived a broader life, I’ve got wider standards, and there are three + races at work in me.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so, quite so;” and Sir William fumbled among his papers nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Gaston suddenly, “I told you last night the honest story of my + life. I want to start fair and square. I want the honest story of my + father’s life here; how and why he left, and what these letters mean.” + </p> + <p> + He took from his pocket the notes he had found the night before, and + handed them. Sir William read them with a disturbed look, and turned them + over and over. Gaston told where he had found them. + </p> + <p> + Sir William spoke at last. + </p> + <p> + “The main story is simple enough. Robert was extravagant, and Ian was + vicious and extravagant also. Both got into trouble. I was younger then, + and severe. Robert hid nothing, Ian all he could. One day things came to a + climax. In his wild way, Robert—with Jock Lawson—determined to + rescue a young man from the officers of justice, and to get him out of the + country. There were reasons. He was the son of a gentleman; and, as we + discovered afterwards, Robert had been too intimate with the wife—his + one sin of the kind, I believe. Ian came to know, and prevented the + rescue. Meanwhile, Robert was liable to the law for the attempt. There was + a bitter scene here, and I fear that my wife and I said hard things to + Robert.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston’s eyes were on Lady Belward’s portrait. “What did my grandmother + say?” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, then: + </p> + <p> + “That she would never call him son again, I believe; that the shadow of + his life would be hateful to her always. I tell you this because I see you + look at that portrait. What I said, I think, was no less. So, Robert, + after a wild burst of anger, flung away from us out of the house. His + mother, suddenly repenting, ran to follow him, but fell on the stone steps + at the door, and became a cripple for life. At first she remained bitter + against Robert, and at that time Ian painted that portrait. It is clever, + as you may see, and weird. But there came a time when she kept it as a + reproach to herself, not Robert. She is a good woman—a very good + woman. I know none better, really no one.” + </p> + <p> + “What became of the arrested man?” Gaston asked quietly, with the oblique + suggestiveness of a counsel. + </p> + <p> + “He died of a broken blood-vessel on the night of the intended rescue, and + the matter was hushed up.” + </p> + <p> + “What became of the wife?” + </p> + <p> + “She died also within a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Were there any children?” + </p> + <p> + “One—a girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose was the child?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean—?” + </p> + <p> + “The husband’s or the lover’s?” There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is the girl?” + </p> + <p> + “My son, do not ask that. It can do no good—really no good.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it not my due?” + </p> + <p> + “Do not impose your due. Believe me, I know best. If ever there is need to + tell you, you shall be told. Trust me. Has not the girl her due also?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston’s eyes held Sir William’s a moment. “You are right, sir,” he said, + “quite right. I shall not try to know. But if—” He paused. + </p> + <p> + Sir William spoke: + </p> + <p> + “There is but one person in the world who knows the child’s father; and I + could not ask him, though I have known him long and well—indeed, + no.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not ask to understand more,” Gaston replied. “I almost wish I had + known nothing. And yet I will ask one thing: is the girl in comfort and + good surroundings?” + </p> + <p> + “The best—ah, yes, the very best.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, in which both sat thinking; then Sir William wrote out + a cheque and offered it, with a hint of emotion. He was recalling how he + had done the same with this boy’s father. + </p> + <p> + Gaston understood. He got up, and said: “Honestly, sir, I don’t know how I + shall turn out here; for, if I didn’t like it, it couldn’t hold me, or, if + it did, I should probably make things uncomfortable. But I think I shall + like it, and I will do my best to make things go well. Good-morning, sir.” + </p> + <p> + With courteous attention Sir William let his grandson out of the room. + </p> + <p> + And thus did a young man begin his career as Gaston Belward, gentleman. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. WHEREIN HE FINDS HIS ENEMY + </h2> + <p> + How that career was continued there are many histories: Jock Lawson’s + mother tells of it in her way, Mrs. Gasgoyne in hers, Hovey in hers, + Captain Maudsley in his; and so on. Each looks at it from an individual + stand-point. But all agree on two matters: that he did things hitherto + unknown in the countryside; and that he was free and affable, but could + pull one up smartly if necessary. + </p> + <p> + He would sit by the hour and talk with Bimley, the cottager; with Rosher, + the hotel-keeper, who when young had travelled far; with a sailorman, home + for a holiday, who said he could spin a tidy yarn; and with Pogan, the + groom, who had at last won Saracen’s heart. But one day when the meagre + village chemist saw him cracking jokes with Beard, the carpenter, and + sidled in with a silly air of equality, which was merely insolence, Gaston + softly dismissed him, with his ears tingling. The carpenter proved his + right to be a friend of Gaston’s by not changing countenance and by never + speaking of the thing afterwards. + </p> + <p> + His career was interesting during the eighteen months wherein society + papers chatted of him amiably and romantically. He had entered into the + joys of hunting with enthusiasm and success, and had made a fast and + admiring friend of Captain Maudsley; while Saracen held his own grandly. + He had dined with country people, and had dined them; had entered upon the + fag-end of the London season with keen, amused enjoyment; and had + engrafted every little use of the convention. The art was learned, but the + man was always apart from it; using it as a toy, yet not despising it; + for, as he said, it had its points, it was necessary. There was yachting + in the summer; but he was keener to know the life of England and his + heritage than to roam afar, and most of the year was spent on the estate + and thereabouts: with the steward, with the justices of the peace, in the + fields, in the kennels, among the accounts. + </p> + <p> + To-day he was in London, haunting Tattersall’s, the East End, the docks, + his club, the London Library—he had a taste for English history, + especially for that of the seventeenth century; he saturated himself with + it: to-morrow he would present to his grandfather a scheme for improving + the estate and benefiting the cottagers. Or he would suddenly enter the + village school, and daze and charm the children by asking them strange yet + simple questions, which sent a shiver of interest to their faces. + </p> + <p> + One day at the close of his second hunting-season there was to be a ball + at the Court, the first public declaration of acceptance by his people; + for, at his wish, they did not entertain for him in town the previous + season—Lady Belward had not lived in town for years. But all had + gone so well, if not with absolute smoothness, and with some strangeness,—that + Gaston had become an integral part of their life, and they had ceased to + look for anything sensational. + </p> + <p> + This ball was to be the seal of their approval. It had been mentioned in + ‘Truth’ with that freshness and point all its own. What character than + Gaston’s could more appeal to his naive imagination? It said in a piquant + note that he did not wear a dagger and sombrero. + </p> + <p> + Everything was ready. Decorations were up, the cook and the butler had + done their parts. At eleven in the morning Gaston had time on his hands. + Walking out, he saw two or three children peeping in at the gateway. + </p> + <p> + He would visit the village school. He found the junior curate troubling + the youthful mind with what their godfathers and godmothers did for them, + and begging them to do their duty “in that state of life,” etc. He + listened, wondering at the pious opacity, and presently asked the children + to sing. With inimitable melancholy they sang: “Oh, the Roast Beef of Old + England!” + </p> + <p> + Gaston sat back and laughed softly till the curate felt uneasy, till the + children, waking to his humour, gurgled a little in the song. With his + thumbs caught lightly in his waistcoat pockets, he presently began to talk + with the children in an easy, quiet voice. He asked them little + out-of-the-way questions, he lifted the school-room from their minds, and + then he told them a story, showing them on the map where the place was, + giving them distances, the kind of climate, and a dozen other matters of + information, without the nature of a lesson. Then he taught them the + chorus—the Board forbade it afterwards—of a negro song, which + told how those who behaved themselves well in this world should + ultimately: + </p> + <p> + “Blow on, blow on, blow on dat silver horn!” + </p> + <p> + It was on this day that, as he left the school, he saw Ian Belward driving + past. He had not met his uncle since his arrival,—the artist had + been in Morocco,—nor had he heard of him save through a note in a + newspaper which said that he was giving no powerful work to the world, + nor, indeed, had done so for several years; and that he preferred the + purlieus of Montparnasse to Holland Park. + </p> + <p> + They recognised each other. Ian looked his nephew up and down with a cool + kind of insolence as he passed, but did not make any salutation. Gaston + went straight to the castle. He asked for his uncle, and was told that he + had gone to Lady Belward. He wandered to the library: it was empty. He lit + a cigar, took down a copy of Matthew Arnold’s poems, opening at “Sohrab + and Rustum,” read it with a quick-beating heart, and then came to + “Tristram and Iseult.” He knew little of “that Arthur” and his knights of + the Round Table, and Iseult of Brittany was a new figure of romance to + him. In Tennyson, he had got no further than “Locksley Hall,” which, he + said, had a right tune and wrong words; and “Maud,” which “was big in + pathos.” The story and the metre of “Tristram and Iseult” beat in his + veins. He got to his feet, and, standing before the window, repeated a + verse aloud: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, + O hunter! and without a fear + Thy golden-tassell’d bugle blow, + And through the glades thy pasture take + For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! + For these thou seest are unmoved; + Cold, cold as those who lived and loved + A thousand years ago.” + </pre> + <p> + He was so engrossed that he did not hear the door open. He again repeated + the lines with the affectionate modulation of a musician. He knew that + they were right. They were hot with life—a life that was no more a + part of this peaceful landscape than a palm-tree would be. He felt that he + ought to read the poem in a desert, out by the Polar Sea, down on the + Amazon, yonder at Nukualofa; that it would fit in with bearding the + Spaniards two hundred years ago. Bearding the Spaniards—what did he + mean by that? He shut his eyes and saw a picture: A Moorish castle, men + firing from the battlements under a blazing sun, a multitude of troops + before a tall splendid-looking man, in armour chased with gold and silver, + and fine ribbons flying. A woman was lifted upon the battlements. He saw + the gold of her necklace shake on her flesh like sunlight on little waves. + He heard a cry: + </p> + <p> + At that moment some one said behind him: “You have your father’s romantic + manner.” + </p> + <p> + He quietly put down the book, and met the other’s eyes with a steady + directness. + </p> + <p> + “Your memory is good, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Less than thirty years—h’m, not so very long!” + </p> + <p> + “Looking back—no. You are my father’s brother, Ian Belward?” + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle Ian.” + </p> + <p> + There was a kind of quizzical loftiness in Ian Belward’s manner. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Uncle Ian, my father asked me to say that he hoped you would get as + much out of life as he had, and that you would leave it as honest.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. That is very like Robert. He loved making little speeches. It + is a pity we did not pull together; but I was hasty, and he was rash. He + had a foolish career, and you are the result. My mother has told me the + story—his and yours.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down, ran his fingers through his grey-brown hair, and looking into + a mirror, adjusted the bow of his tie, and flipped the flying ends. The + kind of man was new to Gaston: self-indulgent, intelligent, heavily + nourished, nonchalant, with a coarse kind of handsomeness. He felt that + here was a man of the world, equipped mentally cap-a-pie, as keen as + cruel. Reading that in the light of the past, he was ready. + </p> + <p> + “And yet his rashness will hurt you longer than your haste hurt him.” + </p> + <p> + The artist took the hint bravely. + </p> + <p> + “That you will have the estate, and I the title, eh? Well, that looks + likely just now; but I doubt it all the same. You’ll mess the thing one + way or another.” + </p> + <p> + He turned from the contemplation of himself, and eyed Gaston lazily. + Suddenly he started. + </p> + <p> + “Begad,” he said, “where did you get it?” He rose. + </p> + <p> + Gaston understood that he saw the resemblance to Sir Gaston Belward. + </p> + <p> + “Before you were, I am. I am nearer the real stuff.” + </p> + <p> + The other measured his words insolently: + </p> + <p> + “But the Pocahontas soils the stream—that’s plain.” + </p> + <p> + A moment after Gaston was beside the prostrate body of his uncle, feeling + his heart. + </p> + <p> + “Good God,” he said, “I didn’t think I hit so hard!” He felt the pulse, + looked at the livid face, then caught open the waistcoat and put his ear + to the chest. He did it all coolly, though swiftly—he was’ born for + action and incident. And during that moment of suspense he thought of a + hundred things, chiefly that, for the sake of the family—the family!—he + must not go to trial. There were easier ways. + </p> + <p> + But presently he found that the heart beat. + </p> + <p> + “Good! good!” he said, undid the collar, got some water, and rang a bell. + Falby came. Gaston ordered some brandy, and asked for Sir William. After + the brandy had been given, consciousness returned. Gaston lifted him up. + </p> + <p> + He presently swallowed more brandy, and while yet his head was at Gaston’s + shoulder, said: + </p> + <p> + “You are a hard hitter. But you’ve certainly lost the game now.” + </p> + <p> + Here he made an effort, and with Gaston’s assistance got to his feet. At + that moment Falby entered to say that Sir William was not in the house. + With a wave of the hand Gaston dismissed him. Deathly pale, his uncle + lifted his eyebrows at the graceful gesture. + </p> + <p> + “You do it fairly, nephew,” he said ironically yet faintly,—“fairly + in such little things; but a gentleman, your uncle, your elder, with fists—that + smacks of low company!” + </p> + <p> + Gaston made a frank reply as he smothered his pride + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry for the blow, sir; but was the fault all mine?” + </p> + <p> + “The fault? Is that the question? Faults and manners are not the same. At + bottom you lack in manners; and that will ruin you at last.” + </p> + <p> + “You slighted my mother!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! and if I had, you should not have seen it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not used to swallow insults. It is your way, sir. I know your + dealings with my father.” + </p> + <p> + “A little more brandy, please. But your father had manners, after all. You + are as rash as he; and in essential matters clownish—which he was + not.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston was well in hand now, cooler even than his uncle. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will sum up your criticism now, sir, to save future + explanation; and then accept my apology.” + </p> + <p> + “To apologise for what no gentleman pardons or does, or acknowledges + openly when done—H’m! Were it not well to pause in time, and go back + to your wild North? Why so difficult a saddle—Tartarin after + Napoleon? Think—Tartarin’s end!” + </p> + <p> + Gaston deprecated with a gesture: “Can I do anything for you, sir?” + </p> + <p> + His uncle now stood up, but swayed a little, and winced from sudden pain. + A wave of malice crossed his face. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a pity we are relatives, with France so near,” he said, “for I see + you love fighting.” After an instant he added, with a carelessness as much + assumed as natural: “You may ring the bell, and tell Falby to come to my + room. And because I am to appear at the flare-up to-night—all in + honour of the prodigal’s son—this matter is between us, and we meet + as loving relatives. You understand my motives, Gaston Robert Belward?” + </p> + <p> + “Thoroughly.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston rang the bell, and went to open the door for his uncle to pass out. + Ian Belward buttoned his close-fitting coat, cast a glance in the mirror, + and then eyed Gaston’s fine figure and well-cut clothes. In the presence + of his nephew, there grew the envy of a man who knew that youth was + passing while every hot instinct and passion remained. For his age he was + impossibly young. Well past fifty he looked thirty-five, no more. His + luxurious soul loathed the approach of age. Unlike many men of indulgent + natures, he loved youth for the sake of his art, and he had sacrificed + upon that altar more than most men-sacrificed others. His cruelty was not + as that of the roughs of Seven Dials or Belleville, but it was pitiless. + He admitted to those who asked him why and wherefore when his selfishness + became brutality, that everything had to give way for his work. His + painting of Ariadne represented the misery of two women’s lives. And of + such was his kingdom of Art. + </p> + <p> + As he now looked at Gaston he was again struck with the resemblance to the + portrait in the dining-room, with his foreign out-of-the-way air: + something that should be seen beneath the flowing wigs of the Stuart + period. He had long wanted to do a statue of the ill-fated Monmouth, and + another greater than that. Here was the very man: with a proud, daring, + homeless look, a splendid body, and a kind of cavalier conceit. It was + significant of him, of his attitude towards himself where his work was + concerned, that he suddenly turned and shut the door again, telling Falby, + who appeared, to go to his room; and then said: + </p> + <p> + “You are my debtor, Cadet—I shall call you that: you shall have a + chance of paying.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + In a few concise words he explained, scanning the other’s face eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Gaston showed nothing. He had passed the apogee of irritation. + </p> + <p> + “A model?” he questioned drily. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you put it that way. ‘Portrait’ sounds better. It shall be + Gaston Belward, gentleman; but we will call it in public, ‘Monmouth the + Trespasser.’” + </p> + <p> + Gaston did not wince. He had taken all the revenge he needed. The idea + rather pleased him than other wise. He had instincts about art, and he + liked pictures; statuary, poetry, romance; but he had no standards. He was + keen also to see the life of the artist, to touch that aristocracy more + distinguished by mind than manners. + </p> + <p> + “If that gives ‘clearance,’ yes. And your debt to me?” + </p> + <p> + “I owe you nothing. You find your own meaning in my words. I was railing, + you were serious. Do not be serious. Assume it sometimes, if you will; be + amusing mostly. So, you will let me paint you—on your own horse, + eh?” + </p> + <p> + “That is asking much. Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, a sketch here this afternoon, while the thing is hot—if this + damned headache stops! Then at my studio in London in the spring, or”—here + he laughed—“in Paris. I am modest, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “As you will.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston had had a desire for Paris, and this seemed to give a cue for + going. He had tested London nearly all round. He had yet to be presented + at St. James’s, and elected a member of the Trafalgar Club. Certainly he + had not visited the Tower, Windsor Castle, and the Zoo; but that would + only disqualify him in the eyes of a colonial. + </p> + <p> + His uncle’s face flushed slightly. He had not expected such good fortune. + He felt that he could do anything with this romantic figure. He would do + two pictures: Monmouth, and an ancient subject—that legend of the + ancient city of Ys, on the coast of Brittany. He had had it in his mind + for years. He came back and sat down, keen, eager. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve a big subject brewing,” he said; “better than the Monmouth, though + it is good enough as I shall handle it. It shall be royal, melancholy, + devilish: a splendid bastard with creation against him; the best, most + fascinating subject in English history. The son dead on against the father—and + the uncle!” + </p> + <p> + He ceased for a minute, fashioning the picture in his mind; his face pale, + but alive with interest, which his enthusiasm made into dignity. Then he + went on: + </p> + <p> + “But the other: when the king takes up the woman—his mistress—and + rides into the sea with her on his horse, to save the town! By Heaven, + with you to sit, it’s my chance! You’ve got it all there in you—the + immense manner. You, a nineteenth century gentleman, to do this game of + Ridley Court, and paddle round the Row? Not you! You’re clever, and you’re + crafty, and you’ve a way with you. But you’ll come a cropper at this as + sure as I shall paint two big pictures—if you’ll stand to your + word.” + </p> + <p> + “We need not discuss my position here. I am in my proper place—in my + father’s home. But for the paintings and Paris, as you please.” + </p> + <p> + “That is sensible—Paris is sensible; for you ought to see it right, + and I’ll show you what half the world never see, and wouldn’t appreciate + if they did. You’ve got that old, barbaric taste, romance, and you’ll find + your metier in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston now knew the most interesting side of his uncle’s character—which + few people ever saw, and they mostly women who came to wish they had never + felt the force of that occasional enthusiasm. He had been in the National + Gallery several times, and over and over again he had visited the picture + places in Bond Street as he passed; but he wanted to get behind art life, + to dig out the heart of it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS + </h2> + <p> + A few hours afterwards Gaston sat on his horse, in a quiet corner of the + grounds, while his uncle sketched him. After a time he said that Saracen + would remain quiet no longer. His uncle held up the sketch. Gaston could + scarcely believe that so strong and life-like a thing were possible in the + time. It had force and imagination. He left his uncle with a nod, rode + quietly through the park, into the village, and on to the moor. At the top + he turned and looked down. The perfectness of the landscape struck him; it + was as if the picture had all grown there—not a suburban villa, not + a modern cottage, not one tall chimney of a manufactory, but just the + sweet common life. The noises of the village were soothing, the soft smell + of the woodland came over. He watched a cart go by idly, heavily clacking. + </p> + <p> + As he looked, it came to him: was his uncle right after all? Was he out of + place here? He was not a part of this, though he had adapted himself and + had learned many fine social ways. He knew that he lived not exactly as + though born here and grown up with it all. But it was also true that he + had a native sense of courtesy which people called distinguished. There + was ever a kind of mannered deliberation in his bearing—a part of + his dramatic temper, and because his father had taught him dignity where + there were no social functions for its use. His manner had, therefore, a + carefulness which in him was elegant artifice. + </p> + <p> + It could not be complained that he did not act after the fashion of gentle + people when with them. But it was equally true that he did many things + which the friends of his family could not and would not have done. For + instance, none would have pitched a tent in the grounds, slept in it, read + in it, and lived in it—when it did not rain. Probably no one of them + would have, at individual expense, sent the wife of the village policeman + to a hospital in London, to be cured—or to die—of cancer. None + would have troubled to insist that a certain stagnant pool in the village + be filled up. Nor would one have suddenly risen in court and have acted as + counsel for a gipsy! At the same time, all were too well-bred to think + that Gaston did this because the gipsy had a daughter with him, a girl of + strong, wild beauty, with a look of superiority over her position. + </p> + <p> + He thought of all the circumstances now. + </p> + <p> + It was very many months ago. The man had been accused of stealing and + assault, but the evidence was unconvincing to Gaston. The feeling in court + was against the gipsy. Fearing a verdict against him, Gaston rose and + cross-examined the witnesses, and so adroitly bewildered both them and the + justices who sat with his grandfather on the case, that, at last, he + secured the man’s freedom. The girl was French, and knew English + imperfectly. Gaston had her sworn, and made the most of her evidence. + Then, learning that an assault had been made on the gipsy’s van by some + lads who worked at mills in a neighbouring town, he pushed for their + arrest, and himself made up the loss to the gipsy. + </p> + <p> + It is possible that there was in the mind of the girl what some common + people thought: that the thing was done for her favour; for she viewed it + half-gratefully, half-frowningly, till, on the village green, Gaston asked + her father what he wished to do—push on or remain to act against the + lads. + </p> + <p> + The gipsy, angry as he was, wished to move on. Gaston lifted his hat to + the girl and bade her good-bye. Then she saw that his motives had been + wholly unselfish—even quixotic, as it appeared to her—silly, + she would have called it, if silliness had not seemed unlikely in him. She + had never met a man like him before. She ran her fingers through her + golden-brown hair nervously, caught at a flying bit of old ribbon at her + waist, and said in French: + </p> + <p> + “He is honest altogether, sir. He did not steal, and he was not there when + it happened.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that, my girl. That is why I did it.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him keenly. Her eyes ran up and down his figure, then met + his curiously. Their looks swam for a moment. Something thrilled in them + both. The girl took a step nearer. + </p> + <p> + “You are as much a Romany here as I am,” she said, touching her bosom with + a quick gesture. “You do not belong; you are too good for it. How do I + know? I do not know; I feel. I will tell your fortune,” she suddenly + added, reaching for his hand. “I have only known three that I could do it + with honestly and truly, and you are one. It is no lie. There is something + in it. My mother had it; but it’s all sham mostly.” Then, under a tree on + the green, he indifferent to village gossip, she took his hand and told + him—not of his fortune alone. In half-coherent fashion she told him + of the past—of his life in the North. She then spoke of his future. + She told him of a woman, of another, and another still; of an accident at + sea, and of a quarrel; then, with a low, wild laugh, she stopped, let go + his hand, and would say no more. But her face was all flushed, and her + eyes like burning beads. Her father stood near, listening. Now he took her + by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Andree, that’s enough,” he said, with rough kindness; “it’s no good + for you or him.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to Gaston, and said in English: + </p> + <p> + “She’s sing’lar, like her mother afore her. But she’s straight.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston lit a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” He looked kindly at the girl. “You are a weird sort, Andree, + and perhaps you are right that I’m a Romany too; but I don’t know where it + begins and where it ends. You are not English gipsies?” he added, to the + father. + </p> + <p> + “I lived in England when I was young. Her mother was a Breton—not a + Romany. We’re on the way to France now. She wants to see where her mother + was born. She’s got the Breton lingo, and she knows some English; but she + speaks French mostly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” rejoined Gaston, “take care of yourself, and good luck to + you. Good-bye—good-bye, Andree.” He put his hand in his pocket to + give her some money, but changed his mind. Her eye stopped him. He shook + hands with the man, then turned to her again. Her eyes were on him—hot, + shining. He felt his blood throb, but he returned the look with + good-natured nonchalance, shook her hand, raised his hat, and walked away, + thinking what a fine, handsome creature she was. Presently he said: “Poor + girl, she’ll look at some fellow like that one day, with tragedy the end + thereof!” + </p> + <p> + He then fell to wondering about her almost uncanny divination. He knew + that all his life he himself had had strange memories, as well as certain + peculiar powers which had put the honest phenomena and the trickery of the + Medicine Men in the shade. He had influenced people by the sheer force of + presence. As he walked on, he came to a group of trees in the middle of + the common. He paused for a moment, and looked back. The gipsy’s van was + moving away, and in the doorway stood the girl, her hand over her eyes, + looking towards him. He could see the raw colour of her scarf. “She’ll + make wild trouble,” he said to himself. + </p> + <p> + As Gaston thought of this event, he moved his horse slowly towards a + combe, and looked out over a noble expanse—valley, field, stream, + and church-spire. As he gazed, he saw seated at some distance a girl + reading. Not far from her were two boys climbing up and down the combe. He + watched them. Presently he saw one boy creep along a shelf of rock where + the combe broke into a quarry, let himself drop upon another shelf below, + and then perch upon an overhanging ledge. He presently saw that the lad + was now afraid to return. He heard the other lad cry out, saw the girl + start up, and run forward, look over the edge of the combe, and then make + as if to go down. He set his horse to the gallop, and called out. The girl + saw him, and paused. In two minutes he was off his horse and beside her. + </p> + <p> + It was Alice Wingfield. She had brought out three boys, who had come with + her from London, where she had spent most of the year nursing their sick + mother, her relative. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll have him up in a minute,” he said, as he led Saracen to a sapling + near. “Don’t go near the horse.” + </p> + <p> + He swung himself down from ledge to ledge, and soon was beside the boy. In + another moment he had the youngster on his back, came slowly up, and the + adventurer was safe. + </p> + <p> + “Silly Walter,” the girl said, “to frighten yourself and give Mr. Belward + trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t think I’d be afraid,” protested the lad; “but when I looked over + the ledge my head went round, and I felt sick—like with the + channel.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston had seen Alice Wingfield several times at church and in the + village, and once when, with Lady Belward, he had returned the + archdeacon’s call; but she had been away most of the time since his + arrival. She had impressed him as a gentle, wise, elderly little creature, + who appeared to live for others, and chiefly for her grandfather. She was + not unusually pretty, nor yet young,—quite as old as himself,—and + yet he wondered what it was that made her so interesting. He decided that + it was the honesty of her nature, her beautiful thoroughness; and then he + thought little more about her. But now he dropped into quiet, natural talk + with her, as if they had known each other for years. But most women found + that they dropped quickly into easy talk with him. That was because he had + not learned the small gossip which varies little with a thousand people in + the same circumstances. But he had a naive fresh sense, everything + interested him, and he said what he thought with taste and tact, sometimes + with wit, and always in that cheerful contemplative mood which influences + women. Some of his sayings were so startling and heretical that they had + gone the rounds, and certain crisp words out of the argot of the North + were used by women who wished to be chic and amusing. + </p> + <p> + Not quite certain why he stayed, but talking on reflectively, Gaston at + last said: + </p> + <p> + “You will be coming to us to-night, of course? We are having a barbecue of + some kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I hope so; though my grandfather does not much care to have me go.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is dull for him.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not sure it is that.” + </p> + <p> + “No? What then?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “The affair is in your honour, Mr. Belward, isn’t it? + </p> + <p> + “Does that answer my question?” he asked genially. + </p> + <p> + She blushed. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no! That is not what I meant.” + </p> + <p> + “I was unfair. Yes, I believe the matter does take that colour; though + why, I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with simple earnestness. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be proud of it; and you ought to be glad of such a high + position where you can do so much good, if you will.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled, and ran his hand down his horse’s leg musingly before he + replied: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not thought much of doing good, I tell you frankly. I wasn’t brought + up to think about it; I don’t know that I ever did any good in my life. I + supposed it was only missionaries and women who did that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “But you wrong yourself. You have done good in this village. Why, we all + have talked of it; and though it wasn’t done in the usual way—rather + irregularly—still it was doing good.” + </p> + <p> + He looked down at her astonished. + </p> + <p> + “Well, here’s a pretty libel! Doing good ‘irregularly’? Why, where have I + done good at all?” + </p> + <p> + She ran over the names of several sick people in the village whose bills + he had paid, the personal help and interest he had given to many, and, + last of all, she mentioned the case of the village postmaster. + </p> + <p> + Since Gaston had come, postmasters had been changed. The little pale-faced + man who had first held the position disappeared one night, and in another + twenty-four hours a new one was in his place. Many stories had gone about. + It was rumoured that the little man was short in his accounts, and had + been got out of the way by Gaston Belward. Archdeacon Varcoe knew the + truth, and had said that Gaston’s sin was not unpardonable, in spite of a + few squires and their dames who declared it was shocking that a man should + have such loose ideas, that no good could come to the county from it, and + that he would put nonsense into the heads of the common people. Alice + Wingfield was now to hear Gaston’s view of the matter. + </p> + <p> + “So that’s it, eh? Live and let live is doing good? In that case it is + easy to be a saint. What else could a man do? You say that I am generous—How? + What have I spent out of my income on these little things? My income—how + did I get it? I didn’t earn it; neither did my father. Not a stroke have I + done for it. I sit high and dry there in the Court, they sit low there in + the village; and you know how they live. Well, I give away a little money + which these people and their fathers earned for my father and me; and for + that you say I am doing good, and some other people say I am doing harm—‘dangerous + charity,’ and all that! I say that the little I have done is what is + always done where man is most primitive, by people who never heard ‘doing + good’ preached.” + </p> + <p> + “We must have names for things, you know,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so, where morality and humanity have to be taught as Christian + duty, and not as common manhood.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” she presently said, “about Sproule, the postmaster.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that? Well, I will. The first time I entered the post-office I saw + there was something on the man’s mind. A youth of twenty-three oughtn’t to + look as he did—married only a year or two also, with a pretty wife + and child. I used to talk to them a good deal, and one day I said to him: + ‘You look seedy; what’s the matter?’ He flushed, and got nervous. I made + up my mind it was money. If I had been here longer, I should have taken + him aside and talked to him like a father. As it was, things slid along. I + was up in town, and here and there. One evening as I came back from town I + saw a nasty-looking Jew arrive. The little postmaster met him, and they + went away together. He was in the scoundrel’s hands; had been betting, and + had borrowed first from the Jew, then from the Government. The next + evening I was just starting down to have a talk with him, when an official + came to my grandfather to swear out a warrant. I lost no time; got my + horse and trap, went down to the office, gave the boy three minutes to + tell me the truth, and then I sent him away. I fixed it up with the + authorities, and the wife and child follow the youth to America next week. + That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “He deserved to get free, then?” + </p> + <p> + “He deserved to be punished, but not as he would have been. There wasn’t + really a vicious spot in the man. And the wife and child—what was a + little justice to the possible happiness of those three? Discretion is a + part of justice, and I used it, as it is used every day in business and + judicial life, only we don’t see it. When it gets public, why, some one + gets blamed. In this case I was the target; but I don’t mind in the least—not + in the least.... Do you think me very startling or lawless?” + </p> + <p> + “Never lawless; but one could not be quite sure what you would do in any + particular case.” She looked up at him admiringly. + </p> + <p> + They had not noticed the approach of Archdeacon Varcoe till he was very + near them. His face was troubled. He had seen how earnest was their + conversation, and for some reason it made him uneasy. The girl saw him + first, and ran to meet him. He saw her bright delighted look, and he + sighed involuntarily. “Something has worried you,” she said caressingly. + Then she told him of the accident, and they all turned and went back + towards the Court, Gaston walking his horse. Near the church they met Sir + William and Lady Belward. There were salutations, and presently Gaston + slowly followed his grandfather and grandmother into the courtyard. + </p> + <p> + Sir William, looking back, said to his wife: “Do you think that Gaston + should be told?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, there is no danger. Gaston, my dear, shall marry Delia Gasgoyne.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall marry? wherefore ‘shall’? Really, I do not see.” + </p> + <p> + “She likes him, she is quite what we would have her, and he is interested + in her. My dear, I have seen—I have watched for a year.” + </p> + <p> + He put his hand on hers. + </p> + <p> + “My wife, you are a goodly prophet.” + </p> + <p> + When Archdeacon Varcoe entered his study on returning, he sat down in a + chair, and brooded long. “She must be told,” he said at last, aloud. “Yes, + yes, at once. God help us both!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET + </h2> + <p> + “Sophie, when you talk with the man, remember that you are near fifty, and + faded. Don’t be sentimental.” So said Mrs. Gasgoyne to Lady Dargan, as + they saw Gaston coming down the ballroom with Captain Maudsley. + </p> + <p> + “Reine, you try one’s patience. People would say you were not quite + disinterested.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean Delia! Now, listen. I haven’t any wish but that Gaston Belward + shall see Delia very seldom indeed. He will inherit the property no doubt, + and Sir William told me that he had settled a decent fortune on him; but + for Delia—no—no—no. Strange, isn’t it, when Lady Harriet + over there aches for him, Indian blood and all? And why? Because this is a + good property, and the fellow is distinguished and romantic-looking: but + he is impossible—perfectly impossible. Every line of his face says + shipwreck.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not usually so prophetic.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. But I am prophetic now, for Delia is more than interested, + silly chuck! Did you ever read the story of the other Gaston—Sir + Gaston—whom this one resembles? No? Well, you will find it thinly + disguised in The Knight of Five Joys. He was killed at Naseby, my dear; + killed, not by the enemy, but by a page in Rupert’s cavalry. The page was + a woman! It’s in this one too. Indian and French blood is a sad tincture. + He is not wicked at heart, not at all; but he will do mad things yet, my + dear. For he’ll tire of all this, and then—half-mourning for some + one!” + </p> + <p> + Gaston enjoyed talking with Mrs. Gasgoyne as to no one else. Other women + often flattered him, she never did. Frankly, crisply, she told him strange + truths, and, without mercy, crumbled his wrong opinions. He had a sense of + humour, and he enjoyed her keen chastening raillery. Besides, her talk was + always an education in the fine lights and shadows of this social life. He + came to her now with a smile, greeted her heartily, and then turned to + Lady Dargan. Captain Maudsley carried off Mrs. Gasgoyne, and the two were + left together—the second time since the evening of Gaston’s arrival, + so many months before. Lady Dargan had been abroad, and was just returned. + </p> + <p> + They talked a little on unimportant things, and presently Lady Dargan + said: + </p> + <p> + “Pardon my asking, but will you tell me why you wore a red ribbon in your + button-hole the first night you came?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled, and then looked at her a little curiously. “My luggage had not + come, and I wore an old suit of my father’s.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Dargan sighed deeply. + </p> + <p> + “The last night he was in England he wore that coat at dinner,” she + murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, Lady Dargan—you put that ribbon there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were on him with a candid interest and regard. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he went on, “that his going was abrupt to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Very—very!” she answered. + </p> + <p> + She longed to ask if his father ever mentioned her name, but she dared + not. Besides, as she said to herself, to what good now? But she asked him + to tell her something about his father. He did so quietly, picking out + main incidents, and setting them forth, as he had the ability, with quiet + dramatic strength. He had just finished when Delia Gasgoyne came up with + Lord Dargan. + </p> + <p> + Presently Lord Dargan asked Gaston if he would bring Lady Dargan to the + other end of the room, where Miss Gasgoyne was to join her mother. As they + went, Lady Dargan said a little breathlessly: + </p> + <p> + “Will you do something for me?” + </p> + <p> + “I would do much for you,” was his reply, for he understood! + </p> + <p> + “If ever you need a friend, if ever you are in trouble, will you let me + know? I wish to take an interest in you. Promise me.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot promise, Lady Dargan,” he answered, “for such trouble as I have + had before I have had to bear alone, and the habit is fixed, I fear. + Still, I am grateful to you just the same, and I shall never forget it. + But will you tell me why people regard me from so tragical a stand-point?” + </p> + <p> + “Do they?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there’s yourself, and there’s Mrs. Gasgoyne, and there’s my uncle + Ian.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we think you may have trouble because of your uncle Ian.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston shook his head enigmatically, and then said ironically: + </p> + <p> + “As they would put it in the North, Lady Dargan, he’ll cut no figure in + that matter. I remember for two.” + </p> + <p> + “That is right—that is right. Always think that Ian Belward is bad—bad + at heart. He is as fascinating as—” + </p> + <p> + “As the Snake?” + </p> + <p> + “—as the Snake, and as cruel! It is the cruelty of wicked + selfishness. Somehow, I forget that I am talking to his nephew. But we all + know Ian Belward—at least, all women do.” + </p> + <p> + “And at least one man does,” he answered gravely. The next minute Gaston + walked down the room with Delia Gasgoyne on his arm. The girl delicately + showed her preference, and he was aware of it. It pleased him—pleased + his unconscious egoism. The early part of his life had been spent among + Indian women, half-breeds, and a few dull French or English folk, whose + chief charm was their interest in that wild, free life, now so distant. He + had met Delia many times since his coming; and there was that in her + manner—a fine high-bred quality, a sweet speaking reserve—which + interested him. He saw her as the best product of this convention. + </p> + <p> + She was no mere sentimental girl, for she had known at least six seasons, + and had refused at least six lovers. She had a proud mind, not wide, + suited to her position. Most men had flattered her, had yielded to her; + this man, either with art or instinctively, mastered her, secured her + interest by his personality. Every woman worth the having, down in her + heart, loves to be mastered: it gives her a sense of security, and she + likes to lean; for, strong as she may be at times, she is often singularly + weak. She knew that her mother deprecated “that Belward enigma,” but this + only sent her on the dangerous way. + </p> + <p> + To-night she questioned him about his life, and how he should spend the + summer. Idling in France, he said. And she? She was not sure; but she + thought that she also would be idling about France in her father’s yacht. + So they might happen to meet. Meanwhile? Well, meanwhile, there were + people coming to stay at Peppingham, their home. August would see that + over. Then freedom. + </p> + <p> + Was it freedom, to get away from all this—from England and rule and + measure? No, she did not mean quite that. She loved the life with all its + rules; she could not live without it. She had been brought up to expect + and to do certain things. She liked her comforts, her luxuries, many + pretty things about her, and days without friction. To travel? Yes, with + all modern comforts, no long stages, a really good maid, and some fresh + interesting books. + </p> + <p> + What kind of books? Well, Walter Pater’s essays; “The Light of Asia”; a + novel of that wicked man Thomas Hardy; and something light—“The + Innocents Abroad”—with, possibly, a struggle through De Musset, to + keep up her French. + </p> + <p> + It did not seem exciting to Gaston, but it did sound honest, and it was in + the picture. He much preferred Meredith, and Swinburne, and Dumas, and + Hugo; but with her he did also like the whimsical Mark Twain. + </p> + <p> + He thought of suggestions that Lady Belward had often thrown out; of those + many talks with Sir William, excellent friends as they were, in which the + baronet hinted at the security he would feel if there was a second family + of Belwards. What if he—? He smiled strangely, and shrank. + </p> + <p> + Marriage? There was the touchstone. + </p> + <p> + After the dance, when he was taking her to her mother, he saw a pale + intense face looking out to him from a row of others. He smiled, and the + smile that came in return was unlike any he had ever seen Alice Wingfield + wear. He was puzzled. It flashed to him strange pathos, affection, and + entreaty. He took Delia Gasgoyne to her mother, talked to Lady Belward a + little, and then went quietly back to where he had seen Alice. She was + gone. Just then some people from town came to speak to him, and he was + detained. When he was free he searched, but she was nowhere to be found. + He went to Lady Belward. Yes, Miss Wingfield had gone. Lady Belward looked + at Gaston anxiously, and asked him why he was curious. “Because she’s a + lonely-looking little maid,” he said, “and I wanted to be kind to her. She + didn’t seem happy a while ago.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Belward was reassured. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she is a sweet creature, Gaston,” she said, and added: “You are a + good boy to-night, a very good host indeed. It is worth the doing,” she + went on, looking out on the guests proudly. “I did not think I should ever + come to it again with any heart, but I do it for you gladly. Now, away to + your duty,” she added, tapping his breast affectionately with her fan, + “and when everything is done, come and take me to my room.” + </p> + <p> + Ian Belward passed Gaston as he went. He had seen the affectionate + passages. + </p> + <p> + “‘For a good boy!’ ‘God bless our Home!”’ he said, ironically. + </p> + <p> + Gaston saw the mark of his hand on his uncle’s chin, and he forbore + ironical reply. + </p> + <p> + “The home is worth the blessing,” he rejoined quietly, and passed on. + </p> + <p> + Three hours later the guests had all gone, and Lady Belward, leaning on + her grandson’s arm, went to her boudoir, while Ian and his father sought + the library. Ian was going next morning. The conference was not likely to + be cheerful. + </p> + <p> + Inside her boudoir, Lady Belward sank into a large chair, and let her head + fall back and her eyes close. She motioned Gaston to a seat. Taking one + near, he waited. After a time she opened her eyes and drew herself up. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she said, “I wish to talk with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be very glad; but isn’t it late? and aren’t you tired, + grandmother?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall sleep better after,” she responded, gently. She then began to + review the past; her own long unhappiness, Robert’s silence, her + uncertainty as to his fate, and the after hopelessness, made greater by + Ian’s conduct. In low, kind words she spoke of his coming and the renewal + of her hopes, coupled with fear also that he might not fit in with his new + life, and—she could say it now—do something unbearable. Well, + he had done nothing unworthy of their name; had acted, on the whole, + sensibly; and she had not been greatly surprised at certain little + oddnesses, such as the tent in the grounds, an impossible deer-hunt, and + some unusual village charities and innovations on the estate. Nor did she + object to Brillon, though he had sometimes thrown servants’-hall into + disorder, and had caused the stablemen and the footmen to fight. His + ear-rings and hair were startling, but they were not important. Gaston had + been admired by the hunting-field—of which they were glad, for it + was a test of popularity. She saw that most people liked him. Lord + Dunfolly and Admiral Highburn were enthusiastic. For her own part, she was + proud and grateful. She could enjoy every grain of comfort he gave them; + and she was thankful to make up to Robert’s son what Robert himself had + lost—poor boy—poor boy! + </p> + <p> + Her feelings were deep, strong, and sincere. Her grandson had come, + strong, individual, considerate, and had moved the tender courses of her + nature. At this moment Gaston had his first deep feeling of + responsibility. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she said at last, “people in our position have important + duties. Here is a large estate. Am I not clear? You will never be quite + part of this life till you bring a wife here. That will give you a sense + of responsibility. You will wake up to many things then. Will you not + marry? There is Delia Gasgoyne. Your grandfather and I would be so glad. + She is worthy in every way, and she likes you. She is a good girl. She has + never frittered her heart away; and she would make you proud of her.” + </p> + <p> + She reached out an anxious hand, and touched his shoulder. His eyes were + playing with the pattern of the carpet; but he slowly raised them to hers, + and looked for a moment without speaking. Suddenly, in spite of himself, + he laughed—laughed outright, but not loudly. + </p> + <p> + Marriage? Yes, here was the touchstone. Marry a girl whose family had been + notable for hundreds of years? For the moment he did not remember his own + family. This was one of the times when he was only conscious that he had + savage blood, together with a strain of New World French, and that his + life had mostly been a range of adventure and common toil. This new + position was his right, but there were times when it seemed to him that he + was an impostor; others, when he felt himself master of it all, when he + even had a sense of superiority—why he could not tell; but life in + this old land of tradition and history had not its due picturesqueness. + With his grandmother’s proposal there shot up in him the thought that for + him this was absurd. He to pace the world beside this fine queenly + creature—Delia Gasgoyne—carrying on the traditions of the + Belwards! Was it, was it possible? + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” he said at last gently, as he saw Lady Belward shrink and + then look curiously at him, “something struck me, and I couldn’t help it.” + </p> + <p> + “Was what I said at all ludicrous?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not; you said what was natural for you to say, and I thought + what was natural for me to think, at first blush.” + </p> + <p> + “There is something wrong,” she urged fearfully. “Is there any reason why + you cannot marry? Gaston,”—she trembled towards him,—“you have + not deceived us—you are not married?” + </p> + <p> + “My wife is dead, as I told you,” he answered gravely, musingly. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me: there is no woman who has a claim on you?” + </p> + <p> + “None that I know of—not one. My follies have not run that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God! Then there is no reason why you should not marry. Oh, when I + look at you I am proud, I am glad that I live! You bring my youth, my son + back; and I long for a time when I may clasp your child in my arms, and + know that Robert’s heritage will go on and on, and that there will be made + up to him, somehow, all that he lost. Listen: I am an old, crippled, + suffering woman; I shall soon have done with all this coming and going, + and I speak to you out of the wisdom of sorrow. Had Robert married, all + would have gone well. He did not: he got into trouble, then came Ian’s + hand in it all; and you know the end. I fear for you, I do indeed. You + will have sore temptations. Marry—marry soon, and make us happy.” + </p> + <p> + He was quiet enough now. He had seen the grotesque image, now he was + facing the thing behind it. “Would it please you so very much?” he said, + resting a hand gently on hers. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to see a child of yours in my arms, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “And the woman you have chosen is Delia Gasgoyne?” + </p> + <p> + “The choice is for you; but you seem to like each other, and we care for + her.” + </p> + <p> + He sat thinking for a time, then he got up, and said slowly: + </p> + <p> + “It shall be so, if Miss Gasgoyne will have me. And I hope it may turn out + as you wish.” + </p> + <p> + Then he stooped and kissed her on the cheek. The proud woman, who had + unbent little in her lifetime, whose eyes had looked out so coldly on the + world, who felt for her son Ian an almost impossible aversion, drew down + his head and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “Indian and all?” he asked, with a quaint bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “Everything, my dear,” she answered. “God bless you! Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + A few moments after, Gaston went to the library. He heard the voices of + Sir William and his uncle. He knocked and entered. Ian, with exaggerated + courtesy, rose. Gaston, with easy coolness, begged him to sit, lit a + cigar, and himself sat. + </p> + <p> + “My father has been feeding me with raw truths, Cadet,” said his uncle; + “and I’ve been eating them unseasoned. We have not been, nor are likely to + be, a happy family, unless in your saturnian reign we learn to say, pax + vobiscum—do you know Latin? For I’m told the money-bags and the + stately pile are for you. You are to beget children before the Lord, and + sit in the seat of Justice: ‘tis for me to confer honour on you all by my + genius!” + </p> + <p> + Gaston sat very still, and, when the speech was ended, said tentatively: + </p> + <p> + “Why rob yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “In honouring you all?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; in not yourself having ‘a saturnian reign’.” + </p> + <p> + “You are generous.” + </p> + <p> + “No: I came here to ask for a home, for what was mine through my father. I + ask, and want, nothing more—not even to beget children before the + Lord!” + </p> + <p> + “How mellow the tongue! Well, Cadet, I am not going to quarrel. Here we + are with my father. See, I am willing to be friends. But you mustn’t + expect that I will not chasten your proud spirit now and then. That you + need it, this morning bears witness.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William glanced from one to the other curiously. He was cold and calm, + and looked worn. He had had a trying half-hour with his son, and it had + told on him. + </p> + <p> + Gaston at once said to his grandfather: “Of this morning, sir, I will tell + you. I—” + </p> + <p> + Ian interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “No, no; that is between us. Let us not worry my father.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William smiled ironically. + </p> + <p> + “Your solicitude is refreshing, Ian.” + </p> + <p> + “Late fruit is the sweetest, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Presently Sir William asked Gaston the result of the talk with Lady + Belward. Gaston frankly said that he was ready to do as they wished. Sir + William then said they had chosen this time because Ian was there, and it + was better to have all open and understood. + </p> + <p> + Ian laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Taming the barbarian! How seriously you all take it. I am the jester for + the King. In the days of the flood I’ll bring the olive leaf. You are all + in the wash of sentiment: you’ll come to the wicked uncle one day for + common-sense. But, never mind, Cadet; we are to be friends. Yes, really. I + do not fear for my heritage, and you’ll need a helping hand one of these + days. Besides, you are an interesting fellow. So, if you will put up with + my acid tongue, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t hit it off.” + </p> + <p> + To Sir William’s great astonishment, Ian held out his hand with a genial + smile, which was tolerably honest, for his indulgent nature was as capable + of great geniality as incapable of high moral conceptions. Then, he had + before his eye, “Monmouth” and “The King of Ys.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston took his hand, and said: “I have no wish to be an enemy.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William rose, looking at them both. He could not understand Ian’s + attitude, and he distrusted. Yet peace was better than war. Ian’s truce + was also based on a belief that Gaston would make skittles of things. A + little while afterwards Gaston sat in his room, turning over events in his + mind. Time and again his thoughts returned to the one thing—marriage. + That marriage with his Esquimaux wife had been in one sense none at all, + for the end was sure from the beginning. It was in keeping with his youth, + the circumstances, the life, it had no responsibilities. But this? To + become an integral part of the life—the English country gentleman; + to be reduced, diluted, to the needs of the convention, and no more? Let + him think of the details:—a justice of the peace: to sit on a board + of directors; to be, perhaps, Master of the Hounds; to unite with the + Bishop in restoring the cathedral; to make an address at the annual flower + show. His wife to open bazaars, give tennis-parties, and be patron to the + clergy; himself at last, no doubt, to go into Parliament; to feel the + petty, or serious, responsibilities of a husband and a landlord. Monotony, + extreme decorum, civility to the world; endless politeness to his wife; + with boys at Eton and girls somewhere else; and the kind of man he must be + to do his duty in all and to all! + </p> + <p> + It seemed impossible. He rose and paced the floor. Never till this moment + had the full picture of his new life come close. He felt stifled. He put + on a cap, and, descending the stairs, went out into the court-yard and + walked about, the cool air refreshing him. Gradually there settled upon + him a stoic acceptance of the conditions. But would it last? + </p> + <p> + He stood still and looked at the pile of buildings before him; then he + turned towards the little church close by, whose spire and roof could be + seen above the wall. He waved his hand, as when within it on the day of + his coming, and said with irony: + </p> + <p> + “Now for the marriage-linen, Sir Gaston!” + </p> + <p> + He heard a low knocking at the gate. He listened. Yes, there was no + mistake. He went to it, and asked quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Who is there?” + </p> + <p> + There was no reply. Still the knocking went on. He quietly opened the + gate, and threw it back. A figure in white stepped through and slowly + passed him. It was Alice Wingfield. He spoke to her. She did not answer. + He went close to her and saw that she was asleep! + </p> + <p> + She was making for the entrance door. He took her hand gently, and led her + into a side door, and on into the ballroom. She moved towards a window + through which the moonlight streamed, and sat on a cushioned bench beneath + it. It was the spot where he had seen her at the dance. She leaned + forward, looking into space, as she did at him then. He moved and got in + her line of vision. + </p> + <p> + The picture was weird. She wore a soft white chamber-gown, her hair hung + loose on her shoulders, her pale face cowled it in. The look was + inexpressibly sad. Over her fell dim, coloured lights from the + stained-glass windows; and shadowy ancestors looked silently down from the + armour-hung walls. + </p> + <p> + To Gaston, collected as he was, it gave an ominous feeling. Why did she + come here even in her sleep? What did that look mean? He gazed intently + into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + All at once her voice came low and broken, and a sob followed the words: + </p> + <p> + “Gaston, my brother, my brother!” + </p> + <p> + He stood for a moment stunned, gazing helplessly at her passive figure. + </p> + <p> + “Gaston, my brother!” he repeated to himself. Then the painful matter + dawned upon him. This girl, the granddaughter of the rector of the parish, + was his father’s daughter—his own sister. He had a sudden spring of + new affection—unfelt for those other relations, his by the rights of + the law and the gospel. The pathos of the thing caught him in the throat—for + her how pitiful, how unhappy! He was sure that, somehow, she had only come + to know of it since the afternoon. Then there had been so different a look + in her face! + </p> + <p> + One thing was clear: he had no right to this secret, and it must be for + now as if it had never been. He came to her, and took her hand. She rose. + He led her from the room, out into the court-yard, and from there through + the gate into the road. + </p> + <p> + All was still. They passed over to the rectory. Just inside the gate, + Gaston saw a figure issue from the house, and come quickly towards them. + It was the rector, excited, anxious. + </p> + <p> + Gaston motioned silence, and pointed to her. Then he briefly whispered how + she had come. The clergyman said that he had felt uneasy about her, had + gone to her room, and was just issuing in search of her. Gaston resigned + her, softly advised not waking her, and bade the clergyman good-night. + </p> + <p> + But presently he turned, touched the arm of the old man, and said + meaningly: + </p> + <p> + “I know.” + </p> + <p> + The rector’s voice shook as he replied: “You have not spoken to her?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You will not speak of it?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Unless I should die, and she should wish it?” + </p> + <p> + “Always as she wishes.” + </p> + <p> + They parted, and Gaston returned to the Court. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION + </h2> + <p> + The next morning Brillon brought a note from Ian Belward, which said that + he was starting, and asked Gaston to be sure and come to Paris. The note + was carelessly friendly. After reading it, he lay thinking. Presently he + chanced to see Jacques look intently at him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Brillon, what is it?” he asked genially. Jacques had come on better + than Gaston had hoped for, but the light play of his nature was gone—he + was grave, almost melancholy; and, in his way, as notable as his master. + Their life in London had changed him much. A valet in St. James’s Street + was not a hunting comrade on the Coppermine River. Often when Jacques was + left alone he stood at the window looking out on the gay traffic, scarcely + stirring; his eyes slow, brooding. Occasionally, standing so, he would + make the sacred gesture. One who heard him swear now and then, in a calm, + deliberate way,—at the cook and the porter,—would have thought + the matters in strange contrast. But his religion was a central habit, + followed as mechanically as his appetite or the folding of his master’s + clothes. Besides, like most woodsmen, he was superstitious. Gaston was + kind with him, keeping, however, a firm hand till his manner had become + informed by the new duties. Jacques’s greatest pleasure was his early + morning visits to the stables. Here were Saracen and Jim the + broncho-sleek, savage, playful. But he touched the highest point of his + London experience when they rode in the Park. + </p> + <p> + In this Gaston remained singular. He rode always with Jacques. Perhaps he + wished to preserve one possible relic of the old life, perhaps he liked + this touch of drama; or both. It created notice, criticism, but he was + superior to that. Time and again people asked him to ride, but he always + pleaded another engagement. He would then be seen with Jacques plus + Jacques’s earrings and the wonderful hair, riding grandly in the Row. + Jacques’s eyes sparkled and a snatch of song came to his lips at these + times. + </p> + <p> + No figures in the Park were so striking. There was nothing bizarre, but + Gaston had a distinguished look, and women who had felt his hand at their + waists in the dance the night before, now knew him, somehow, at a grave + distance. Though Gaston did not say it to himself, these were the hours + when he really was with the old life—lived it again—prairie, + savannah, ice-plain, alkali desert. When, dismounting, the horses were + taken and they went up the stairs, Gaston would softly lay his whip across + Jacques’s shoulders without speaking. This was their only ritual of + camaraderie, and neglect of it would have fretted the half-breed. Never + had man such a servant. No matter at what hour Gaston returned, he found + Jacques waiting; and when he woke he found him ready, as now, on this + morning, after a strange night. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Jacques?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + The old name! Jacques shivered a little with pleasure. Presently he broke + out with: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, when do we go back?” + </p> + <p> + “Go back where?” + </p> + <p> + “To the North, monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s in your noddle now, Brillon?” + </p> + <p> + The impatient return to “Brillon” cut Jacques like a whip. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” he suddenly said, his face glowing, his hands opening + nervously, “we have eat, we have drunk, we have had the dance and the + great music here: is it enough? Sometimes as you sleep you call out, and + you toss to the strokes of the tower-clock. When we lie on the Plains of + Yath from sunset to sunrise, you never stir then. You remember when we + sleep on the ledge of the Voshti mountain—so narrow that we were + tied together? Well, we were as babes in blankets. In the Prairie of the + Ten Stars your fingers were on the trigger firm as a bolt; here I have + watch them shake with the coffee-cup. Monsieur, you have seen: is it + enough? You have lived here: is it like the old lodge and the long trail?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston sat up in bed, looked in the mirror opposite, ran his fingers + through his hair, regarded his hands, turning them over, and then, with + sharp impatience, said: + </p> + <p> + “Go to hell!” + </p> + <p> + The little man’s face flushed to his hair; he sucked in the air with a + gasp. Without a word, he went to the dressing-table, poured out the + shaving-water, threw a towel over his arm, and turned to come to the bed; + but, all at once, he sidled back, put down the water, and furtively drew a + sleeve across his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Gaston saw, and something suddenly burned in him. He dropped his eyes, + slid out of bed, into his dressing-gown, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + Jacques made ready. He was not prepared to have Gaston catch him by the + shoulders with a nervous grip, search his eyes, and say: + </p> + <p> + “You damned little fool, I’m not worth it!” Jacques’s face shone. + </p> + <p> + “Every great man has his fool—alors!” was the happy reply. + </p> + <p> + “Jacques,” Gaston presently said, “what’s on your mind?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw—last night, monsieur,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You saw what?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw you in the court-yard with the lady.” Gaston was now very grave. + </p> + <p> + “Did you recognise her?” + </p> + <p> + “No: she moved all as a spirit.” + </p> + <p> + “Jacques, that matter is between you and me. I’m going to tell you, + though, two things; and—where’s your string of beads?” + </p> + <p> + Jacques drew out his rosary. + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right. Mum as Manitou! She was asleep; she is my sister. And + that is all, till there’s need for you to know more.” + </p> + <p> + In this new confidence Jacques was content. The life was a gilded mess, + but he could endure it now. Three days passed. During that time Gaston was + up to town twice; lunched at Lady Dargan’s, and dined at Lord Dunfolly’s. + For his grandfather, who was indisposed, he was induced to preside at a + political meeting in the interest of a wealthy local brewer, who + confidently expected the seat, and, through gifts to the party, a + knighthood. Before the meeting, in the gush of—as he put it “kindred + aims,” he laid a finger familiarly in Gaston’s button-hole. Jacques, who + was present, smiled, for he knew every change in his master’s face, and he + saw a glitter in his eye. He remembered when they two were in trouble with + a gang of river-drivers, and one did this same thing rudely: how Gaston + looked down, and said, with a devilish softness: “Take it away.” And + immediately after the man did so. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Sylvester Gregory Babbs, in a similar position, heard a voice say down + at him, with a curious obliqueness: + </p> + <p> + “If you please!” + </p> + <p> + The keenest edge of it was lost on the flaring brewer, but his fingers + dropped, and he twisted his heavy watchchain uneasily. The meeting began. + Gaston in a few formal words, unconventional in idea, introduced Mr. Babbs + as “a gentleman whose name was a household word in the county, who would + carry into Parliament the civic responsibility shown in his private life, + who would render his party a support likely to fulfil its purpose.” + </p> + <p> + When he sat down, Captain Maudsley said: “That’s a trifle vague, Belward.” + </p> + <p> + “How can one treat him with importance?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s the sort that makes a noise one way or another.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Obituary: ‘At his residence in Babbslow Square, yesterday, Sir S. G. + Babbs, M. P., member of the London County Council. Sir S. G. Babbs, it + will be remembered, gave L100,000 to build a home for the propagation of + Vice, and—‘” + </p> + <p> + “That’s droll!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not Vice? ‘Twould be just the same in his mind. He doesn’t give from + a sense of moral duty. Not he; he’s a bungowawen!” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s Indian. You buy a lot of Indian or halfbreed loafers with + beaver-skins and rum, go to the Mount of the Burning Arrows, and these + fellows dance round you and call you one of the lost race, the Mighty Men + of the Kimash Hills. And they’ll do that while the rum lasts. Meanwhile + you get to think yourself a devil of a swell—you and the gods!... + And now we had better listen to this bungowawen, hadn’t we?” + </p> + <p> + The room was full, and on the platform were gentlemen come to support Sir + William Belward. They were interested to see how Gaston would carry it + off. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Babbs’s speech was like a thousand others by the same kind of man. + More speeches—some opposing—followed, and at last came the + chairman to close the meeting. He addressed himself chiefly to a bunch of + farmers, artisans, and labouring-men near. After some good-natured + raillery at political meetings in general, the bigotry of party, the + difficulty in getting the wheat from the chaff, and some incisive thrusts + at those who promised the moon and gave a green cheese, who spent their + time in berating their opponents, he said: + </p> + <p> + “There’s a game that sailors play on board ship—men-o’-war and + sailing-ships mostly. I never could quite understand it, nor could any + officers ever tell me—the fo’castle for the men and the quarter-deck + for the officers, and what’s English to one is Greek to the other. Well, + this was all I could see in the game. They sat about, sometimes talking, + sometimes not. All at once a chap would rise and say, ‘Allow me to speak, + me noble lord,’ and follow this by hitting some one of the party wherever + the blow got in easiest—on the head, anywhere! [Laughter.] Then he + would sit down seriously, and someone else spoke to his noble lordship. + Nobody got angry at the knocks, and Heaven only knows what it was all + about. That is much the way with politics, when it is played fair. But + here is what I want particularly to say: We are not all born the same, nor + can we live the same. One man is born a brute, and another a good sort; + one a liar, and one an honest man; one has brains, and the other hasn’t. + Now, I’ve lived where, as they say, one man is as good as another. But he + isn’t, there or here. A weak man can’t run with a strong. We have heard + to-night a lot of talk for something and against something. It is over. + Are you sure you have got what was meant clear in your mind? [Laughter, + and ‘Blowed if we’ave!’] Very well; do not worry about that. We have been + playing a game of ‘Allow me to speak, me noble lord!’ And who is going to + help you to get the most out of your country and your life isn’t easy to + know. But we can get hold of a few clear ideas, and measure things against + them. I know and have talked with a good many of you here [‘That’s so! + That’s so!’], and you know my ideas pretty well—that they are honest + at least, and that I have seen the countries where freedom is ‘on the + job,’ as they say. Now, don’t put your faith in men and in a party that + cry, ‘We will make all things new,’ to the tune of, ‘We are a band of + brothers.’ Trust in one that says, ‘You cannot undo the centuries. Take + off the roof, remove a wall, let in the air, throw out a wing, but leave + the old foundations.’ And that is the real difference between the other + party and mine; and these political games of ours come to that chiefly.” + </p> + <p> + Presently he called for the hands of the meeting. They were given for Mr. + Babbs. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a man’s strong, arid voice came from the crowd: + </p> + <p> + “‘Allow me to speak, me noble lord!’ [Great laughter. Then a pause.] + Where’s my old chum, Jock Lawson?” + </p> + <p> + The audience stilled. Gaston’s face went grave. He replied, in a firm, + clear voice. + </p> + <p> + “In Heaven, my man. You’ll never see him more.” There was silence for a + moment, a murmur, then a faint burst of applause. Presently John Cawley, + the landlord of “The Whisk o’ Barley,” made towards Gaston. Gaston greeted + him, and inquired after his wife. He was told that she was very ill, and + had sent her husband to beg Gaston to come. Gaston had dreaded this hour, + though he knew it would come one day. A woman on a death-bed has a right + to ask for and get the truth. He had forborne telling her of her son; and + she, whenever she had seen him, had contented herself with asking general + questions, dreading in her heart that Jock had died a dreadful or shameful + death, or else this gentleman would, voluntarily, say more. But, herself + on her way out of the world, as she feared, wished the truth, whatever it + might be. + </p> + <p> + Gaston told Cawley that he would drive over at once, and then asked who it + was had called out at him. A drunken, poaching fellow, he was told, who in + all the years since Jock had gone, had never passed the inn without + stopping to say: “Where’s my old chum, Jock Lawson?” In the past he and + Jock had been in more than one scrape together. He had learned from Mrs. + Cawley that Gaston had known Jock in Canada. + </p> + <p> + When Cawley had gone, Gaston turned to the other gentlemen present. + </p> + <p> + “An original speech, upon my word, Belward,” said Captain Maudsley. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Warren Gasgoyne came. + </p> + <p> + “You are expected to lunch or something to-morrow, Belward, you remember? + Devil of a speech that! But, if you will ‘allow me to speak, me noble + lord,’ you are the rankest Conservative of us all.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know that the easiest constitutional step is from a republic to + an autocracy, and vice versa?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know it, and I don’t know how you do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do what?” + </p> + <p> + “Make them think as you do.” + </p> + <p> + He waved his hand to the departing crowd. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t. I try to think as they do. I am always in touch with the + primitive mind.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to do great things here, Belward,” said the other seriously. + “You have the trick; and we need wisdom at Westminster.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be mistaken; I am only adaptable. There’s frank confession.” + </p> + <p> + At this point Mr. Babbs came up and said good-night in a large, + self-conscious way. Gaston hoped that his campaign would not be wasted, + and the fluffy gentleman retired. When he got out of earshot in the + shadows, he turned and shook his fist towards Gaston, saying: “Half-breed + upstart!” Then he refreshed his spirits by swearing at his coachman. + </p> + <p> + Gaston and Jacques drove quickly over to “The Whisk o’ Barley.” Gaston was + now intent to tell the whole truth. He wished that he had done it before; + but his motives had been good—it was not to save himself. Yet he + shrank. Presently he thought: + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with me? Before I came here, if I had an idea I stuck + to it, and didn’t have any nonsense when I knew I was right. I am getting + sensitive—the thing I find everywhere in this country: fear of + feeling or giving pain; as though the bad tooth out isn’t better than the + bad tooth in. When I really get sentimental I’ll fold my Arab tent—so + help me, ye seventy Gods of Yath!” + </p> + <p> + A little while after he was at Mrs. Cawley’s bed, the landlord handing him + a glass of hot grog, Jock’s mother eyeing him feverishly from the quilt. + Gaston quietly felt her wrist, counting the pulse-beats; then told Cawley + to wet a cloth and hand it to him. He put it gently on the woman’s head. + The eyes of the woman followed him anxiously. He sat down again, and in + response to her questioning gaze, began the story of Jock’s life as he + knew it. + </p> + <p> + Cawley stood leaning on the foot-board; the woman’s face was cowled in the + quilt with hungry eyes; and Gaston’s voice went on in a low monotone, to + the ticking of the great clock in the next room. Gaston watched her face, + and there came to him like an inspiration little things Jock did, which + would mean more to his mother than large adventures. Her lips moved now + and again, even a smile flickered. At last Gaston came to his father’s own + death and the years that followed; then the events in Labrador. + </p> + <p> + He approached this with unusual delicacy: it needed bravery to look into + the mother’s eyes, and tell the story. He did not know how dramatically he + told it—how he etched it without a waste word. When he came to that + scene in the Fort, the three men sitting, targets for his bullets,—he + softened the details greatly. He did not tell it as he told it at the + Court, but the simpler, sparser language made it tragically clear. There + was no sound from the bed, none from the foot-board, but he heard a door + open and shut without, and footsteps somewhere near. + </p> + <p> + How he put the body in the tree, and prayed over it and left it there, was + all told; and then he paused. He turned a little sick as he saw the white + face before him. She drew herself up, her fingers caught away the + night-dress at her throat; she stared hard at him for a moment, and then, + with a wild, moaning voice, cried out: + </p> + <p> + “You killed my boy! You killed my boy! You killed my boy!” + </p> + <p> + Gaston was about to take her hand, when he heard a shuffle and a rush + behind him. He rose, turned swiftly, saw a bottle swinging, threw up his + hand... and fell backwards against the bed. + </p> + <p> + The woman caught his bleeding head to her breast and hugged it. + </p> + <p> + “My Jock, my poor boy!” she cried in delirium now. Cawley had thrown his + arms about the struggling, drunken assailant—Jock’s poaching friend. + </p> + <p> + The mother now called out to the pinioned man, as she had done to Gaston: + </p> + <p> + “You have killed my boy!” She kissed Gaston’s bloody face. + </p> + <p> + A messenger was soon on the way to Ridley Court, and in a little upper + room Jacques was caring for his master. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. HE FINDS NEW SPONSORS + </h2> + <p> + Gaston lay for many days at “The Whisk o’ Barley.” During that time the + inn was not open to customers. The woman also for two days hung at the + point of death, and then rallied. She remembered the events of the painful + night, and often asked after Gaston. Somehow, her horror of her son’s + death at his hands was met by the injury done him now. She vaguely felt + that there had been justice and punishment. She knew that in the room at + Labrador Gaston Belward had been scarcely less mad than her son. + </p> + <p> + Gaston, as soon as he became conscious, said that his assailant must be + got out of the way of the police, and to that end bade Jacques send for + Mr. Warren Gasgoyne. Mr. Gasgoyne and Sir William arrived at the same + time, but Gaston was unconscious again. Jacques, however, told them what + his master’s wishes were, and they were carried out; Jock’s friend + secretly left England forever. Sir William and Mr. Gasgoyne got the whole + tale from the landlord, whom they asked to say nothing publicly. + </p> + <p> + Lady Belward drove down each day, and sat beside him for a couple of + hours-silent, solicitous, smoothing his pillow or his wasting hand. The + brain had been injured, and recovery could not be immediate. Hovey the + housekeeper had so begged to be installed as nurse, that her wish was + granted, and she was with him night and day. Now she shook her head at him + sadly, now talked in broken sentences to herself, now bustled about + silently, a tyrant to the other servants sent down from the Court. Every + day also the headgroom and the huntsman came, and in the village Gaston’s + humble friends discussed the mystery, stoutly defending him when some one + said it was “more nor gabble, that theer saying o’ the poacher at the + meetin.’” + </p> + <p> + But the landlord and his wife kept silence, the officers of the law took + no action, and the town and country newspapers could do no more than speak + of “A vicious assault upon the heir of Ridley Court.” It had become the + custom now to leave Ian out of that question. But the wonder died as all + wonders do, and Gaston made his fight for health. + </p> + <p> + The day before he was removed to the Court, Mrs. Cawley was helped + up-stairs to see him. She was gaunt and hollow-eyed. Lady Belward and Mrs. + Gasgoyne were present. The woman made her respects, and then stood at + Gaston’s bedside. He looked up with a painful smile. + </p> + <p> + “Do you forgive me?” he asked. “I’ve almost paid!” + </p> + <p> + He touched his bandaged head. + </p> + <p> + “It ain’t for mothers to forgi’e the thing,” she replied, in a steady + voice, “but I can forgi’e the man. ‘Twere done i’ madness—there + beant the will workin’ i’ such. ‘Twere a comfort that he’d a prayin’ over + un.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston took the gnarled fingers in his. It had never struck him how + dreadful a thing it was—so used had he been to death in many forms—till + he had told the story to this mother. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Cawley,” he said, “I can’t make up to you what Jock would have been; + but I can do for you in one way as much as Jock. This house is yours from + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + He drew a deed from the coverlet, and handed it to her. He had got it from + Sir William that morning. The poor and the crude in mind can only + understand an objective emotion, and the counters for these are this + world’s goods. Here was a balm in Gilead. The love of her child was real, + but the consolation was so practical to Mrs. Cawley that the lips which + might have cursed, said: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, sir, the wind do be fittin’ the shore lamb! I’ the last Judgen, I’ll + no speak agen ‘ee. I be sore fretted harm come to ‘ee.” + </p> + <p> + At this Mrs. Gasgoyne rose, and in her bustling way dismissed the grateful + peasant, who fondled the deed and called eagerly down the stairs to her + husband as she went. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gasgoyne then came back, sat down, and said: “Now you needn’t fret + about that any longer—barbarian!” she added, shaking a finger. + “Didn’t I say that you would get into trouble? that you would set the + country talking? Here you were, in the dead of night, telling ghost + stories, and raking up your sins, with no cause whatever, instead of in + your bed. You were to have lunched with us the next day—I had asked + Lady Harriet to meet you, too!—and you didn’t; and you have wretched + patches where your hair ought to be. How can you promise that you’ll not + make a madder sensation some day?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston smiled up at her. Her fresh honesty, under the guise of banter, was + always grateful to him. He shook his head, smiled, and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + She went on. + </p> + <p> + “I want a promise that you will do what your godfather and godmother will + swear for you.” + </p> + <p> + She acted on him like wine. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, anything. Who are my godfather and godmother?” + </p> + <p> + She looked him steadily, warmly in the eyes: “Warren and myself.” + </p> + <p> + Now he understood: his promise to his grandmother and grandfather. So, + they had spoken! He was sure that Mrs. Gasgoyne had objected. He knew that + behind her playful treatment of the subject there was real scepticism of + himself. It put him on his mettle, and yet he knew she read him deeper + than any one else, and flattered him least. + </p> + <p> + He put out his hand, and took hers. + </p> + <p> + “You take large responsibilities,” he said, “but I will try and justify + you—honestly, yes.” + </p> + <p> + In her hearty way, she kissed him on the cheek. “There,” she responded, + “if you and Delia do make up your minds, see that you treat her well. And + you are to come, just as soon as you are able, to stay at Peppingham. + Delia, silly child, is anxious, and can’t see why she mustn’t call with me + now.” + </p> + <p> + In his room at the Court that night, Gaston inquired of Jacques about + Alice Wingfield, and was told that on the day of the accident she had left + with her grandfather for the Continent. He was not sorry. For his own sake + he could have wished an understanding between them. But now he was on the + way to marriage, and it was as well that there should be no new + situations. The girl could not wish the thing known. There would be left + him, in this case, to befriend her should it ever be needed. He remembered + the spring of pleasure he felt when he first saw other faces like his + father’s—his grandfather’s, his grandmother’s. But this girl’s was + so different to him; having the tragedy of the lawless, that unconscious + suffering stamped by the mother upon the child. There was, however, + nothing to be done. He must wait. + </p> + <p> + Two days later Lady Dargan called to inquire after him. He was lying in + his study with a book, and Lady Belward sent to ask him if he would care + to see her and Lord Dargan’s nephew, Cluny Vosse. Lady Belward did not + come; Sir William brought them. Lady Dargan came softly to him, smiled + more with her eyes than her lips, and told him how sorry she had been to + hear of his illness. Some months before Gaston had met Cluny Vosse, who at + once was his admirer. Gaston liked the youth. He was fresh, high-minded, + extravagant, idle; but he had no vices, and no particular vanity save for + his personal appearance. His face was ever radiant with health, shining + with satisfaction. People liked him, and did not discount it by saying + that he had nothing in him. Gaston liked him most because he was so wholly + himself, without guile, beautifully honest. + </p> + <p> + Now Cluny sat down, tapped the crown of his hat, looked at him cheerily, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Got in a cracker, didn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston nodded, amused. + </p> + <p> + “The fellows at Brooke’s had a talkee-talkee, and they’d twenty different + stories. Of course it was rot. We were all cut up though and hoped you’d + pull through. Of course there couldn’t be any doubt of that—you’ve + been through too many, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Cluny always assumed that Gaston had had numberless tragical adventures + which, if told, must make Dumas turn in his grave with envy. + </p> + <p> + Gaston smiled, and laid a hand upon the other’s knee. “I’m not + shell-proof, Vosse, and it was rather a narrow squeak, I’m told. But I’m + kept, you see, for a worse fate and a sadder.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Belward, you don’t mean that! Your eyes go so queer sometimes, + that a chap doesn’t know what to think. You ought to live to a hundred. + You’ll have to. You’ve got it all—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, my boy, I haven’t got anything.” He waved his hand pleasantly + towards his grandfather. “I’m on the knees of the gods merely.” + </p> + <p> + Cluny turned on Sir William. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t any secret, is it, sir? He gets the lot, doesn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + Sir William’s occasional smile came. + </p> + <p> + “I fancy there’s some condition about the plate, the pictures, and the + title; but I do not suppose that matters meanwhile.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke half-musingly and with a little unconscious irony, and the boy, + vaguely knowing that there was a cross-current somewhere, drifted. + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not; he can have fun enough without them, can’t he?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Dargan here soothingly broke in, inquiring about Gaston’s illness, + and showing a tactful concern. But the nephew persisted: + </p> + <p> + “I say, Belward, Aunt Sophie was cut up no end when she heard of it. She + wouldn’t go out to dinner that night at Lord Dunfolly’s, and, of course, I + didn’t go. And I wanted to; for Delia Gasgoyne was to be there, and she’s + ripping.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Dargan, in spite of herself, blushed, but without confusion, and + Gaston adroitly led the conversation otherwhere. Presently she said that + they were to be at their villa in France during the late summer, and if he + chanced to be abroad would he come? He said that he intended to visit his + uncle in Paris, but that afterwards he would be glad to visit them for a + short time. + </p> + <p> + She looked astonished. “With your uncle Ian!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He is to show me art-life, and all that.” + </p> + <p> + She looked troubled. He saw that she wished to say something. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Lady Dargan?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She spoke with fluttering seriousness. + </p> + <p> + “I asked you once to come to me if you ever needed a friend. I do not wait + for that. I ask you not to go to your uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + He was thinking that, despite social artifice and worldliness, she was + sentimental. + </p> + <p> + “Because there will be trouble. I can see it. You may trust a woman’s + instinct; and I know that man!” He did not reply at once, but presently + said: + </p> + <p> + “I fancy I must keep my promise.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the book you are reading?” she said, changing the subject, for + Sir William was listening. + </p> + <p> + He opened it, and smiled musingly. + </p> + <p> + “It is called Affairs of Some Consequence in the Reign of Charles I. In + reading it I seemed to feel that it was incorrect, and my mind kept + wandering away into patches of things—incidents, scenes, bits of + talk—as I fancied they really were, not apocryphal or ‘edited’ as + here.” + </p> + <p> + “I say,” said Cluny, “that’s rum, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “For instance,” Gaston continued, “this tale of King Charles and + Buckingham.” He read it. “Now here is the scene as I picture it.” In quick + elliptical phrases he gave the tale from a different stand-point. + </p> + <p> + Sir William stared curiously at Gaston, then felt for some keys in his + pocket. He got up and rang the bell. Gaston was still talking. He gave the + keys to Falby with a whispered word. In a few moments Falby placed a small + leather box beside Sir William, and retired at a nod. Sir William + presently said: “Where did you read those things?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know that I ever read them.” + </p> + <p> + “Did your father tell you them?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not remember so, though he may have.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see this box?” + </p> + <p> + “Never before.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not know what is in it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have never seen this key?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to my knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very strange.” He opened the box. “Now, here are private papers of + Sir Gaston Belward, more than two hundred years old, found almost fifty + years ago by myself in the office of our family solicitor. Listen.” + </p> + <p> + He then began to read from the faded manuscript. A mysterious feeling + pervaded the room. Once or twice Cluny gave a dry nervous kind of laugh. + Much of what Gaston had said was here in stately old-fashioned language. + At a certain point the MS. ran: + </p> + <p> + “I drew back and said, ‘As your grace will have it, then—“’ + </p> + <p> + Here Gaston came to a sitting posture, and interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Wait, wait!” + </p> + <p> + He rose, caught one of two swords that were crossed on the wall, and stood + out. + </p> + <p> + “This is how it was. ‘As your grace will have it, then, to no waste of + time!’ We fell to. First he came carefully and made strange feints, + learned at King Louis’s Court, to try my temper. But I had had these + tricks of my cousin Secord, and I returned his sport upon him. Then he + came swiftly, and forced me back upon the garden wall. I gave to him foot + by foot, for he was uncommon swift and dexterous. He pinched me sorely + once under the knee, and I returned him one upon the wrist, which sent a + devilish fire into his eyes. At that his play became so delicate and + confusing that I felt I should go dizzy if it stayed; so I tried the one + great trick cousin Secord taught me, making to run him through, as a last + effort. The thing went wrong, but checking off my blunder he blundered + too,—out of sheer wonder, perhaps, at my bungling,—and I + disarmed him. So droll was it that I laughed outright, and he, as quick in + humour as in temper, stood hand on hip, and presently came to a smile. + With that my cousin Secord cried: ‘The king! the king!’ I got me up + quickly—” + </p> + <p> + Here Gaston, who had in a kind of dream acted the whole scene, swayed with + faintness, and Cluny caught him, saving him from a fall. Cluny’s colour + was all gone. Lady Dargan had sat dazed, and Sir William’s face was + anxious, puzzled. + </p> + <p> + A few hours later Sir William was alone with Gaston, who was recovered and + cool. + </p> + <p> + “Gaston,” he said, “I really do not understand this faculty of memory, or + whatever it is. Have you any idea how you come by it?” + </p> + <p> + “Have we any idea how life comes and goes, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “I confess not. I confess not, really.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m in the dark about it too; but I sometimes fancy that I’m mixed + up with that other Gaston.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds fantastic.” + </p> + <p> + “It is fantastic. Now, here is this manuscript, and here is a letter I + wrote this morning. Put them together.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William did so. + </p> + <p> + “The handwriting is singularly like.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” continued Gaston, smiling whimsically, “suppose that I am Sir + Gaston Belward, Baronet, who is thought to lie in the church yonder, the + title is mine, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Sir William smiled also. + </p> + <p> + “The evidence is scarce enough to establish succession.” + </p> + <p> + “But there would be no succession. A previous holder of the title isn’t + dead: ergo, the present holder, has no right.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston had shaded his eyes with his hand, and he was watching Sir + William’s face closely, out of curiosity chiefly. Sir William regarded the + thing with hesitating humour. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, suppose so. The property was in the hands of a younger branch + of the family then. There was no entail, as now.” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t there?” said Gaston enigmatically. + </p> + <p> + He was thinking of some phrases in a manuscript which he had found in this + box. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps where these papers came from there are others,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Sir William lifted his eyebrows ironically. “I hardly think so.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston laughed, not wishing him to take the thing at all seriously. He + continued airily: + </p> + <p> + “It would be amusing if the property went with the title after all, + wouldn’t it, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Sir William got to his feet and said testily: “That should never be while + I lived!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William saw the bull, and laughed, heartily for him. + </p> + <p> + They bade each other good-night. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll have a look in the solicitor’s office all the same,” said Gaston to + himself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. HE COMES TO “THE WAKING OF THE FIRE” + </h2> + <p> + A few days afterwards Gaston joined a small party at Peppingham. Without + any accent life was made easy for him. He was alone much, and yet, to + himself, he seemed to have enough of company. + </p> + <p> + The situation did not impose itself conspicuously. Delia gave him no + especial reason to be vain. She had not an exceeding wit, but she had + charm, and her talk was interesting to Gaston, who had come, for the first + time, into somewhat intimate relations with an English girl. He was struck + with her conventional delicacy and honour on one side, and the limitation + of her ideas on the other. But with it all she had some slight touch of + temperament which lifted her from the usual level. And just now her + sprightliness was more marked than it had ever been. + </p> + <p> + Her great hour seemed come to her. She knew that there had been talk among + the elders, and what was meant by Gaston’s visit. Still, they were not + much alone together. Gaston saw her mostly with others. Even a woman with + a tender strain for a man knows what will serve for her ascendancy: the + graciousness of her disposition, the occasional flash of her mother’s + temper, and her sense of being superior to a situation—the gift of + every well-bred English girl. + </p> + <p> + Cluny Vosse was also at the house, and his devotion was divided between + Delia and Gaston. Cluny was a great favourite, and Agatha Gasgoyne, who + had a wild sense of humour, egged him on with her sister, which gave Delia + enough to do. At last Cluny, in a burst of confidence, declared that he + meant to propose to Delia. Agatha then became serious, and said that Delia + was at least four years older than himself, that he was just her—Agatha’s—age, + and that the other match would be very unsuitable. This put Cluny on + Delia’s defence, and he praised her youth, and hinted at his own + elderliness. He had lived, he had seen It (Cluny called the world and all + therein “It”), he was aged; he was in the large eye of experience; he had + outlived the vices and the virtues of his time, which, told in his own + naive staccato phrases, made Agatha hug herself. She advised him to go and + ask Mr. Belward’s advice; begged him not to act until he had done so. And + Cluny, who was blind as a bat when a woman mocked him, went to Gaston and + said: + </p> + <p> + “See, old chap,—I know you don’t mind my calling you that—I’ve + come for advice. Agatha said I’d better. A fellow comes to a time when he + says, ‘Here, I want a shop of my own,’ doesn’t he? He’s seen It, he’s had + It all colours, he’s ready for family duties, and the rest. That’s so, + isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston choked back a laugh, and, purposely putting himself on the wrong + scent, said: + </p> + <p> + “And does Agatha agree?” + </p> + <p> + “Agatha? Come, Belward, that youngster! Agatha’s only in on a + sisterly-brotherly basis. Now, see I’ve got a little load of L s. d., and + I’m to get more, especially if Uncle Dick keeps on thinking I am artless. + Well, why shouldn’t I marry?” + </p> + <p> + “No reason against it, if husband and father in you yearn for bibs and + petticoats.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Belward, don’t laugh!” + </p> + <p> + “I never was more serious. Who is the girl?” + </p> + <p> + “She looks up to you as I do-of course that’s natural; and if it comes + off, no one’ll have a jollier corner chez nous. It’s Delia.” + </p> + <p> + “Delia? Delia who?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Delia Gasgoyne. I haven’t done the thing quite regular, I know. I + ought to have gone to her people first; but they know all about me, and so + does Delia, and I’m on the spot, and it wouldn’t look well to be taking + advantage of that with her father and mother-they’d feel bound to be + hospitable. So I’ve just gone on my own tack, and I’ve come to Agatha and + you. Agatha said to ask you if I’d better speak to Delia now.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Cluny, are you very much in love?” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds religious, doesn’t it—a kind of Nonconformist business? + I think she’s the very finest. A fellow’d hold himself up, ‘d be a deuce + of a swell—and, hang it all, I hate breakfasting alone!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, Cluny; but what about a pew in church, with regular attendance, + and a justice of the peace, and little Cluny Vosses on the carpet?” + </p> + <p> + Cluny’s face went crimson. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Belward, I’ve seen It all, of course; I know It backwards, and I’m + not squeamish, but that sounds—flippant-that, with her.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston reached out and caught the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t do it, Cluny. + Spare yourself. It couldn’t come off. Agatha knows that, I fancy. She is a + little sportsman. I might let you go and speak; but I think my chances are + better than yours, Cluny. Hadn’t you better let me try first? Then, if I + fail, your chances are still the same, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Cluny gasped. His warm face went pale, then shot to purple, and finally + settled into a grey ruddiness. “Belward,” he said at last, “I didn’t know; + upon my soul, I didn’t know, or I’d have cut off my head first.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Cluny, you shall have your chance; but let me go first, I’m + older.” + </p> + <p> + “Belward, don’t take me for a fool. Why, my trying what you go to do is + like—is like—” + </p> + <p> + Cluny’s similes failed to come. + </p> + <p> + “Like a fox and a deer on the same trail?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand that. Like a yeomanry steeplechase to Sandown—is + that it? Belward, I’m sorry. Playing it so low on a chap you like!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say a word, Cluny; and, believe me, you haven’t yet seen all of It. + There’s plenty of time. When you really have had It, you will learn to say + of a woman, not that she’s the very finest, and that you hate breakfasting + alone, but something that’ll turn your hair white, or keep you looking + forty when you’re sixty.” + </p> + <p> + That evening Gaston dressed with unusual care. When he entered the + drawing-room, he looked as handsome as a man need in this world. His + illness had refined his features and form, and touched off his + cheerfulness with a fine melancholy. Delia glowed as she saw the admiring + glances sent his way, but burned with anger when she also saw that he was + to take in Lady Gravesend to dinner; for Lady Gravesend had spoken + slightingly of Gaston—had, indeed, referred to his “nigger blood!” + And now her mother had sent her in to dinner on his arm, she affable, too + affable by a great deal. Had she heard the dry and subtle suggestion of + Gaston’s talk, she would, however, have justified her mother. + </p> + <p> + About half past nine Delia was in the doorway, talking to one of the + guests, who, at the call of some one else, suddenly left her. She heard a + voice behind her. “Will you not sing?” + </p> + <p> + She thrilled, and turned to say: “What shall I sing, Mr. Belward?” + </p> + <p> + “The song I taught you the other day—‘The Waking of the Fire.’” + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve never sung it before anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I not count?—But, there, that’s unfair! Believe me, you sing it + very well.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her eyes to his: + </p> + <p> + “You do not pay compliments, and I believe you. Your ‘very well’ means + much. If you say so, I will do my best.” + </p> + <p> + “I say so. You are amenable. Is that your mood to-night?” He smiled + brightly. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes flashed with a sweet malice. + </p> + <p> + “I am not at all sure. It depends on how your command to sing is + justified.” + </p> + <p> + “You cannot help but sing well.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I will help you—make you.” + </p> + <p> + This startled her ever so little. Was there some fibre of cruelty in him, + some evil in this influence he had over her? She shrank, and yet again she + said that she would rather have his cruelty than another man’s tenderness, + so long as she knew that she had his—She paused, and did not say the + word. She met his eyes steadily—their concentration dazed her—then + she said almost coldly, her voice sounding far away: + </p> + <p> + “How, make me?” + </p> + <p> + “How fine, how proud!” he said to himself, then added: + </p> + <p> + “I meant ‘make’ in the helpful sense. I know the song: I’ve heard it sung, + I’ve sung it; I’ve taught you; my mind will act on yours, and you will + sing it well.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you sing it yourself? Do, please.” + </p> + <p> + “No; to-night I wish to hear you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you later. Can you play the accompaniment? If not, I—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, will you? I could sing it then, I think. You played it so beautifully + the other day—with all those strange chords.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled. + </p> + <p> + “It is one of the few things that I can play. I always had a taste for + music; and up in one of the forts there was an old melodeon, so I hammered + away for years. I had to learn difficult things at the start, or none at + all, or else those I improvised; and that’s how I can play one or two of + Beethoven’s symphonies pretty well, and this song, and a few others, and + go a cropper with a waltz. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + They moved to the piano. No one at first noticed them. When he sat down, + he said: + </p> + <p> + “You remember the words?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I learned them by heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” + </p> + <p> + He gently struck the chords. His gentleness had, however, a firmness, a + deep persuasiveness, which drew every face like a call. A few chords + waving, as it were, over the piano, and then he whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Now.” + </p> + <p> + “Please go on for a minute longer,” she begged. + </p> + <p> + “My throat feels dry all at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Face away from the rest, towards me,” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + She did so. His voice took a note softly, and held it. Presently her voice + as softly joined it, his stopped, and hers went on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In the lodge of the Mother of Men, + In the land of Desire, + Are the embers of fire, + Are the ashes of those who return, + Who return to the world: + Who flame at the breath + Of the Mockers of Death. + O Sweet, we will voyage again + To the camp of Love’s fire, + Nevermore to return!” + </pre> + <p> + “How am I doing?” she said at the end of this verse. She really did not + know—her voice seemed an endless distance away. But she felt the + stillness in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said. “Now for the other. Don’t be afraid; let your voice, let + yourself, go.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t let myself go.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you can: just swim with the music.” + </p> + <p> + She did swim with it. Never before had Peppingham drawing-room heard a + song like this; never before, never after, did any of Delia Gasgoyne’s + friends hear her sing as she did that night. And Lady Gravesend whispered + for a week afterwards that Delia Gasgoyne sang a wild love song in the + most abandoned way with that colonial Belward. Really a song of the most + violent sentiment! + </p> + <p> + There had been witchery in it all. For Gaston lifted the girl on the waves + of his music, and did what he pleased with her, as she sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O love, by the light of thine eye + We will fare oversea, + We will be + As the silver-winged herons that rest + By the shallows, + The shallows of sapphire stone; + No more shall we wander alone. + As the foam to the shore + Is my spirit to thine; + And God’s serfs as they fly,— + The Mockers of Death + They will breathe on the embers of fire: + We shall live by that breath,— + Sweet, thy heart to my heart, + As we journey afar, + No more, nevermore, to return!” + </pre> + <p> + When the song was ended there was silence, then an eager murmur, and + requests for more; but Gaston, still lengthening the close of the + accompaniment, said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “No more. I wanted to hear you sing that song only.” + </p> + <p> + He rose. + </p> + <p> + “I am so very hot,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Come into the hall.” + </p> + <p> + They passed into the long corridor, and walked up and down, for a time in + silence. + </p> + <p> + “You felt that music?” he asked at last. + </p> + <p> + “As I never felt music before,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know why I asked you to sing it?” + </p> + <p> + “How should I know?” + </p> + <p> + “To see how far you could go with it.” + </p> + <p> + “How far did I go?” + </p> + <p> + “As far as I expected.” + </p> + <p> + “It was satisfactory?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “But why—experiment—on me?” + </p> + <p> + “That I might see if you were not, after all, as much a barbarian as I.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” + </p> + <p> + “No. That was myself singing as well as you. You did not enjoy it + altogether, did you?” + </p> + <p> + “In a way, yes. But—shall I be honest? I felt, too, as if, somehow, + it wasn’t quite right; so much—what shall I call it?” + </p> + <p> + “So much of old Adam and the Garden? Sit down here for a moment, will + you?” + </p> + <p> + She trembled a little, and sat. + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak plainly and honestly to you,” he said, looking earnestly + at her. “You know my history—about my wife who died in Labrador, and + all the rest?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they have told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have nothing to hide, I think; nothing more that you ought to + know: though I’ve been a scamp one way and another.” + </p> + <p> + “‘That I ought to know’?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes: for when a man asks a woman to be his wife, he should be prepared to + open the cupboard of skeletons.” She was silent; her heart was beating so + hard that it hurt her. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to ask you to be my wife, Delia.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent, and sat motionless, her hands clasped in her lap. + </p> + <p> + He went on + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that you will be wise to accept me, but if you will take the + risk—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Gaston, Gaston!” she said, and her hands fluttered towards his. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, he said to her, as they parted for the night: + </p> + <p> + “I hope, with all my heart, that you will never repent of it, Delia.” + </p> + <p> + “You can make me not repent of it. It rests with you, Gaston; indeed, + indeed, all with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl!” he said, unconsciously, as he entered his room. He could not + have told why he said it. “Why will you always sit up for me, Brillon?” he + asked a moment afterwards. + </p> + <p> + Jacques saw that something had occurred. “I have nothing else to do, sir,” + he replied. “Brillon,” Gaston added presently, “we’re in a devil of a + scrape now.” + </p> + <p> + “What shall we do, monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Did we ever turn tail?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, from a prairie fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Not always. I’ve ridden through.” + </p> + <p> + “Alors, it’s one chance in ten thousand!” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a woman to be thought of—Jacques.” + </p> + <p> + “There was that other time.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then?” + </p> + <p> + Presently Jacques said: “Who is she, monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston did not answer. He was thinking hard. Jacques said no more. The + next morning early the guests knew who the woman was, and by noon Jacques + also. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST + </h2> + <p> + Gaston let himself drift. The game of love and marriage is exciting, the + girl was affectionate and admiring, the world was genial, and all things + came his way. Towards the end of the hunting season Captain Maudsley had + an accident. It would prevent him riding to hounds again, and at his + suggestion, backed by Lord Dunfolly and Lord Dargan, Gaston became Master + of the Hounds. His grandfather and great-grandfather had been Master of + the Hounds before him. Hunting was a keen enjoyment—one outlet for + wild life in him—and at the last meet of the year he rode in Captain + Maudsley’s place. They had a good run, and the taste of it remained with + Gaston for many a day; he thought of it sometimes as he rode in the Park + now every morning—with Delia and her mother. + </p> + <p> + Jacques and his broncho came no more, or if they did it was at + unseasonable hours, and then to be often reprimanded (and twice arrested) + for furious riding. Gaston had a bad moment when he told Jacques that he + need not come with him again. He did it casually, but, cool as he was, a + cold sweat came on his cheek. He had to take a little brandy to steady + himself—yet he had looked into menacing rifle-barrels more than once + without a tremor. It was clear, on the face of it, that Delia and her + mother should be his companions in the Park, and not this grave little + half-breed; but, somehow, it got on his nerves. He hesitated for days + before he could cast the die against Jacques. It had been the one open + bond of the old life; yet the man was but a servant, and to be treated as + such, and was, indeed, except on rarest occasions. If Delia had known that + Gaston balanced the matter between her and Jacques, her indignation might + perhaps have sent matters to a crisis. But Gaston did the only possible + thing; and the weeks drifted on. + </p> + <p> + Happy? It was inexplicable even to himself that at times, when he left + Delia, he said unconsciously: “Well, it’s a pity!” + </p> + <p> + But she was happy in her way. His dark, mysterious face with its + background of abstraction, his unusual life, distinguished presence, and + the fact that people of great note sought his conversation, all + strengthened the bonds, and deepened her imagination; and imagination is + at the root of much that passes for love. Gaston was approached at Lord + Dargan’s house by the Premier himself. It was suggested that he should + stand for a constituency in the Conservative interest. Lord Faramond, + himself picturesque, acute, with a keen knowledge of character and a taste + for originality, saw material for a useful supporter—fearless, + independent, with a gift for saying ironical things, and some primitive + and fundamental principles well digested. + </p> + <p> + Gaston, smiling, said that he would only be a buffalo fretting on a chain. + </p> + <p> + Lord Faramond replied: + </p> + <p> + “And why the chain?” He followed this up by saying: “It is but a case of + playing lion-tamer down there. Have one little gift all your own, know + when to impose it, and you have the pleasure of feeling that your fingers + move a great machine, the greatest in the world—yes the very + greatest. There is Little Grapnel just vacant: the faithful Glynn is gone. + Come: if you will, I’ll send my secretary to-morrow morning-eh?” + </p> + <p> + “You are not afraid of the buffalo, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Faramond’s fingers touched his arm, drummed it “My greatest need—one + to roar as gently as the sucking-dove.” + </p> + <p> + “But what if I, not knowing the rules of the game, should think myself on + the corner of the veldt or in an Indian’s tepee, and hit out?” + </p> + <p> + “You do not carry derringers?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled. “No; but—” + </p> + <p> + He glanced down at his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well; that will come one day, perhaps!” Lord Faramond paused, + abstracted, then added: “But not through you. Good-bye, then, good-bye. + Little Grapnel in ten days!” + </p> + <p> + And it was so. Little Grapnel was Conservative. It was mostly a matter of + nomination, and in two weeks Gaston, in a kind of dream, went down to + Westminster, lunched with Lord Faramond, and was introduced to the House. + The Ladies Gallery was full, for the matter was in all the papers, and a + pretty sensation had been worked up one way and another. + </p> + <p> + That night, after dinner, Gaston rose to make his maiden speech on a bill + dealing with an imminent social question. He was not an amateur. Time upon + time he had addressed gatherings in the North, and had once stood at the + bar of the Canadian Commons to plead the cause of the half-breeds. He was + pale, but firm, and looked striking. His eyes went slowly round the House, + and he began in a low, clear, deliberate voice, which got attention at + once. The first sentence was, however, a surprise to every one, and not + the least to his own party, excepting Lord Faramond. He disclaimed + detailed and accurate knowledge of the subject. He said this with an + honesty which took away the breath of the House. In a quiet, easy tone he + then referred to what had been previously said in the debate. + </p> + <p> + The first thing he did was to crumble away with a regretful kind of + superiority the arguments of two Conservative speakers, to the sudden + amusement of the Opposition, who presently cheered him. He looked up as + though a little surprised, waited patiently, and went on. The iconoclasm + proceeded. He had one or two fixed ideas in his mind, simple principles on + social questions of which he had spoken to his leader, and he never + wavered from the sight of them, though he had yet to state them. The + Premier sat, head cocked, with an ironical smile at the cheering, but he + was wondering whether, after all, his man was sure; whether he could stand + this fire, and reverse his engine quite as he intended. One of the + previous speakers was furious, came over and appealed to Lord Faramond, + who merely said, “Wait.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston kept on. The flippant amusement of the Opposition continued. + Something, however, in his grim steadiness began to impress his own party + as the other, while from more than one quarter of the House there came a + murmur of sympathy. His courage, his stone-cold strength, the disdain + which was coming into his voice, impressed them, apart from his argument + or its bearing on the previous debate. Lord Faramond heard the occasional + murmurs of approval and smiled. Then there came a striking silence, for + Gaston paused. He looked towards the Ladies Gallery. As if in a dream—for + his brain was working with clear, painful power—he saw, not Delia + nor her mother, nor Lady Dargan, but Alice Wingfield! He had a sting, a + rush in his blood. He felt that none had an interest in him such as she: + shamed, sorrowful, denied the compensating comfort which his brother’s + love might give her. Her face, looking through the barriers, pale, + glowing, anxious, almost weird, seemed set to the bars of a cage. + </p> + <p> + Gaston turned upon the House, and flashed a glance towards Lord Faramond, + who, turned round on the Treasury Bench, was looking up at him. He began + slowly to pit against his former startling admissions the testimony of his + few principles, and to buttress them on every side with apposite + observations, naive, pungent. Presently there came a poignant edge to his + trailing tones. After giving the subject new points of view, showing him + to have studied Whitechapel as well as Kicking Horse Pass, he contended + that no social problem could be solved by a bill so crudely radical, so + impractical. + </p> + <p> + He was saying: “In the history of the British Parliament—” when some + angry member cried out, “Who coached you?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston’s quick eye found the man. + </p> + <p> + “Once,” he answered instantly, “one honourable gentleman asked that of + another in King Charles’s Parliament, and the reply then is mine now—‘You, + sir!’” + </p> + <p> + “How?” returned the puzzled member. + </p> + <p> + Gaston smiled: + </p> + <p> + “The nakedness of the honourable gentleman’s mind!” + </p> + <p> + The game was in his hands. Lord Faramond twisted a shoulder with + satisfaction, tossed a whimsical look down the line of the Treasury Bench, + and from that Bench came unusual applause. + </p> + <p> + “Where the devil did he get it?” queried a Minister. + </p> + <p> + “Out on the buffalo-trail,” replied Lord Faramond. “Good fellow!” + </p> + <p> + In the Ladies Gallery, Delia clasped her mother’s hand with delight; in + the Strangers Gallery, a man said softly, “Not so bad, Cadet.” + </p> + <p> + Alice Wingfield’s face had a light of aching pleasure. “Gaston, Gaston!” + she said, in a whisper heard only by the woman sitting next to her, who + though a stranger gave a murmur of sympathy. + </p> + <p> + Gaston made his last effort in a comparison of the state of the English + people now and before she became Cromwell’s Commonwealth, and then + incisively traced the social development onwards. It was the work of a man + with a dramatic nature and a mathematical turn. He put the time, the + manners, the movements, the men, as in a picture. + </p> + <p> + Presently he grew scornful. His words came hotly, like whip-lashes. He + rose to force and power, though his voice was never loud, rather + concentrated, resonant. It dropped suddenly to a tone of persuasiveness + and conciliation, and declaring that the bill would be merely vicious + where it meant to be virtuous, ended with the question: + </p> + <p> + “Shall we burn the house to roast the pig?” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds American,” said the member for Burton-Halsey, “but he hasn’t + an accent. Pig is vulgar though—vulgar.” + </p> + <p> + “Make it Lamb—make it Lamb!” urged his neighbour. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile both sides applauded. Maiden speeches like this were not common. + Lord Faramond turned round to him. Another member made way and Gaston + leaned towards the Premier, who nodded and smiled. “Most excellent + buffalo!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “One day we will chain you—to the Treasury Bench.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston smiled. + </p> + <p> + “You are thought prudent, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! an enemy hath said this.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston looked towards the Ladies Gallery. Delia’s eyes were on him; Alice + was gone. + </p> + <p> + A half-hour later he stood in the lobby, waiting for Mrs. Gasgoyne, Lady + Dargan, and Delia to come. He had had congratulations in the House; he was + having them now. Presently some one touched him on the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Not so bad, Cadet.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston turned and saw his uncle. They shook hands. “You’ve a gift that + way,” Ian Belward continued, “but to what good? Bless you, the pot on the + crackling thorns! Don’t you find it all pretty hollow?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston was feeling reaction from the nervous work. “It is exciting.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you’ll never have it again as to-night. The place reeks with + smugness, vanity, and drudgery. It’s only the swells—Derby, + Gladstone, and the few—who get any real sport out of it. I can show + you much more amusing things.” + </p> + <p> + “For instance?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Hast thou forgotten me?’ You hungered for Paris and Art and the joyous + life. Well, I’m ready. I want you. Paris, too, is waiting, and a good + cuisine in a cheery menage. Sup with me at the Garrick, and I’ll tell you. + Come along. Quis separabit?” + </p> + <p> + “I have to wait for Mrs. Gasgoyne—and Delia.” + </p> + <p> + “Delia! Delia! Goddess of proprieties, has it come to that!” + </p> + <p> + He saw a sudden glitter in Gaston’s eyes, and changed his tone. + </p> + <p> + “Well, an’ a man will he will, and he must be wished good-luck. So, + good-luck to you! I’m sorry, though, for that cuisine in Paris, and the + grand picnic at Fontainebleau, and Moban and Cerise. But it can’t be + helped.” + </p> + <p> + He eyed Gaston curiously. Gaston was not in the least deceived. His uncle + added presently, “But you will have supper with me just the same?” + </p> + <p> + Gaston consented, and at this point the ladies appeared. He had a thrill + of pleasure at hearing their praises, but, somehow, of all the fresh + experiences he had had in England, this, the weightiest, left him least + elated. He had now had it all: the reaction was begun, and he knew it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Ian Belward, what mischief are you at now?” said Mrs. Gasgoyne. + </p> + <p> + “A picture merely, and to offer homage. How have you tamed our lion, and + how sweetly does he roar! I feed him at my Club to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Ian Belward, you are never so wicked as when you ought most to be decent.—I + wish I knew your place in this picture,” she added brusquely. + </p> + <p> + “Merely a little corner at their fireside.” He nodded towards Delia and + Gaston. + </p> + <p> + “The man has sense, and Delia is my daughter!” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely why I wish a place in their affections.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you marry one of the women you have—spoiled, and spend + the rest of your time in living yourself down? You are getting old.” + </p> + <p> + “For their own sakes, I don’t. Put that to my credit. I’ll have but one + mistress only as the sand gets low. I’ve been true to her.” + </p> + <p> + “You, true to anything!” + </p> + <p> + “The world has said so.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! You couldn’t be.” + </p> + <p> + “Visit my new picture in three months—my biggest thing. You will say + my mistress fares well at my hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Mere talk. I have seen your mistress, and before every picture I have + thought of those women! A thing cannot be good at your price: so don’t + talk that sentimental stuff to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Be original; you said that to me thirty years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember perfectly: that did not require much sense.” + </p> + <p> + “No; you tossed it off, as it were. Yet I’d have made you a good husband. + You are the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.” + </p> + <p> + “The compliment is not remarkable. Now, Ian Belward, don’t try to say + clever things. And remember that I will have no mischief-making.” + </p> + <p> + “At thy command—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, cease acting, and take Sophie to her carriage.” Two hours later, + Delia Gasgoyne sat in her bedroom wondering at Gaston’s abstraction during + the drive home. Yet she had a proud elation at his success, and a happy + tear came to her eye. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Gaston was supping with his uncle. Ian was in excellent spirits: + brilliant, caustic, genial, suggestive. After a little while Gaston rose + to the temper of his host. Already the scene in the Commons was fading + from him, and when Ian proposed Paris immediately, he did not demur. The + season was nearly over. + </p> + <p> + Ian said; very well, why remain? His attendance at the House? Well, it + would soon be up for the session. Besides, the most effective thing he + could do was to disappear for the time. Be unexpected—that was the + key to notoriety. Delia Gasgoyne? Well, as Gaston had said, they were to + meet in the Mediterranean in September; meanwhile a brief separation would + be good for both. Last of all—he did not wish to press it—but + there was a promise! + </p> + <p> + Gaston answered quietly, at last: “I will redeem the promise.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “Within thirty-six hours.” + </p> + <p> + “That is, you will be at my studio in Paris within thirty-six hours from + now?” + </p> + <p> + “That is it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! I shall start at eight to-morrow morning. You will bring your + horse, Cadet?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and Brillon.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t necessary.” Ian’s brow clouded slightly. + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely necessary.” + </p> + <p> + “A fantastic little beggar. You can get a better valet in France. Why have + one at all?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not decline from Brillon on a Parisian valet. Besides, he comes + as my camarade.” + </p> + <p> + “Goth! Goth! My friend the valet! Cadet, you’re a wonderful fellow, but + you’ll never fit in quite.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wish to fit in; things must fit me.” Ian smiled to himself. + </p> + <p> + “He has tasted it all—it’s not quite satisfying—revolution + next! What a smash-up there’ll be! The romantic, the barbaric overlaps. + Well, I shall get my picture out of it, and the estate too.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston toyed with his wine-glass, and was deep in thought. Strange to say, + he was seeing two pictures. The tomb of Sir Gaston in the little church at + Ridley: A gipsy’s van on the crest of a common, and a girl standing in the + doorway. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS + </h2> + <p> + The next morning he went down to the family solicitor’s office. He had + done so, off and on, for weeks. He spent the time in looking through old + family papers, fishing out ancient documents, partly out of curiosity, + partly from an unaccountable presentiment. He had been there about an hour + this morning when a clerk brought him a small box, which, he said, had + been found inside another box belonging to the Belward-Staplings, a + distant branch of the family. These had asked for certain ancient papers + lately, and a search had been made, with this result. The little box was + not locked, and the key was in it. How the accident occurred was not + difficult to imagine. Generations ago there had probably been a conference + of the two branches of the family, and the clerk had inadvertently locked + the one box within the other. This particular box of the Belward-Staplings + was not needed again. Gaston felt that here was something. These hours + spent among old papers had given him strange sensations, had, on the one + hand, shown him his heritage; but had also filled him with the spirit of + that by-gone time. He had grown further away from the present. He had + played his part as in a drama: his real life was in the distant past and + out in the land of the heathen. + </p> + <p> + Now he took out a bundle of papers with broken seals, and wound with a + faded tape. He turned the rich important parchments over in his hands. He + saw his own name on the outside of one: “Sir Gaston Robert Belward.” And + there was added: “Bart.” He laughed. Well, why not complete the + reproduction? He was an M. P.—why not a Baronet? He knew how it was + done. There were a hundred ways. Throw himself into the arbitration + question between Canada and the United States: spend ten thousand pounds + of—his grandfather’s—money on the Party? His reply to himself + was cynical: the game was not worth the candle. What had he got out of it + all? Money? Yes: and he enjoyed that—the power that it gave—thoroughly. + The rest? He knew that it did not strike as deep as it ought: the family + tradition, the social scheme—the girl. + </p> + <p> + “What a brute I am!” he said. “I’m never wholly of it. I either want to do + as they did when George Villiers had his innings, or play the gipsy as I + did so many years.” + </p> + <p> + The gipsy! As he held the papers in his hand he thought as he had done + last night, of the gipsy-van on Ridley Common, and of—how well he + remembered her name!—of Andree. + </p> + <p> + He suddenly threw his head back, and laughed. “Well, well, but it is + droll! Last night, an English gentleman, an honourable member with the + Treasury Bench in view; this morning an adventurer, a Romany. I itch for + change. And why? Why? I have it all, yet I could pitch it away this moment + for a wild night on the slope, or a nigger hunt on the Rivas. + Chateau-Leoville, Goulet, and Havanas at a bob?—Jove, I thirst for a + swig of raw Bourbon and the bite of a penny Mexican! Games, Gaston, games! + Why the devil did little Joe worry at being made ‘move on’? I’ve got ‘move + on’ in every pore: I’m the Wandering Jew. Oh, a gentleman born am I! But + the Romany sweats from every inch of you, Gaston Belward! What was it that + sailor on the Cyprian said of the other? ‘For every hair of him was + rope-yarn, and every drop of blood Stockholm tar!’” + </p> + <p> + He opened a paper. Immediately he was interested. Another; then, quickly, + two more; and at last, getting to his feet with an exclamation, he held a + document to the light, and read it through carefully. He was alone in the + room. He calmly folded it up, put it in his pocket, placed the rest of the + papers back, locked the box, and passing into the next room, gave it to + the clerk. Then he went out, a curious smile on his face. He stopped + presently on the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “But it wouldn’t hold good, I fancy, after all these years. Yet Law is a + queer business. Anyhow, I’ve got it.” + </p> + <p> + An hour later he called on Mrs. Gasgoyne and Delia. Mrs. Gasgoyne was not + at home. After a little while, Gaston, having listened to some extracts + from the newspapers upon his “brilliant, powerful, caustic speech, + infinite in promise of an important career,” quietly told her that he was + starting for Paris, and asked when they expected to go abroad in their + yacht. Delia turned pale, and could not answer for a moment. Then she + became very still, and as quietly answered that they expected to get away + by the middle of August. He would join them? Yes, certainly, at + Marseilles, or perhaps, Gibraltar. Her manner, so well-controlled, though + her features seemed to shrink all at once, if it did not deceive him, gave + him the wish to say an affectionate thing. He took her hand and said it. + She thanked him, then suddenly dropped her fingers on his shoulder, and + murmured with infinite gentleness and pride: + </p> + <p> + “You will miss me; you ought to!” + </p> + <p> + He drew the hand down. + </p> + <p> + “I could not forget you, Delia,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes came up quickly, and she looked steadily, wonderingly at him. + </p> + <p> + “Was it necessary to say that?” + </p> + <p> + She was hurt—inexpressibly,—and she shrank. He saw that she + misunderstood him; but he also saw that, on the face of it, the phrase was + not complimentary. His reply was deeply kind, effective. There was a pause—and + the great moment for them both passed. Something ought to have happened. + It did not. If she had had that touch of abandon shown when she sang “The + Waking of the Fire,” Gaston might, even at this moment, have broken his + promise to his uncle; but, somehow, he knew himself slipping away from + her. With the tenderness he felt, he still knew that he was acting; + imitating, reproducing other, better, moments with her. He felt the + disrespect to her, but it could not be helped—it could not be + helped. + </p> + <p> + He said that he would call and say good-bye to her and Mrs. Gasgoyne at + four o’clock. Then he left. He went to his chambers, gave Jacques + instructions, did some writing, and returned at four. Mrs. Gasgoyne had + not come back. She had telegraphed that she would not be in for lunch. + There was nothing remarkable in Gaston’s and Delia’s farewell. She thought + he looked worn, and ought to have change, showing in every word that she + trusted him, and was anxious that he should be, as she put it gaily, + “comfy.” She was composed. The cleverest men are blind in the matter of a + woman’s affections; and Gaston was only a mere man, after all. He thought + that she had gone about as far in the way of feeling as she could go. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, in his hansom, he frowned, and said: “I oughtn’t to go. But + I’m choking here. I can’t play the game an hour longer without a change. + I’ll come back all right. I’ll meet her in the Mediterranean after my + kick-up, and it’ll be all O. K. Jacques and I will ride down through Spain + to Gibraltar, and meet the Kismet there. I shall have got rid of this + restlessness then, and I’ll be glad enough to settle down, pose for throne + and constitution, cultivate the olive branch, and have family prayers.” + </p> + <p> + At eight o’clock he appeared at Ridley Court, and bade his grandfather and + grandmother good-bye. They were full of pride, and showed their affection + in indirect ways—Sir William most by offering his opinion on the + Bill and quoting Gaston frequently; Lady Belward, by saying that next year + she would certainly go up to town—she had not done so for five + years! They both agreed that a scamper on the Continent would now be good + for him. At nine o’clock he passed the rectory, on his way, strange to + note, to the church. There was one light burning, but it was not in the + study nor in Alice’s window. He supposed they had not returned. He paused + and thought. If anything happened, she should know. But what should + happen? He shook his head. He moved on to the church. The doors were + unlocked. He went in, drew out a little pocket-lantern, lit it, and walked + up the aisle. + </p> + <p> + “A sentimental business this: I don’t know why I do it,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + He stopped at the tomb of Sir Gaston Belward, put his hand on it, and + stood looking at it. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if there is anything in it?” he said aloud: “if he does + influence me? if we’ve got anything to do with each other? What he did I + seem to know somehow, more or less. A little dwarf up in my brain drops + the nuts down now and then. Well, Sir Gaston Belward, what is going to be + the end of all this? If we can reach across the centuries, why, good-night + and goodbye to you. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and went down the aisle. At the door a voice, a whispering + voice, floated to him: “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped short and listened. All was still. He walked up the aisle, and + listened again.-Nothing! He stood before the tomb, looking at it + curiously. He was pale, but collected. He raised the light above his head, + and looked towards the altar.—Nothing! Then he went to the door + again, and paused.—Nothing! + </p> + <p> + Outside he said + </p> + <p> + “I’d stake my life I heard it!” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes afterwards, a girl rose up from behind the organ in the + chancel, and felt her way outside. It was Alice Wingfield, who had gone to + the church to pray. It was her good-bye which had floated down to Gaston. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. HE JOURNEYS AFAR + </h2> + <p> + Politicians gossiped. Where was the new member? His friends could not + tell, further than that he had gone abroad. Lord Faramond did not know, + but fetched out his lower lip knowingly. + </p> + <p> + “The fellow has instinct for the game,” he said. Sketches, portraits were + in the daily and weekly journals, and one hardy journalist even gave an + interview—which had never occurred. But Gaston remained a + picturesque nine-days’ figure, and then Parliament rose for the year. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile he was in Paris, and every morning early he could be seen with + Jacques riding up the Champs Elysee and out to the Bois de Boulogne. Every + afternoon at three he sat for “Monmouth” or the “King of Ys” with his + horse in his uncle’s garden. + </p> + <p> + Ian Belward might have lived in a fashionable part; he preferred the Latin + Quarter, with incursions into the other at fancy. Gaston lived for three + days in the Boulevard Haussman, and then took apartments, neither + expensive nor fashionable, in a quiet street. He was surrounded by + students and artists, a few great men and a host of small men: + Collarossi’s school here and Delacluse’s there: models flitting in and out + of the studios in his court-yard, who stared at him as he rode, and sought + to gossip with Jacques—accomplished without great difficulty. + </p> + <p> + Jacques was transformed. A cheerful hue grew on his face. He had been an + exile, he was now at home. His French tongue ran, now with words in the + patois of Normandy, now of Brittany; and all with the accent of French + Canada, an accent undisturbed by the changes and growths of France. He + gossiped, but no word escaped him which threw any light on his master’s + history. + </p> + <p> + Soon, in the Latin Quarter, they were as notable as they had been at + Ridley Court or in London. On the Champs Elysee side people stared at the + two: chiefly because of Gaston’s splendid mount and Jacques’s strange + broncho. But they felt that they were at home. Gaston’s French was not + perfect, but it was enough for his needs. He got a taste of that freedom + which he had handed over to the dungeons of convention two years before. + He breathed. Everything interested him so much that the life he had led in + England seemed very distant. + </p> + <p> + He wrote to Delia, of course. His letters were brief, most interesting, + not tenderly intimate, and not daily. From the first they puzzled her a + little, and continued to do so; but because her mother said, “What an + impossible man!” she said, “Perfectly possible! Of course he is not like + other men; he is a genius.” + </p> + <p> + And the days went on. + </p> + <p> + Gaston little loved the purlieus of the Place de l’Opera. One evening at a + club in the Boulevard Malesherbes bored him. It was merely Anglo-American + enjoyment, dashed with French drama. The Bois was more to his taste, for + he could stretch his horse’s legs; but every day he could be found before + some simple cafe in Montparnasse, sipping vermouth, and watching the gay, + light life about him. He sat up with delight to see an artist and his + “Madame” returning from a journey in the country, seated upon sheaves of + corn, quite unregarded by the world; doing as they listed with unabashed + simplicity. He dined often at the little Hotel St. Malo near the Gare + Montparnasse, where the excellent landlord played the host, father, + critic, patron, comrade—often benefactor—to his bons enfants. + He drank vin ordinaire, smoked caporal cigarettes, made friends, and was + in all as a savage—or a much-travelled English gentleman. + </p> + <p> + His uncle Ian had introduced him here as at other places of the kind, and, + whatever his ulterior object was, had an artist’s pleasure at seeing a + layman enjoy the doings of Paris art life. Himself lived more luxuriously. + In an avenue not far from the Luxembourg he had a small hotel with a fine + old-fashioned garden behind it, and here distinguished artists, musicians, + actors, and actresses came at times. + </p> + <p> + The evening of Gaston’s arrival he took him to a cafe and dined him, and + afterwards to the Boullier—there, merely that he might see; but this + place had nothing more than a passing interest for him. His mind had the + poetry of a free, simple—even wild-life, but he had no instinct for + vice in the name of amusement. But the later hours spent in the garden + under the stars, the cheerful hum of the boulevards coming to them + distantly, stung his veins like good wine. They sat and talked, with no + word of England in it at all, Jacques near, listening. + </p> + <p> + Ian Belward was at his best: genial, entertaining, with the art of the man + of no principles, no convictions, and a keen sense of life’s sublime + incongruities. Even Jacques, whose sense of humour had grown by long + association with Gaston, enjoyed the piquant conversation. The next + evening the same. About ten o’clock a few men dropped in: a sculptor, + artists, and Meyerbeer, an American newspaper correspondent—who, + however, was not known as such to Gaston. + </p> + <p> + This evening Ian determined to make Gaston talk. To deepen a man’s love + for a thing, get him to talk of it to the eager listener—he passes + from the narrator to the advocate unconsciously. Gaston was not to talk of + England, but of the North, of Canada, of Mexico, the Lotos Isles. He did + so picturesquely, yet simply too, in imperfect but sufficient French. But + as he told of one striking incident in the Rockies, he heard Jacques make + a quick expression of dissent. He smiled. He had made some mistake in + detail. Now, Jacques had been in his young days in Quebec the village + story-teller; one who, by inheritance or competency, becomes + semi-officially a raconteur for the parish; filling in winter evenings, + nourishing summer afternoons, with tales, weird, childlike, daring. + </p> + <p> + Now Gaston turned and said to Jacques: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Brillon, I’ve forgotten, as you see; tell them how it was.” + </p> + <p> + Two hours later when Jacques retired on some errand, amid ripe applause, + Ian said: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got an artist there, Cadet: that description of the fight with the + loop garoo was as good as a thing from Victor Hugo. Hugo must have heard + just such yarns, and spun them on the pattern. Upon my soul, it’s + excellent stuff. You’ve lived, you two.” + </p> + <p> + Another night Ian Belward gave a dinner, at which were present an actress, + a singer of some repute, the American journalist, and others. Something + that was said sent Gaston’s mind to the House of Commons. Presently he saw + himself in a ridiculous picture: a buffalo dragging the Treasury Bench + about the Chamber; as one conjures things in an absurd dream. He laughed + outright, at a moment when Mademoiselle Cerise was telling of a remarkable + effect she produced one night in “Fedora,” unpremeditated, inspired; and + Mademoiselle Cerise, with smiling lips and eyes like daggers, called him a + bear. This brought him to him self, and he swam with the enjoyment. He did + enjoy it, but not as his uncle wished and hoped. Gaston did not respond + eagerly to the charms of Mademoiselle Cerise and Madame Juliette. + </p> + <p> + Was Delia, then, so strong in the barbarian’s mind? He could not think so, + but Gaston had not shown yet, either for model, for daughter of joy, or + for the mademoiselles of the stage any disposition to an amour or a + misalliance; and either would be interesting and sufficient! Models went + in and out of Ian’s studio and the studios of others, and Gaston chatted + with them at times; and once he felt the bare arm and bare breast of a + girl as she sat for a nymph, and said in an interested way that her flesh + was as firm and fine as a Tongan’s. He even disputed with his uncle on the + tints of her skin, on seeing him paint it in, showing a fine eye for + colour. But there was nothing more; he was impressed, observant, + interested—that was all. His uncle began to wonder if the Englishman + was, after all, deeper in the grain than the savage. He contented himself + with the belief that the most vigorous natures are the most difficult to + rouse. Mademoiselle Cerise sang, with chic and abandon very fascinating to + his own sensuous nature, a song with a charming air and sentiment. It was + after a night at the opera when they had seen her in “Lucia,” and the + contrast, as she sang in his garden, softly lighted, showed her at the + most attractive angles. She drifted from a sparkling chanson to the + delicate pathos of a song of De Musset’s. + </p> + <p> + Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman—no. He had seen a + new life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could + still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had come + to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle Cerise + said to Ian at last: + </p> + <p> + “Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no + matter.” + </p> + <p> + She made another effort to interest him, however. It galled her that he + did not fall at her feet as others had done. Even Ian had come there in + his day, but she knew him too well. She had said to him at the time: “You, + monsieur? No, thank you. A week, a month, and then the brute in you would + out. You make a woman fond, and then—a mat for your feet, and your + wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol or the + Seine. Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing more. I + will sing to you, dance to you, even pray for you—we poor sinners do + that sometimes, and go on sinning; but, again, nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been + good friends. He had told her of his nephew’s coming, had hinted at his + fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him, even + at marriage. She could not read his purpose, but she knew there was + something, and answering him with a yes, had waited. Had Gaston have come + to her feet she would probably have got at the truth somehow, and have + worked in his favour—the joy vice takes to side with virtue, at + times—when it is at no personal sacrifice. But Gaston was superior + in a grand way. He was simple, courteous, interested only. This stung her, + and she would bring him to his knees, if she could. This night she had + rung all the changes, and had done no more than get his frank applause. + She became petulant in an airy, exacting way. She asked him about his + horse. This interested him. She wanted to see it. To-morrow? No, no, now. + Perhaps to-morrow she would not care to; there was no joy in deliberate + pleasure. Now—now—now! He laughed. Well then, now, as she + wished! + </p> + <p> + Jacques was called. She said to him: + </p> + <p> + “Come here, little comrade.” Jacques came. “Look at me,” she added. She + fixed her eyes on him, and smiled. She was in the soft flare of the + lights. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said after a moment, “what do you think of me?” + </p> + <p> + Jacques was confused. “Madame is beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “The eyes?” she urged. + </p> + <p> + “I have been to Gaspe, and west to Esquimault, and in England, but I have + never seen such as those,” he said. Race and primitive man spoke there. + </p> + <p> + She laughed. “Come closer, little man.” + </p> + <p> + He did so. She suddenly rose, dropped her hands on his shoulders, and + kissed his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Now bring the horse, and I will kiss him too.” + </p> + <p> + Did she think she could rouse Gaston by kissing his servant? Yet it did + not disgust him. He knew it was a bit of acting, and it was well done. + Besides, Jacques Brillon was not a mere servant, and he, too, had done + well. She sat back and laughed lightly when Jacques was gone. Then she + said: “The honest fellow!” and hummed an air: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘The pretty coquette + Well she needs to be wise, + Though she strike to the heart + By a glance of her eyes. + + “‘For the daintiest bird + Is the sport of the storm, + And the rose fadeth most + When the bosom is warm.’” + </pre> + <p> + In twenty minutes the gate of the garden opened, and Jacques appeared with + Saracen. The horse’s black skin glistened in the lights, and he tossed his + head and champed his bit. Gaston rose. Mademoiselle Cerise sprang to her + feet and ran forward. Jacques put out his hand to stop her, and Gaston + caught her shoulder. “He’s wicked with strangers,” Gaston said. “Chat!” + she rejoined, stepped quickly to the horse’s head and, laughing, put out + her hand to stroke him. Jacques caught the beast’s nose, and stopped a + lunge of the great white teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Enough, madame, he will kill you!” + </p> + <p> + “Yet I am beautiful—is it not so?” + </p> + <p> + “The poor beast is ver’ blind.” + </p> + <p> + “A pretty compliment,” she rejoined, yet angry at the beast. + </p> + <p> + Gaston came, took the animal’s head in his hands, and whispered. Saracen + became tranquil. Gaston beckoned to Mademoiselle Cerise. She came. He took + her hand in his and put it at the horse’s lips. The horse whinnied angrily + at first, but permitted a caress from the actress’s fingers. + </p> + <p> + “He does not make friends easily,” said Gaston. “Nor does his master.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes lifted to his, the lids drooping suggestively. “But when the pact + is made—!” + </p> + <p> + “Till death us do part?” + </p> + <p> + “Death or ruin.” + </p> + <p> + “Death is better.” + </p> + <p> + “That depends!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I understand,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “On—the woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Then he became silent. “Mount the horse,” she urged. + </p> + <p> + Gaston sprang at one bound upon the horse’s bare back. Saracen reared and + wheeled. + </p> + <p> + “Splendid!” she said; then, presently: “Take me up with you.” + </p> + <p> + He looked doubting for a moment, then whispered to the horse. + </p> + <p> + “Come quickly,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She came to the side of the horse. He stooped, caught her by the waist, + and lifted her up. Saracen reared, but Gaston had him down in a moment. + </p> + <p> + Ian Belward suddenly called out: + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, keep that pose for five minutes—only five!” He + caught up some canvas. “Hold candles near them,” he said to the others. + They did so. With great swiftness he sketched in the strange picture. It + looked weird, almost savage: Gaston’s large form, his legs loose at the + horse’s side, the woman in her white drapery clinging to him. + </p> + <p> + In a little time the artist said: + </p> + <p> + “There; that will do. Ten such sittings and my ‘King of Ys’ will have its + day with the world. I’d give two fortunes for the chance of it.” + </p> + <p> + The woman’s heart had beat fast with Gaston’s arm around her. He felt the + thrill of the situation. Man, woman, and horse were as of a piece. + </p> + <p> + But Cerise knew, when Gaston let her to the ground again, that she had not + conquered. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED + </h2> + <p> + Next morning Gaston was visited by Meyerbeer the American journalist, of + whose profession he was still ignorant. He saw him only as a man of raw + vigour of opinion, crude manners, and heavy temperament. He had not been + friendly to him at night, and he was surprised at the morning visit. The + hour was such that Gaston must ask him to breakfast. The two were soon at + the table of the Hotel St. Malo. Meyerbeer sniffed the air when he saw the + place. The linen was ordinary, the rooms small; but all—he did not + take this into account—irreproachably clean. The walls were covered + with pictures; some taken for unpaid debts, gifts from students since + risen to fame or gone into the outer darkness,—to young artists’ + eyes, the sordid moneymaking world,—and had there been lost; from a + great artist or two who remembered the days of his youth and the good host + who had seen many little colonies of artists come and go. + </p> + <p> + They sat down to the table, which was soon filled with students and + artists. Then Meyerbeer began to see, not only an interesting thing, but + “copy.” He was, in fact, preparing a certain article which, as he said to + himself, would “make ‘em sit up” in London and New York. He had found out + Gaston’s history, had read his speech in the Commons, had seen paragraphs + speculating as to where he was; and now he, Salem Meyerbeer, would tell + them what the wild fellow was doing. The Bullier, the cafes in the Latin + Quarter, apartments in a humble street, dining for one-franc-fifty, + supping with actresses, posing for the King of Ys with that actress in his + arms—all excellent in their way. But now there was needed an + entanglement, intrigue, amour, and then America should shriek at his + picture of one of the British aristocracy, and a gentleman of the Commons, + “on the loose,” as he put it. + </p> + <p> + He would head it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “ARISTOCRAT, POLITICIAN, LIBERTINE!” + </pre> + <p> + Then, under that he would put: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “CAN THE ETHIOPIAN CHANGE HIS SKIN, OR THE + LEOPARD HIS SPOTS?” Jer. xi. 23. +</pre> + <p> + The morality of such a thing? Morality only had to do with ruining a + girl’s name, or robbery. How did it concern this? + </p> + <p> + So Mr. Meyerbeer kept his ears open. Presently one of the students said to + Bagshot, a young artist: “How does the dompteuse come on?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I think it’s chic enough. She’s magnificent. The colour of her skin + against the lions was splendid to-day: a regular rich gold with a sweet + stain of red like a leaf of maize in September. There’s never been such a + Una. I’ve got my chance; and if I don’t pull it off, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket, + And say a poor buffer lies low!’” + </pre> + <p> + “Get the jacket ready,” put in a young Frenchman, sneering. + </p> + <p> + The Englishman’s jaw hardened, but he replied coolly + </p> + <p> + “What do you know about it?” + </p> + <p> + “I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her.” + </p> + <p> + “How the devil does that concern my painting her?” There was iron in + Bagshot’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “Who says you are painting her?” + </p> + <p> + The insult was conspicuous. Gaston quickly interposed. His clear strong + voice rang down the table: “Will you let me come and see your canvas some + day soon, Mr. Bagshot? I remember your picture ‘A Passion in the Desert,’ + at the Academy this year. A fine thing: the leopard was free and strong. + As an Englishman, I am proud to meet you.” + </p> + <p> + The young Frenchman stared. The quarrel had passed to a new and unexpected + quarter. Gaston’s large, solid body, strong face, and penetrating eyes + were not to be sneered out of sight. The Frenchman, an envious, + disappointed artist, had had in his mind a bloodless duel, to give a + fillip to an unacquired fame. He had, however, been drinking. He flung an + insolent glance to meet Gaston’s steady look, and said: + </p> + <p> + “The cock crows of his dunghill!” + </p> + <p> + Gaston looked at the landlord, then got up calmly and walked down the + table. The Frenchman, expecting he knew not what, sprang to his feet, + snatching up a knife; but Gaston was on him like a hawk, pinioning his + arms and lifting him off the ground, binding his legs too, all so tight + that the Frenchman squealed for breath. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said Gaston to the landlord, “from the door or the window?” + </p> + <p> + The landlord was pale. It was in some respects a quarrel of races. For, + French and English at the tables had got up and were eyeing each other. As + to the immediate outcome of the quarrel, there could be no doubt. The + English and Americans could break the others to pieces; but neither wished + that. The landlord decided the matter: + </p> + <p> + “Drop him from this window.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed a shutter back, and Gaston dropped the fellow on the hard + pavement—a matter of five feet. The Frenchman got up raging, and + made for the door; but this time he was met by the landlord, who gave him + his hat, and bade him come no more. There was applause from both English + and French. The journalist chuckled—another column! + </p> + <p> + Gaston had acted with coolness and common-sense; and when he sat down and + began talking of the Englishman’s picture again as if nothing had + happened, the others followed, and the meal went on cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + Presently another young English painter entered, and listened to the + conversation, which Gaston brought back to Una and the lions. It was his + way to force things to his liking, if possible; and he wanted to hear + about the woman—why, he did not ask himself. The new arrival, + Fancourt by name, kept looking at him quizzically. Gaston presently said + that he would visit the menagerie and see this famous dompteuse that + afternoon. + </p> + <p> + “She’s a brick,” said Bagshot. “I was in debt, a year behind with my + Pelletier here, and it took all I got for ‘A Passion in the Desert’ to + square up. I’d nothing to go on with. I spent my last sou in visiting the + menagerie. There I got an idea. I went to her, told her how I was fixed, + and begged her to give me a chance. By Jingo! she brought the water to my + eyes. Some think she’s a bit of a devil; but she can be a devil of a + saint, that’s all I’ve got to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Zoug-Zoug’s responsible for the devil,” said Fancourt to Bagshot. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, Fan,” rejoined Bagshot, hurriedly, and then whispered to him + quickly. + </p> + <p> + Fancourt sent self-conscious glances down the table towards Gaston; and + then a young American, newly come to Paris, said: + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Zoug-Zoug, and what’s Zoug-Zoug?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s milk for babes, youngster,” answered Bagshot quickly, and changed + the conversation. + </p> + <p> + Gaston saw something strange in the little incident; but he presently + forgot it for many a day, and then remembered it for many a day, when the + wheel had spun through a wild arc. + </p> + <p> + When they rose from the table, Meyerbeer went to Bagshot, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Say, who’s Zoug-Zoug, anyway?” Bagshot coolly replied: + </p> + <p> + “I’m acting for another paper. What price?” + </p> + <p> + “Fifty dollars,” in a low voice, eagerly. Bagshot meditated. + </p> + <p> + “H’m, fifty dollars! Two hundred and fifty francs, or thereabouts. + Beggarly!” + </p> + <p> + “A hundred, then.” + </p> + <p> + Bagshot got to his feet, lighting a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Want to have a pretty story against a woman, and to smutch a man, do you? + Well, I’m hard up; I don’t mind gossip among ourselves; but sell the stuff + to you—I’ll see you damned first!” + </p> + <p> + This was said sufficiently loud; and after that, Meyerbeer could not ask + Fancourt, so he departed with Gaston, who courteously dismissed him, to + his astonishment and regret, for he had determined to visit the menagerie + with his quarry. + </p> + <p> + Gaston went to his apartments, and cheerily summoned Jacques. + </p> + <p> + “Now, little man, for a holiday! The menagerie: lions, leopards, and a + grand dompteuse; and afterwards dinner with me at the Cafe Blanche. I want + a blow-out of lions and that sort. I’d like to be a lion-tamer myself for + a month, or as long as might be.” + </p> + <p> + He caught Jacques by the shoulders—he had not done so since that + memorable day at Ridley Court. “See, Jacques, we’ll do this every year. + Six months in England, and three months on the Continent,—in your + France, if you like,—and three months in the out-of-the-wayest + place, where there’ll be big game. Hidalgos for six months, Goths for the + rest.” + </p> + <p> + A half-hour later they were in the menagerie. They sat near the doors + where the performers entered. For a long time they watched the performance + with delight, clapping and calling bravo like boys. Presently the famous + dompteuse entered,—Mademoiselle Victorine,—passing just below + Gaston. He looked down, interested, at the supple, lithe creature making + for the cages of lions in the amphitheatre. The figure struck him as + familiar. Presently the girl turned, throwing a glance round the theatre. + He caught the dash of the dark, piercing eyes, the luminous look, the face + unpainted—in its own natural colour: neither hot health nor + paleness, but a thing to bear the light of day. “Andree the gipsy!” he + exclaimed in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + In less than two years this! Here was fame. A wanderer, an Ishmael then, + her handful of household goods and her father in the grasp of the Law: + to-day, Mademoiselle Victorine, queen of animal-tamers! And her name + associated with the Comte Ploare! + </p> + <p> + With the Comte Ploare? Had it come to that? He remembered the look in her + face when he bade her good-bye. Impossible! Then, immediately he laughed. + </p> + <p> + Why impossible? And why should he bother his head about it? People of this + sort: Mademoiselle Cerise, Madame Juliette, Mademoiselle Victorine—what + were they to him, or to themselves? + </p> + <p> + There flashed through his brain three pictures: when he stood by the + bedside of the old dying Esquimaux in Labrador, and took a girl’s hand in + his; when among the flowers at Peppingham he heard Delia say: “Oh, Gaston! + Gaston!” and Alice’s face at midnight in the moonlit window at Ridley + Court. + </p> + <p> + How strange this figure—spangled, gaudy, standing among her lions—seemed + by these. To think of her, his veins thumping thus, was an insult to all + three: to Delia, one unpardonable. And yet he could not take his eyes off + her. Her performance was splendid. He was interested, speculative. She + certainly had flown high; for, again, why should not a dompteuse be a + decent woman? And here were money, fame of a kind, and an occupation that + sent his blood bounding. A dompteur! He had tamed moose, and young + mountain lions, and a catamount, and had had mad hours with pumas and + arctic bears; and he could understand how even he might easily pass from + M.P. to dompteur. It was not intellectual, but it was power of a kind; and + it was decent, and healthy, and infinitely better than playing the Jew in + business, or keeping a tavern, or “shaving” notes, and all that. Truly, + the woman was to be admired, for she was earning an honest living; and no + doubt they lied when they named her with Count Ploare. He kept coming back + to that—Count Ploare! Why could they not leave these women alone? + Did they think none of them virtuous? He would stake his life that Andree—he + would call her that—was as straight as the sun. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of her, Jacques?” he said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “It is grand. Mon Dieu, she is wonderful—and a face all fire!” + </p> + <p> + Presently she came out of the cage, followed by two great lions. She + walked round the ring, a hand on the head of each: one growling, the other + purring against her, with a ponderous kind of affection. She talked to + them as they went, giving occasionally a deep purring sound like their + own. Her talk never ceased. She looked at the audience, but only as in a + dream. Her mind was all with the animals. There was something splendid in + it: she, herself, was a noble animal; and she seemed entirely in place + where she was. The lions were fond of her, and she of them; but the first + part of her performance had shown that they could be capricious. A lion’s + love is but a lion’s love after all—and hers likewise, no doubt! The + three seemed as one in their beauty, the woman superbly superior. + Meyerbeer, in a far corner, was still on the trail of his sensation. He + thought that he might get an article out of it—with the help of + Count Ploare and Zoug-Zoug. Who was Zoug-Zoug? He exulted in her + picturesqueness, and he determined to lie in wait. He thought it a pity + that Comte Ploare was not an Englishman or an American; but it couldn’t be + helped. Yes, she was, as he said to himself, “a stunner.” Meanwhile he + watched Gaston, noted his intense interest. + </p> + <p> + Presently the girl stopped beside the cage. A chariot was brought out, and + the two lions were harnessed to it. Then she called out another larger + lion, which came unwillingly at first. She spoke sharply, and then struck + him. He growled, but came on. Then she spoke softly to him, and made that + peculiar purr, soft and rich. Now he responded, walked round her, coming + closer, till his body made a half-circle about her, and his head was at + her knees. She dropped her hand on it. Great applause rang through the + building. This play had been quite accidental. But there lay one secret of + the girl’s success. She was original; she depended greatly on the power of + the moment for her best effects, and they came at unexpected times. + </p> + <p> + It was at this instant that, glancing round the theatre in acknowledgment + of the applause, her eyes rested mechanically on Gaston’s box. There was + generally some one important in that box: from a foreign prince to a young + gentleman whose proudest moment was to take off his hat in the Bois to the + queen of a lawless court. She had tired of being introduced to princes. + What could it mean to her? And for the young bloods, whose greatest regret + was that they could not send forth a daughter of joy into the Champs + Elysee in her carriage, she had ever sent them about their business. She + had no corner of pardon for them. She kissed her lions, she hugged the + lion’s cub that rode back and forth with her to the menagerie day by day—her + companion in her modest apartments; but sell one of these kisses to a + young gentleman of Paris, whose ambition was to master all the vices, and + then let the vices master him!—she had not come to that, though, as + she said in some bitter moments, she had come far. + </p> + <p> + Count Ploare—there was nothing in that. A blase man of the world, + who had found it all not worth the bothering about, neither code nor + people—he saw in this rich impetuous nature a new range of emotions, + a brief return to the time when he tasted an open strong life in Algiers, + in Tahiti. And he would laugh at the world by marrying her—yes, + actually marrying her, the dompteuse! Accident had let him render her a + service, not unimportant, once at Versailles, and he had been so courteous + and considerate afterwards, that she had let him see her occasionally, but + never yet alone. He soon saw that an amour was impossible. At last he + spoke of marriage. She shook her head. She ought to have been grateful, + but she was not. Why should she be? She did not know why he wished to + marry her; but, whatever the reason, he was selfish. Well, she would be + selfish. She did not care for him. If she married him, it would be because + she was selfish: because of position, ease; for protection in this + shameless Paris; and for a home, she who had been a wanderer since her + birth. + </p> + <p> + It was mere bargaining. But at last her free, independent nature revolted. + No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of man, for + three months that were burned into her brain—no more! If ever she + loved—all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the + affection she gave her lions freely. + </p> + <p> + The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered a + price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as such + a man could be. She even visited his wife occasionally, and gave gifts to + his children; and the mother trusted her and told her her trials. And so + the thing went on, and the people talked. + </p> + <p> + As we said, she turned her eyes to Gaston’s box. Instantly they became + riveted, and then a deep flush swept slowly up her face and burned into + her splendid hair. Meyerbeer was watching through his opera-glasses. He + gave an exclamation of delight: + </p> + <p> + “By the holy smoke, here’s something!” he said aloud. + </p> + <p> + For an instant Gaston and the girl looked at each other intently. He made + a slight sign of recognition with his hand, and then she turned away, gone + a little pale now. She stood looking at her lions, as if trying to + recollect herself. The lion at her feet helped her. He had a change of + temper, and, possibly fretting under inaction, growled. At once she + summoned him to get into the chariot. He hesitated, but did so. She put + the reins in his paws and took her place behind. Then a robe of purple and + ermine was thrown over her shoulders by an attendant; she gave a sharp + command, and the lions came round the ring, to wild applause. Even a + Parisian audience had never seen anything like this. It was amusing too; + for the coachman-lion was evidently disgusted with his task, and growled + in a helpless kind of way. + </p> + <p> + As they passed Gaston’s box, they were very near. The girl threw one swift + glance; but her face was well controlled now. She heard, however, a + whispered word come to her: + </p> + <p> + “Andree!” + </p> + <p> + A few moments afterwards she retired, and the performance was in other and + less remarkable hands. Presently the manager himself came, and said that + Mademoiselle Victorine would be glad to see Monsieur Belward if he so + wished. Gaston left Jacques, and went. + </p> + <p> + Meyerbeer noticed the move, and determined to see the meeting if possible. + There was something in it, he was sure. He would invent an excuse, and + make his way behind. + </p> + <p> + Gaston and the manager were in the latter’s rooms waiting for Victorine. + Presently a messenger came, saying that Monsieur Belward would find + Mademoiselle in her dressing-room. Thither Gaston went, accompanied by the + manager, who, however, left him at the door, nodding good-naturedly to + Victorine, and inwardly praying that here was no danger to his business, + for Victorine was a source of great profit. Yet he had failed himself, and + all others had failed in winning her—why should this man succeed, if + that was his purpose? + </p> + <p> + There was present an elderly, dark-featured Frenchwoman, who was always + with Victorine, vigilant, protective, loving her as her own daughter. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur!” said Andree, a warm colour in her cheek. Gaston shook her hand + cordially, and laughed. “Mademoiselle—Andree?” + </p> + <p> + He looked inquiringly. “Yes, to you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You have it all your own way now—isn’t it so?” + </p> + <p> + “With the lions, yes. Please sit down. This is my dear keeper,” she said, + touching the woman’s shoulder. Then, to the woman: “Annette, you have + heard me speak of this gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + The woman nodded, and modestly touched Gaston’s outstretched hand. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur was kind once to my dear Mademoiselle,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Gaston cheerily smiled: + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, nothing, upon my word!” Presently he continued: + </p> + <p> + “Your father, what of him?” She sighed and shivered a little. + </p> + <p> + “He died in Auvergne three months after you saw him.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” He waved a hand towards the menagerie. + </p> + <p> + “It is a long story,” she answered, not meeting his eyes. “I hated the + Romany life. I became an artist’s model; sickened of that,”—her + voice went quickly here, “joined a travelling menagerie, and became what I + am. That in brief.” + </p> + <p> + “You have done well,” he said admiringly, his face glowing. + </p> + <p> + “I am a successful dompteuse,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + She then asked him who was his companion in the box. He told her. She + insisted on sending for Jacques. Meanwhile they talked of her profession, + of the animals. She grew eloquent. Jacques arrived, and suddenly + remembered Andree—stammered, was put at his ease, and dropped into + talk with Annette. Gaston fell into reminiscences of wild game, and talked + intelligently, acutely of her work. He must wait, she said, until the + performance closed, and then she would show him the animals as a happy + family. Thus a half-hour went by. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Meyerbeer had asked the manager to take him to Mademoiselle; + but was told that Victorine never gave information to journalists, and + would not be interviewed. Besides, she had a visitor. Yes, Meyerbeer knew + it—Mr. Gaston Belward; but that did not matter. The manager thought + it did matter. Then, with an idea of the future, Meyerbeer asked to be + shown the menagerie thoroughly—he would write it up for England and + America. + </p> + <p> + And so it happened that there were two sets of people inspecting the + menagerie after the performance. Andree let a dozen of the animals out—lions, + leopards, a tiger, and a bear,—and they gambolled round her + playfully, sometimes quarrelling with each other, but brought up smartly + by her voice and a little whip, which she always carried—the only + sign of professional life about her, though there was ever a dagger hid in + her dress. For the rest, she looked a splendid gipsy. + </p> + <p> + Gaston suddenly asked if he might visit her. At the moment she was playing + with the young tiger. She paused, was silent, preoccupied. The tiger, + feeling neglected, caught her hand with its paw, tearing the skin. Gaston + whipped out his handkerchief, and stanched the blood. She wrapped the + handkerchief quickly round her hand, and then, recovering herself, ordered + the animals back into their cages. They trotted away, and the attendant + locked them up. Meanwhile Jacques had picked up and handed to Gaston a + letter, dropped when he drew out his handkerchief. It was one received two + days before from Delia Gasgoyne. He had a pang of confusion, and hastily + put it into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + Up to this time there had been no confusion in his mind. He was going back + to do his duty; to marry the girl, union with whom would be an honour; to + take his place in his kingdom. He had had no minute’s doubt of that. It + was necessary, and it should be done. The girl? Did he not admire her, + honour her, care for her? Why, then, this confusion? + </p> + <p> + Andree said to him that he might come the next morning for breakfast. She + said it just as the manager and Meyerbeer passed her. Meyerbeer heard it, + and saw the look in the faces of both: in hers, bewildered, warm, + penetrating; in Gaston’s, eager, glowing, bold, with a distant kind of + trouble. + </p> + <p> + Here was a thickening plot for Paul Pry. He hugged himself. But who was + Zoug-Zoug? If he could but get at that! He asked the manager, who said he + did not know. He asked a dozen men that evening, but none knew. He would + ask Ian Belward. What a fool not to have thought of him at first. He knew + all the gossip of Paris, and was always communicative—but was he, + after all? He remembered now that the painter had a way of talking at + discretion: he had never got any really good material from him. But he + would try him in this. + </p> + <p> + So, as Gaston and Jacques travelled down the Boulevard Montparnasse, + Meyerbeer was not far behind. The journalist found Ian Belward at home, in + a cynical indolent mood. + </p> + <p> + “Wherefore Meyerbeer?” he said, as he motioned the other to a chair, and + pushed over vermouth and cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + “To ask a question.” + </p> + <p> + “One question? Come, that’s penance. Aren’t you lying as usual?” + </p> + <p> + “No; one only. I’ve got the rest of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Got the rest of it, eh? Nasty mess you’ve got, whatever it is, I’ll be + bound. What a nice mob you press fellows are—wholesale scavengers!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right. This vermouth is good enough. Well, will you answer my + question?” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly, if it’s not personal. But Lord knows where your insolence may + run! You may ask if I’ll introduce you to a decent London club!” + </p> + <p> + Meyerbeer flushed at last. + </p> + <p> + “You’re rubbing it in,” he said angrily. + </p> + <p> + He did wish to be introduced to a good London club. “The question isn’t + personal, I guess. It’s this: Who’s Zoug-Zoug?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke had come trailing out of Belward’s nose, his head thrown back, his + eyes on the ceiling. It stopped, and came out of his mouth on one long, + straight whiff. Then the painter brought his head to a natural position + slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said: + </p> + <p> + “Who is what?” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Zoug-Zoug?” + </p> + <p> + “That is your one solitary question, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Now, I’ll be scavenger. What is the story? Who is the woman—for + you’ve got a woman in it, that’s certain?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell me, then, whether you know Zoug-Zoug?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The woman is Mademoiselle Victorine, the dompteuse.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I’ve not seen her yet. She burst upon Paris while I was away. Now, + straight: no lies: who are the others?” + </p> + <p> + Meyerbeer hesitated; for, of course, he did not wish to speak of Gaston at + this stage in the game. But he said: + </p> + <p> + “Count Ploare—and Zoug-Zoug.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you tell me the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “I do. Now, who is Zoug-Zoug?” + </p> + <p> + “Find out.” + </p> + <p> + “You said you’d tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I said I’d tell you if I knew Zoug-Zoug. I do.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all you’ll tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all. And see, scavenger, take my advice and let Zoug-Zoug alone. + He’s a man of influence; and he’s possessed of a devil. He’ll make you + sorry, if you meddle with him!” + </p> + <p> + He rose, and Meyerbeer did the same, saying: “You’d better tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, don’t bother me. Drink your vermouth, take that bundle of + cigarettes, and hunt Zoug-Zoug else where. If you find him, let me know. + Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give a sweet savour to your family name,” he said with an oath, as + he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at + the ceiling reflectively. + </p> + <p> + “H’m!” he said at last. “What the devil does this mean? Not Andree, surely + not Andree! Yet I wasn’t called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was Bagshot’s + insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!” + </p> + <p> + He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, put + them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half + quizzically. + </p> + <p> + “It was rough on you, Andree; but you were hard to please, and I am + constant to but one. Yet, begad, you had solid virtues; and I wish, for + your sake, I had been a different kind of fellow. Well, well, we’ll meet + again some time, and then we’ll be good friends, no doubt.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away from the sketches and picked up some illustrated + newspapers. In one was a portrait. He looked at it, then at the sketches + again and again. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a resemblance,” he said. “But no, it’s not possible. + Andree-Mademoiselle Victorine! That would be amusing. I’d go to-morrow and + see, if I weren’t off to Fontainebleau. But there’s no hurry: when I come + back will do.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN + </h2> + <p> + At Ridley Court and Peppingham all was serene to the eye. Letters had come + to the Court at least once every two weeks from Gaston, and the minds of + the Baronet and his wife were at ease. They even went so far as to hope + that he would influence his uncle; for it was clear to them both that + whatever Gaston’s faults were, they were agreeably different from Ian’s. + His fame and promise were sweet to their nostrils. Indeed, the young man + had brought the wife and husband nearer than they had been since Robert + vanished over-sea. Each had blamed the other in an indefinite, secret way; + but here was Robert’s son, on whom they could lavish—as they did—their + affection, long since forfeited by Ian. Finally, one day, after a little + burst of thanksgiving, on getting an excellent letter from Gaston, telling + of his simple, amusing life in Paris, Sir William sent him one thousand + pounds, begging him to buy a small yacht, or to do what he pleased with + it. + </p> + <p> + “A very remarkable man, my dear,” Sir William said, as he enclosed the + cheque. “Excellent wisdom—excellent!” + </p> + <p> + “Who could have guessed that he knew so much about the poor and the East + End, and all those social facts and figures?” Lady Belward answered + complacently. + </p> + <p> + “An unusual mind, with a singular taste for history, and yet a deep + observation of the present. I don’t know when and how he does it. I really + do not know.” + </p> + <p> + “It is nice to think that Lord Faramond approves of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Most noticeable. And we have not been a Parliamentary family since the + first Charles’s time. And then it was a Gaston. Singular—quite + singular! Coincidences of looks and character. Nature plays strange games. + Reproduction—reproduction!” + </p> + <p> + “The Pall Mall Gazette says that he may soon reach the Treasury Bench.” + </p> + <p> + Sir William was abstracted. He was thinking of that afternoon in Gaston’s + bedroom, when his grandson had acted, before Lady Dargan and Cluny Vosse, + Sir Gaston’s scene with Buckingham. + </p> + <p> + “Really, most mysterious, most unaccountable. But it’s one of the virtues + of having a descent. When it is most needed, it counts, it counts.” + </p> + <p> + “Against the half-breed mother!” Lady Belward added. + </p> + <p> + “Quite so, against the—was it Cree or Blackfoot? I’ve heard him + speak of both, but which is in him I do not remember.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very painful; but, poor fellow, it is not his fault, and we ought + to be content.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, it gives him great originality. Our old families need refreshing + now and then.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, I said so to Mrs. Gasgoyne the other day, and she replied that + the refreshment might prove intoxicating. Reine was always rude.” + </p> + <p> + Truth is, Mrs. Gasgoyne was not quite satisfied. That very day she said to + her husband: + </p> + <p> + “You men always stand by each other; but I know you, and you know that I + know.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts’; well, then, you know how we + love you. So, be merciful.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Warren! I tell you he oughtn’t to have gone when he did. He has + the wild man in him, and I am not satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want—me to play the spy?” + </p> + <p> + “Warren, you’re a fool! What do I want? I want the first of September to + come quickly, that we may have him with us. With Delia he must go + straight. She influences him, he admires her—which is better than + mere love. Away from her just now, who can tell what mad adventure—! + You see, he has had the curb so long!” + </p> + <p> + But in a day or two there came a letter-unusually long for Gaston—to + Mrs. Gasgoyne herself. It was simple, descriptive, with a dash of epigram. + It acknowledged that he had felt the curb, and wanted a touch of the + unconventional. It spoke of Ian Belward in a dry phrase, and it asked for + the date of the yacht’s arrival at Gibraltar. + </p> + <p> + “Warren, the man is still sensible,” she said. “This letter is honest. He + is much a heathen at heart, but I believe he hasn’t given Delia cause to + blush—and that’s a good deal! Dear me, I am fond of the fellow—he + is so clever. But clever men are trying.” + </p> + <p> + As for Delia, like every sensible English girl, she enjoyed herself in the + time of youth, drinking in delightedly the interest attaching to Gaston’s + betrothed. His letters had been regular, kind yet not emotionally + affectionate, interesting, uncommon. He had a knack of saying as much in + one page as most people did in five. Her imagination was not great, but he + stimulated it. If he wrote a pungent line on Daudet or Whistler, on + Montaigne or Fielding, she was stimulated to know them. One day he sent + her Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, which he had picked up in New York on his + way to England. This startled her. She had never heard of Whitman. To her + he seemed coarse, incomprehensible, ungentlemanly. She could not + understand how Gaston could say beautiful things about Montaigne and about + Whitman too. She had no conception how he had in him the strain of that + first Sir Gaston Belward, and was also the son of a half-heathen. + </p> + <p> + He interested her all the more. Her letters were hardly so fascinating to + him. She was beautifully correct, but she could not make a sentence + breathe. He was grateful, but nothing stirred in him. He could live + without her—that he knew regretfully. But he did his part with + sincere intention. + </p> + <p> + That was up to the day when he saw Andree as Mademoiselle Victorine. Then + came a swift change. Day after day he visited her, always in the presence + of Annette. Soon they dined often together, still in Annette’s presence, + and the severity of that rule was never relaxed. + </p> + <p> + Count Ploare came no more; he had received his dismissal. Occasionally + Gaston visited the menagerie, but generally after the performance, when + Victorine had a half-hour’s or an hour’s romp with her animals. This was a + pleasant time to Gaston. The wild life in him responded. + </p> + <p> + These were hours when the girl was quite naive and natural, when she spent + herself in ripe enjoyment—almost child-like, healthy. At other times + there was an indefinable something which Gaston had not noticed in + England. But then he had only seen her once. She, too, saw something in + him unnoticed before. It was on his tongue a hundred times to tell her + that that something was Delia Gasgoyne. He did not. Perhaps because it + seemed so grotesque, perhaps because it was easier to drift. Besides, as + he said to himself, he would soon go to join the yacht at Gibraltar, and + all this would be over-over. All this? All what? A gipsy, a dompteuse—what + was she to him? She interested him, he liked her, and she liked him, but + there had been nothing more between them. Near as he was to her now, he + very often saw her in his mind’s eye as she passed over Ridley Common, + looking towards him, her eyes shaded by her hand. + </p> + <p> + She, too, had continually said to herself that this man could be nothing + to her—nothing, never! Yet, why not? Count Ploare had offered her + his hand. But she knew what had been in Count Ploare’s mind. Gaston + Belward was different—he had befriended her father. She had not + singular scruples regarding men, for she despised most of them. She was + not a Mademoiselle Cerise, nor a Madame Juliette, though they were higher + on the plane of art than she; or so the world put it. She had not known a + man who had not, one time or another, shown himself common or insulting. + But since the first moment she had seen Gaston, he had treated her as a + lady. + </p> + <p> + A lady? She had seen enough to smile at that. She knew that she hadn’t it + in her veins, that she was very much an actress, except in this man’s + company, when she was mostly natural—as natural as one can be who + has a painful secret. They had talked together—for how many hours? + She knew exactly. And he had never descended to that which—she felt + instinctively—he would not have shown to the ladies of his English + world. She knew what ladies were. In her first few weeks in Paris, her + fame mounting, she had lunched with some distinguished people, who + entertained her as they would have done one of her lions, if that were + possible. She understood. She had a proud, passionate nature; she rebelled + at this. Invitations were declined at first on pink note-paper with gaudy + flowers in a corner, afterwards on cream-laid vellum, when she saw what + the great folk did. + </p> + <p> + And so the days went on, he telling her of his life from his boyhood up—all + but the one thing! But that one thing she came to know, partly by + instinct, partly by something he accidentally dropped, partly from + something Jacques once said to him. Well, what did it matter to her? He + would go back; she would remain. It didn’t matter.—Yet, why should + she lie to herself? It did matter. And why should she care about that girl + in England? She was not supposed to know. The other had everything in her + favour; what had Andree the gipsy girl, or Mademoiselle Victorine, the + dompteuse? + </p> + <p> + One Sunday evening, after dining together, she asked him to take her to + see Saracen. It was a long-standing promise. She had never seen him + riding; for their hours did not coincide until the late afternoon or + evening. Taking Annette, they went to his new apartments. He had furnished + a large studio as a sitting-room, not luxuriantly but pleasantly. It + opened into a pretty little garden, with a few plants and trees. They sat + there while Jacques went for the horse. Next door a number of students + were singing a song of the boulevards. It was followed by one in a woman’s + voice, sweet and clear and passionate, pitifully reckless. It was, as if + in pure contradiction, the opposite of the other—simple, pathetic. + At first there were laughing interruptions from the students; but the girl + kept on, and soon silence prevailed, save for the voice: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And when the wine is dry upon the lip, + And when the flower is broken by the hand, + And when I see the white sails of thy ship + Fly on, and leave me there upon the sand: + Think you that I shall weep? Nay, I shall smile: + The wine is drunk, the flower it is gone, + One weeps not when the days no more beguile, + How shall the tear-drops gather in a stone?” + </pre> + <p> + When it was ended, Andree, who had listened intently, drew herself up with + a little shudder. She sat long, looking into the garden, the cub playing + at her feet. Gaston did not disturb her. He got refreshments and put them + on the table, rolled a cigarette, and regarded the scene. Her knee was + drawn up slightly in her hands, her hat was off, her rich brown hair fell + loosely about her head, framing it, her dark eyes glowed under her bent + brows. The lion’s cub crawled up on the divan, and thrust its nose under + an arm. Its head clung to her waist. Who was she? thought Gaston. Delilah, + Cleopatra—who? She was lost in thought. She remained so until the + garden door opened, and Jacques entered with Saracen. + </p> + <p> + She looked. Suddenly she came to her feet with a cry of delight, and ran + out towards the horse. There was something essentially child-like in her, + something also painfully wild-an animal, and a philosopher, and + twenty-three. + </p> + <p> + Jacques put out his hand as he had done with Mademoiselle Cerise. + </p> + <p> + “No, no; he is savage.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” she rejoined, and came closer. + </p> + <p> + Gaston watched, interested. He guessed what she would do. + </p> + <p> + “A horse!” she added. “Why, you have seen my lions! Leave him free: stand + away from him.” + </p> + <p> + Her words were peremptory, and Jacques obeyed. The horse stood alone, a + hoof pawing the ground. Presently it sprang away, then half-turned towards + the girl, and stood still. She kept talking to him and calling softly, + making a coaxing, animal-like sound, as she always did with her lions. + </p> + <p> + She stepped forward a little and paused. The horse suddenly turned + straight towards her, came over slowly, and, with arched neck, dropped his + head on her shoulder. She felt the folds of his neck and kissed him. He + followed her about the garden like a dog. She brought him to Gaston, + locked up, and said with a teasing look, “I have conquered him: he is + mine!” + </p> + <p> + Gaston looked her in her eyes. “He is yours.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “He is mine.” His look burned into her soul-how deep, how joyful! + </p> + <p> + She turned away, her face going suddenly pale. She kept the horse for some + time, but at last gave him up again to Jacques. Gaston stepped from the + doorway into the garden and met her. It was now dusk. Annette was inside. + They walked together in silence for a time. Presently she drew close to + him. He felt his veins bounding. Her hand slid into his arm, and, dark as + it was, he could see her eyes lifting to his, shining, profound. They had + reached the end of the garden, and now turned to come back again. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he said, his eyes holding hers: “The horse is yours—and + mine.” + </p> + <p> + She stood still; but he could see her bosom heaving hard. She threw up her + head with a sound half sob, half laugh.... + </p> + <p> + “You are mad!” she said a moment afterwards, as she lifted her head from + his breast. + </p> + <p> + He laughed softly, catching her cheek to his. “Why be sane? It was to be.” + </p> + <p> + “The gipsy and the gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “Gipsies all!” + </p> + <p> + “And the end of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you not love me, Andree?” She caught her hands over her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know what it is—only that it is madness! I see, oh, I see + a hundred things.” + </p> + <p> + Her hot eyes were on space. “What do you see?” he urged. She gave a sudden + cry: + </p> + <p> + “I see you at my feet—dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Better than you at mine, Andree.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go,” she said hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + They talked for a little time. Then they entered the studio. Annette was + asleep in her chair. Andree waked her, and they bade Gaston good-night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. WHEREIN LOVE KNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN’S WILL. + </h2> + <p> + In another week it was announced that Mademoiselle Victorine would take a + month’s holiday; to the sorrow of her chief, and to the delight of Mr. + Meyerbeer, who had not yet discovered his man, though he had a pretty + scandal well-nigh brewed. + </p> + <p> + Count Ploare was no more, Gaston Belward was. Zoug-Zoug was in the country + at Fontainebleau, working at his picture. He had left on the morning after + Gaston discovered Andree. He had written, asking his nephew to come for + some final sittings. Possibly, he said, Mademoiselle Cerise and others + would be down for a Sunday. Gaston had not gone, had briefly declined. His + uncle shrugged his shoulders, and went on with other work. It would end in + his having to go to Paris and finish the picture there, he said. Perhaps + the youth was getting into mischief? So much the better. He took no + newspapers.—What did an artist need of them? He did not even read + the notices sent by a press-cutting agency. He had a model with him. She + amused him for the time, but it was unsatisfactory working on “The King of + Ys” from photographs. He loathed it, and gave it up. + </p> + <p> + One evening Gaston and Andree met at the Gare Montparnasse. Jacques was + gone on, but Annette was there. Meyerbeer was there also, at a safe + distance. He saw Gaston purchase tickets, arrange his baggage, and enter + the train. He passed the compartment, looking in. Besides the three, there + was a priest and a young soldier. + </p> + <p> + Gaston saw him, and guessed what brought him there. He had an impulse to + get out and shake him as would Andree’s cub a puppy. But the train moved + off. Meyerbeer found Gaston’s porter. A franc did the business. + </p> + <p> + “Douarnenez, for Audierne, Brittany,” was the legend written in + Meyerbeer’s note-book. And after that: “Journey twenty hours—change + at Rennes, Redon, and Quimpere.” + </p> + <p> + “Too far. I’ve enough for now,” said Meyerbeer, chuckling, as he walked + away. “But I’d give five hundred dollars to know who Zoug-Zoug is. I’ll + make another try.” + </p> + <p> + So he held his sensation back for a while yet. Of the colony at the Hotel + St. Malo, not one of the three who knew would tell him. Bagshot had sworn + the others to secrecy. + </p> + <p> + Jacques had gone on with the horses. He was to rent a house, or get rooms + at a hotel. He did very well. The horses were stalled at the Hotel de + France. He had rented an old chateau perched upon a hill, with steps + approaching, steps flanking; near it strange narrow alleys, leading where + one cared not to search; a garden of pears and figs, and grapes, and + innumerable flowers and an arbour; a pavilion, all windows, over an + entranceway, with a shrine in it—a be-starred shrine below it; bare + floors, simple furniture, primitiveness at every turn. + </p> + <p> + Gaston and Andree came, of choice, with a courier in a racketing old + diligence from Douarnenez, and they laughed with delight, tired as they + were, at the new quarters. It must be a gipsy kind of existence at the + most. + </p> + <p> + There were rooms for Jacques and Annette, who at once set to work with the + help of a little Breton maid. Jacques had not ordered a dinner at the + hotel, but had got in fresh fish, lobsters, chickens, eggs, and other + necessaries; and all was ready for a meal which could be got in an hour. + </p> + <p> + Jacques had now his hour of happiness. He knew not of these morals—they + were beyond him; but after a cheerful dinner in the pavilion, with an + omelette made by Andree herself, Annette went to her room and cried + herself to sleep. She was civilised, poor soul, and here they were a + stone’s throw from the cure and the church! Gaston and Andree, refreshed, + travelled down the long steps to the village, over the place, along the + quay, to the lighthouse and the beach, through crowds of sardine fishers + and simple hard-tongued Bretons. Cheerful, buoyant at dinner, there now + came upon the girl an intense quiet and fatigue. She stood and looked long + at the sea. Gaston tried to rouse her. + </p> + <p> + “This is your native Brittany, Andree,” he said. She pointed far over the + sea: + </p> + <p> + “Near that light at Penmark I was born.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you speak the Breton language?” + </p> + <p> + “Far worse than you speak Parisian French.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed. “You are so little like these people!” + </p> + <p> + She had vanity. That had been part of her life. Her beauty had brought + trade when she was a gipsy; she had been the admired of Paris: she was + only twenty three. Presently she became restless, and shrank from him. Her + eyes had a flitting hunted look. Once they met his with a wild sort of + pleading or revolt, he could not tell which, and then were continually + turned away. + </p> + <p> + If either could have known how hard the little dwarf of sense and memory + was trying to tell her something. + </p> + <p> + This new phase stunned him. What did it mean? He touched her hand. It was + hot, and withdrew from his. He put his arm around her, and she shivered, + cringed. But then she was a woman, he thought. He had met one unlike any + he had ever known. He would wait. He would be patient. Would she come—home? + She turned passively and took his arm. He talked, but he knew he was + talking poorly, and at last he became silent also. But when they came to + the steep steps leading to the chateau, he lifted her in his arms, carried + her to the house, and left her at their chamber-door. + </p> + <p> + Then he went to the pavilion to smoke. He had no wish to think—at + least of anything but the girl. It was not a time for retrospect, but to + accept a situation. The die had been cast. He had followed what—his + nature, his instincts? The consequence? + </p> + <p> + He heard Andree’s voice. He went to her. + </p> + <p> + The next morning they were in the garden walking about. They had been + speaking, but now both were silent. At last he turned again to her. + </p> + <p> + “Andree, who was the other man?” he asked quietly, but with a strange + troubled look in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + She shrank away confused, a kind of sickness in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, of course,” he returned in a low, nerveless tone. + </p> + <p> + They were silent for a long time. Meanwhile, she seemed to beat up a + feverish cheerfulness. At last she said: + </p> + <p> + “Where do we go this afternoon, Gaston?” + </p> + <p> + “We will see,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was + impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned, + entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion to + redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much. + </p> + <p> + They rode, they took excursions in fishing-boats and little sail-boats. + Andree entered into these with zest: talked to the sailors, to Jacques, + caressed children, and was not indifferent to the notice she attracted in + the village; but was obviously distrait. Gaston was patient—and + unhappy. So, this was the merchandise for which he had bartered all! But + he had a will, he was determined; he had sowed, he would reap his harvest + to the useless stubble. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to go back to your work?” he said quietly, once. + </p> + <p> + “I have no work,” she answered apathetically. He said no more just then. + </p> + <p> + The days and weeks went by. The situation was impossible, not to be + understood. Gaston made his final move. He hoped that perhaps a forced + crisis might bring about a change. If it failed—he knew not what! + She was sitting in the garden below—he alone in the window, smoking. + A bundle of letters and papers, brought by the postman that evening, were + beside him. He would not open them yet. He felt that there was trouble in + them—he saw phrases, sentences flitting past him. But he would play + this other bitter game out first. He let them lie. He heard the bells in + the church ringing the village commerce done—it was nine o’clock. + The picture of that other garden in Paris came to him: that night when he + had first taken this girl into his arms. She sat below talking to Annette + and singing a little Breton chanson: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la lire! + Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la, la!” + </pre> + <p> + He called down to her presently. “Andree!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come up for a moment, please?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely.” + </p> + <p> + She came up, leaving the room door open, and bringing the cub with her. + </p> + <p> + He called Jacques. + </p> + <p> + “Take the cub to its quarters, Jacques,” he said, quietly. + </p> + <p> + She seemed about to protest, but sat back and watched him. He shut the + door—locked it. Then he came and sat down before her. + </p> + <p> + “Andree,” he said, “this is all impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “What is impossible?” + </p> + <p> + “You know well. I am not a mere brute. The only thing that can redeem this + life is love.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true,” she said, coldly. “What then?” + </p> + <p> + “You do not redeem it. We must part.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed fitfully. “We must—?” + </p> + <p> + She leaned towards him. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow evening you will go back to Paris. To-night we part, however: + that is, our relations cease.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall go from here when it pleases me, Gaston!” + </p> + <p> + His voice came low and stern, but courteous: + </p> + <p> + “You must go when I tell you. Do you think I am the weaker?” + </p> + <p> + He could see her colour flying, her fingers lacing and interlacing. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you afraid to tell me that?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Afraid? Of my life—you mean that? That you will be as common as + that? No: you will do as I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + He fixed his eyes on hers, and held them. She sat, looking. Presently she + tried to take her eyes away. She could not. She shuddered and shrank. + </p> + <p> + He withdrew his eyes for a moment. “You will go?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It makes no difference,” she answered; then added sharply: “Who are you, + to look at me like that, to—!” + </p> + <p> + She paused. + </p> + <p> + “I am your friend and your master!” + </p> + <p> + He rose. “Good-night,” he said, at the door, and went out. + </p> + <p> + He heard the key turn in the lock. He had forgotten his papers and + letters. It did not matter. He would read them when she was gone—if + she did go. He was far from sure that he had succeeded. He went to bed in + another room, and was soon asleep. + </p> + <p> + He was waked in the very early morning by feeling a face against his, wet, + trembling. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Andree?” he asked. Her arms ran round his neck. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mon amour! Mon adore! Je t’aime! Je t’aime!” + </p> + <p> + In the evening of this day she said she knew not how it was, but on that + first evening in Audierne there suddenly came to her a strange terrible + feeling, which seemed to dry up all the springs of her desire for him. She + could not help it. She had fought against it, but it was no use; yet she + knew that she could not leave him. After he had told her to go, she had + had a bitter struggle: now tears, now anger, and a wish to hate. At last + she fell asleep. When she awoke she had changed, she was her old self, as + in Paris, when she had first confessed her love. She felt that she must + die if she did not go to him. All the first passion returned, the passion + that began on the common at Ridley Court. “And now—now,” she said, + “I know that I cannot live without you.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed so. Her nature was emptying itself. Gaston had got the + merchandise for which he had given a price yet to be known. + </p> + <p> + “You asked me of the other man,” she said. “I will tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not now,” he said. “You loved him?” + </p> + <p> + “No—ah God, no!” she answered. + </p> + <p> + An hour after, when she was in her room, he opened the little bundle of + correspondence.—A memorandum with money from his bankers. A letter + from Delia, and also one from Mrs. Gasgoyne, saying that they expected to + meet him at Gibraltar on a certain day, and asking why he had not written; + Delia with sorrowful reserve, Mrs. Gasgoyne with impatience. His letters + had missed them—he had written on leaving Paris, saying that his + plans were indefinite, but he would write them definitely soon. After he + came to Audierne it seemed impossible to write. How could he? No, let the + American journalist do it. Better so. Better himself in the worst light, + with the full penalty, than his own confession—in itself an insult. + So it had gone on. He slowly tore up the letters. The next were from his + grandfather and grandmother—they did not know yet. He could not read + them. A few loving sentences, and then he said: + </p> + <p> + “What’s the good! Better not.” He tore them up also. Another—from + his uncle. It was brief: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You’ve made a sweet mess of it, Cadet. It’s in all the papers + to-day. Meyerbeer telegraphed it to New York and London. I’ll + probably come down to see you. I want to finish my picture on the + site of the old City of Ys, there at Point du Raz. Your girl can + pose with you. I’ll do all I can to clear the thing up. But a + British M.P.—that’s a tough pill for Clapham! +</pre> + <p> + Gaston’s foot tapped the floor angrily. He scattered the pieces of the + letter at his feet. Now for the newspapers. He opened Le Petit Journal, + Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it was + there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation. + Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all + unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand: + </p> + <p> + There was a previous friend of the lady, unknown to the public, called + Zoug-Zoug. + </p> + <p> + He remembered that day at the Hotel St. Malo! Well, the bolt was shot: the + worst was over. Quid refert? Justify himself? + </p> + <p> + Certainly, to all but Delia Gasgoyne. + </p> + <p> + Thousands of men did the same—did it in cold blood, without one + honest feeling. He did it, at least under a powerful influence. He could + not help but smile now at the thought of how he had filled both sides of + the equation. On his father’s side, bringing down the mad record from + Naseby; on his mother’s, true to the heathen, by following his impulses—sacred + to primitive man, justified by spear, arrow, and a strong arm. Why sheet + home this as a scandal? How did they—the libellers—know but + that he had married the girl? Exactly. He would see to that. He would play + his game with open sincerity now. He could have wished secrecy for Delia + Gasgoyne, and for his grandfather and grandmother,—he was not + wilfully brutal,—but otherwise he had no shame at all; he would + stand openly for his right. Better one honest passion than a life of + deception and miserable compromise. A British M.P.?—He had thrown + away his reputation, said the papers. By this? The girl was no man’s wife, + he was no woman’s husband! + </p> + <p> + Marry her? Yes, he would marry her; she should be his wife. His people? It + was a pity. Poor old people—they would fret and worry. He had been + selfish, had not thought of them? Well, who could foresee this outrage of + journalism? The luck had been dead against him. Did he not know plenty of + men in London—he was going to say the Commons, but he was fairer to + the Commons than it, as a body, would be to him—who did much worse? + These had escaped: the hunters had been after him. What would he do? Take + the whip? He got to his feet with an oath. Take the whip? Never—never! + He would fight this thing tooth and nail. Had he come to England to let + them use him for a sensation only—a sequence of surprises, to end in + a tragedy, all for the furtive pleasure of the British breakfast-table? + No, by the Eternal! What had the first Gaston done? He had fought—fought + Villiers and others, and had held up his head beside his King and Rupert + till the hour of Naseby. + </p> + <p> + When the summer was over he would return to Paris, to London. The + journalist—punish him? No; too little—a product of his time. + But the British people he would fight, and he would not give up Ridley + Court. He could throw the game over when it was all his, but never when it + was going dead against him. + </p> + <p> + That speech in the Commons? He remembered gladly that he had contended for + conceptions of social miseries according to surrounding influences of + growth and situation. He had not played the hypocrite. + </p> + <p> + No, not even with Delia. He had acted honestly at the beginning, and + afterwards he had done what he could so long as he could. It was + inevitable that she must be hurt, even if he had married, not giving her + what he had given this dompteuse. After all, was it so terrible? It could + not affect her much in the eyes of the world. And her heart? He did not + flatter himself. Yet he knew that it would be the thing—the fallen + idol—that would grieve her more than thought of the man. He wished + that he could have spared her in the circumstances. But it had all come + too suddenly: it was impossible. He had spared, he could spare, nobody. + There was the whole situation. What now to do?—To remain here while + it pleased them, then Paris, then London for his fight. + </p> + <p> + Three days went round. There were idle hours by the sea, little excursions + in a sail-boat to Penmark, and at last to Point du Raz. It was a beautiful + day, with a gentle breeze, and the point was glorified. The boat ran in + lightly between the steep dark shore and the comb of reef that looked like + a host of stealthy pumas crumbling the water. They anchored in the Bay des + Trepasses. An hour on shore exploring the caves, and lunching, and then + they went back to the boat, accompanied by a Breton sailor, who had acted + as guide. + </p> + <p> + Gaston lay reading,—they were in the shade of the cliff,—while + Andree listened to the Breton tell the legends of the coast. At length + Gaston’s attention was attracted. The old sailor was pointing to the + shore, and speaking in bad French. + </p> + <p> + “Voila, madame, where the City of Ys stood long before the Bretons came. + It was a foolish ride.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know the story. Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “There are two or three, but mine is the oldest. A flood came—sent + by the gods, for the woman was impious. The king must ride with her into + the sea and leave her there, himself to come back, and so save the city.” + </p> + <p> + The sailor paused to scan the sea—something had struck him. He shook + his head. Gaston was watching Andree from behind his book. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” she said, impatiently, “what then? What did he do?” + </p> + <p> + “The king took up the woman, and rode into the water as far as where you + see the great white stone—it has been there ever since. There he had + a fight—not with the woman, but in his heart. He turned to the + people, and cried: ‘Dry be your streets, and as ashes your eyes for your + king!’ And then he rode on with the woman till they saw him no more—never!” + Andree said instantly: + </p> + <p> + “That was long ago. Now the king would ride back alone.” + </p> + <p> + She did not look at Gaston, but she knew that his eyes were on her. He + closed the book, got up, came forward to the sailor, who was again looking + out to sea, and said carelessly over his shoulder: + </p> + <p> + “Men who lived centuries ago would act the same now, if they were here.” + </p> + <p> + Her response seemed quite as careless as his: “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I had an innings then,” he answered, smiling whimsically. + </p> + <p> + She was about to speak again, but the guide suddenly said: + </p> + <p> + “You must get away. There’ll be a change of wind and a bad cross-current + soon.” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes the two were bearing out—none too soon, for those + pumas crowded up once or twice within a fathom of their deck, devilish and + devouring. But they wore away with a capricious current, and down a + tossing sea made for Audierne. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE + </h2> + <p> + In a couple of hours they rounded Point de Leroily, and ran for the + harbour. By hugging the quay in the channel to the left of the bar, they + were sure of getting in, though the tide was low. The boat was docile to + the lug-sail and the helm. As they were beating in they saw a large yacht + running straight across a corner of the bar for the channel. It was Warren + Gasgoyne’s Kismet. + </p> + <p> + The Kismet had put into Audierne rather than try to pass Point du Raz at + night. At Gibraltar a telegram had come telling of the painful sensation, + and the yacht was instantly headed for England; Mrs. Gasgoyne crossing the + Continent, Delia preferring to go back with her father—his sympathy + was more tender. They had seen no newspapers, and they did not know that + Gaston was at Audierne. Gasgoyne knowing, as all the world knew, that + there was a bar at the mouth of the harbour, allowed himself, as he + thought, sufficient room, but the wind had suddenly drawn ahead, and he + was obliged to keep away. Presently the yacht took the ground with great + force. + </p> + <p> + Gasgoyne put the helm hard down, but she would not obey. He tried at once + to get in his sails, but the surf was running very strong, and presently a + heavy sea broke clean over her. Then came confusion and dismay: the + flapping of the wet, half-lowered sails, and the whipping of the slack + ropes, making all effort useless. There was no chance of her-holding. Foot + by foot she was being driven towards the rocks. Sailors stood motionless + on the shore. The lifeboat would be of little use: besides, it could not + arrive for some time. + </p> + <p> + Gaston had recognised the Kismet. He turned to Andree. + </p> + <p> + “There’s danger, but perhaps we can do it. Will you go?” + </p> + <p> + She flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Have I ever been a coward, Gaston? Tell me what to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep the helm firm, and act instantly on my orders.” + </p> + <p> + Instead of coming round into the channel, he kept straight on past the + lighthouse towards the yacht, until he was something to seaward of her. + Then, luffing quickly, he dropped sail, let go the anchor, and unshipped + the mast, while Andree got the oars into the rowlocks. It was his idea to + dip under the yacht’s stern, but he found himself drifting alongside, and + in danger of dashing broadside on her. He got an oar and backed with all + his strength towards the stern, the anchor holding well. Then he called to + those on board to be ready to jump. Once in line with the Kismet’s + counter, he eased off the painter rapidly, and now dropped towards the + stern of the wreck. + </p> + <p> + Gaston was quite cool. He did not now think of the dramatic nature of this + meeting, apart from the physical danger. Delia also had recognised him, + and guessed who the girl was. Not to respond to Gaston’s call was her + first instinct. But then, life was sweet. Besides, she had to think of + others. Her father, too, was chiefly concerned for her safety and for his + yacht. He had almost determined to get Delia on Gaston’s boat, and himself + take the chances with the Kismet; but his sailors dissuaded him, declaring + that the chances were against succour. + </p> + <p> + The only greetings were words of warning and direction from Gaston. + Presently there was an opportunity. Gaston called sharply to Delia, and + she, standing ready, jumped. He caught her in his arms as she came. The + boat swayed as the others leaped, and he held her close meanwhile. Her + eyes closed, she shuddered and went white. When he put her down, she + covered her face with her hands, trembling. Then, suddenly she came + huddling in a heap, and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + They slipped the painter, a sailor took Andree’s place at the helm, the + oars were got out, and they made over to the channel, grazing the bar once + or twice, by reason of the now heavy load. + </p> + <p> + Warren Gasgoyne and Gaston had not yet spoken in the way of greeting. The + former went to Delia now and said a few cheery words, but, from behind her + handkerchief, she begged him to leave her alone for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Nerves, all nerves, Mr. Belward,” he said, turning towards Gaston. “But, + then, it was ticklish-ticklish.” + </p> + <p> + They did not shake hands. Gaston was looking at Delia, and he did not + reply. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gasgoyne continued: + </p> + <p> + “Nasty sea coming on—afraid to try Point du Raz. Of course we didn’t + know you were here.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Andree curiously. He was struck by the girl’s beauty and + force. But how different from Delia! + </p> + <p> + He suddenly turned, and said bluntly, in a low voice: “Belward, what a + fool—what a fool! You had it all at your feet: the best—the + very best.” + </p> + <p> + Gaston answered quietly: + </p> + <p> + “It’s an awkward time for talking. The rocks will have your yacht in half + an hour.” + </p> + <p> + Gasgoyne turned towards it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she’ll get a raking fore and aft.” Then, he added, suddenly: “Of + course you know how we feel about our rescue. It was plucky of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Pluckier in the girl,” was the reply. “Brave enough,” the honest + rejoinder. + </p> + <p> + Gaston had an impulse to say, “Shall I thank her for you?” but he was + conscious how little right he had to be ironical with Warren Gasgoyne, and + he held his peace. + </p> + <p> + While the two were now turned away towards the Kismet, Andree came to + Delia. She did not quite know how to comfort her, but she was a woman, and + perhaps a supporting arm would do something. + </p> + <p> + “There, there,” she said, passing a hand round her shoulder, “you are all + right now. Don’t cry!” + </p> + <p> + With a gasp of horror, Delia got to her feet, but swayed, and fell + fainting—into Andree’s arms. + </p> + <p> + She awoke near the landing-place, her father beside her. Meanwhile Andree + had read the riddle. As Mr. Gasgoyne bathed Delia’s face, and Gaston her + wrists, and gave her brandy, she sat still and intent, watching. Tears and + fainting! Would she—Andree-have given way like that in the same + circumstances? No. But this girl—Delia—was of a different + order: was that it? All nerves and sentiment! At one of those lunches in + the grand world she had seen a lady burst into tears suddenly at some + one’s reference to Senegal. She herself had only cried four times, that + she remembered; when her mother died; when her father was called a thief; + when, one day, she suffered the first great shame of her life in the + mountains of Auvergne; and the night when she waked a second time to her + love for Gaston. She dared to call it love, though good Annette had called + it a mortal sin. + </p> + <p> + What was to be done? The other woman must suffer. + </p> + <p> + The man was hers—hers for ever. He had said it: for ever. Yet her + heart had a wild hunger for that something which this girl had and she had + not. But the man was hers; she had won him away from this other. + </p> + <p> + Delia came upon the quay bravely, passing through the crowd of staring + fishermen, who presently gave Gaston a guttural cheer. Three of them, + indeed, had been drinking his health. They embraced him and kissed him, + begging him to come with them for absinthe. He arranged the matter with a + couple of francs. + </p> + <p> + Then he wondered what now was to be done. He could not insult the + Gasgoynes by asking them to come to the chateau. He proposed the Hotel de + France to Mr. Gasgoyne, who assented. It was difficult to separate here on + the quay: they must all walk together to the hotel. Gaston turned to speak + to Andree, but she was gone. She had saved the situation. + </p> + <p> + The three spoke little, and then but formally, as they walked to the + hotel. Mr. Gasgoyne said that they would leave by train for Paris the next + day, going to Douarnenez that evening. They had saved nothing from the + yacht. + </p> + <p> + Delia did not speak. She was pale, composed now. In the hotel Mr. Gasgoyne + arranged for rooms, while Gaston got some sailors together, and, in Mr. + Gasgoyne’s name, offered a price for the recovery of the yacht or of + certain things in her. Then he went into the hotel to see if he could do + anything further. The door of the sitting-room was open, and no answer + coming to his knock, he entered. + </p> + <p> + Delia was standing in the window. Against her will her father had gone to + find a doctor. Gaston would have drawn back if she had not turned round + wearily to him. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it were well to get it over now. He came forward. She made no + motion. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you feel better?” he said. “It was a bad accident.” + </p> + <p> + “I am tired and shaken, of course,” she responded. “It was very brave of + you.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, then said: + </p> + <p> + “We were more fortunate than brave.” + </p> + <p> + He was determined to have Andree included. She deserved that; the wrong to + Delia was not hers. + </p> + <p> + But she answered after the manner of a woman: “The girl—ah, yes, + please thank her for us. What is her name?” + </p> + <p> + “She is known in Audierne as Madame Belward.” The girl started. Her face + had a cold, scornful pride. “The Bretons, then, have a taste for fiction?” + </p> + <p> + “No, they speak as they are taught.” + </p> + <p> + “They understand, then, as little as I.” + </p> + <p> + How proud, how ineffaceably superior she was! + </p> + <p> + “Be ignorant for ever,” he answered quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I do not need the counsel, believe me.” + </p> + <p> + Her hand trembled, though it rested against the window-trembled with + indignation: the insult of his elopement kept beating up her throat in + spite of her. + </p> + <p> + At that moment a servant knocked, entered, and said that a parcel had been + brought for mademoiselle. It was laid upon the table. Delia, wondering, + ordered it to be opened. A bundle of clothes was disclosed—Andree’s! + Gaston recognised them, and caught his breath with wonder and confusion. + </p> + <p> + “Who has sent them?” Delia said to the servant. “They come from the + Chateau Ronan, mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + Delia dismissed the servant. + </p> + <p> + “The Chateau Ronan?” she asked of Gaston. “Where I am living.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not necessary to speak of this?” She flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. I will have them sent back. There is a little shop near by + where you can get what you may need.” + </p> + <p> + Andree had acted according to her lights. It was not an olive-branch, but + a touch of primitive hospitality. She was Delia’s enemy at sight, but a + woman must have linen. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gasgoyne entered. Gaston prepared to go. “Is there anything more that + I can do?” he said, as it were, to both. + </p> + <p> + The girl replied. “Nothing at all, thank you.” They did not shake hands. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gasgoyne could not think that all had necessarily ended. The thing + might be patched up one day yet. This affair with the dompteuse was mad + sailing, but the man might round-to suddenly and be no worse for the + escapade. + </p> + <p> + “We are going early in the morning,” he said. “We can get along all right. + Good-bye. When do you come to England?” + </p> + <p> + The reply was prompt. “In a few weeks.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at both. The girl, seeing that he was going to speak further, + bowed and left the room. + </p> + <p> + His eyes followed her. After a moment, he said firmly + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gasgoyne, I am going to face all.” + </p> + <p> + “To live it down, Belward?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to fight it down.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there’s a difference. You have made a mess of things, and shocked + us all. I needn’t say what more. It’s done, and now you know what such + things mean to a good woman—and, I hope also, to the father of a + good woman.” + </p> + <p> + The man’s voice broke a little. He added: + </p> + <p> + “They used to come to swords or pistols on such points. We can’t settle it + in that way. Anyhow, you have handicapped us to-day.” Then, with a burst + of reproach, indignation, and trouble: “Great God, as if you hadn’t been + the luckiest man on earth! Delia, the estate, the Commons—all for a + dompteuse!” + </p> + <p> + “Let us say nothing more,” said Gaston, choking down wrath at the + reference to Andree, but sorrowful, and pitying Mr. Gasgoyne. Besides, the + man had a right to rail. + </p> + <p> + Soon after they parted courteously. + </p> + <p> + Gaston went to the chateau. As he came up the stone steps he met a + procession—it was the feast-day of the Virgin—of priests and + people and little children, filing up from the village and the sea, + singing as they came. He drew up to the wall, stood upon the stone seat, + and took off his hat while the procession passed. He had met the cure, + first accidentally on the shore, and afterwards in the cure’s house, + finding much in common—he had known many priests in the North, known + much good of them. The cure glanced up at him now as they passed, and a + half-sad smile crossed his face. Gaston caught it as it passed. The cure + read his case truly enough and gently enough too. In some wise hour he + would plead with Gaston for the woman’s soul and his own. + </p> + <p> + Gaston did not find Andree at the chateau. She had gone out alone towards + the sea, Annette said, by a route at the rear of the village. He went + also, but did not find her. As he came again to the quay he saw the Kismet + beating upon the rocks—the sailors had given up any idea of saving + her. He stood and watched the sea breaking over her, and the whole scene + flashed back on him. He thought how easily he could be sentimental over + the thing. But that was not his nature. He had made his bed, but he would + not lie in it—he would carry it on his back. They all said that he + had gone on the rocks. He laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I can turn that tide: I can make things come my way,” he said. “All they + want is sensation, it isn’t morals that concerns them. Well, IT give them + sensation. They expect me to hide, and drop out of the game. Never—so + help me Heaven! I’ll play it so they’ll forget this!” + </p> + <p> + He rolled and lighted a cigarette, and went again to the chateau. Dinner + was ready—had been ready for some time. He sat down, and presently + Andree came. There was a look in her face that he could not understand. + They ate their dinner quietly, not mentioning the events of the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + Presently a telegram was brought to him. It read: “Come. My office, + Downing Street, Friday. Expect you.” It was signed “Faramond.” At the same + time came letters: from his grandfather, from Captain Maudsley. The first + was stern, imperious, reproachful.—Shame for those that took him in + and made him, a ruined reputation, a spoiled tradition: he had been but a + heathen after all! There was only left to bid him farewell, and to enclose + a cheque for two thousand pounds. + </p> + <p> + Captain Maudsley called him a fool, and asked him what he meant to do—hoped + he would give up the woman at once, and come back. He owed something to + his position as Master of the Hounds—a tradition that oughtn’t to be + messed about. + </p> + <p> + There it all was: not a word about radical morality or immorality; but the + tradition of Family, the Commons, Master of the Hounds! + </p> + <p> + But there was another letter. He did not recognise the handwriting, and + the envelope had a black edge. He turned it over and over, forgetting that + Andree was watching him. Looking up, he caught her eyes, with their + strange, sad look. She guessed what was in these letters. She knew English + well enough to under stand them. He interpreted her look, and pushed them + over. + </p> + <p> + “You may read them, if you wish; but I wouldn’t, if I were you.” + </p> + <p> + She read the telegram first, and asked who “Faramond” was. Then she read + Sir William Belward’s letter, and afterwards Captain Maudsley’s. + </p> + <p> + “It has all come at once,” she said: “the girl and these! What will you + do? Give ‘the woman’ up for the honour of the Master of the Hounds?” + </p> + <p> + The tone was bitter, exasperating. Gaston was patient. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think, Andree?” + </p> + <p> + “It has only begun,” she said. “Wait, King of Ys. Read that other letter.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were fascinated by the black border. He opened it with a strange + slowness. It began without any form of address, it had the superscription + of a street in Manchester Square: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you were not in deep trouble I would not write. But because I + know that more hard things than kind will be said by others, I want + to say what is in my heart, which is quick to feel for you. I know + that you have sinned, but I pray for you every day, and I cannot + believe that God will not answer. Oh! think of the wrong that you + have done: of the wrong to the girl, to her soul’s good. Think of + that, and right the wrong in so far as you can. Oh, Gaston, my + brother, I need not explain why I write thus. My grandfather, + before he died, three weeks ago, told me that you know!—and I also + have known ever since the day you saved the boy. Ah, think of one + who would give years of her life to see you good and noble and + happy.... +</pre> + <p> + Then followed a deep, sincere appeal to his manhood, and afterwards a wish + that their real relations should be made known to the world if he needed + her, or if disaster came; that she might share and comfort his life, + whatever it might be. Then again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you love her, and she loves you, and is sorry for what she has + done, marry her and save her from everlasting shame. I am staying + with my grandfather’s cousin, the Dean of Dighbury, the father of + the boy you saved. He is very kind, and he knows all. May God + guide you aright, and may you believe that no one speaks more + truthfully to you than your sorrowful and affectionate sister, + + ALICE WINGFIELD. +</pre> + <p> + He put the letter down beside him, made a cigarette, and poured out some + coffee for them both. He was holding himself with a tight hand. This + letter had touched him as nothing in his life had done since his father’s + death. It had nothing of noblesse oblige, but straight statement of wrong, + as she saw it. And a sister without an open right to the title: the mere + fidelity of blood! His father had brought this sorrowful life into the + world and he had made it more sorrowful—poor little thing—poor + girl! + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” asked Andree. “Do you go back—with + Delia?” + </p> + <p> + He winced. Yet why should he expect of her too great refinement? She had + not had a chance, she had not the stuff for it in her veins; she had never + been taught. But behind it all was her passion—her love—for + him. + </p> + <p> + “You know that’s altogether impossible!” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “She would not take you back.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not. She has pride.” + </p> + <p> + “Pride-chat! She’d jump at the chance!” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds rude, Andree; and it is contradictory.” + </p> + <p> + “Rude! Well, I’m only a gipsy and a dompteuse!” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all, my girl?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all, now.” Then, with a sudden change and a quick sob: “But I may + be—Oh, I can’t say it, Gaston!” She hid her face for a moment on his + shoulder. “My God!” + </p> + <p> + He got to his feet. He had not thought of that—of another besides + themselves. He had drifted. A hundred ideas ran back and forth. He went to + the window and stood looking out. Alice’s letter was still in his fingers. + </p> + <p> + She came and touched his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to leave me, Gaston? What does that letter say?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her kindly, with a protective tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Read the letter, Andree,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She did so, at first slowly, then quickly, then over and over again. He + stood motionless in the window. She pushed the letter between his fingers. + He did not turn. “I cannot understand everything, but what she says she + means. Oh, Gaston, what a fool, what a fool you’ve been!” + </p> + <p> + After a moment, however, she threw her arms about him with animal-like + fierceness. + </p> + <p> + “But I can’t give you up—I can’t.” Then, with another of those + sudden changes, she added, with a wild little laugh: “I can’t, I can’t, O + Master of the Hounds!” + </p> + <p> + There came a knock at the door. Annette entered with a letter. The postman + had not delivered it on his rounds, because the address was not correct. + It was for madame. Andree took it, started at the handwriting, tore open + the envelope, and read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Zoug-Zoug congratulates you on the conquest of his nephew. Zoug— + Zoug’s name is not George Maur, as you knew him. Allah’s blessing, + with Zoug-Zoug’s! + + What fame you’ve got now—dompteuse, and the sweet scandal! +</pre> + <p> + The journalist had found out Zoug-Zoug at last, and Ian Belward had talked + with the manager of the menagerie. + </p> + <p> + Andree shuddered and put the letter in her pocket. Now she understood why + she had shrunk from Gaston that first night and those first days in + Audierne: that strange sixth sense, divination—vague, helpless + prescience. And here, suddenly, she shrank again, but with a different + thought. She hurriedly left the room and went to her chamber. + </p> + <p> + In a few moments he came to her. She was sitting upright in a chair, + looking straight before her. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes were + burning. He came and took her hands. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Andree?” he said. “That letter, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him steadily. “You’ll be sorry if you read it.” But she gave + it to him. He lighted a candle, put it on a little table, sat down, and + read. The shock went deep; so deep that it made no violent sign on the + surface. He spread the letter out before him. The candle showed his face + gone grey and knotted with misery. He could bear all the rest: fight, do + all that was right to the coming mother of his child; but this made him + sick and dizzy. He felt as he did when he waked up in Labrador, with his + wife’s dead lips pressed to his neck. It was strange too that Andree was + as quiet as he: no storm-misery had gone deep with her also. + </p> + <p> + “Do you care to tell me about it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She sat back in her chair, her hands over her eyes. Presently, still + sitting so, she spoke. + </p> + <p> + Ian Belward had painted them and their van in the hills of Auvergne, and + had persuaded her to sit for a picture. He had treated her courteously at + first. Her father was taken ill suddenly, and died. She was alone for a + few days afterwards. Ian Belward came to her. Of that miserable, + heart-rending, cruel time,—the life-sorrow of a defenceless girl,—Gaston + heard with a hard sort of coldness. The promised marriage was a matter for + the man’s mirth a week later. They came across three young artists from + Paris—Bagshot, Fancourt, and another—who camped one night + beside them. It was then she fully realised the deep shame of her + position. The next night she ran away and joined a travelling menagerie. + The rest he knew. When she had ended there was silence for a time, broken + only by one quick gasping sob from Gaston. The girl sat still as death, + her eyes on him intently. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Andree! Poor girl!” he said at last. She sighed pitifully. + </p> + <p> + “What shall we do?” she asked. He scarcely spoke above a whisper: + </p> + <p> + “There must be time to think. I will go to London.” + </p> + <p> + “You will come back?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—in five days, if I live.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you,” she said quietly. “You never lied to me. When you return + we will know what to do.” Her manner was strangely quiet. “A little + trading schooner goes from Douarnenez to England to-morrow morning,” she + went on. “There is a notice of it in the market-place. That would save the + journey to Paris.’” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that will do very well. I will start for Douarnenez at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Will Jacques go too?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + An hour later he passed Delia and her father on the road to Douarnenez. He + did not recognise them, but Delia, seeing him, shrank away in a corner of + the carriage, trembling. + </p> + <p> + Jacques had wished to go to London with Gaston, but had been denied. He + was to care for the horses. When he saw his master ride down over the + place, waving a hand back towards him, he came in and said to Andree: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, there is trouble—I do not know what. But I once said I + would never leave him, wherever he go or whatever he did. Well, I never + will leave him—or you, madame—no.” + </p> + <p> + “That is right, that is right,” she said earnestly; “you must never leave + him, Jacques. He is a good man.” + </p> + <p> + When Jacques had gone she shut herself up in her room. She was gathering + all her life into the compass of an hour. She felt but one thing: the ruin + of her happiness and Gaston’s. + </p> + <p> + “He is a good man,” she said over and over to herself. And the other—Ian + Belward? All the barbarian in her was alive. + </p> + <p> + The next morning she started for Paris, saying to Jacques and Annette that + she would return in four days. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. “RETURN, O SHULAMITE!” + </h2> + <p> + Almost the first person that Gaston recognised in London was Cluny Vosse. + He had been to Victoria Station to see a friend off by the train, and as + he was leaving, Gaston and he recognised each other. The lad’s greeting + was a little shy until he saw that Gaston was cool and composed as usual—in + effect, nothing had happened. Cluny was delighted, and opened his mind: + </p> + <p> + “They’d kicked up a deuce of a row in the papers, and there’d been no end + of talk; but he didn’t see what all the babble was about, and he’d said so + again and again to Lady Dargan.” + </p> + <p> + “And Lady Dargan, Cluny?” asked Gaston quietly. Cluny could not be + dishonest, though he would try hard not to say painful things. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she was a bit fierce at first—she’s a woman, you know; but + afterwards she went like a baby; cried, and wouldn’t stay at Cannes any + longer: so we’re back in town. We’re going down to the country, though, + to-morrow or next day.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I had better call, Cluny?” Gaston ventured suggestively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, of course,” Cluny replied, with great eagerness, as if to + justify the matter to himself. Gaston smiled, said that he might,—he + was only in town for a few days, and dropped Cluny in Pall Mall. Cluny + came running back. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Belward, things’ll come around just as they were before, won’t + they? You’re going to cut in, and not let ‘em walk on you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m ‘going to cut in,’ Cluny boy.” Cluny brightened. + </p> + <p> + “And of course it isn’t all over with Delia, is it?” He blushed. + </p> + <p> + Gaston reached out and dropped a hand on Cluny’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid it is all over, Cluny.” Cluny spoke without thinking. + </p> + <p> + “I say, it’s rough on her, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Then he was confused, hurriedly offered Gaston a cigarette, a hasty + good-bye was said, and they parted. Gaston went first to Lord Faramond. He + encountered inquisition, cynical humour, flashes of sympathy, with a + general flavour of reproach. The tradition of the Commons! Ah, one way + only: he must come back alone—alone—and live it down. + Fortunately, it wasn’t an intrigue—no matter of divorce—a + dompteuse, he believed. It must end, of course, and he would see what + could be done. Such a chance—such a chance as he had had! Make it up + with his grandfather, and reverse the record—reverse the record: + that was the only way. This meeting must, of course, be strictly between + themselves. But he was really interested for him, for his people, and for + the tradition of the Commons. + </p> + <p> + “I am Master of the Hounds too,” said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught + the meaning, and smiled grimly. + </p> + <p> + Then came Gaston’s decision—he would come back—not to live the + thing down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight. + </p> + <p> + Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. “Without her?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot say that.” + </p> + <p> + “With her, I can promise nothing—nothing. You cannot fight it so. No + one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of + pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case.” + </p> + <p> + The Premier’s face had gone cold and disdainful. Why should a clever man + like Belward be so infatuated? He rose, Gaston thanked him for the + meeting, and was about to go, when the Prime Minister, tapping his + shoulder kindly, said: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Belward, you are not playing to the rules of the game.” He waved his + hand towards the Chamber of the House. “It is the greatest game in the + world. She must go! Do not reply. You will come back without her—good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + Then came Ridley Court. He entered on Sir William and Lady Belward without + announcement. Sir William came to his feet, austere and pale. Lady + Belward’s fingers trembled on the lace she held. They looked many years + older. Neither spoke his name, nor did they offer their hands. Gaston did + not wince, he had expected it. He owed these old people something. They + lived according to their lights, they had acted righteously as by their + code, they had used him well—well always. + </p> + <p> + “Will you hear the whole story?” he said. He felt that it would be best to + tell them all. “Can it do any good?” asked Sir William. He looked towards + his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it is better to hear it,” she murmured. She was clinging to a + vague hope. + </p> + <p> + Gaston told the story plainly, briefly, as he had told his earlier + history. Its concision and simplicity were poignant. From the day he first + saw Andree in the justice’s room till the hour when she opened Ian + Belward’s letter, his tale went. Then he paused. + </p> + <p> + “I remember very well,” Sir William said, with painful meditation: “a + strange girl, with a remarkable face. You pleaded for her father then. Ah, + yes, an unhappy case!” + </p> + <p> + “There is more?” asked Lady Belward, leaning on her cane. She seemed very + frail. + </p> + <p> + Then with a terrible brevity Gaston told them of his uncle, of the letter + to Andree: all, except that Andree was his wife. He had no idea of sparing + Ian Belward now. A groan escaped Lady Belward. + </p> + <p> + “And now—now, what will you do?” asked the baronet. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know. I am going back first to Andree.” Sir William’s face was + ashy. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “I promised, and I will go back.” Lady Belward’s voice quivered: + </p> + <p> + “Stay, ah, stay, and redeem the past! You can, you can outlive it.” + </p> + <p> + Always the same: live it down! + </p> + <p> + “It is no use,” he answered; “I must return.” + </p> + <p> + Then in a few words he thanked them for all, and bade them good-bye. He + did not offer his hand, nor did they. But at the door he heard Lady + Belward say in a pleading voice: + </p> + <p> + “Gaston!” + </p> + <p> + He returned. She held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You must not do as your father did,” she said. “Give the woman up, and + come back to us. Am I nothing to you—nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “Is there no other way?” he asked, gravely, sorrowfully. + </p> + <p> + She did not reply. He turned to his grandfather. “There is no other way,” + said the old man, sternly. Then in a voice almost shrill with pain and + indignation, he cried out as he had never done in his life: “Nothing, + nothing, nothing but disgrace! My God in heaven! a lion-tamer—a + gipsy! An honourable name dragged through the mire! Go back,” he said + grandly; “go back to the woman and her lions—savages, savages, + savages!” + </p> + <p> + “Savages after the manner of our forefathers,” Gaston answered quietly. + “The first Gaston showed us the way. His wife was a strolling player’s + daughter. Good-bye, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Belward’s face was in her hands. “Good-bye-grandmother,” he said at + the door, and then he was gone. + </p> + <p> + At the outer door the old housekeeper stepped forward, her gloomy face + most agitated. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, oh, sir, you will come back again? Oh, don’t go like your + father!” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly threw an arm about her shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll come back—yes I’ll come back here—if I can. Good-bye, + Hovey.” + </p> + <p> + In the library Sir William and Lady Belward sat silent for a time. + Presently Sir William rose, and walked up and down. He paused at last, and + said, in a strange, hesitating voice, his hands chafing each other: + </p> + <p> + “I forgot myself, my dear. I fear I was violent. I would like to ask his + pardon. Ah, yes, yes!” + </p> + <p> + Then he sat down and took her hand, and held it long in the silence. + </p> + <p> + “It all feels so empty—so empty,” she said at last, as the + tower-clock struck hollow on the air. + </p> + <p> + The old man could not reply, but he drew her close to him, and Hovey, from + the door, saw his tears dropping on her white hair. + </p> + <p> + Gaston went to Manchester Square. He half dreaded a meeting with Alice, + and yet he wished it. He did not find her. She had gone to Paris with her + uncle, the servant said. He got their address. There was little left to do + but to avoid reporters, two of whom almost forced themselves in upon him. + He was to go back to Douarnenez by the little boat that brought him, and + at seven o’clock in the morning he watched the mists of England recede. + </p> + <p> + He chanced to put his hand into a light overcoat which he had got at his + chambers before he started. He drew out a paper, the one discovered in the + solicitor’s office in London. It was an ancient deed of entail of the + property, drawn by Sir Gaston Belward, which, through being lost, was + never put into force. He was not sure that it had value. If it had, all + chance of the estate was gone for him; it would be his uncle’s. Well, what + did it matter? Yes, it did matter: Andree! For her? No, not for her. He + would play straight. He would take his future as it came: he would not + drop this paper into the water. + </p> + <p> + He smiled bitterly, got an envelope at a publichouse on the quay, wrote a + few words in pencil on the document, and in a few moments it was on its + way to Sir William Belward, who when he received it said: + </p> + <p> + “Worthless, quite worthless, but he has an honest mind—an honest + mind!” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Andree was in Paris. Leaving her bag at the Gare Montparnasse, + she had gone straight to Ian Belward’s house. She had lived years in the + last few hours. She had had no sleep on the journey, and her mind had been + strained unbearably. It had, however, a fixed idea, which shuttled in and + out in a hundred shapes, but ever pointing to one end. She had determined + on a painful thing—the only way. + </p> + <p> + She reached the house, and was admitted. In answer to questions, she had + an appointment with monsieur. He was not within. Well, she would wait. She + was motioned into the studio. She was outwardly calm. The servant + presently recognised her. He had been to the menagerie, and he had seen + her with Gaston. His manner changed instantly. Could he do anything? No, + nothing. She was left alone. For a long time she sat motionless, then a + sudden restlessness seized her. Her brain seemed a burning atmosphere, in + which every thought, every thing showed with an unbearable intensity. The + terrible clearness of it all—how it made her eyes, her heart ache! + Her blood was beating hard against every pore. She felt that she would go + mad if he did not come. Once she took out the stiletto she had concealed + in the bosom of her cloak, and looked at it. She had always carried it + when among the beasts at the menagerie, but had never yet used it. + </p> + <p> + Time passed. She felt ill; she became blind with pain. Presently the + servant entered with a telegram. His master would not be back until the + next morning. + </p> + <p> + Very well, she would return in the morning. She gave him money. He was not + to say that she had called. In the Boulevard Montparnasse she took a cab. + To the menagerie, she said to the driver. How strange it all looked: the + Invalides, Notre Dame, the Tuileries Gardens, the Place de la Concorde! + The innumerable lights were so near and yet so far: it was a kink of the + brain, but she seemed withdrawn from them, not they from her. A woman + passed with a baby in her arms. The light from a kiosk fell on it as she + passed. What a pretty, sweet face it had. Why did it not have a pretty, + delicate Breton cap? As she went on, that kept beating in her brain—why + did not the child wear a dainty Breton cap—a white Breton cap? The + face kept peeping from behind the lights—without the dainty Breton + cap. + </p> + <p> + The menagerie at last. She dismissed the cab, went to a little door at the + back of the building, and knocked. She was admitted. The care-taker + exclaimed with pleasure. She wished to visit the animals? He would go with + her; and he picked up a light. No, she would go alone. How were Hector and + Balzac, and Antoinette? She took the keys. How cool and pleasant they were + to the touch! The steel of the lantern too—how exquisitely soothing! + He must lie down again: she would wake him as she came out. No, no, she + would go alone. + </p> + <p> + She went to cage after cage. At last to that of the largest lions. There + was a deep answering purr to her soft call. As she entered, she saw a heap + moving in one corner—a lion lately bought. She spoke, and there was + an angry growl. She wheeled to leave the cage, but her cloak caught the + door, and it snapped shut. + </p> + <p> + Too late. A blow brought her to the ground. She had made no cry, and now + she lay so still! + </p> + <p> + The watchman had fallen asleep again. In the early morning he remembered. + The greyish golden dawn was creeping in, when he found her with two lions + protecting, keeping guard over her, while another crouched snarling in a + corner. There was no mark on her face. + </p> + <p> + The point of the stiletto which she had carried in her cloak had pierced + her when she fell. + </p> + <p> + In a hotel near the Arc de Triomphe Alice Wingfield read the news. It was + she who tenderly prepared the body for burial, who telegraphed to Gaston + at Audierne, getting a reply from Jacques that he was not yet back from + London. The next day Andree was found a quiet place in the cemetery at + Montmartre. + </p> + <p> + In the evening Alice and her relative started for Audierne. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ......................... +</pre> + <p> + On board the Fleur d’Orange Gaston struggled with the problem. There was + one thought ever coming. He shut it out at this point, and it crept in at + that. He remembered when two men, old friends, discovered that one, + unknowingly, had been living with the wife of the other. There was one too + many—the situation was impossible. The men played a game of cards to + see which should die. But they did not reckon with the other factor. It + was the woman who died. + </p> + <p> + Was not his own situation far worse? With his uncle living—but no, + no, it was out of the question! Yet Ian Belward had been shameless, a + sensualist, who had wrecked the girl’s happiness and his. He himself had + done a mad thing in the eyes of the world, but it was more mad than + wicked. Had this happened in the North with another man, how easily would + the problem have been solved! + </p> + <p> + Go to his uncle and tell him that he must remove himself for ever from the + situation? Demand it, force it? Impossible—this was Europe. + </p> + <p> + They arrived at Douarnenez. The diligence had gone. A fishing-boat was + starting for Audierne. He decided to go by it. Breton fishermen are + usually shy of storm to foolishness, and one or two of the crew urged the + drunken skipper not to start, for there were signs of a south-west wind, + too friendly to the Bay des Trepasses. The skipper was, however, + cheerfully reckless, and growled down objection. + </p> + <p> + The boat came on with a sweet wind off the land for a time. Suddenly, when + in the neighbourhood of Point du Raz, the wind drew ahead very squally, + with rain in gusts out of the south-west. The skipper put the boat on the + starboard tack, close-hauled and close-reefed the sails, keeping as near + the wind as possible, with the hope of weathering the rocky point at the + western extremity of the Bay des Trepasses. By that time there was a heavy + sea running; night came on, and the weather grew very thick. They heard + the breakers presently, but they could not make out the Point. Old sailor + as he was, and knowing as well as any man the perilous ground, the skipper + lost his drunken head this time, and presently lost his way also in the + dark and murk of the storm. + </p> + <p> + At eight o’clock she struck. She was thrown on her side, a heavy sea broke + over her, and they were all washed off. No one raised a cry. They were + busy fighting Death. + </p> + <p> + Gaston was a strong swimmer. It did not occur to him that perhaps this was + the easiest way out of the maze. He had ever been a fighter. The seas + tossed him here and there. He saw faces about him for an instant—shaggy + wild Breton faces—but they dropped away, he knew not where. The + current kept driving him inshore. As in a dream, he could hear the + breakers—the pumas on their tread-mill of death. How long would it + last? How long before he would be beaten upon that tread-mill—fondled + to death by those mad paws? Presently dreams came-kind, vague, distant + dreams. His brain flew like a drunken dove to far points of the world and + back again. A moment it rested. Andree! He had made no provision for her, + none at all. He must live, he must fight on for her, the homeless girl, + his wife. + </p> + <p> + He fought on and on. No longer in the water, as it seemed to him. He had + travelled very far. He heard the clash of sabres, the distant roar of + cannon, the beating of horses’ hoofs—the thud-thud, tread-tread of + an army. How reckless and wild it was! He stretched up his arm to + strike-what was it? Something hard that bruised: then his whole body was + dashed against the thing. He was back again, awake. With a last effort he + drew himself up on a huge rock that stands lonely in the wash of the bay. + Then he cried out, “Andree!” and fell senseless—safe. + </p> + <p> + The storm went down. The cold, fast-travelling moon came out, saw the one + living thing in that wild bay, and hurried on into the dark again; but + came and went so till morning, playing hide-and-seek with the man and his + Ararat. + </p> + <p> + Daylight saw him, wet, haggard, broken, looking out over the waste of + shaken water. Upon the shore glared the stone of the vanished City of Ys + in the warm sun, and the fierce pumas trod their grumbling way. Sea-gulls + flew about the quiet set figure, in whose brooding eyes there were at once + despair and salvation. + </p> + <p> + He was standing between two worlds. He had had his great crisis, and his + wounded soul rested for a moment ere he ventured out upon the highways + again. He knew not how it was, but there had passed into him the dignity + of sorrow and the joy of deliverance at the same time. He saw life’s + responsibilities clearer, duties swam grandly before him. It was a large + dream, in which, for the time, he was not conscious of those troubles + which, yesterday, had clenched his hands and knotted his forehead. He had + come a step higher in the way of life, and into his spirit had flowed a + new and sobered power. His heart was sore, but his mind was lifted up. The + fatal wrangle of the pumas there below, the sound of it, would be in his + ears for ever, but he had come above it; the searching vigour of the sun + entered into his bones. + </p> + <p> + He knew that he was going back to England—to ample work and strong + days, but he did not know that he was going alone. He did not know that + Andree was gone forever; that she had found her true place: in his undying + memory. + </p> + <p> + So intent was he, that at first he did not see a boat making into the bay + towards him. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + Clever men are trying + Down in her heart, loves to be mastered + He had no instinct for vice in the name of amusement + He was strong enough to admit ignorance + I don’t wish to fit in; things must fit me + Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love + Live and let live is doing good + Not to show surprise at anything + Truth waits long, but whips hard + What a nice mob you press fellows are—wholesale scavengers +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Trespasser, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 6222-h.htm or 6222-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/2/6222/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Trespasser, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Last Updated: March 13, 2009 +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6222] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + +By Gilbert Parker + + + + +CONTENTS: + + Volume 1 + I. ONE IN SEARCH OF A KINGDOM + II. IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN + III. HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE + IV. AN HOUR WITH HIS FATHER'S PAST + V. WHEREIN HE FINDS HIS ENEMY + + Volume 2. + VI. WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS + VII. WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET + VIII. HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION + IX. HE FINDS NEW SPONSORS + X. HE COMES TO "THE WAKING OF THE FIRE" + XI. HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST + + Volume 3. + XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS + XIII. HE JOURNEYS AFAR + XIV. IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED + XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN + XVI. WHEREIN LOVE SNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN'S + XVII. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE + XVIII. "RETURN, O SHULAMITE!" + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +While I was studying the life of French Canada in the winter of 1892, +in the city of Quebec or in secluded parishes, there was forwarded to me +from my London home a letter from Mr. Arrowsmith, the publisher, asking +me to write a novel of fifty thousand or sixty thousand words for what +was called his Annual. In this Annual had appeared Hugh Conway's 'Called +Back' and Anthony Hope's 'Prisoner of Zenda', among other celebrated +works of fiction. I cabled my acceptance of the excellent offer made +me, and the summer of 1893 found me at Audierne, in Brittany, with some +artist friends--more than one of whom has since come to eminence--living +what was really an out-door literary life; for the greater part of 'The +Trespasser' was written in a high-walled garden on a gentle hill, and +the remainder in a little tower-like structure of the villa where I +lodged, which was all windows. The latter I only used when it rained, +and the garden was my workshop. There were peaches and figs on the +walls, pleasant shrubs surrounded me, and the place was ideally quiet +and serene. Coffee or tea and toast was served me at 6.30 o'clock A.M., +my pad was on my knee at 8, and then there was practically uninterrupted +work till 12, when 'dejeuner a la fourchette', with its fresh sardines, +its omelettes, and its roast chicken, was welcome. The afternoon was +spent on the sea-shore, which is very beautiful at Audierne, and there +I watched my friends painting sea-scapes. In the late afternoon came +letter-writing and reading, and after a little and simple dinner at 6.30 +came bed at 9.45 or thereabouts. In such conditions for many weeks I +worked on The Trespasser; and I think the book has an outdoor spirit +which such a life would inspire. + +It was perhaps natural that, having lived in Canada and Australia, and +having travelled greatly in all the outer portions of the Empire, I +should be interested in and impelled to write regarding the impingement +of the outer life of our far dominions, through individual character, +upon the complicated, traditional, orderly life of England. That feeling +found expression in The Translation of a Savage, and I think that +in neither case the issue of the plot or the plot--if such it may be +called--nor the main incident, was exaggerated. Whether the treatment +was free from exaggeration, it is not my province to say. I only know +what I attempted to do. The sense produced by the contact of the outer +life with a refined, and perhaps overrefined, and sensitive, not to say +meticulous, civilisation, is always more sensational than the touch +of the representative of "the thousand years" with the wide, loosely +organised free life of what is still somewhat hesitatingly called the +Colonies, though the same remark could be applied to all new lands, +such as the United States. The representative of the older life makes +no signs, or makes little collision at any rate, when he touches the new +social organisms of the outer circle. He is not emphatic; he is typical, +but not individual; he seeks seclusion in the mass. It is not so with +the more dynamic personality of the over-sea citizen. For a time +at least he remains in the old civilisation an entity, an isolated, +unabsorbed fact which has capacities for explosion. All this was in my +mind when The Trespasser was written, and its converse was 'The Pomp of +the Lavilettes', which showed the invasion of the life of the outer land +by the representative of the old civilisation. + +I do not know whether I had the thought that the treatment of such +themes was interesting or not. The idea of The Trespasser was there in +my mind, and I had to use it. At the beginning of one's career, if one +were to calculate too carefully, impulse, momentum, daring, original +conception would be lost. To be too audacious, even to exaggerate, is +no crime in youth nor in the young artist. As a farmer once said to me +regarding a frisky mount, it is better to smash through the top bar than +to have spring-halt. + +The Trespasser took its place, and, as I think, its natural place, in +the development of my literary life. I did not stop to think whether +it was a happy theme or not, or whether it had popular elements. These +things did not concern me. When it was written I should not have known +what was a popular theme. It was written under circumstances conducive +to its artistic welfare; if it has not as many friends as 'The Right +of Way' or 'The Seats of the Mighty' or 'The Weavers' or 'The Judgment +House', that is not the fault of the public or of the critics. + + + + +TO DOUGLAS ROBINSON, Esq., + +AND + +FRANK A. HILTON, Esq. + +My dear Douglas and Frank: + +I feel sure that this dedication will give you as much pleasure as it +does me. It will at least be evidence that I do not forget good days +in your company here and there in the world. I take pleasure in linking +your names; for you, who have never met, meet thus in the porch of a +little house that I have built. + +You, my dear Douglas, will find herein scenes, times, and things +familiar to you; and you, my dear Frank, reflections of hours when we +camped by an idle shore, or drew about the fire of winter nights, and +told tales worth more than this, for they were of the future, and it is +of the past. + + Always sincerely yours, + GILBERT PARKER. + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + + + + +CHAPTER I. ONE IN SEARCH OF A KINGDOM + +Why Gaston Belward left the wholesome North to journey afar, Jacques +Brillon asked often in the brawling streets of New York, and oftener in +the fog of London as they made ready to ride to Ridley Court. There was +a railway station two miles from the Court, but Belward had had enough +of railways. He had brought his own horse Saracen, and Jacques's broncho +also, at foolish expense, across the sea, and at a hotel near Euston +Station master and man mounted and set forth, having seen their worldly +goods bestowed by staring porters, to go on by rail. + +In murky London they attracted little notice; but when their hired guide +left them at the outskirts, and they got away upon the highway towards +the Court, cottagers stood gaping. For, outside the town there was no +fog, and the fresh autumn air drew the people abroad. + +"What is it makes 'em stare, Jacques?" asked Belward, with a humorous +sidelong glance. + +Jacques looked seriously at the bright pommel of his master's saddle and +the shining stirrups and spurs, dug a heel into the tender skin of his +broncho, and replied: + +"Too much silver all at once." + +He tossed his curling black hair, showing up the gold rings in his ears, +and flicked the red-and-gold tassels of his boots. + +"You think that's it, eh?" rejoined Belward, as he tossed a shilling to +a beggar. + +"Maybe, too, your great Saracen to this tot of a broncho, and the grand +homme to little Jacques Brillon." Jacques was tired and testy. + +The other laid his whip softly on the half-breed's shoulder. + +"See, my peacock: none of that. You're a spanking good servant, but +you're in a country where it's knuckle down man to master; and what they +do here you've got to do, or quit--go back to your pea-soup and caribou. +That's as true as God's in heaven, little Brillon. We're not on the +buffalo trail now. You understand?" + +Jacques nodded. + +"Hadn't you better say it?" + +The warning voice drew up the half-breed's face swiftly, and he replied: + +"I am to do what you please." + +"Exactly. You've been with me six years--ever since I turned Bear Eye's +moccasins to the sun; and for that you swore you'd never leave me. Did +it on a string of holy beads, didn't you, Frenchman?" + +"I do it again." + +He drew out a rosary, and disregarding Belward's outstretched hand, +said: + +"By the Mother of God, I will never leave you!" There was a kind of +wondering triumph in Belward's eyes, though he had at first shrunk from +Jacques's action, and a puzzling smile came. + +"Wherever I go, or whatever I do?" + +"Whatever you do, or wherever you go." + +He put the rosary to his lips, and made the sign of the cross. + +His master looked at him curiously, intently. Here was a vain, +naturally indolent half-breed, whose life had made for selfishness and +independence, giving his neck willingly to a man's heel, serving with +blind reverence, under a voluntary vow. + +"Well, it's like this, Jacques," Belward said presently; "I want you, +and I'm not going to say that you'll have a better time than you did +in the North, or on the Slope; but if you'd rather be with me than not, +you'll find that I'll interest you. There's a bond between us, anyway. +You're half French, and I'm one-fourth French, and more. You're half +Indian, and I'm one-fourth Indian--no more. That's enough. So far, I +haven't much advantage. But I'm one-half English--King's English, for +there's been an offshoot of royalty in our family somewhere, and there's +the royal difference. That's where I get my brains--and manners." + +"Where did you get the other?" asked Jacques, shyly, almost furtively. + +"Money?" + +"Not money--the other." + +Belward spurred, and his horse sprang away viciously. A laugh came back +on Jacques, who followed as hard as he could, and it gave him a feeling +of awe. They were apart for a long time, then came together again, and +rode for miles without a word. At last Belward, glancing at a sign-post +before an inn door, exclaimed at the legend--"The Whisk o' Barley,"--and +drew rein. He regarded the place curiously for a minute. The landlord +came out. Belward had some beer brought. + +A half-dozen rustics stood gaping, not far away. He touched his horse +with a heel. Saracen sprang towards them, and they fell back alarmed. +Belward now drank his beer quietly, and asked question after question of +the landlord, sometimes waiting for an answer, sometimes not--a kind of +cross-examination. Presently he dismounted. + +As he stood questioning, chiefly about Ridley Court and its people, a +coach showed on the hill, and came dashing down and past. He lifted his +eyes idly, though never before had he seen such a coach as swings away +from Northumberland Avenue of a morning. He was not idle, however; but +he had not come to England to show surprise at anything. As the coach +passed his face lifted above the arm on the neck of the horse, keen, +dark, strange. A man on the box-seat, attracted at first by the uncommon +horses and their trappings, caught Belward's eyes. Not he alone, but +Belward started then. Some vague intelligence moved the minds of both, +and their attention was fixed till the coach rounded a corner and was +gone. + +The landlord was at Belward's elbow. + +"The gentleman on the box-seat be from Ridley Court. That's Maister Ian +Belward, sir." + +Gaston Belward's eyes half closed, and a sombre look came, giving his +face a handsome malice. He wound his fingers in his horse's mane, and +put a foot in the stirrup. + +"Who is 'Maister Ian'?" + +"Maister Ian be Sir William's eldest, sir. On'y one that's left, sir. +On'y three to start wi': and one be killed i' battle, and one had +trouble wi' his faither and Maister Ian; and he went away and never was +heard on again, sir. That's the end on him." + +"Oh, that's the end on him, eh, landlord? And how long ago was that?" + +"Becky, lass," called the landlord within the door, "wheniver was it +Maister Robert turned his back on the Court--iver so while ago? Eh, a +fine lad that Maister Robert as iver I see!" + +Fat laborious Becky hobbled out, holding an apple and a knife. She +blinked at her husband, and then at the strangers. + +"What be askin' o' the Court?" she said. Her husband repeated the +question. + +She gathered her apron to her eyes with an unctuous sob: + +"Doan't a' know when Maister Robert went! He comes, i' the house 'ere +and says, 'Becky, gie us a taste o' the red-top-and where's Jock?' He +was always thinkin' a deal o' my son Jock. 'Jock be gone,' I says, 'and +I knows nowt o' his comin' back'--meanin', I was, that day. 'Good for +Jock!' says he, 'and I'm goin' too, Becky, and I knows nowt o' my comin' +back.' 'Where be goin', Maister Robert?' I says. 'To hell, Becky,' says +he, and he laughs. 'From hell to hell. I'm sick to my teeth o' one, I'll +try t'other'--a way like that speaks he." + +Belward was impatient, and to hurry the story he made as if to start on. +Becky, seeing, hastened. "Dear a' dear! The red-top were afore him, and +I tryin' to make what become to him. He throws arm 'round me, smacks me +on the cheek, and says he: 'Tell Jock to keep the mare, Becky.' Then he +flings away, and never more comes back to the Court. And that day one +year my Jock smacks me on the cheek, and gets on the mare; and when I +ask: 'Where be goin'?' he says: 'For a hunt i' hell wi' Maister Robert, +mother.' And from that day come back he never did, nor any word. There +was trouble wi' the lad-wi' him and Maister Robert at the Court; but I +never knowed nowt o' the truth. And it's seven-and-twenty years since +Maister Robert went." + +Gaston leaned over his horse's neck, and thrust a piece of silver into +the woman's hands. + +"Take that, Becky Lawson, and mop your eyes no more." + +She gaped. + +"How dost know my name is Becky Lawson? I havena been ca'd so these +three-and-twenty years--not since a' married good man here, and put +Jock's faither in 's grave yander." + +"The devil told me," he answered, with a strange laugh, and, spurring, +they were quickly out of sight. They rode for a couple of miles without +speaking. Jacques knew his master, and did not break the silence. +Presently they came over a hill, and down upon a little bridge. Belward +drew rein, and looked up the valley. About two miles beyond the roofs +and turrets of the Court showed above the trees. A whimsical smile came +to his lips. + +"Brillon," he said, "I'm in sight of home." + +The half-breed cocked his head. It was the first time that Belward had +called him "Brillon"--he had ever been "Jacques." This was to be a part +of the new life. They were not now hunting elk, riding to "wipe out" a +camp of Indians or navvies, dining the owner of a rancho or a deputation +from a prairie constituency in search of a member, nor yet with +a senator at Washington, who served tea with canvas-back duck and +tooth-picks with dessert. Once before had Jacques seen this new +manner--when Belward visited Parliament House at Ottawa, and was +presented to some notable English people, visitors to Canada. It had +come to these notable folk that Mr. Gaston Belward had relations at +Ridley Court, and that of itself was enough to command courtesy. But +presently, they who would be gracious for the family's sake, were +gracious for the man's. He had that which compelled interest--a +suggestive, personal, distinguished air. Jacques knew his master better +than any one else knew him; and yet he knew little, for Belward was of +those who seem to give much confidence, and yet give little--never more +than he wished. + +"Yes, monsieur, in sight of home," Jacques replied, with a dry cadence. + +"Say 'sir,' not 'monsieur,' Brillon; and from the time we enter the +Court yonder, look every day and every hour as you did when the judge +asked you who killed Tom Daly." + +Jacques winced, but nodded his head. Belward continued: + +"What you hear me tell is what you can speak of; otherwise you are +blind and dumb. You understand?" Jacques's face was sombre, but he said +quickly: "Yes--sir." + +He straightened himself on his horse, as if to put himself into +discipline at once--as lead to the back of a racer. + +Belward read the look. He drew his horse close up. Then he ran an arm +over the other's shoulder. + +"See here, Jacques. This is a game that's got to be played up to the +hilt. A cat has nine lives, and most men have two. We have. Now listen. +You never knew me mess things, did you? Well, I play for keeps in this; +no monkeying. I've had the life of Ur of the Chaldees; now for Babylon. +I've lodged with the barbarian; here are the roofs of ivory. I've had +my day with my mother's people; voila! for my father's. You heard what +Becky Lawson said. My father was sick of it at twenty-five, and got out. +We'll see what my father's son will do.... I'm going to say my say to +you, and have done with it. As like as not there isn't another man that +I'd have brought with me. You're all right. But I'm not going to rub +noses. I stick when I do stick, but I know what's got to be done here; +and I've told you. You'll not have the fun out of it that I will, but +you won't have the worry. Now, we start fresh. I'm to be obeyed; I'm +Napoleon. I've got a devil, yet it needn't hurt you, and it won't. But +if I make enemies here--and I'm sure to--let them look out. Give me your +hand, Jacques; and don't you forget that there are two Gaston Belwards, +and the one you have hunted and lived with is the one you want to +remember when you get raw with the new one. For you'll hear no more +slang like this from me, and you'll have to get used to lots of things." + +Without waiting reply, Belward urged on his horse, and at last paused +on the top of a hill, and waited for Jacques. It was now dusk, and the +landscape showed soft, sleepy, and warm. + +"It's all of a piece," Belward said to himself, glancing from the trim +hedges, the small, perfectly-tilled fields and the smooth roads, to +Ridley Court itself, where many lights were burning and gates opening +and shutting. There was some affair on at the Court, and he smiled to +think of his own appearance among the guests. + +"It's a pity I haven't clothes with me, Brillon; they have a show going +there." + +He had dropped again into the new form of master and man. His voice was +cadenced, gentlemanly. Jacques pointed to his own saddle-bag. + +"No, no, they are not the things needed. I want the evening-dress which +cost that cool hundred dollars in New York." + +Still Jacques was silent. He did not know whether, in his new position, +he was expected to suggest. Belward understood, and it pleased him. + +"If we had lost the track of a buck moose, or were nosing a cache of +furs, you'd find a way, Brillon." + +"Voila," said Jacques; "then, why not wear the buckskin vest, the +red-silk sash, and the boots like these?"--tapping his own leathers. +"You look a grand seigneur so." + +"But I am here to look an English gentleman, not a grand seigneur, nor +a company's trader on a break. Never mind, the thing will wait till we +stand in my ancestral halls," he added, with a dry laugh. + +They neared the Court. The village church was close by the Court-wall. +It drew Belward's attention. One by one lights were springing up in it. +It was a Friday evening, and the choir were come to practise. They saw +buxom village girls stroll in, followed by the organist, one or two +young men and a handful of boys. Presently the horsemen were seen, and a +staring group gathered at the church door. An idea came to Belward. + +"Kings used to make pilgrimages before they took their crowns, why +shouldn't I?" he said half-jestingly. Most men placed similarly would +have been so engaged with the main event that they had never thought +of this other. But Belward was not excited. He was moving deliberately, +prepared for every situation. He had a great game in hand, and he had no +fear of his ability to play it. He suddenly stopped his horse, and threw +the bridle to Jacques, saying: + +"I'll be back directly, Brillon." + +He entered the churchyard, and passed to the door. As he came the group +under the crumbling arch fell back, and at the call of the organist went +to the chancel. Belward came slowly up the aisle, and paused about the +middle. Something in the scene gave him a new sensation. The church was +old, dilapidated; but the timbered roof, the Norman and Early English +arches incongruously side by side, with patches of ancient distemper +and paintings, and, more than all, the marble figures on the tombs, with +hands folded so foolishly,--yet impressively too, brought him up with +a quick throb of the heart. It was his first real contact with England; +for he had not seen London, save at Euston Station and in the north-west +district. But here he was in touch with his heritage. He rested his hand +upon a tomb beside him, and looked around slowly. + +The choir began the psalm for the following Sunday. At first he did not +listen; but presently the organist was heard alone, and then the choir +afterwards sang: + + "Woe is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Mesech: + And to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar." + +Simple, dusty, ancient church, thick with effigies and tombs; with +inscriptions upon pillars to virgins departed this life; and tablets +telling of gentlemen gone from great parochial virtues: it wakened in +Belward's brain a fresh conception of the life he was about to live--he +did not doubt that he would live it. He would not think of himself as +inacceptable to old Sir William Belward. He glanced to the tomb under +his hand. There was enough daylight yet to see the inscription on the +marble. Besides, a single candle was burning just over his head. He +stooped and read: + + SACRED TO THE MEMORY + OF + SIR GASTON ROBERT BELWARD, BART., + OF RIDLEY COURT, IN THIS PARISH OF GASTONBURY, + WHO, + AT THE AGE OF ONE AND FIFTY YEARS, + AFTER A LIFE OF DISTINGUISHED SERVICE FOR HIS KING + AND COUNTRY, + AND GRAVE AND CONSTANT CARE OF THOSE EXALTED WORKS + WHICH BECAME A GENTLEMAN OF ENGLAND; + MOST NOTABLE FOR HIS LOVE OF ARTS AND LETTERS; + SENSIBLE IN ALL GRACES AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS; + GIFTED WITH SINGULAR VIRTUES AND INTELLECTS; + AND + DELIGHTING AS MUCH IN THE JOYS OF PEACE + AS IN THE HEAVY DUTIES OF WAR: + WAS SLAIN BY THE SIDE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, + THE BELOVED AND ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT, + AT THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, + IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD MDCXLV. + + "A Sojourner as all my Fathers were." + +"'Gaston Robert Belward'!" + +He read the name over and over, his fingers tracing the letters. + +His first glance at the recumbent figure had been hasty. Now, however, +he leaned over and examined it. It lay, hands folded, in the dress of +Prince Rupert's cavaliers, a sword at side, and great spurs laid beside +the heels. + +"'Gaston Robert Belward'!" + +As this other Gaston Robert Belward looked at the image of his dead +ancestor, a wild thought came: Had he himself not fought with Prince +Rupert? Was he not looking at himself in stone? Was he not here to show +England how a knight of Charles's time would look upon the life of the +Victorian age? Would not this still cold Gaston be as strange at +Ridley Court as himself fresh from tightening a cinch on the belly of a +broncho? Would he not ride from where he had been sojourning as much a +stranger in his England as himself? + +For a moment the idea possessed him. He was Sir Gaston Robert Belward, +Baronet. He remembered now how, at Prince Rupert's side, he had sped on +after Ireton's horse, cutting down Roundheads as he passed, on and on, +mad with conquest, yet wondering that Rupert kept so long in pursuit +while Charles was in danger with Cromwell: how, as the word came to +wheel back, a shot tore away the pommel of his saddle; then another, and +another, and with a sharp twinge in his neck he fell from his horse. He +remembered how he raised himself on his arm and shouted "God save the +King!" How he loosed his scarf and stanched the blood at his neck, then +fell back into a whirring silence, from which he was roused by feeling +himself in strong arms, and hearing a voice say: "Courage, Gaston." Then +came the distant, very distant, thud of hoofs, and he fell asleep; and +memory was done. + +He stood for a moment oblivious to everything: the evening bird +fluttering among the rafters, the song of the nightingale without, the +sighing wind in the tower entry, the rustics in the doorway, the group +in the choir. Presently he became conscious of the words sung: + + "A thousand ages in Thy sight + Are like an evening gone; + Short as the watch that ends the night + Before the rising sun. + + "Time, like an ever-rolling stream, + Bears all its sons away; + They fly, forgotten, as a dream + Dies at the opening day." + +He was himself again in an instant. He had been in a kind of dream. It +seemed a long time since he had entered the church--in reality but a few +moments. He caught his moustache in his fingers, and turned on his heel +with a musing smile. His spurs clinked as he went down the aisle; and, +involuntarily, he tapped a boot-leg with his riding-whip. The singing +ceased. His spurs made the only sound. The rustics at the door fell back +before him. He had to go up three steps to reach the threshold. As he +stood on the top one he paused and turned round. + +So, this was home: this church more so even than the Court hard by. Here +his ancestors--for how long he did not know, probably since the time of +Edward III--idled time away in the dust; here Gaston Belward had been +sleeping in effigy since Naseby Field. A romantic light came into his +face. Again, why not? Even in the Hudson's Bay country and in the Rocky +Mountains, he had been called, "Tivi, The Man of the Other." He had been +counted the greatest of Medicine Men--one of the Race: the people of the +Pole, who lived in a pleasant land, gifted as none others of the race of +men. Not an hour before Jacques had asked him where he got "the other." +No man can live in the North for any time without getting the strain of +its mystery and romance in him. Gaston waved his hand to the tomb, and +said half-believingly: + +"Gaston Robert Belward, come again to your kingdom." + +He turned to go out, and faced the rector of the parish,--a bent, +benign-looking man,--who gazed at him astonished. He had heard the +strange speech. His grave eyes rested on the stalwart stranger with +courteous inquiry. Gaston knew who it was. Over his left brow there was +a scar. He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon +Varcoe was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had +thrown a stick at his brother. It had struck the clergyman, leaving a +scar. + +Gaston now raised his hat. As he passed, the rector looked after him, +puzzled; the words he had heard addressed to the effigy returning. His +eyes followed the young man to the gate, and presently, with a quick +lifting of the shoulders, he said: + +"Robert Belward!" Then added: "Impossible! But he is a Belward." + +He saw Gaston mount, then entered and went slowly up the aisle. He +paused beside the tomb of that other Belward. His wrinkled hand rested +on it. + +"That is it," he said at last. "He is like the picture of this Sir +Gaston. Strange." + +He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings +with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and +affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure, +and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe +was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be +useful. As he stood musing and listening to the music of the choir, a +girl came softly up the aisle, and touched him on the arm. + +"Grandfather, dear," she said, "aren't you going to the Court? You have +a standing invitation for this night in the week. You have not been +there for so long." + +He fondled the hand on his arm. + +"My dearest, they have not asked me for a long time." + +"But why not to-night? I have laid out everything nicely for you--your +new gaiters, and your D. C. L. coat with the pretty buttons and cord." + +"How can I leave you, my dear? And they do not ask you!" + +The voice tried for playfulness, but the eyes had a disturbed look. + +"Me? Oh! they never ask me to dinner-you know that. Tea and formal +visits are enough for Lady Belward, and almost too much for me. There +is yet time to dress. Do say you will go. I want you to be friendly with +them." + +The old man shook his head. + +"I do not care to leave you, my dearest." + +"Foolish old fatherkins! Who would carry me off?--'Nobody, no, not I, +nobody cares for me.'" Suddenly a new look shot up in her face. + +"Did you see that singular handsome man who came from the church--like +some one out of an old painting? Not that his dress was so strange; but +there was something in his face--something that you would expect to find +in--in a Garibaldi. Silly, am I not? Did you see him?" + +He looked at her gravely. + +"My dear," he said at last, "I think I will go after all, though I shall +be a little late." + +"A sensible grandfather. Come quickly, dear." He paused again. + +"But I fear I sent a note to say I could not dine." + +"No, you did not. It has been lying on your table for two days." + +"Dear me--dear me! I am getting very old." + +They passed out of the church. Presently, as they hurried to the rectory +near by, the girl said: + +"But you haven't answered. Did you see the stranger? Do you know who he +is?" + +The rector turned, and pointed to the gate of Ridley Court. Gaston and +Brillon were just entering. "Alice," he said, in a vague, half-troubled +way, "the man is a Belward, I think." + +"Why, of course!" the girl replied with a flash of excitement. "But he's +so dark, and foreign-looking! What Belward is he?" + +"I do not know yet, my dear." + +"I shall be up when you come back. But mind, don't leave just after +dinner. Stay and talk; you must tell me everything that's said and +done--and about the stranger." + + + + +CHAPTER II. IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN + +Meanwhile, without a word, Gaston had mounted, ridden to the castle, and +passed through the open gates into the court-yard. Inside he paused. +In the main building many lights were burning. There came a rattle of +wheels behind him, and he shifted to let a carriage pass. Through the +window of the brougham he could see the shimmer of satin, lace, and soft +white fur, and he had an instant's glance of a pretty face. + +The carriage drew up to the steps, and presently three ladies and +a brusque gentleman passed into the hall-way, admitted by powdered +footmen. The incident had a manner, an air, which struck Gaston, he knew +not why. Perhaps it was the easy finesse of ceremonial. He looked at +Brillon. He had seen him sit arms folded like that, looking from the top +of a bluff down on an Indian village or a herd of buffaloes. There was +wonder, but no shyness or agitation, on his face; rather the naive, +naked look of a child. Belward laughed. + +"Come, Brillon; we are at home." + +He rode up to the steps, Jacques following. A foot man appeared and +stared. Gaston looked down on him neutrally, and dismounted. Jacques did +the same. The footman still stared. Another appeared behind. Gaston eyed +the puzzled servant calmly. + +"Why don't you call a groom?" he presently said. There was a cold gleam +in his eye. + +The footman shrank. + +"Yessir, yessir," he said confusedly, and signalled. The other footman +came down, and made as if to take the bridle. Gaston waved him back. +None too soon, for the horse lunged at him. + +"A rub down, a pint of beer, and water and feed in an hour, and +I'll come to see him myself late to-night." Jacques had loosened the +saddle-bags and taken them off. Gaston spoke to the horse, patted his +neck, and gave him to the groom. Then he went up the steps, followed by +Jacques. He turned at the door to see the groom leading both horses off, +and eyeing Saracen suspiciously. He laughed noiselessly. + +"Saracen 'll teach him things," he said. "I might warn him, but it's +best for the horses to make their own impressions." + +"What name, sir?" asked a footman. + +"You are--?" + +"Falby, Sir." + +"Falby, look after my man Brillon here, and take me to Sir William." + +"What name, sir?" + +Gaston, as if with sudden thought, stepped into the light of the +candles, and said in a low voice: "Falby, don't you know me?" + +The footman turned a little pale, as his eyes, in spite of themselves, +clung to Gaston's. A kind of fright came, and then they steadied. + +"Oh yes, sir," he said mechanically. + +"Where have you seen me?" + +"In the picture on the wall, sir." + +"Whose picture, Falby?" + +"Sir Gaston Belward, Sir." + +A smile lurked at the corners of Gaston's mouth. + +"Gaston Belward. Very well, then you know what to say to Sir William. +Show me into the library." + +"Or the justices' room, sir?" + +"The justices' room will do." + +Gaston wondered what the justices' room was. A moment after he stood in +it, and the dazed Falby had gone, trying vainly to reconcile the picture +on the wall, which, now that he could think, he knew was very old, with +this strange man who had sent a curious cold shiver through him. But, +anyhow, he was a Belward, that was certain: voice, face, manner showed +it. But with something like no Belward he had ever seen. Left to +himself, Gaston looked round on a large, severe room. Its use dawned on +him. This was part of the life: Sir William was a Justice of the Peace. +But why had he been brought here? Why not to the library as himself had +suggested? There would be some awkward hours for Falby in the future. +Gaston had as winning a smile, as sweet a manner, as any one in the +world, so long as a straight game was on; but to cross his will with +the other--he had been too long a power in that wild country where his +father had also been a power! He did not quite know how long he waited, +for he was busy with plans as to his career at Ridley Court. He was +roused at last by Falby's entrance. A keen, cold look shot from under +his straight brows. + +"Well?" he asked. + +"Will you step into the library, sir? Sir William will see you there." + +Falby tried to avoid his look, but his eyes were compelled, and Gaston +said: + +"Falby, you will always hate to enter this room." Falby was agitated. + +"I hope not, sir." + +"But you will, Falby, unless--" + +"Yessir?" + +"Unless you are both the serpent and the dove, Falby." + +"Yessir." + +As they entered the hall, Brillon with the saddle-bags was being taken +in charge, and Gaston saw what a strange figure he looked beside the +other servants and in these fine surroundings. He could not think that +himself was so bizarre. Nor was he. But he looked unusual; as one of +high civilisation might, through long absence in primitive countries, +return in uncommon clothing, and with a manner of distinguished +strangeness: the barbaric to protect the refined, as one has seen a +bush of firs set to shelter a wheat-field from a seawind, or a wind-mill +water cunningly-begotten flowers. + +As he went through the hall other visitors were entering. They passed +him, making for the staircase. Ladies with the grand air looked at +him curiously, and two girls glanced shyly from the jingling spurs and +tasselled boots to his rare face. + +One of the ladies suddenly gave a little gasping cry, and catching the +arm of her companion, said: + +"Reine, how like Robert Belward! Who--who is he?" + +The other coolly put up her pince-nez. She caught Gaston's profile and +the turn of his shoulder. + +"Yes, like, Sophie; but Robert never had such a back, nor anything like +the face." + +She spoke with no attempt to modulate her voice, and it carried +distinctly to Gaston. He turned and glanced at them. + +"He's a Belward, certainly, but like what one I don't know; and he's +terribly eccentric, my dear! Did you see the boots and the sash? Why, +bless me, if you are not shaking! Don't be silly--shivering at the +thought of Robert Belward after all these years." + +So saying, Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne tapped Lady Dargan on the arm, and then +turned sharply to see if her daughters had been listening. She saw that +they had; and though herself and not her sister was to blame, she said: + +"Sophie, you are very indiscreet! If you had daughters of your own, you +would probably be more careful--though Heaven only knows, for you were +always difficult!" + +With this they vanished up the staircase, Mrs. Gasgoyne's daughters, +Delia and Agatha, smiling at each other and whispering about Gaston. + +Meanwhile the seeker after a kingdom was shown into Sir William +Belward's study. No one was there. He walked to the mantelpiece, and, +leaning his arm on it, looked round. Directly in front of him on the +wall was the picture of a lady in middle-life, sitting in an arbour. A +crutch lay against one arm of her chair, and her left hand leaned on an +ebony silver-topped cane. There was something painful, haunting, in the +face--a weirdness in the whole picture. The face was looking into the +sunlight, but the effect was rather of moonlight--distant, mournful. He +was fascinated; why, he could not tell. Art to him was an unknown book, +but he had the instinct, and he was quick to feel. This picture struck +him as being out of harmony with everything else in the room. Yet it +had, a strange compelling charm. + +Presently he started forward with an exclamation. Now he understood the +vague, eerie influence. Looking out from behind the foliage was a face, +so dim that one moment it seemed not to be there, and then suddenly to +flash in--as a picture from beyond sails, lightning-like, across the +filmy eyes of the dying. It was the face of a youth, elf-like, unreal, +yet he saw his father's features in it. + +He rubbed his eyes and looked again. It seemed very dim. Indeed, +so delicately, vaguely, had the work been done that only eyes like +Gaston's, trained to observe, with the sight of a hawk and a sense of +the mysterious, could have seen so quickly or so distinctly. He drew +slowly back to the mantel again, and mused. What did it mean? He was +sure that the woman was his grandmother. + +At that moment the door opened, and an alert, white-haired man stepped +in quickly, and stopped in the centre of the room, looking at his +visitor. His deep, keen eyes gazed out with an intensity that might +almost be fierceness, and the fingers of his fine hands opened and shut +nervously. Though of no great stature, he had singular dignity. He was +in evening-dress, and as he raised a hand to his chin quickly, as if in +surprise or perplexity, Gaston noticed that he wore a large seal-ring. +It is singular that while he was engaged with his great event, he was +also thinking what an air of authority the ring gave. + +For a moment the two men stood at gaze without speaking, though Gaston +stepped forward respectfully. A bewildered, almost shrinking look came +into Sir William's eyes, as the other stood full in the light of the +candles. + +Presently the old man spoke. In spite of conventional smoothness, his +voice had the ring of distance, which comes from having lived through +and above painful things. + +"My servant announced you as Sir Gaston Belward. There is some mistake?" + +"There is a mistake," was the slow reply. "I did not give my name as Sir +Gaston Belward. That was Falby's conclusion, sir. But I am Gaston Robert +Belward, just the same." + +Sir William was dazed, puzzled. He presently made a quick gesture, as if +driving away some foolish thought, and, motioning to a chair, said: + +"Will you be seated?" + +They both sat, Sir William by his writing-table. His look was now steady +and penetrating, but he met one just as firm. + +"You are--Gaston Robert Belward? May I ask for further information?" + +There was furtive humour playing at Gaston's mouth. The old man's manner +had been so unlike anything he had ever met, save, to an extent, in his +father, that it interested him. He replied, with keen distinctness: "You +mean, why I have come--home?" + +Sir William's fingers trembled on a paper-knife. "Are you-at home?" + +"I have come home to ask for my heritage--with interest compounded, +sir." + +Sir William was now very pale. He got to his feet, came to the young +man, peered into his face, then drew back to the table and steadied +himself against it. Gaston rose also: his instinct of courtesy was +acute--absurdly civilised--that is, primitive. He waited. "You are +Robert's son?" + +"Robert Belward was my father." + +"Your father is dead?" + +"Twelve years ago." + +Sir William sank back in his chair. His thin fingers ran back and forth +along his lips. Presently he took out his handkerchief and coughed into +it nervously. His lips trembled. With a preoccupied air he arranged a +handful of papers on the table. + +"Why did you not come before?" he asked at last, in a low, mechanical +voice. + +"It was better for a man than a boy to come." + +"May I ask why?" + +"A boy doesn't always see a situation--gives up too soon--throws away +his rights. My father was a boy." + +"He was twenty-five when he went away." + +"I am fifty!" + +Sir William looked up sharply, perplexed. "Fifty?" + +"He only knew this life: I know the world." + +"What world?" + +"The great North, the South, the seas at four corners of the earth." + +Sir William glanced at the top-boots, the peeping sash, the strong, +bronzed face. + +"Who was your mother?" he asked abruptly. + +"A woman of France." + +The baronet made a gesture of impatience, and looked searchingly at the +young man. + +All at once Gaston shot his bolt, to have it over. "She had Indian blood +also." + +He stretched himself to his full height, easily, broadly, with a +touch of defiance, and leaned an arm against the mantel, awaiting Sir +William's reply. + +The old man shrank, then said coldly: "Have you the +marriage-certificate?" + +Gaston drew some papers from his pockets. + +"Here, sir, with a letter from my father, and one from the Hudson's Bay +Company." + +His grandfather took them. With an effort he steadied himself, then +opened and read them one by one, his son's brief letter last--it was +merely a calm farewell, with a request that justice should be done his +son. + +At that moment Falby entered and said: + +"Her ladyship's compliments, and all the guests have arrived, sir." + +"My compliments to her ladyship, and ask her to give me five minutes +yet, Falby." + +Turning to his grandson, there seemed to be a moment's hesitation, then +he reached out his hand. + +"You have brought your luggage? Will you care to dine with us?" + +Gaston took the cold outstretched fingers. + +"Only my saddle-bag, and I have no evening-dress with me, else I should +be glad." + +There was another glance up and down the athletic figure, a +half-apprehensive smile as the baronet thought of his wife, and then he +said: + +"We must see if anything can be done." + +He pulled a bell-cord. A servant appeared. + +"Ask the housekeeper to come for a moment, please." Neither spoke till +the housekeeper appeared. "Hovey," he said to the grim woman, "give Mr. +Gaston the room in the north tower. Then, from the press in the same +room lay out the evening-dress which you will find there.... They were +your father's," he added, turning to the young man. "It was my wife's +wish to keep them. Have they been aired lately, Hovey?" + +"Some days ago, sir." + +"That will do." The housekeeper left, agitated. "You will probably be in +time for the fish," he added, as he bowed to Robert. + +"If the clothes do not fit, sir?" + +"Your father was about your height and nearly as large, and fashions +have not changed much." + +A few moments afterwards Gaston was in the room which his father had +occupied twenty-seven years before. The taciturn housekeeper, eyeing him +excitedly the while, put out the clothes. He did not say anything till +she was about to go. Then: + +"Hovey, were you here in my father's time?" + +"I was under-parlourmaid, sir," she said. + +"And you are housekeeper now--good!" + +The face of the woman crimsoned, hiding her dour wrinkles. She turned +away her head. + +"I'd have given my right hand if he hadn't gone, sir." + +Gaston whistled softly, then: + +"So would he, I fancy, before he died. But I shall not go, so you will +not need to risk a finger for me. I am going to stay, Hovey. Good-night. +Look after Brillon, please." + +He held out his hand. Her fingers twitched in his, then grasped them +nervously. + +"Yes, sir. Good-night, Sir. It's--it's like him comin' back, sir." + +Then she suddenly turned and hurried from the room, a blunt figure to +whom emotion was not graceful. "H'm!" said Gaston, as he shut the door. +"Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! 'Voici le sabre de mon +pere!'" + + + + +CHAPTER III. HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE + +Gaston Belward was not sentimental: that belongs to the middle-class +Englishman's ideal of civilisation. But he had a civilisation akin to +the highest; incongruous, therefore, to the general as the sympathy +between the United States and Russia. The highest civilisation can be +independent. The English aristocrat is at home in the lodge of a Sioux +chief or the bamboo-hut of a Fijian, and makes brothers of "savages," +when those other formal folk, who spend their lives in keeping their +dignity, would be lofty and superior. + +When Gaston looked at his father's clothes and turned them over, he +had a twinge of honest emotion; but his mind was on the dinner and +his heritage, and he only said, as he frowned at the tightness of the +waistband: + +"Never mind, we'll make 'em pay, shot and wadding, for what you lost, +Robert Belward; and wherever you are, I hope you'll see it." + +In twelve minutes from the time he entered the bedroom he was ready. +He pulled the bell-cord, and then passed out. A servant met him on +the stairs, and in another minute he was inside the dining-room. Sir +William's eyes flashed up. There was smouldering excitement in his face, +but one could not have guessed at anything unusual. A seat had been +placed for Gaston beside him. The situation was singular and trying. It +would have been easier if he had merely come into the drawing-room after +dinner. This was in Sir William's mind when he asked him to dine; but it +was as it was. Gaston's alert glance found the empty seat. He was about +to make towards it, but he caught Sir William's eye and saw it signal +him to the end of the table near him. His brain was working with +celerity and clearness. He now saw the woman whose portrait had so +fascinated him in the library. As his eyes fastened on her here, he +almost fancied he could see the boy's--his father's-face looking over +her shoulder. + +He instantly went to her, and said: "I am sorry to be late." + +His first impulse had been to offer his hand, as, naturally, he +would have done in "barbaric" lands, but the instinct of this other +civilisation was at work in him. He might have been a polite casual +guest, and not a grandson, bringing the remembrance, the culmination of +twenty-seven years' tragedy into a home; she might have been a hostess +with whom he wished to be on terms: that was all. + +If the situation was trying for him, it was painful for her. She had had +only a whispered announcement before Sir William led the way to dinner. +Yet she was now all her husband had been, and more. Repression had been +her practice for unnumbered years, and the only heralds of her feelings +were the restless wells of her dark eyes: the physical and mental misery +she had endured lay hid under the pale composure of her face. She was +now brought suddenly before the composite image of her past. Yet she +merely lifted a slender hand with long, fine fingers, which, as +they clasped his, all at once trembled, and then pressed them hotly, +nervously. To his surprise, it sent a twinge of colour to his cheek. "It +was good of you to come down after such a journey," she said. Nothing +more. + +Then he passed on, and sat down to Sir William's courteous gesture. The +situation had its difficulties for the guests--perfect guests as they +were. Every one was aware of a dramatic incident, for which there +had been no preparation save Sir William's remark that a grandson had +arrived from the North Pole or thereabouts; and to continue conversation +and appear casual put their resources to some test. But they stood +it well, though their eyes were busy, and the talk was cheerfully +mechanical. So occupied were they with Gaston's entrance, that they did +not know how near Lady Dargan came to fainting. + +At the button-hole of the coat worn by Gaston hung a tiny piece of red +ribbon which she had drawn from her sleeve on the terrace twenty-seven +years ago, and tied there with the words: + +"Do you think you will wear it till we meet again?" And the man had +replied: + +"You'll not see me without it, pretty girl--pretty girl." + +A woman is not so unaccountable after all. She has more imagination than +a man; she has not many resources to console her for disappointments, +and she prizes to her last hour the swift moments when wonderful things +seemed possible. That man is foolish who shows himself jealous of a +woman's memories or tokens--those guarantees of her womanliness. + +When Lady Dargan saw the ribbon, which Gaston in his hurry had not +disturbed, tied exactly as she had tied it, a weird feeling came to +her, and she felt choking. But her sister's eyes were on her, and Mrs. +Gasgoyne's voice came across the table clearly: + +"Sophie, what were Fred Bideford's colours at Sandown? You always +remember that kind of thing." The warning was sufficient. Lady Dargan +could make no effort of memory, but she replied without hesitation--or +conscience: + +"Yellow and brown." + +"There," said Mrs. Gasgoyne, "we are both wrong, Captain Maudsley. +Sophie never makes a mistake." Maudsley assented politely, but, stealing +a look at Lady Dargan, wondered what the little by-play meant. Gaston +was between Sir William and Mrs. Gasgoyne. He declined soup and fish, +which had just been served, because he wished for time to get his +bearings. He glanced at the menu as if idly interested, conscious that +he was under observation. He felt that he had, some how, the situation +in his hands. Everything had gone well, and he knew that his part had +been played with some aplomb--natural, instinctive. Unlike most large +men, he had a mind always alert, not requiring the inspiration of +unusual moments. What struck him most forcibly now was the tasteful +courtesy which had made his entrance easy. He instinctively compared it +to the courtesy in the lodge of an Indian chief, or of a Hudson's Bay +factor who has not seen the outer world for half a century. It was so +different, and yet it was much the same. He had seen a missionary, a +layreader, come intoxicated into a council of chiefs. The chiefs did not +show that they knew his condition till he forced them to do so. Then two +of the young men rose, suddenly pinned him in their arms, carried him +out, and tied him in a lodge. The next morning they sent him out of +their country. Gaston was no philosopher, but he could place a thing +when he saw it: which is a kind of genius. + +Presently Sir William said quietly: + +"Mrs. Gasgoyne, you knew Robert well; his son ought to know you." + +Gaston turned to Mrs. Gasgoyne, and said in his father's manner as much +as possible, for now his mind ran back to how his father talked and +acted, forming a standard for him: + +"My father once told me a tale of the Keithley Hunt--something 'away +up,' as they say in the West--and a Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne was in it." + +He made an instant friend of Mrs. Gasgoyne--made her so purposely. This +was one of the few things from his father's talks upon his past life. He +remembered the story because it was interesting, the name because it had +a sound. + +She flushed with pleasure. That story of the Hunt was one of her +sweetest recollections. For her bravery then she had been voted by the +field "a good fellow," and an admiral present declared that she had a +head "as long as the maintop bow-line." She loved admiration, though she +had no foolish sentiment; she called men silly creatures, and yet would +go on her knees across country to do a deserving man-friend a +service. She was fifty and over, yet she had the springing heart of a +girl--mostly hid behind a brusque manner and a blunt, kindly tongue. + +"Your father could always tell a good story," she said. + +"He told me one of you: what about telling me one of him?" + +Adaptable, he had at once fallen in with her direct speech; the more +so because it was his natural way; any other ways were "games," as he +himself said. + +She flashed a glance at her sister, and smiled half-ironically. + +"I could tell you plenty," she said softly. "He was a startling fellow, +and went far sometimes; but you look as if you could go farther." + +Gaston helped himself to an entree, wondering whether a knife was used +with sweetbreads. + +"How far could he go?" he asked. + +"In the hunting-field with anybody, with women endlessly, with meanness +like a snail, and when his blood was up, to the most nonsensical place +you can think of." + +Forks only for sweetbreads! Gaston picked one up. "He went there." + +"Who told you?" + +"I came from there." + +"Where is it?" + +"A few hundred miles from the Arctic circle." + +"Oh, I didn't think it was that climate!" + +"It never is till you arrive. You are always out in the cold there." + +"That sounds American." + +"Every man is a sinner one way or another." + +"You are very clever--cleverer than your father ever was. + +"I hope so." + +"Why?" + +"He went--there. I've come--from there." + +"And you think you will stay--never go back?" + +"He was out of it for twenty years, and died. If I am in it for that +long, I shall have had enough." + +Their eyes met. The woman looked at him steadily. "You won't be," she +replied, this time seriously, and in a very low voice. + +"No? Why?" + +"Because you will tire of it all--though you've started very well." + +She then answered a question of Captain Maudsley's and turned again to +Gaston. + +"What will make me tire of it?" he inquired. She sipped her champagne +musingly. + +"Why, what is in you deeper than all this; with the help of some woman +probably." + +She looked at him searchingly, then added: + +"You seem strangely like and yet unlike your father to-night." + +"I am wearing his clothes," he said. + +She had plenty of nerve, but this startled her. She shrank a little: it +seemed uncanny. Now she remembered that ribbon in the button-hole. + +"Poor Sophie!" she thought. "And this one will make greater mischief +here." Then, aloud to him: "Your father was a good fellow, but he did +wild things." + +"I do not see the connection," he answered. "I am not a good man, and I +shall do wilder things--is that it?" + +"You will do mad things," she replied hardly above a whisper, and talked +once more with Captain Maudsley. Gaston now turned to his grandfather, +who had heard a sentence here and there, and felt that the young man +carried off the situation well enough. He then began to talk in a +general way about Gaston's voyage, of the Hudson's Bay Company, and +expeditions to the Arctic, drawing Lady Dargan into the conversation. + +Whatever might be said of Sir William Belward he was an excellent host. +He had a cool, unmalicious wit, but that man was unwise who offered +himself to its severity. To-night he surpassed himself in suggestive +talk, until, all at once, seeing Lady Dargan's eyes fixed on Gaston, +he went silent, sitting back in his chair abstracted. Soon, however, a +warning glance from his wife brought him back and saved Lady Dargan from +collapse; for it seemed impossible to talk alone to this ghost of her +past. + +At this moment Gaston heard a voice near: + +"As like as if he'd stepped out of the picture, if it weren't for the +clothes. A Gaston too!" + +The speaker was Lord Dargan. He was talking to Archdeacon Varcoe. + +Gaston followed Lord Dargan's glance to the portrait of that Sir Gaston +Belward whose effigy he had seen. He found himself in form, feature, +expression; the bold vigilance of eye, the primitive activity of +shoulder, the small firm foot, the nervous power of the hand. The eyes +seemed looking at him. He answered to the look. There was in him the +romantic strain, and something more! In the remote parts of his being +there was the capacity for the phenomenal, the strange. Once again, as +in the church, he saw the field of Naseby, King Charles, Ireton's men, +Cromwell and his Ironsides, Prince Rupert and the swarming rush of +cavalry, and the end of it all! Had it been a tale of his father's at +camp-fire? Had he read it somewhere? He felt his blood thump in his +veins. Another half-hour, wherein he was learning every minute, nothing +escaping him, everything interesting him; his grandfather and Mrs. +Gasgoyne especially, then the ladies retired slowly with their crippled +hostess, who gave Gaston, as she rose, a look almost painfully intense. +It haunted him. + +Now Gaston had his chance. He had no fear of what he could do with +men: he had measured himself a few times with English gentlemen as +he travelled, and he knew where his power lay--not in making himself +agreeable, but in imposing his personality. + +The guests were not soon to forget the talk of that hour. It played into +Gaston's hands. He pretended to nothing; he confessed ignorance here and +there with great simplicity; but he had the gift of reducing things, +as it were, to their original elements. He cut away to the core of a +matter, and having simple, fixed ideas, he was able to focus the talk, +which had begun with hunting stories, and ended with the morality of +duelling. Gaston's hunting stories had made them breathless, his views +upon duelling did not free their lungs. + +There were sentimentalists present; others who, because it had become +etiquette not to cross swords, thought it indecent. Archdeacon Varcoe +would not be drawn into discussion, but sipped his wine, listened, and +watched Gaston. + +The young man measured his grandfather's mind, and he drove home his +points mercilessly. + +Captain Maudsley said something about "romantic murder." + +"That's the trouble," Gaston said. "I don't know who killed duelling +in England, but behind it must have been a woman or a shopkeeper: +sentimentalism, timidity, dead romance. What is patriotism but romance? +Ideals is what they call it somewhere. I've lived in a land full of hard +work and dangers, but also full of romance. What is the result? Why, a +people off there whom you pity, and who don't need pity. Romance? See: +you only get square justice out of a wise autocrat, not out of your +'twelve true men'; and duelling is the last decent relic of autocracy. +Suppose the wronged man does get killed; that is all right: it wasn't +merely blood he was after, but the right to hit a man in the eye for +a wrong done. What is all this hullaballoo--about saving human life? +There's as much interest--and duty--in dying as living, if you go the +way your conscience tells you." + +A couple of hours later, Gaston, after having seen to his horse, stood +alone in the drawing-room with his grandfather and grandmother. As +yet Lady Belward had spoken not half a dozen words to him. Sir William +presently said to him: + +"Are you too tired to join us in the library?" + +"I'm as fresh as paint, sir," was the reply. + +Lady Belward turned without a word, and slowly passed from the room. +Gaston's eyes followed the crippled figure, which yet had a rare +dignity. He had a sudden impulse. He stepped to her and said with an +almost boyish simplicity: + +"You are very tired; let me carry you--grandmother." + +He could hear Sir William gasp a little as he laid a quick warm hand +on hers that held the cane. She looked at him gravely, sadly, and then +said: + +"I will take your arm, if you please." + +He took the cane, and she put a hand towards him. He ran his strong arm +around her waist with a little humouring laugh, her hand rested on his +shoulder, and he timed his step to hers. Sir William was in an eddy +of wonder--a strong head was "mazed." He had looked for a different +reception of this uncommon kinsman. How quickly had the new-comer +conquered himself! And yet he had a slight strangeness of accent--not +American, but something which seemed unusual. He did not reckon with a +voice which, under cover of easy deliberation, had a convincing quality; +with a manner of old-fashioned courtesy and stateliness. As Mrs. +Gasgoyne had said to the rector, whose eyes had followed Gaston +everywhere in the drawing-room: + +"My dear archdeacon, where did he get it? Why, he has lived most of his +life with savages!" + +"Vandyke might have painted the man," Lord Dargan had added. + +"Vandyke did paint him," had put in Delia Gasgoyne from behind her +mother. + +"How do you mean, Delia?" Mrs. Gasgoyne had added, looking curiously at +her. + +"His picture hangs in the dining-room." + +Then the picture had been discussed, and the girl's eyes had followed +Gaston--followed him until he had caught their glance. Without an +introduction, he had come and dropped into conversation with her, till +her mother cleverly interrupted. + +Inside the library Lady Belward was comfortably placed, and looking up +at Gaston, said: + +"You have your father's ways: I hope that you will be wiser." + +"If you will teach me!" he answered gently. + +There came two little bright spots on her cheeks, and her hands clasped +in her lap. They all sat down. Sir William spoke: + +"It is much to ask that you should tell us of your life now, but it is +better that we should start with some knowledge of each other." + +At that moment Gaston's eyes caught the strange picture on the wall. + +"I understand," he answered. "But I would be starting in the middle of a +story." + +"You mean that you wish to hear your father's history? Did he not tell +you?" + +"Trifles--that is all." + +"Did he ever speak of me?" asked Lady Belward with low anxiety. + +"Yes, when he was dying." + +"What did he say?" + +"He said: 'Tell my mother that Truth waits long, but whips hard. Tell +her that I always loved her.'" She shrank in her chair as if from a +blow, and then was white and motionless. + +"Let us hear your story," Sir William said with a sort of hauteur. "You +know your own, much of your father's lies buried with him." + +"Very well, sir." + +Sir William drew a chair up beside his wife. Gaston sat back, and for a +moment did not speak. He was looking into distance. Presently the blue +of his eyes went all black, and with strange unwavering concentration he +gazed straight before him. A light spread over his face, his hands felt +for the chair-arms and held them firmly. He began: + +"I first remember swinging in a blanket from a pine-tree at a +buffalo-hunt while my mother cooked the dinner. There were scores of +tents, horses, and many Indians and half-breeds, and a few white men. My +father was in command. I can see my mother's face as she stood over the +fire. It was not darker than mine; she always seemed more French than +Indian, and she was thought comely." + +Lady Belward shuddered a little, but Gaston did not notice. + +"I can remember the great buffalo-hunt. You heard a heavy rumbling +sound; you saw a cloud on the prairie. It heaved, a steam came from it, +and sometimes you caught the flash of ten thousand eyes as the beasts +tossed their heads and then bent them again to the ground and rolled on, +five hundred men after them, our women shouting and laughing, and arrows +and bullets flying.... I can remember a time also when a great Indian +battle happened just outside the fort, and, with my mother crying after +him, my father went out with a priest to stop it. My father was wounded, +and then the priest frightened them, and they gathered their dead +together and buried them. We lived in a fort for a long time, and my +mother died there. She was a good woman, and she loved my father. I have +seen her on her knees for hours praying when he was away.--I have her +rosary now. They called her Ste. Heloise. Afterwards I was always with +my father. He was a good man, but he was never happy; and only at +the last would he listen to the priest, though they were always great +friends. He was not a Catholic of course, but he said that didn't +matter." + +Sir William interrupted huskily. "Why did he never come back?" + +"I do not know quite, but he said to me once, 'Gaston, you'll tell them +of me some day, and it will be a soft pillow for their heads! You can +mend a broken life, but the ring of it is gone.' I think he meant +to come back when I was about fourteen; but things happened, and he +stayed." + +There was a pause. Gaston seemed brooding, and Lady Belward said: + +"Go on, please." + +"There isn't so very much to tell. The life was the only one I had +known, and it was all right. But my father had told me of this life. He +taught me himself--he and Father Decluse and a Moravian missionary for +awhile. I knew some Latin and history, a bit of mathematics, a good +deal of astronomy, some French poets, and Shakespere. Shakespere is +wonderful. ... My father wanted me to come here at once after he died, +but I knew better--I wanted to get sense first. So I took a place in the +Company. It wasn't all fun. + +"I had to keep my wits sharp. I was only a youngster, and I had to do +with men as crafty and as silly as old Polonius. I was sent to Labrador. +That was not a life for a Christian. Once a year a ship comes to the +port, bringing the year's mail and news from the world. When you watch +that ship go out again, and you turn round and see the filthy Esquimaux +and Indians, and know that you've got to live for another year with +them, sit in their dirty tepees, eat their raw frozen meat, with an +occasional glut of pemmican, and the thermometer 70 degrees below zero, +you get a lump in your throat. + +"Then came one winter. I had one white man, two half-breeds, and an +Indian with me. There was darkness day after day, and because the +Esquimaux and Indians hadn't come up to the fort that winter, it was +lonely as a tomb. One by one the men got melancholy and then went mad, +and I had to tie them up, and care for them and feed them. The Indian +was all right, but he got afraid, and wanted to start to a mission +station three hundred miles on. It was a bad look-out for me, but I told +him to go. I was left alone. I was only twenty-one, but I was steel to +my toes--good for wear and tear. Well, I had one solid month all alone +with my madmen. Their jabbering made me sea-sick some times. At last one +day I felt I'd go staring mad myself if I didn't do something exciting +to lift me, as it were. I got a revolver, sat at the opposite end of the +room from the three lunatics, and practised shooting at them. I had got +it into my head that they ought to die, but it was only fair, I thought, +to give them a chance. I would try hard to shoot all round them--make a +halo of bullets for the head of every one, draw them in silhouettes of +solid lead on the wall. + +"I talked to them first, and told them what I was going to do. They +seemed to understand, and didn't object. I began with the silhouettes, +of course. I had a box of bullets beside me. They never squealed. I sent +the bullets round them as pretty as the pattern of a milliner. Then I +began with their heads. I did two all right. They sat and never stirred. +But when I came to the last something happened. It was Jock Lawson." + +Sir William interposed: + +"Jock Lawson--Jock Lawson from here?" + +"Yes. His mother keeps 'The Whisk o' Barley.'" + +"So, that is where Jock Lawson went? He followed your father?" + +"Yes. Jock was mad enough when I began--clean gone. But, somehow, the +game I was playing cured him. 'Steady, Jock!' I said. 'Steady!' for I +saw him move. I levelled for the second bead of the halo. My finger was +on the trigger. 'My God, don't shoot!' he called. It startled me, my +hand shook, the thing went off, and Jock had a bullet through his brain. + +"... Then I waked up. Perhaps I had been mad myself--I don't know. But +my brain never seemed clearer than when I was playing that game. It was +like a magnifying glass: and my eyes were so clear and strong that I +could see the pores on their skin, and the drops of sweat breaking out +on Jock's forehead when he yelled." + +A low moan came from Lady Belward. Her face was drawn and pale, but her +eyes were on Gaston with a deep fascination. Sir William whispered to +her. + +"No," she said, "I will stay." + +Gaston saw the impression he had made. + +"Well, I had to bury poor Jock all alone. I don't think I should have +minded it so much, if it hadn't been for the faces of those other two +crazy men. One of them sat still as death, his eyes following me with +one long stare, and the other kept praying all the time--he'd been a +lay preacher once before he backslided, and it came back on him now +naturally. Now it would be from Revelation, now out of the Psalms, and +again a swingeing exhortation for the Spirit to come down and convict me +of sin. There was a lot of sanity in it too, for he kept saying at +last: 'O shut not up my soul with the sinners: nor my life with the +bloodthirsty.' I couldn't stand it, with Jock dead there before me, so +I gave him a heavy dose of paregoric out of the Company's stores. Before +he took it he raised his finger and said to me, with a beastly stare: +'Thou art the man!' But the paregoric put him to sleep.... + +"Then I gave the other something to eat, and dragged Jock out to bury +him. I remembered then that he couldn't be buried, for the ground was +too hard and the ice too thick; so I got ropes, and, when he stiffened, +slung him up into a big cedar tree, and then went up myself and arranged +the branches about him comfortably. It seemed to me that Jock was a baby +and I was his father. You couldn't see any blood, and I fixed his hair +so that it covered the hole in the forehead. I remember I kissed him on +the cheek, and then said a prayer--one that I'd got out of my father's +prayer-book: 'That it may please Thee to preserve all that travel by +land or by water, all women labouring of child, all sick persons and +young children; and to show Thy pity upon all prisoners and captives.' +Somehow I had got it into my head that Jock was going on a long journey, +and that I was a prisoner and a captive." + +Gaston broke off, and added presently: + +"Perhaps this is all too awful to hear, but it gives you an idea of what +kind of things went to make me." Lady Belward answered for both: + +"Tell us all--everything." + +"It is late," said Sir William, nervously. + +"What does it matter? It is once in a lifetime," she answered sadly. + +Gaston took up the thread: + +"Now I come to what will shock you even more, perhaps. So, be prepared. +I don't know how many days went, but at last I had three visitors--in +time I should think: a Moravian missionary, and an Esquimaux and his +daughter. I didn't tell the missionary about Jock--there was no use, it +could do no good. They stayed four weeks, and during that time one of +the crazy men died. The other got better, but had to be watched. I could +do anything with him, if I got my eye on him. Somehow, I must tell you, +I've got a lot of power that way. I don't know where it comes from. +Well, the missionary had to go. The old Esquimaux thought that he and +his daughter would stay on if I'd let them. I was only too glad. But it +wasn't wise for the missionary to take the journey alone--it was a bad +business in any case. I urged the man that had been crazy to go, for I +thought activity would do him good. He agreed, and the two left and got +to the Mission Station all right, after wicked trouble. I was alone +with the Esquimaux and his daughter. You never know why certain things +happen, and I can't tell why that winter was so weird; why the old +Esquimaux should take sick one morning, and in the evening should +call me and his daughter Lucy--she'd been given a Christian name, of +course--and say that he was going to die, and he wanted me to marry +her" (Lady Belward exclaimed, Sir William's hands fingered the chair-arm +nervously) "there and then, so that he'd know she would be cared for. +He was a heathen, but he had been primed by the missionaries about +his daughter. She was a fine, clever girl, and well educated--the best +product of their mission. So he called for a Bible. There wasn't one in +the place, but I had my mother's Book of the Mass. I went to get it, but +when I set my eyes on it, I couldn't--no, I couldn't do it, for I hadn't +the least idea but what I should bid my lady good-bye when it suited, +and I didn't want any swearing at all--not a bit. I didn't do any. But +what happened had to be with or without any ring or book and 'Forasmuch +as.' There had been so much funeral and sudden death that a marriage +would be a godsend anyhow. So the old Esquimaux got our two hands in +his, babbled away in half-English, half-Esquimaux, with the girl's eyes +shining like a she-moose over a dying buck, and about the time we kissed +each other, his head dropped back--and that is all there was about +that." + +Gaston now kept his eyes on his listeners. He was aware that his story +must sound to them as brutal as might be, but it was a phase of his +life, and, so far as he could, he wanted to start with a clean sheet; +not out of love of confidence, for he was self-contained, but he would +have enough to do to shepherd his future without shepherding his past. +He saw that Lady Belward had a sickly fear in her face, while Sir +William had gone stern and hard. + +He went on: + +"It saved the situation, did that marriage; though it was no marriage +you will say. Neither was it one way, and I didn't intend at the start +to stand by it an hour longer than I wished. But she was more than I +looked for, and it seems to me that she saved my life that winter, or +my reason anyhow. There had been so much tragedy that I used to wonder +every day what would happen before night; and that's not a good thing +for the brain of a chap of twenty-one or two. The funny part of it is +that she wasn't a pagan--not a bit. She could read and speak English +in a sweet old-fashioned way, and she used to sing to me--such a funny, +sorry little voice she had--hymns the Moravians had taught her, and +one or two English songs. I taught her one or two besides, 'Where the +Hawthorn Tree is Blooming,' and 'Allan Water'--the first my father had +taught me, the other an old Scotch trader. It's different with a woman +and a man in a place like that. Two men will go mad together, but +there's a saving something in the contact of a man's brain with a +woman's. I got fond of her, any man would have, for she had something +that I never saw in any heathen, certainly in no Indian; you'll see it +in women from Iceland. I determined to marry her in regular style when +spring and a missionary came. You can't understand, maybe, how one can +settle to a life where you've got companionship, and let the world go +by. About that time, I thought that I'd let Ridley Court and the rest +of it go as a boy's dreams go. I didn't seem to know that I was only +satisfied in one set of my instincts. Spring came, so did a missionary, +and for better or worse it was." + +Sir William came to his feet. "Great Heaven!" he broke out. + +His wife tried to rise, but could not. + +"This makes everything impossible," added the baronet shortly. + +"No, no, it makes nothing impossible--if you will listen." + +Gaston was cool. He had begun playing for the stakes from one +stand-point, and he would not turn back. + +He continued: + +"I lived with her happily: I never expect to have happiness like that +again,--never,--and after two years at another post in Labrador, came +word from the Company that I might go to Quebec, there to be given +my choice of posts. I went. By this time I had again vague ideas that +sometime I should come here, but how or why I couldn't tell; I was +drifting, and for her sake willing to drift. I was glad to take her to +Quebec, for I guessed she would get ideas, and it didn't strike me that +she would be out of place. So we went. But she was out of place in +many ways. It did not suit at all. We were asked to good houses, for I +believe I have always had enough of the Belward in me to keep my end up +anywhere. The thing went on pretty well, but at last she used to beg me +to go without her to excursions and parties. There were always one +or two quiet women whom she liked to sit with, and because she seemed +happier for me to go, I did. I was popular, and got along with women +well; but I tell you honestly I loved my wife all the time; so that when +a Christian busy-body poured into her ears some self-made scandal, +it was a brutal, awful lie--brutal and awful, for she had never known +jealousy; it did not belong to her old social creed. But it was in the +core of her somewhere, and an aboriginal passion at work naked is a +thing to be remembered. I had to face it one night.... + +"I was quiet, and did what I could. After that I insisted on her going +with me wherever I went, but she had changed, and I saw that, in spite +of herself, the thing grew. One day we went on an excursion down the St. +Lawrence. We were merry, and I was telling yarns. We were just nearing a +landing-stage, when a pretty girl, with more gush than sense, caught me +by the arm and begged some ridiculous thing of me--an autograph, or what +not. A minute afterwards I saw my wife spring from the bulwarks down on +the landing-stage, and rush up the shore into the woods.... We were two +days finding her. That settled it. I was sick enough at heart, and I +determined to go back to Labrador. We did so. Every thing had gone on +the rocks. My wife was not, never would be, the same again. She taunted +me and worried me, and because I would not quarrel, seemed to have a +greater grievance--jealousy is a kind of madness. One night she was +most galling, and I sat still and said nothing. My life seemed gone of +a heap: I was sick--sick to the teeth; hopeless, looking forward to +nothing. I imagine my hard quietness roused her. She said something +hateful--something about having married her, and not a woman from +Quebec. I smiled--I couldn't help it; then I laughed, a bit wild, I +suppose. I saw the flash of steel. ... I believe I laughed in her +face as I fell. When I came to she was lying with her head on my +breast--dead--stone dead." + +Lady Belward sat with closed eyes, her fingers clasping and unclasping +on the top of her cane; but Sir William wore a look half-satisfied, +half-excited. + +He now hurried his story. + +"I got well, and after that stayed in the North for a year. Then I +passed down the continent to Mexico and South America. There I got a +commission to go to New Zealand and Australia to sell a lot of horses. +I did so, and spent some time in the South Sea Islands. Again I drifted +back to the Rockies and over into the plains; found Jacques Brillon, my +servant, had a couple of years' work and play, gathered together some +money, as good a horse and outfit as the North could give, and started +with Brillon and his broncho--having got both sense and experience, I +hope--for Ridley Court. And here I am. There's a lot of my life that +I haven't told you of, but it doesn't matter, because it's adventure +mostly, and it can be told at any time; but these are essential facts, +and it is better that you should hear them. And that is all, grandfather +and grandmother." + +After a minute Lady Belward rose, leaned on her crutch, and looked at +him wistfully. Sir William said: "Are you sure that you will suit this +life, or it you?" + +"It is the only idea I have at present; and, anyhow, it is my rightful +home, sir." + +"I was not thinking of your rights, but of the happiness of us all." + +Lady Belward limped to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. + +"You have had one great tragedy, so have we: neither could bear another. +Try to be worthy--of your home." + +Then she solemnly kissed him on the cheek. Soon afterwards they went to +their rooms. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. AN HOUR WITH HIS FATHER'S PAST + +In his bedroom Gaston made a discovery. He chanced to place his hand in +the tail-pocket of the coat he had worn. He drew forth a letter. The ink +was faded, and the lines were scrawled. It ran: + + It's no good. Mr. Ian's been! It's face the musik now. If you + want me, say so. I'm for kicks or ha'pence--no diffrense. + Yours, J. + +He knew the writing very well--Jock Lawson's. There had been some +trouble, and Mr. Ian had "been," bringing peril. What was it? His father +and Jock had kept the secret from him. + +He put his hand in the pocket again. There was another note--this time +in a woman's handwriting: + + Oh, come to me, if you would save us both! Do not fail. God help + us! Oh, Robert! + +It was signed "Agnes." + +Well, here was something of mystery; but he did not trouble himself +about that. He was not at Ridley Court to solve mysteries, to probe into +the past, to set his father's wrongs right; but to serve himself, to +reap for all those years wherein his father had not reaped. He enjoyed +life, and he would search this one to the full of his desires. Before he +retired he studied the room, handling things that lay where his father +placed them so many years before. He was not without emotions in this, +but he held himself firm. + +As he stood ready to get into bed, his eyes chanced upon a portrait of +his uncle Ian. + +"There's where the tug comes!" he said, nodding at it. "Shake hands, and +ten paces, Uncle Ian?" + +Then he blew out the candle, and in five minutes was sound asleep. + +He was out at six o'clock. He made for the stables, and found Jacques +pacing the yard. He smiled at Jacques's dazed look. + +"What about the horse, Brillon?" he said, nodding as he came up. + +"Saracen's had a slice of the stable-boy's shoulder--sir." + +Amusement loitered in Gaston's eyes. The "sir" had stuck in Jacques's +throat. + +"Saracen has established himself, then? Good! And the broncho?" + +"Bien, a trifle only. They laugh much in the kitchen--" + +"The hall, Brillon." + +"--in the hall last night. That hired man over there--" + +"That groom, Brillon." + +"--that groom, he was a fool, and fat. He was the worst. This morning +he laugh at my broncho. He say a horse like that is nothing: no pace, +no travel. I say the broncho was not so ver' bad, and I tell him try the +paces. I whisper soft, and the broncho stand like a lamb. He mount, +and sneer, and grin at the high pommel, and start. For a minute it was +pretty; and then I give a little soft call, and in a minute there was +the broncho bucking--doubling like a hoop, and dropping same as lead. +Once that--groom--come down on the pommel, then over on the ground like +a ball, all muck and blood." + +The half-breed paused, looking innocently before him. Gaston's mouth +quirked. + +"A solid success, Brillon. Teach them all the tricks you can. At ten +o'clock come to my room. The campaign begins then." + +Jacques ran a hand through his long black hair, and fingered his sash. +Gaston understood. + +"The hair and ear-rings may remain, Brillon; but the beard and clothes +must go--except for occasions. Come along." + +For the next two hours Gaston explored the stables and the grounds. +Nothing escaped him. He gathered every incident of the surroundings, +and talked to the servants freely, softly, and easily, yet with a +superiority, which suddenly was imposed in the case of the huntsman at +the kennels--for the Whipshire hounds were here. Gaston had never ridden +to hounds. It was not, however, his cue to pretend knowledge. He was +strong enough to admit ignorance. He stood leaning against the door of +the kennels, arms folded, eyes half-closed, with the sense of a painter, +before the turning bunch of brown and white, getting the charm of +distance and soft tones. His blood beat hard, for suddenly he felt as if +he had been behind just such a pack one day, one clear desirable day of +spring. He saw people gathering at the kennels; saw men drink beer +and eat sandwiches at the door of the huntsman's house,--a long, low +dwelling, with crumbling arched doorways like those of a monastery, +watched them get away from the top of the moor, he among them; heard the +horn, the whips; and saw the fox break cover. + +Then came a rare run for five sweet miles--down a long valley--over +quick-set hedges, with stiffish streams--another hill--a great combe--a +lovely valley stretching out--a swerve to the right--over a gate--and +the brush got at a farmhouse door. + +Surely, he had seen it all; but what kink of the brain was it that the +men wore flowing wigs and immense boot-legs, and sported lace in the +hunting-field? And why did he see within that picture another of two +ladies and a gentleman hawking? + +He was roused from his dream by hearing the huntsman say in a quizzical +voice: + +"How do you like the dogs, sir?" + +To his last day Lugley, the huntsman, remembered the slow look of cold +surprise, of masterful malice, scathing him from head to foot. The +words that followed the look, simple as they were, drove home the naked +reproof: + +"What is your name, my man?" + +"Lugley, sir." + +"Lugley! Lugley! H'm! Well, Lugley, I like the hounds better than I like +you. Who is Master of the Hounds, Lugley?" + +"Captain Maudsley, sir." + +"Just so. You are satisfied with your place, Lugley?" + +"Yes, sir," said the man in a humble voice, now cowed. + +The news of the arrival of the strangers had come to him late at night, +and, with Whipshire stupidity, he had thought that any one coming from +the wilds of British America must be but a savage after all. + +"Very well; I wouldn't throw myself out of a place, if I were you." + +"Oh, no, sir! Beg pardon, sir, I--" + +"Attend to your hounds there, Lugley." + +So saying, Gaston nodded Jacques away with him, leaving the huntsman +sick with apprehension. + +"You see how it is to be done, Brillon?" said Gaston. Jacques's brown +eyes twinkled. + +"You have the grand trick, sir." + +"I enjoy the game; and so shall you, if you will. You've begun well. I +don't know much of this life yet; but it seems to me that they are +all part of a machine, not the idea behind the machine. They have no +invention. Their machine is easy to learn. Do not pretend; but for every +bit you learn show something better, something to make them dizzy now +and then." + +He paused on a knoll and looked down. The castle, the stables, the +cottages of labourers and villagers lay before them. In a certain +highly-cultivated field, men were working. It was cut off in squares and +patches. It had an air which struck Gaston as unusual; why, he could +not tell. But he had a strange divining instinct, or whatever it may be +called. He made for the field and questioned the workmen. + +The field was cut up into allotment gardens. Here, at a nominal rent, +the cottager could grow his vegetables; a little spot of the great +acre of England, which gave the labourer a tiny sense of ownership, of +manhood. Gaston was interested. More, he was determined to carry that +experiment further, if he ever got the chance. There was no socialism +in him. The true barbarian is like the true aristocrat: more a giver +of gifts than a lover of co-operation; conserving ownership by right +of power and superior independence, hereditary or otherwise. Gaston was +both barbarian and aristocrat. + +"Brillon," he said, as they walked on, "do you think they would be +happier on the prairies with a hundred acres of land, horses, cows, and +a pen of pigs?" + +"Can I be happy here all at once, sir?" + +"That's just it. It's too late for them. They couldn't grasp it unless +they went when they were youngsters. They'd long for 'Home and Old +England' and this grub-and-grind life. Gracious heaven, look at +them--crumpled-up creatures! And I'll stake my life, they were as pretty +children as you'd care to see. They are out of place in the landscape, +Brillon; for it is all luxury and lush, and they are crumples--crumples! +But yet there isn't any use being sorry for them, for they don't grasp +anything outside the life they are living. Can't you guess how they +live? Look at the doors of the houses shut, and the windows sealed; yet +they've been up these three hours! And they'll suck in bad air, and +bad food; and they'll get cancer, and all that; and they'll die and +be trotted away to the graveyard for 'passun' to hurry them into their +little dark cots, in the blessed hope of everlasting life! I'm going +to know this thing, Brillon, from tooth to ham-string; and, however +it goes, we'll have lived up and down the whole scale; and that's +something." + +He suddenly stopped, and then added: + +"I'm likely to go pretty far in this. I can't tell how or why, but it's +so. Now, once more, as yesterday afternoon, for good or for bad, for +long or for short, for the gods or for the devil, are you with me? +There's time to turn back even yet, and I'll say no word to your going." + +"But no, no! a vow is a vow. When I cannot run I will walk, when I +cannot walk I will crawl after you--comme ca!" + +Lady Belward did not appear at breakfast. Sir William and Gaston +breakfasted alone at half past nine o'clock. The talk was of the stables +and the estate generally. + +The breakfast-room looked out on a soft lawn, stretching away into a +broad park, through which a stream ran; and beyond was a green hillside. +The quiet, the perfect order and discipline, gave a pleasant tingle +to Gaston's veins. It was all so easy, and yet so admirable--elegance +without weight. He felt at home. He was not certain of some trifles +of etiquette; but he and Sir William were alone, and he followed his +instincts. Once he frankly asked his grandfather of a matter of form, +of which he was uncertain the evening before. The thing was done so +naturally that the conventional mind of the baronet was not disturbed. +The Belwards were notable for their brains, and Sir William saw that +the young man had an unusual share. He also felt that this startling +individuality might make a hazardous future; but he liked the fellow, +and he had a debt to pay to the son of his own dead son. Of course, if +their wills came into conflict, there could be but one thing--the young +man must yield; or, if he played the fool, there must be an end. Still, +he hoped the best. When breakfast was finished, he proposed going to the +library. + +There Sir William talked of the future, asked what Gaston's ideas were, +and questioned him as to his present affairs. Gaston frankly said that +he wanted to live as his father would have done, and that he had no +property, and no money beyond a hundred pounds, which would last him a +couple of years on the prairies, but would be fleeting here. + +Sir William at once said that he would give him a liberal allowance, +with, of course, the run of his own stables and their house in town: and +when he married acceptably, his allowance would be doubled. + +"And I wish to say, Gaston," he added, "that your uncle Ian, though +heir to the title, does not necessarily get the property, which is not +entailed. Upon that point I need hardly say more. He has disappointed +us. + +"Through him Robert left us. Of his character I need not speak. Of his +ability the world speaks variably: he is an artist. Of his morals I need +only say that they are scarcely those of an English gentleman, though +whether that is because he is an artist, I cannot say--I really cannot +say. I remember meeting a painter at Lord Dunfolly's,--Dunfolly is +a singular fellow--and he struck me chiefly as harmless, distinctly +harmless. I could not understand why he was at Dunfolly's, he seemed of +so little use, though Lady Malfire, who writes or something, mooned +with him a good deal. I believe there was some scandal or something +afterwards. I really do not know. But you are not a painter, and I +believe you have character--I fancy so." + +"If you mean that I don't play fast and loose, sir, you are right. What +I do, I do as straight as a needle." The old man sighed carefully. + +"You are very like Robert, and yet there is something else. I don't +know, I really don't know what!" + +"I ought to have more in me than the rest of the family, sir." + +This was somewhat startling. Sir William's fingers stroked his beardless +cheek uncertainly. "Possibly--possibly." + +"I've lived a broader life, I've got wider standards, and there are +three races at work in me." + +"Quite so, quite so;" and Sir William fumbled among his papers +nervously. + +"Sir," said Gaston suddenly, "I told you last night the honest story of +my life. I want to start fair and square. I want the honest story of my +father's life here; how and why he left, and what these letters mean." + +He took from his pocket the notes he had found the night before, and +handed them. Sir William read them with a disturbed look, and turned +them over and over. Gaston told where he had found them. + +Sir William spoke at last. + +"The main story is simple enough. Robert was extravagant, and Ian was +vicious and extravagant also. Both got into trouble. I was younger then, +and severe. Robert hid nothing, Ian all he could. One day things came +to a climax. In his wild way, Robert--with Jock Lawson--determined to +rescue a young man from the officers of justice, and to get him out of +the country. There were reasons. He was the son of a gentleman; and, +as we discovered afterwards, Robert had been too intimate with the +wife--his one sin of the kind, I believe. Ian came to know, and +prevented the rescue. Meanwhile, Robert was liable to the law for the +attempt. There was a bitter scene here, and I fear that my wife and I +said hard things to Robert." + +Gaston's eyes were on Lady Belward's portrait. "What did my grandmother +say?" + +There was a pause, then: + +"That she would never call him son again, I believe; that the shadow of +his life would be hateful to her always. I tell you this because I +see you look at that portrait. What I said, I think, was no less. So, +Robert, after a wild burst of anger, flung away from us out of the +house. His mother, suddenly repenting, ran to follow him, but fell on +the stone steps at the door, and became a cripple for life. At first +she remained bitter against Robert, and at that time Ian painted that +portrait. It is clever, as you may see, and weird. But there came a time +when she kept it as a reproach to herself, not Robert. She is a good +woman--a very good woman. I know none better, really no one." + +"What became of the arrested man?" Gaston asked quietly, with the +oblique suggestiveness of a counsel. + +"He died of a broken blood-vessel on the night of the intended rescue, +and the matter was hushed up." + +"What became of the wife?" + +"She died also within a year." + +"Were there any children?" + +"One--a girl." + +"Whose was the child?" + +"You mean--?" + +"The husband's or the lover's?" There was a pause. + +"I cannot tell you." + +"Where is the girl?" + +"My son, do not ask that. It can do no good--really no good." + +"Is it not my due?" + +"Do not impose your due. Believe me, I know best. If ever there is +need to tell you, you shall be told. Trust me. Has not the girl her due +also?" + +Gaston's eyes held Sir William's a moment. "You are right, sir," he +said, "quite right. I shall not try to know. But if--" He paused. + +Sir William spoke: + +"There is but one person in the world who knows the child's father; and +I could not ask him, though I have known him long and well--indeed, no." + +"I do not ask to understand more," Gaston replied. "I almost wish I had +known nothing. And yet I will ask one thing: is the girl in comfort and +good surroundings?" + +"The best--ah, yes, the very best." + +There was a pause, in which both sat thinking; then Sir William wrote +out a cheque and offered it, with a hint of emotion. He was recalling +how he had done the same with this boy's father. + +Gaston understood. He got up, and said: "Honestly, sir, I don't know how +I shall turn out here; for, if I didn't like it, it couldn't hold me, +or, if it did, I should probably make things uncomfortable. But I +think I shall like it, and I will do my best to make things go well. +Good-morning, sir." + +With courteous attention Sir William let his grandson out of the room. + +And thus did a young man begin his career as Gaston Belward, gentleman. + + + + +CHAPTER V. WHEREIN HE FINDS HIS ENEMY + +How that career was continued there are many histories: Jock Lawson's +mother tells of it in her way, Mrs. Gasgoyne in hers, Hovey in hers, +Captain Maudsley in his; and so on. Each looks at it from an individual +stand-point. But all agree on two matters: that he did things hitherto +unknown in the countryside; and that he was free and affable, but could +pull one up smartly if necessary. + +He would sit by the hour and talk with Bimley, the cottager; with +Rosher, the hotel-keeper, who when young had travelled far; with a +sailorman, home for a holiday, who said he could spin a tidy yarn; and +with Pogan, the groom, who had at last won Saracen's heart. But one day +when the meagre village chemist saw him cracking jokes with Beard, the +carpenter, and sidled in with a silly air of equality, which was merely +insolence, Gaston softly dismissed him, with his ears tingling. The +carpenter proved his right to be a friend of Gaston's by not changing +countenance and by never speaking of the thing afterwards. + +His career was interesting during the eighteen months wherein society +papers chatted of him amiably and romantically. He had entered into the +joys of hunting with enthusiasm and success, and had made a fast and +admiring friend of Captain Maudsley; while Saracen held his own grandly. +He had dined with country people, and had dined them; had entered upon +the fag-end of the London season with keen, amused enjoyment; and had +engrafted every little use of the convention. The art was learned, but +the man was always apart from it; using it as a toy, yet not despising +it; for, as he said, it had its points, it was necessary. There was +yachting in the summer; but he was keener to know the life of England +and his heritage than to roam afar, and most of the year was spent on +the estate and thereabouts: with the steward, with the justices of the +peace, in the fields, in the kennels, among the accounts. + +To-day he was in London, haunting Tattersall's, the East End, the +docks, his club, the London Library--he had a taste for English history, +especially for that of the seventeenth century; he saturated himself +with it: to-morrow he would present to his grandfather a scheme for +improving the estate and benefiting the cottagers. Or he would suddenly +enter the village school, and daze and charm the children by asking them +strange yet simple questions, which sent a shiver of interest to their +faces. + +One day at the close of his second hunting-season there was to be a ball +at the Court, the first public declaration of acceptance by his people; +for, at his wish, they did not entertain for him in town the previous +season--Lady Belward had not lived in town for years. But all had +gone so well, if not with absolute smoothness, and with some +strangeness,--that Gaston had become an integral part of their life, and +they had ceased to look for anything sensational. + +This ball was to be the seal of their approval. It had been mentioned in +'Truth' with that freshness and point all its own. What character +than Gaston's could more appeal to his naive imagination? It said in a +piquant note that he did not wear a dagger and sombrero. + +Everything was ready. Decorations were up, the cook and the butler had +done their parts. At eleven in the morning Gaston had time on his hands. +Walking out, he saw two or three children peeping in at the gateway. + +He would visit the village school. He found the junior curate troubling +the youthful mind with what their godfathers and godmothers did for +them, and begging them to do their duty "in that state of life," etc. +He listened, wondering at the pious opacity, and presently asked the +children to sing. With inimitable melancholy they sang: "Oh, the Roast +Beef of Old England!" + +Gaston sat back and laughed softly till the curate felt uneasy, till the +children, waking to his humour, gurgled a little in the song. With his +thumbs caught lightly in his waistcoat pockets, he presently began to +talk with the children in an easy, quiet voice. He asked them little +out-of-the-way questions, he lifted the school-room from their minds, +and then he told them a story, showing them on the map where the place +was, giving them distances, the kind of climate, and a dozen other +matters of information, without the nature of a lesson. Then he taught +them the chorus--the Board forbade it afterwards--of a negro song, +which told how those who behaved themselves well in this world should +ultimately: + +"Blow on, blow on, blow on dat silver horn!" + +It was on this day that, as he left the school, he saw Ian Belward +driving past. He had not met his uncle since his arrival,--the artist +had been in Morocco,--nor had he heard of him save through a note in a +newspaper which said that he was giving no powerful work to the world, +nor, indeed, had done so for several years; and that he preferred the +purlieus of Montparnasse to Holland Park. + +They recognised each other. Ian looked his nephew up and down with a +cool kind of insolence as he passed, but did not make any salutation. +Gaston went straight to the castle. He asked for his uncle, and was told +that he had gone to Lady Belward. He wandered to the library: it was +empty. He lit a cigar, took down a copy of Matthew Arnold's poems, +opening at "Sohrab and Rustum," read it with a quick-beating heart, and +then came to "Tristram and Iseult." He knew little of "that Arthur" and +his knights of the Round Table, and Iseult of Brittany was a new figure +of romance to him. In Tennyson, he had got no further than "Locksley +Hall," which, he said, had a right tune and wrong words; and "Maud," +which "was big in pathos." The story and the metre of "Tristram and +Iseult" beat in his veins. He got to his feet, and, standing before the +window, repeated a verse aloud: + + "Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, + O hunter! and without a fear + Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow, + And through the glades thy pasture take + For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! + For these thou seest are unmoved; + Cold, cold as those who lived and loved + A thousand years ago." + +He was so engrossed that he did not hear the door open. He again +repeated the lines with the affectionate modulation of a musician. He +knew that they were right. They were hot with life--a life that was no +more a part of this peaceful landscape than a palm-tree would be. He +felt that he ought to read the poem in a desert, out by the Polar Sea, +down on the Amazon, yonder at Nukualofa; that it would fit in +with bearding the Spaniards two hundred years ago. Bearding the +Spaniards--what did he mean by that? He shut his eyes and saw a picture: +A Moorish castle, men firing from the battlements under a blazing sun, a +multitude of troops before a tall splendid-looking man, in armour chased +with gold and silver, and fine ribbons flying. A woman was lifted upon +the battlements. He saw the gold of her necklace shake on her flesh like +sunlight on little waves. He heard a cry: + +At that moment some one said behind him: "You have your father's +romantic manner." + +He quietly put down the book, and met the other's eyes with a steady +directness. + +"Your memory is good, sir." + +"Less than thirty years--h'm, not so very long!" + +"Looking back--no. You are my father's brother, Ian Belward?" + +"Your uncle Ian." + +There was a kind of quizzical loftiness in Ian Belward's manner. + +"Well, Uncle Ian, my father asked me to say that he hoped you would get +as much out of life as he had, and that you would leave it as honest." + +"Thank you. That is very like Robert. He loved making little speeches. +It is a pity we did not pull together; but I was hasty, and he was rash. +He had a foolish career, and you are the result. My mother has told me +the story--his and yours." + +He sat down, ran his fingers through his grey-brown hair, and looking +into a mirror, adjusted the bow of his tie, and flipped the flying ends. +The kind of man was new to Gaston: self-indulgent, intelligent, heavily +nourished, nonchalant, with a coarse kind of handsomeness. He felt that +here was a man of the world, equipped mentally cap-a-pie, as keen as +cruel. Reading that in the light of the past, he was ready. + +"And yet his rashness will hurt you longer than your haste hurt him." + +The artist took the hint bravely. + +"That you will have the estate, and I the title, eh? Well, that looks +likely just now; but I doubt it all the same. You'll mess the thing one +way or another." + +He turned from the contemplation of himself, and eyed Gaston lazily. +Suddenly he started. + +"Begad," he said, "where did you get it?" He rose. + +Gaston understood that he saw the resemblance to Sir Gaston Belward. + +"Before you were, I am. I am nearer the real stuff." + +The other measured his words insolently: + +"But the Pocahontas soils the stream--that's plain." + +A moment after Gaston was beside the prostrate body of his uncle, +feeling his heart. + +"Good God," he said, "I didn't think I hit so hard!" He felt the pulse, +looked at the livid face, then caught open the waistcoat and put his +ear to the chest. He did it all coolly, though swiftly--he was' born for +action and incident. And during that moment of suspense he thought of +a hundred things, chiefly that, for the sake of the family--the +family!--he must not go to trial. There were easier ways. + +But presently he found that the heart beat. + +"Good! good!" he said, undid the collar, got some water, and rang a +bell. Falby came. Gaston ordered some brandy, and asked for Sir William. +After the brandy had been given, consciousness returned. Gaston lifted +him up. + +He presently swallowed more brandy, and while yet his head was at +Gaston's shoulder, said: + +"You are a hard hitter. But you've certainly lost the game now." + +Here he made an effort, and with Gaston's assistance got to his feet. At +that moment Falby entered to say that Sir William was not in the house. +With a wave of the hand Gaston dismissed him. Deathly pale, his uncle +lifted his eyebrows at the graceful gesture. + +"You do it fairly, nephew," he said ironically yet faintly,--"fairly +in such little things; but a gentleman, your uncle, your elder, with +fists--that smacks of low company!" + +Gaston made a frank reply as he smothered his pride + +"I am sorry for the blow, sir; but was the fault all mine?" + +"The fault? Is that the question? Faults and manners are not the same. +At bottom you lack in manners; and that will ruin you at last." + +"You slighted my mother!" + +"Oh, no! and if I had, you should not have seen it." + +"I am not used to swallow insults. It is your way, sir. I know your +dealings with my father." + +"A little more brandy, please. But your father had manners, after all. +You are as rash as he; and in essential matters clownish--which he was +not." + +Gaston was well in hand now, cooler even than his uncle. + +"Perhaps you will sum up your criticism now, sir, to save future +explanation; and then accept my apology." + +"To apologise for what no gentleman pardons or does, or acknowledges +openly when done--H'm! Were it not well to pause in time, and go back +to your wild North? Why so difficult a saddle--Tartarin after Napoleon? +Think--Tartarin's end!" + +Gaston deprecated with a gesture: "Can I do anything for you, sir?" + +His uncle now stood up, but swayed a little, and winced from sudden +pain. A wave of malice crossed his face. + +"It's a pity we are relatives, with France so near," he said, "for I see +you love fighting." After an instant he added, with a carelessness as +much assumed as natural: "You may ring the bell, and tell Falby to come +to my room. And because I am to appear at the flare-up to-night--all in +honour of the prodigal's son--this matter is between us, and we meet as +loving relatives. You understand my motives, Gaston Robert Belward?" + +"Thoroughly." + +Gaston rang the bell, and went to open the door for his uncle to pass +out. Ian Belward buttoned his close-fitting coat, cast a glance in the +mirror, and then eyed Gaston's fine figure and well-cut clothes. In the +presence of his nephew, there grew the envy of a man who knew that youth +was passing while every hot instinct and passion remained. For his age +he was impossibly young. Well past fifty he looked thirty-five, no +more. His luxurious soul loathed the approach of age. Unlike many men +of indulgent natures, he loved youth for the sake of his art, and he +had sacrificed upon that altar more than most men-sacrificed others. His +cruelty was not as that of the roughs of Seven Dials or Belleville, but +it was pitiless. He admitted to those who asked him why and wherefore +when his selfishness became brutality, that everything had to give way +for his work. His painting of Ariadne represented the misery of two +women's lives. And of such was his kingdom of Art. + +As he now looked at Gaston he was again struck with the resemblance to +the portrait in the dining-room, with his foreign out-of-the-way air: +something that should be seen beneath the flowing wigs of the Stuart +period. He had long wanted to do a statue of the ill-fated Monmouth, and +another greater than that. Here was the very man: with a proud, daring, +homeless look, a splendid body, and a kind of cavalier conceit. It was +significant of him, of his attitude towards himself where his work was +concerned, that he suddenly turned and shut the door again, telling +Falby, who appeared, to go to his room; and then said: + +"You are my debtor, Cadet--I shall call you that: you shall have a +chance of paying." + +"How?" + +In a few concise words he explained, scanning the other's face eagerly. + +Gaston showed nothing. He had passed the apogee of irritation. + +"A model?" he questioned drily. + +"Well, if you put it that way. 'Portrait' sounds better. It shall be +Gaston Belward, gentleman; but we will call it in public, 'Monmouth the +Trespasser.'" + +Gaston did not wince. He had taken all the revenge he needed. The idea +rather pleased him than other wise. He had instincts about art, and he +liked pictures; statuary, poetry, romance; but he had no standards. He +was keen also to see the life of the artist, to touch that aristocracy +more distinguished by mind than manners. + +"If that gives 'clearance,' yes. And your debt to me?" + +"I owe you nothing. You find your own meaning in my words. I was +railing, you were serious. Do not be serious. Assume it sometimes, if +you will; be amusing mostly. So, you will let me paint you--on your own +horse, eh?" + +"That is asking much. Where?" + +"Well, a sketch here this afternoon, while the thing is hot--if this +damned headache stops! Then at my studio in London in the spring, +or"--here he laughed--"in Paris. I am modest, you see." + +"As you will." + +Gaston had had a desire for Paris, and this seemed to give a cue for +going. He had tested London nearly all round. He had yet to be presented +at St. James's, and elected a member of the Trafalgar Club. Certainly he +had not visited the Tower, Windsor Castle, and the Zoo; but that would +only disqualify him in the eyes of a colonial. + +His uncle's face flushed slightly. He had not expected such good +fortune. He felt that he could do anything with this romantic figure. He +would do two pictures: Monmouth, and an ancient subject--that legend of +the ancient city of Ys, on the coast of Brittany. He had had it in his +mind for years. He came back and sat down, keen, eager. + +"I've a big subject brewing," he said; "better than the Monmouth, though +it is good enough as I shall handle it. It shall be royal, melancholy, +devilish: a splendid bastard with creation against him; the best, most +fascinating subject in English history. The son dead on against the +father--and the uncle!" + +He ceased for a minute, fashioning the picture in his mind; his face +pale, but alive with interest, which his enthusiasm made into dignity. +Then he went on: + +"But the other: when the king takes up the woman--his mistress--and +rides into the sea with her on his horse, to save the town! By Heaven, +with you to sit, it's my chance! You've got it all there in you--the +immense manner. You, a nineteenth century gentleman, to do this game +of Ridley Court, and paddle round the Row? Not you! You're clever, and +you're crafty, and you've a way with you. But you'll come a cropper at +this as sure as I shall paint two big pictures--if you'll stand to your +word." + +"We need not discuss my position here. I am in my proper place--in my +father's home. But for the paintings and Paris, as you please." + +"That is sensible--Paris is sensible; for you ought to see it right, and +I'll show you what half the world never see, and wouldn't appreciate if +they did. You've got that old, barbaric taste, romance, and you'll find +your metier in Paris." + +Gaston now knew the most interesting side of his uncle's +character--which few people ever saw, and they mostly women who came to +wish they had never felt the force of that occasional enthusiasm. He had +been in the National Gallery several times, and over and over again +he had visited the picture places in Bond Street as he passed; but he +wanted to get behind art life, to dig out the heart of it. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS + +A few hours afterwards Gaston sat on his horse, in a quiet corner of the +grounds, while his uncle sketched him. After a time he said that Saracen +would remain quiet no longer. His uncle held up the sketch. Gaston could +scarcely believe that so strong and life-like a thing were possible in +the time. It had force and imagination. He left his uncle with a nod, +rode quietly through the park, into the village, and on to the moor. +At the top he turned and looked down. The perfectness of the landscape +struck him; it was as if the picture had all grown there--not a suburban +villa, not a modern cottage, not one tall chimney of a manufactory, but +just the sweet common life. The noises of the village were soothing, +the soft smell of the woodland came over. He watched a cart go by idly, +heavily clacking. + +As he looked, it came to him: was his uncle right after all? Was he out +of place here? He was not a part of this, though he had adapted himself +and had learned many fine social ways. He knew that he lived not exactly +as though born here and grown up with it all. But it was also true that +he had a native sense of courtesy which people called distinguished. +There was ever a kind of mannered deliberation in his bearing--a part of +his dramatic temper, and because his father had taught him dignity where +there were no social functions for its use. His manner had, therefore, a +carefulness which in him was elegant artifice. + +It could not be complained that he did not act after the fashion of +gentle people when with them. But it was equally true that he did many +things which the friends of his family could not and would not have +done. For instance, none would have pitched a tent in the grounds, slept +in it, read in it, and lived in it--when it did not rain. Probably no +one of them would have, at individual expense, sent the wife of the +village policeman to a hospital in London, to be cured--or to die--of +cancer. None would have troubled to insist that a certain stagnant pool +in the village be filled up. Nor would one have suddenly risen in court +and have acted as counsel for a gipsy! At the same time, all were too +well-bred to think that Gaston did this because the gipsy had a daughter +with him, a girl of strong, wild beauty, with a look of superiority over +her position. + +He thought of all the circumstances now. + +It was very many months ago. The man had been accused of stealing and +assault, but the evidence was unconvincing to Gaston. The feeling in +court was against the gipsy. Fearing a verdict against him, Gaston rose +and cross-examined the witnesses, and so adroitly bewildered both them +and the justices who sat with his grandfather on the case, that, at +last, he secured the man's freedom. The girl was French, and knew +English imperfectly. Gaston had her sworn, and made the most of her +evidence. Then, learning that an assault had been made on the gipsy's +van by some lads who worked at mills in a neighbouring town, he pushed +for their arrest, and himself made up the loss to the gipsy. + +It is possible that there was in the mind of the girl what some common +people thought: that the thing was done for her favour; for she viewed +it half-gratefully, half-frowningly, till, on the village green, Gaston +asked her father what he wished to do--push on or remain to act against +the lads. + +The gipsy, angry as he was, wished to move on. Gaston lifted his hat to +the girl and bade her good-bye. Then she saw that his motives had been +wholly unselfish--even quixotic, as it appeared to her--silly, she would +have called it, if silliness had not seemed unlikely in him. She +had never met a man like him before. She ran her fingers through her +golden-brown hair nervously, caught at a flying bit of old ribbon at her +waist, and said in French: + +"He is honest altogether, sir. He did not steal, and he was not there +when it happened." + +"I know that, my girl. That is why I did it." + +She looked at him keenly. Her eyes ran up and down his figure, then met +his curiously. Their looks swam for a moment. Something thrilled in them +both. The girl took a step nearer. + +"You are as much a Romany here as I am," she said, touching her bosom +with a quick gesture. "You do not belong; you are too good for it. +How do I know? I do not know; I feel. I will tell your fortune," she +suddenly added, reaching for his hand. "I have only known three that +I could do it with honestly and truly, and you are one. It is no lie. +There is something in it. My mother had it; but it's all sham mostly." +Then, under a tree on the green, he indifferent to village gossip, she +took his hand and told him--not of his fortune alone. In half-coherent +fashion she told him of the past--of his life in the North. She then +spoke of his future. She told him of a woman, of another, and another +still; of an accident at sea, and of a quarrel; then, with a low, wild +laugh, she stopped, let go his hand, and would say no more. But her face +was all flushed, and her eyes like burning beads. Her father stood near, +listening. Now he took her by the arm. + +"Here, Andree, that's enough," he said, with rough kindness; "it's no +good for you or him." + +He turned to Gaston, and said in English: + +"She's sing'lar, like her mother afore her. But she's straight." + +Gaston lit a cigar. + +"Of course." He looked kindly at the girl. "You are a weird sort, +Andree, and perhaps you are right that I'm a Romany too; but I don't +know where it begins and where it ends. You are not English gipsies?" he +added, to the father. + +"I lived in England when I was young. Her mother was a Breton--not +a Romany. We're on the way to France now. She wants to see where her +mother was born. She's got the Breton lingo, and she knows some English; +but she speaks French mostly." + +"Well, well," rejoined Gaston, "take care of yourself, and good luck to +you. Good-bye--good-bye, Andree." He put his hand in his pocket to give +her some money, but changed his mind. Her eye stopped him. He shook +hands with the man, then turned to her again. Her eyes were on him--hot, +shining. He felt his blood throb, but he returned the look with +good-natured nonchalance, shook her hand, raised his hat, and walked +away, thinking what a fine, handsome creature she was. Presently he +said: "Poor girl, she'll look at some fellow like that one day, with +tragedy the end thereof!" + +He then fell to wondering about her almost uncanny divination. He +knew that all his life he himself had had strange memories, as well +as certain peculiar powers which had put the honest phenomena and the +trickery of the Medicine Men in the shade. He had influenced people +by the sheer force of presence. As he walked on, he came to a group of +trees in the middle of the common. He paused for a moment, and looked +back. The gipsy's van was moving away, and in the doorway stood the +girl, her hand over her eyes, looking towards him. He could see the raw +colour of her scarf. "She'll make wild trouble," he said to himself. + +As Gaston thought of this event, he moved his horse slowly towards a +combe, and looked out over a noble expanse--valley, field, stream, +and church-spire. As he gazed, he saw seated at some distance a girl +reading. Not far from her were two boys climbing up and down the combe. +He watched them. Presently he saw one boy creep along a shelf of rock +where the combe broke into a quarry, let himself drop upon another shelf +below, and then perch upon an overhanging ledge. He presently saw that +the lad was now afraid to return. He heard the other lad cry out, saw +the girl start up, and run forward, look over the edge of the combe, and +then make as if to go down. He set his horse to the gallop, and called +out. The girl saw him, and paused. In two minutes he was off his horse +and beside her. + +It was Alice Wingfield. She had brought out three boys, who had come +with her from London, where she had spent most of the year nursing their +sick mother, her relative. + +"I'll have him up in a minute," he said, as he led Saracen to a sapling +near. "Don't go near the horse." + +He swung himself down from ledge to ledge, and soon was beside the boy. +In another moment he had the youngster on his back, came slowly up, and +the adventurer was safe. + +"Silly Walter," the girl said, "to frighten yourself and give Mr. +Belward trouble." + +"I didn't think I'd be afraid," protested the lad; "but when I looked +over the ledge my head went round, and I felt sick--like with the +channel." + +Gaston had seen Alice Wingfield several times at church and in +the village, and once when, with Lady Belward, he had returned the +archdeacon's call; but she had been away most of the time since his +arrival. She had impressed him as a gentle, wise, elderly little +creature, who appeared to live for others, and chiefly for her +grandfather. She was not unusually pretty, nor yet young,--quite as +old as himself,--and yet he wondered what it was that made her so +interesting. He decided that it was the honesty of her nature, her +beautiful thoroughness; and then he thought little more about her. But +now he dropped into quiet, natural talk with her, as if they had known +each other for years. But most women found that they dropped quickly +into easy talk with him. That was because he had not learned the +small gossip which varies little with a thousand people in the same +circumstances. But he had a naive fresh sense, everything interested +him, and he said what he thought with taste and tact, sometimes with +wit, and always in that cheerful contemplative mood which influences +women. Some of his sayings were so startling and heretical that they had +gone the rounds, and certain crisp words out of the argot of the North +were used by women who wished to be chic and amusing. + +Not quite certain why he stayed, but talking on reflectively, Gaston at +last said: + +"You will be coming to us to-night, of course? We are having a barbecue +of some kind." + +"Yes, I hope so; though my grandfather does not much care to have me +go." + +"I suppose it is dull for him." + +"I am not sure it is that." + +"No? What then?" + +She shook her head. + +"The affair is in your honour, Mr. Belward, isn't it? + +"Does that answer my question?" he asked genially. + +She blushed. + +"No, no, no! That is not what I meant." + +"I was unfair. Yes, I believe the matter does take that colour; though +why, I don't know." + +She looked at him with simple earnestness. + +"You ought to be proud of it; and you ought to be glad of such a high +position where you can do so much good, if you will." + +He smiled, and ran his hand down his horse's leg musingly before he +replied: + +"I've not thought much of doing good, I tell you frankly. I wasn't +brought up to think about it; I don't know that I ever did any good in +my life. I supposed it was only missionaries and women who did that sort +of thing." + +"But you wrong yourself. You have done good in this village. Why, we all +have talked of it; and though it wasn't done in the usual way--rather +irregularly--still it was doing good." + +He looked down at her astonished. + +"Well, here's a pretty libel! Doing good 'irregularly'? Why, where have +I done good at all?" + +She ran over the names of several sick people in the village whose bills +he had paid, the personal help and interest he had given to many, and, +last of all, she mentioned the case of the village postmaster. + +Since Gaston had come, postmasters had been changed. The little +pale-faced man who had first held the position disappeared one night, +and in another twenty-four hours a new one was in his place. Many +stories had gone about. It was rumoured that the little man was short +in his accounts, and had been got out of the way by Gaston Belward. +Archdeacon Varcoe knew the truth, and had said that Gaston's sin was not +unpardonable, in spite of a few squires and their dames who declared it +was shocking that a man should have such loose ideas, that no good could +come to the county from it, and that he would put nonsense into the +heads of the common people. Alice Wingfield was now to hear Gaston's +view of the matter. + +"So that's it, eh? Live and let live is doing good? In that case it +is easy to be a saint. What else could a man do? You say that I am +generous--How? What have I spent out of my income on these little +things? My income--how did I get it? I didn't earn it; neither did my +father. Not a stroke have I done for it. I sit high and dry there in the +Court, they sit low there in the village; and you know how they live. +Well, I give away a little money which these people and their fathers +earned for my father and me; and for that you say I am doing good, and +some other people say I am doing harm--'dangerous charity,' and all +that! I say that the little I have done is what is always done where man +is most primitive, by people who never heard 'doing good' preached." + +"We must have names for things, you know," she said. + +"I suppose so, where morality and humanity have to be taught as +Christian duty, and not as common manhood." + +"Tell me," she presently said, "about Sproule, the postmaster." + +"Oh, that? Well, I will. The first time I entered the post-office I saw +there was something on the man's mind. A youth of twenty-three oughtn't +to look as he did--married only a year or two also, with a pretty wife +and child. I used to talk to them a good deal, and one day I said to +him: 'You look seedy; what's the matter?' He flushed, and got nervous. +I made up my mind it was money. If I had been here longer, I should have +taken him aside and talked to him like a father. As it was, things slid +along. I was up in town, and here and there. One evening as I came back +from town I saw a nasty-looking Jew arrive. The little postmaster met +him, and they went away together. He was in the scoundrel's hands; +had been betting, and had borrowed first from the Jew, then from the +Government. The next evening I was just starting down to have a talk +with him, when an official came to my grandfather to swear out a +warrant. I lost no time; got my horse and trap, went down to the office, +gave the boy three minutes to tell me the truth, and then I sent him +away. I fixed it up with the authorities, and the wife and child follow +the youth to America next week. That's all." + +"He deserved to get free, then?" + +"He deserved to be punished, but not as he would have been. There wasn't +really a vicious spot in the man. And the wife and child--what was a +little justice to the possible happiness of those three? Discretion is a +part of justice, and I used it, as it is used every day in business and +judicial life, only we don't see it. When it gets public, why, some +one gets blamed. In this case I was the target; but I don't mind in the +least--not in the least.... Do you think me very startling or lawless?" + +"Never lawless; but one could not be quite sure what you would do in any +particular case." She looked up at him admiringly. + +They had not noticed the approach of Archdeacon Varcoe till he was very +near them. His face was troubled. He had seen how earnest was their +conversation, and for some reason it made him uneasy. The girl saw him +first, and ran to meet him. He saw her bright delighted look, and he +sighed involuntarily. "Something has worried you," she said caressingly. +Then she told him of the accident, and they all turned and went back +towards the Court, Gaston walking his horse. Near the church they met +Sir William and Lady Belward. There were salutations, and presently +Gaston slowly followed his grandfather and grandmother into the +courtyard. + +Sir William, looking back, said to his wife: "Do you think that Gaston +should be told?" + +"No, no, there is no danger. Gaston, my dear, shall marry Delia +Gasgoyne." + +"Shall marry? wherefore 'shall'? Really, I do not see." + +"She likes him, she is quite what we would have her, and he is +interested in her. My dear, I have seen--I have watched for a year." + +He put his hand on hers. + +"My wife, you are a goodly prophet." + +When Archdeacon Varcoe entered his study on returning, he sat down in +a chair, and brooded long. "She must be told," he said at last, aloud. +"Yes, yes, at once. God help us both!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII. WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET + +"Sophie, when you talk with the man, remember that you are near fifty, +and faded. Don't be sentimental." So said Mrs. Gasgoyne to Lady Dargan, +as they saw Gaston coming down the ballroom with Captain Maudsley. + +"Reine, you try one's patience. People would say you were not quite +disinterested." + +"You mean Delia! Now, listen. I haven't any wish but that Gaston Belward +shall see Delia very seldom indeed. He will inherit the property no +doubt, and Sir William told me that he had settled a decent fortune on +him; but for Delia--no--no--no. Strange, isn't it, when Lady Harriet +over there aches for him, Indian blood and all? And why? Because this is +a good property, and the fellow is distinguished and romantic-looking: +but he is impossible--perfectly impossible. Every line of his face says +shipwreck." + +"You are not usually so prophetic." + +"Of course. But I am prophetic now, for Delia is more than interested, +silly chuck! Did you ever read the story of the other Gaston--Sir +Gaston--whom this one resembles? No? Well, you will find it thinly +disguised in The Knight of Five Joys. He was killed at Naseby, my dear; +killed, not by the enemy, but by a page in Rupert's cavalry. The page +was a woman! It's in this one too. Indian and French blood is a sad +tincture. He is not wicked at heart, not at all; but he will do mad +things yet, my dear. For he'll tire of all this, and then--half-mourning +for some one!" + +Gaston enjoyed talking with Mrs. Gasgoyne as to no one else. Other +women often flattered him, she never did. Frankly, crisply, she told him +strange truths, and, without mercy, crumbled his wrong opinions. He had +a sense of humour, and he enjoyed her keen chastening raillery. Besides, +her talk was always an education in the fine lights and shadows of this +social life. He came to her now with a smile, greeted her heartily, and +then turned to Lady Dargan. Captain Maudsley carried off Mrs. Gasgoyne, +and the two were left together--the second time since the evening of +Gaston's arrival, so many months before. Lady Dargan had been abroad, +and was just returned. + +They talked a little on unimportant things, and presently Lady Dargan +said: + +"Pardon my asking, but will you tell me why you wore a red ribbon in +your button-hole the first night you came?" + +He smiled, and then looked at her a little curiously. "My luggage had +not come, and I wore an old suit of my father's." + +Lady Dargan sighed deeply. + +"The last night he was in England he wore that coat at dinner," she +murmured. + +"Pardon me, Lady Dargan--you put that ribbon there?" + +"Yes." + +Her eyes were on him with a candid interest and regard. + +"I suppose," he went on, "that his going was abrupt to you?" + +"Very--very!" she answered. + +She longed to ask if his father ever mentioned her name, but she dared +not. Besides, as she said to herself, to what good now? But she asked +him to tell her something about his father. He did so quietly, picking +out main incidents, and setting them forth, as he had the ability, with +quiet dramatic strength. He had just finished when Delia Gasgoyne came +up with Lord Dargan. + +Presently Lord Dargan asked Gaston if he would bring Lady Dargan to the +other end of the room, where Miss Gasgoyne was to join her mother. As +they went, Lady Dargan said a little breathlessly: + +"Will you do something for me?" + +"I would do much for you," was his reply, for he understood! + +"If ever you need a friend, if ever you are in trouble, will you let me +know? I wish to take an interest in you. Promise me." + +"I cannot promise, Lady Dargan," he answered, "for such trouble as I +have had before I have had to bear alone, and the habit is fixed, I +fear. Still, I am grateful to you just the same, and I shall never +forget it. But will you tell me why people regard me from so tragical a +stand-point?" + +"Do they?" + +"Well, there's yourself, and there's Mrs. Gasgoyne, and there's my uncle +Ian." + +"Perhaps we think you may have trouble because of your uncle Ian." + +Gaston shook his head enigmatically, and then said ironically: + +"As they would put it in the North, Lady Dargan, he'll cut no figure in +that matter. I remember for two." + +"That is right--that is right. Always think that Ian Belward is bad--bad +at heart. He is as fascinating as--" + +"As the Snake?" + +"--as the Snake, and as cruel! It is the cruelty of wicked selfishness. +Somehow, I forget that I am talking to his nephew. But we all know Ian +Belward--at least, all women do." + +"And at least one man does," he answered gravely. The next minute Gaston +walked down the room with Delia Gasgoyne on his arm. The girl delicately +showed her preference, and he was aware of it. It pleased him--pleased +his unconscious egoism. The early part of his life had been spent among +Indian women, half-breeds, and a few dull French or English folk, whose +chief charm was their interest in that wild, free life, now so distant. +He had met Delia many times since his coming; and there was that in +her manner--a fine high-bred quality, a sweet speaking reserve--which +interested him. He saw her as the best product of this convention. + +She was no mere sentimental girl, for she had known at least six +seasons, and had refused at least six lovers. She had a proud mind, not +wide, suited to her position. Most men had flattered her, had yielded to +her; this man, either with art or instinctively, mastered her, secured +her interest by his personality. Every woman worth the having, down in +her heart, loves to be mastered: it gives her a sense of security, and +she likes to lean; for, strong as she may be at times, she is often +singularly weak. She knew that her mother deprecated "that Belward +enigma," but this only sent her on the dangerous way. + +To-night she questioned him about his life, and how he should spend the +summer. Idling in France, he said. And she? She was not sure; but she +thought that she also would be idling about France in her father's +yacht. So they might happen to meet. Meanwhile? Well, meanwhile, there +were people coming to stay at Peppingham, their home. August would see +that over. Then freedom. + +Was it freedom, to get away from all this--from England and rule and +measure? No, she did not mean quite that. She loved the life with all +its rules; she could not live without it. She had been brought up to +expect and to do certain things. She liked her comforts, her luxuries, +many pretty things about her, and days without friction. To travel? Yes, +with all modern comforts, no long stages, a really good maid, and some +fresh interesting books. + +What kind of books? Well, Walter Pater's essays; "The Light of Asia"; +a novel of that wicked man Thomas Hardy; and something light--"The +Innocents Abroad"--with, possibly, a struggle through De Musset, to keep +up her French. + +It did not seem exciting to Gaston, but it did sound honest, and it was +in the picture. He much preferred Meredith, and Swinburne, and Dumas, +and Hugo; but with her he did also like the whimsical Mark Twain. + +He thought of suggestions that Lady Belward had often thrown out; of +those many talks with Sir William, excellent friends as they were, in +which the baronet hinted at the security he would feel if there was +a second family of Belwards. What if he--? He smiled strangely, and +shrank. + +Marriage? There was the touchstone. + +After the dance, when he was taking her to her mother, he saw a pale +intense face looking out to him from a row of others. He smiled, and +the smile that came in return was unlike any he had ever seen Alice +Wingfield wear. He was puzzled. It flashed to him strange pathos, +affection, and entreaty. He took Delia Gasgoyne to her mother, talked to +Lady Belward a little, and then went quietly back to where he had seen +Alice. She was gone. Just then some people from town came to speak to +him, and he was detained. When he was free he searched, but she was +nowhere to be found. He went to Lady Belward. Yes, Miss Wingfield had +gone. Lady Belward looked at Gaston anxiously, and asked him why he was +curious. "Because she's a lonely-looking little maid," he said, "and I +wanted to be kind to her. She didn't seem happy a while ago." + +Lady Belward was reassured. + +"Yes, she is a sweet creature, Gaston," she said, and added: "You are a +good boy to-night, a very good host indeed. It is worth the doing," she +went on, looking out on the guests proudly. "I did not think I should +ever come to it again with any heart, but I do it for you gladly. Now, +away to your duty," she added, tapping his breast affectionately with +her fan, "and when everything is done, come and take me to my room." + +Ian Belward passed Gaston as he went. He had seen the affectionate +passages. + +"'For a good boy!' 'God bless our Home!"' he said, ironically. + +Gaston saw the mark of his hand on his uncle's chin, and he forbore +ironical reply. + +"The home is worth the blessing," he rejoined quietly, and passed on. + +Three hours later the guests had all gone, and Lady Belward, leaning on +her grandson's arm, went to her boudoir, while Ian and his father sought +the library. Ian was going next morning. The conference was not likely +to be cheerful. + +Inside her boudoir, Lady Belward sank into a large chair, and let her +head fall back and her eyes close. She motioned Gaston to a seat. Taking +one near, he waited. After a time she opened her eyes and drew herself +up. + +"My dear," she said, "I wish to talk with you." + +"I shall be very glad; but isn't it late? and aren't you tired, +grandmother?" + +"I shall sleep better after," she responded, gently. She then began +to review the past; her own long unhappiness, Robert's silence, her +uncertainty as to his fate, and the after hopelessness, made greater +by Ian's conduct. In low, kind words she spoke of his coming and the +renewal of her hopes, coupled with fear also that he might not fit in +with his new life, and--she could say it now--do something unbearable. +Well, he had done nothing unworthy of their name; had acted, on the +whole, sensibly; and she had not been greatly surprised at certain +little oddnesses, such as the tent in the grounds, an impossible +deer-hunt, and some unusual village charities and innovations on the +estate. Nor did she object to Brillon, though he had sometimes thrown +servants'-hall into disorder, and had caused the stablemen and the +footmen to fight. His ear-rings and hair were startling, but they were +not important. Gaston had been admired by the hunting-field--of which +they were glad, for it was a test of popularity. She saw that most +people liked him. Lord Dunfolly and Admiral Highburn were enthusiastic. +For her own part, she was proud and grateful. She could enjoy every +grain of comfort he gave them; and she was thankful to make up to +Robert's son what Robert himself had lost--poor boy--poor boy! + +Her feelings were deep, strong, and sincere. Her grandson had come, +strong, individual, considerate, and had moved the tender courses of +her nature. At this moment Gaston had his first deep feeling of +responsibility. + +"My dear," she said at last, "people in our position have important +duties. Here is a large estate. Am I not clear? You will never be quite +part of this life till you bring a wife here. That will give you a sense +of responsibility. You will wake up to many things then. Will you not +marry? There is Delia Gasgoyne. Your grandfather and I would be so glad. +She is worthy in every way, and she likes you. She is a good girl. She +has never frittered her heart away; and she would make you proud of +her." + +She reached out an anxious hand, and touched his shoulder. His eyes were +playing with the pattern of the carpet; but he slowly raised them to +hers, and looked for a moment without speaking. Suddenly, in spite of +himself, he laughed--laughed outright, but not loudly. + +Marriage? Yes, here was the touchstone. Marry a girl whose family had +been notable for hundreds of years? For the moment he did not remember +his own family. This was one of the times when he was only conscious +that he had savage blood, together with a strain of New World French, +and that his life had mostly been a range of adventure and common toil. +This new position was his right, but there were times when it seemed to +him that he was an impostor; others, when he felt himself master of it +all, when he even had a sense of superiority--why he could not tell; +but life in this old land of tradition and history had not its due +picturesqueness. With his grandmother's proposal there shot up in him +the thought that for him this was absurd. He to pace the world beside +this fine queenly creature--Delia Gasgoyne--carrying on the traditions +of the Belwards! Was it, was it possible? + +"Pardon me," he said at last gently, as he saw Lady Belward shrink and +then look curiously at him, "something struck me, and I couldn't help +it." + +"Was what I said at all ludicrous?" + +"Of course not; you said what was natural for you to say, and I thought +what was natural for me to think, at first blush." + +"There is something wrong," she urged fearfully. "Is there any reason +why you cannot marry? Gaston,"--she trembled towards him,--"you have not +deceived us--you are not married?" + +"My wife is dead, as I told you," he answered gravely, musingly. + +"Tell me: there is no woman who has a claim on you?" + +"None that I know of--not one. My follies have not run that way." + +"Thank God! Then there is no reason why you should not marry. Oh, when +I look at you I am proud, I am glad that I live! You bring my youth, my +son back; and I long for a time when I may clasp your child in my arms, +and know that Robert's heritage will go on and on, and that there will +be made up to him, somehow, all that he lost. Listen: I am an old, +crippled, suffering woman; I shall soon have done with all this coming +and going, and I speak to you out of the wisdom of sorrow. Had Robert +married, all would have gone well. He did not: he got into trouble, then +came Ian's hand in it all; and you know the end. I fear for you, I do +indeed. You will have sore temptations. Marry--marry soon, and make us +happy." + +He was quiet enough now. He had seen the grotesque image, now he was +facing the thing behind it. "Would it please you so very much?" he said, +resting a hand gently on hers. + +"I wish to see a child of yours in my arms, dear." + +"And the woman you have chosen is Delia Gasgoyne?" + +"The choice is for you; but you seem to like each other, and we care for +her." + +He sat thinking for a time, then he got up, and said slowly: + +"It shall be so, if Miss Gasgoyne will have me. And I hope it may turn +out as you wish." + +Then he stooped and kissed her on the cheek. The proud woman, who had +unbent little in her lifetime, whose eyes had looked out so coldly on +the world, who felt for her son Ian an almost impossible aversion, drew +down his head and kissed it. + +"Indian and all?" he asked, with a quaint bitterness. + +"Everything, my dear," she answered. "God bless you! Good-night." + +A few moments after, Gaston went to the library. He heard the voices of +Sir William and his uncle. He knocked and entered. Ian, with exaggerated +courtesy, rose. Gaston, with easy coolness, begged him to sit, lit a +cigar, and himself sat. + +"My father has been feeding me with raw truths, Cadet," said his uncle; +"and I've been eating them unseasoned. We have not been, nor are likely +to be, a happy family, unless in your saturnian reign we learn to say, +pax vobiscum--do you know Latin? For I'm told the money-bags and the +stately pile are for you. You are to beget children before the Lord, and +sit in the seat of Justice: 'tis for me to confer honour on you all by +my genius!" + +Gaston sat very still, and, when the speech was ended, said tentatively: + +"Why rob yourself?" + +"In honouring you all?" + +"No, sir; in not yourself having 'a saturnian reign'." + +"You are generous." + +"No: I came here to ask for a home, for what was mine through my father. +I ask, and want, nothing more--not even to beget children before the +Lord!" + +"How mellow the tongue! Well, Cadet, I am not going to quarrel. Here +we are with my father. See, I am willing to be friends. But you mustn't +expect that I will not chasten your proud spirit now and then. That you +need it, this morning bears witness." + +Sir William glanced from one to the other curiously. He was cold and +calm, and looked worn. He had had a trying half-hour with his son, and +it had told on him. + +Gaston at once said to his grandfather: "Of this morning, sir, I will +tell you. I--" + +Ian interrupted him. + +"No, no; that is between us. Let us not worry my father." + +Sir William smiled ironically. + +"Your solicitude is refreshing, Ian." + +"Late fruit is the sweetest, sir." + +Presently Sir William asked Gaston the result of the talk with Lady +Belward. Gaston frankly said that he was ready to do as they wished. Sir +William then said they had chosen this time because Ian was there, and +it was better to have all open and understood. + +Ian laughed. + +"Taming the barbarian! How seriously you all take it. I am the jester +for the King. In the days of the flood I'll bring the olive leaf. You +are all in the wash of sentiment: you'll come to the wicked uncle one +day for common-sense. But, never mind, Cadet; we are to be friends. Yes, +really. I do not fear for my heritage, and you'll need a helping hand +one of these days. Besides, you are an interesting fellow. So, if you +will put up with my acid tongue, there's no reason why we shouldn't hit +it off." + +To Sir William's great astonishment, Ian held out his hand with a genial +smile, which was tolerably honest, for his indulgent nature was as +capable of great geniality as incapable of high moral conceptions. Then, +he had before his eye, "Monmouth" and "The King of Ys." + +Gaston took his hand, and said: "I have no wish to be an enemy." + +Sir William rose, looking at them both. He could not understand Ian's +attitude, and he distrusted. Yet peace was better than war. Ian's truce +was also based on a belief that Gaston would make skittles of things. A +little while afterwards Gaston sat in his room, turning over events +in his mind. Time and again his thoughts returned to the one +thing--marriage. That marriage with his Esquimaux wife had been in one +sense none at all, for the end was sure from the beginning. It was +in keeping with his youth, the circumstances, the life, it had no +responsibilities. But this? To become an integral part of the life--the +English country gentleman; to be reduced, diluted, to the needs of the +convention, and no more? Let him think of the details:--a justice of +the peace: to sit on a board of directors; to be, perhaps, Master of the +Hounds; to unite with the Bishop in restoring the cathedral; to make +an address at the annual flower show. His wife to open bazaars, give +tennis-parties, and be patron to the clergy; himself at last, no doubt, +to go into Parliament; to feel the petty, or serious, responsibilities +of a husband and a landlord. Monotony, extreme decorum, civility to +the world; endless politeness to his wife; with boys at Eton and girls +somewhere else; and the kind of man he must be to do his duty in all and +to all! + +It seemed impossible. He rose and paced the floor. Never till this +moment had the full picture of his new life come close. He felt +stifled. He put on a cap, and, descending the stairs, went out into +the court-yard and walked about, the cool air refreshing him. Gradually +there settled upon him a stoic acceptance of the conditions. But would +it last? + +He stood still and looked at the pile of buildings before him; then he +turned towards the little church close by, whose spire and roof could be +seen above the wall. He waved his hand, as when within it on the day of +his coming, and said with irony: + +"Now for the marriage-linen, Sir Gaston!" + +He heard a low knocking at the gate. He listened. Yes, there was no +mistake. He went to it, and asked quietly: + +"Who is there?" + +There was no reply. Still the knocking went on. He quietly opened the +gate, and threw it back. A figure in white stepped through and slowly +passed him. It was Alice Wingfield. He spoke to her. She did not answer. +He went close to her and saw that she was asleep! + +She was making for the entrance door. He took her hand gently, and led +her into a side door, and on into the ballroom. She moved towards a +window through which the moonlight streamed, and sat on a cushioned +bench beneath it. It was the spot where he had seen her at the dance. +She leaned forward, looking into space, as she did at him then. He moved +and got in her line of vision. + +The picture was weird. She wore a soft white chamber-gown, her hair +hung loose on her shoulders, her pale face cowled it in. The look +was inexpressibly sad. Over her fell dim, coloured lights from the +stained-glass windows; and shadowy ancestors looked silently down from +the armour-hung walls. + +To Gaston, collected as he was, it gave an ominous feeling. Why did she +come here even in her sleep? What did that look mean? He gazed intently +into her eyes. + +All at once her voice came low and broken, and a sob followed the words: + +"Gaston, my brother, my brother!" + +He stood for a moment stunned, gazing helplessly at her passive figure. + +"Gaston, my brother!" he repeated to himself. Then the painful matter +dawned upon him. This girl, the granddaughter of the rector of the +parish, was his father's daughter--his own sister. He had a sudden +spring of new affection--unfelt for those other relations, his by the +rights of the law and the gospel. The pathos of the thing caught him in +the throat--for her how pitiful, how unhappy! He was sure that, somehow, +she had only come to know of it since the afternoon. Then there had been +so different a look in her face! + +One thing was clear: he had no right to this secret, and it must be +for now as if it had never been. He came to her, and took her hand. She +rose. He led her from the room, out into the court-yard, and from there +through the gate into the road. + +All was still. They passed over to the rectory. Just inside the gate, +Gaston saw a figure issue from the house, and come quickly towards them. +It was the rector, excited, anxious. + +Gaston motioned silence, and pointed to her. Then he briefly whispered +how she had come. The clergyman said that he had felt uneasy about her, +had gone to her room, and was just issuing in search of her. Gaston +resigned her, softly advised not waking her, and bade the clergyman +good-night. + +But presently he turned, touched the arm of the old man, and said +meaningly: + +"I know." + +The rector's voice shook as he replied: "You have not spoken to her?" + +"No." + +"You will not speak of it?" + +"No." + +"Unless I should die, and she should wish it?" + +"Always as she wishes." + +They parted, and Gaston returned to the Court. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION + +The next morning Brillon brought a note from Ian Belward, which said +that he was starting, and asked Gaston to be sure and come to Paris. +The note was carelessly friendly. After reading it, he lay thinking. +Presently he chanced to see Jacques look intently at him. + +"Well, Brillon, what is it?" he asked genially. Jacques had come on +better than Gaston had hoped for, but the light play of his nature was +gone--he was grave, almost melancholy; and, in his way, as notable as +his master. Their life in London had changed him much. A valet in St. +James's Street was not a hunting comrade on the Coppermine River. Often +when Jacques was left alone he stood at the window looking out on the +gay traffic, scarcely stirring; his eyes slow, brooding. Occasionally, +standing so, he would make the sacred gesture. One who heard him +swear now and then, in a calm, deliberate way,--at the cook and the +porter,--would have thought the matters in strange contrast. But his +religion was a central habit, followed as mechanically as his appetite +or the folding of his master's clothes. Besides, like most woodsmen, he +was superstitious. Gaston was kind with him, keeping, however, a firm +hand till his manner had become informed by the new duties. Jacques's +greatest pleasure was his early morning visits to the stables. Here were +Saracen and Jim the broncho-sleek, savage, playful. But he touched the +highest point of his London experience when they rode in the Park. + +In this Gaston remained singular. He rode always with Jacques. Perhaps +he wished to preserve one possible relic of the old life, perhaps he +liked this touch of drama; or both. It created notice, criticism, but +he was superior to that. Time and again people asked him to ride, but +he always pleaded another engagement. He would then be seen with Jacques +plus Jacques's earrings and the wonderful hair, riding grandly in the +Row. Jacques's eyes sparkled and a snatch of song came to his lips at +these times. + +No figures in the Park were so striking. There was nothing bizarre, +but Gaston had a distinguished look, and women who had felt his hand at +their waists in the dance the night before, now knew him, somehow, at a +grave distance. Though Gaston did not say it to himself, these were the +hours when he really was with the old life--lived it again--prairie, +savannah, ice-plain, alkali desert. When, dismounting, the horses were +taken and they went up the stairs, Gaston would softly lay his whip +across Jacques's shoulders without speaking. This was their only ritual +of camaraderie, and neglect of it would have fretted the half-breed. +Never had man such a servant. No matter at what hour Gaston returned, he +found Jacques waiting; and when he woke he found him ready, as now, on +this morning, after a strange night. + +"What is it, Jacques?" he repeated. + +The old name! Jacques shivered a little with pleasure. Presently he +broke out with: + +"Monsieur, when do we go back?" + +"Go back where?" + +"To the North, monsieur." + +"What's in your noddle now, Brillon?" + +The impatient return to "Brillon" cut Jacques like a whip. + +"Monsieur," he suddenly said, his face glowing, his hands opening +nervously, "we have eat, we have drunk, we have had the dance and the +great music here: is it enough? Sometimes as you sleep you call out, and +you toss to the strokes of the tower-clock. When we lie on the Plains of +Yath from sunset to sunrise, you never stir then. You remember when we +sleep on the ledge of the Voshti mountain--so narrow that we were tied +together? Well, we were as babes in blankets. In the Prairie of the Ten +Stars your fingers were on the trigger firm as a bolt; here I have watch +them shake with the coffee-cup. Monsieur, you have seen: is it enough? +You have lived here: is it like the old lodge and the long trail?" + +Gaston sat up in bed, looked in the mirror opposite, ran his fingers +through his hair, regarded his hands, turning them over, and then, with +sharp impatience, said: + +"Go to hell!" + +The little man's face flushed to his hair; he sucked in the air with +a gasp. Without a word, he went to the dressing-table, poured out the +shaving-water, threw a towel over his arm, and turned to come to the +bed; but, all at once, he sidled back, put down the water, and furtively +drew a sleeve across his eyes. + +Gaston saw, and something suddenly burned in him. He dropped his eyes, +slid out of bed, into his dressing-gown, and sat down. + +Jacques made ready. He was not prepared to have Gaston catch him by the +shoulders with a nervous grip, search his eyes, and say: + +"You damned little fool, I'm not worth it!" Jacques's face shone. + +"Every great man has his fool--alors!" was the happy reply. + +"Jacques," Gaston presently said, "what's on your mind?" + +"I saw--last night, monsieur," he said. + +"You saw what?" + +"I saw you in the court-yard with the lady." Gaston was now very grave. + +"Did you recognise her?" + +"No: she moved all as a spirit." + +"Jacques, that matter is between you and me. I'm going to tell you, +though, two things; and--where's your string of beads?" + +Jacques drew out his rosary. + +"That's all right. Mum as Manitou! She was asleep; she is my sister. And +that is all, till there's need for you to know more." + +In this new confidence Jacques was content. The life was a gilded mess, +but he could endure it now. Three days passed. During that time Gaston +was up to town twice; lunched at Lady Dargan's, and dined at Lord +Dunfolly's. For his grandfather, who was indisposed, he was induced +to preside at a political meeting in the interest of a wealthy local +brewer, who confidently expected the seat, and, through gifts to the +party, a knighthood. Before the meeting, in the gush of--as he put it +"kindred aims," he laid a finger familiarly in Gaston's button-hole. +Jacques, who was present, smiled, for he knew every change in his +master's face, and he saw a glitter in his eye. He remembered when they +two were in trouble with a gang of river-drivers, and one did this +same thing rudely: how Gaston looked down, and said, with a devilish +softness: "Take it away." And immediately after the man did so. + +Mr. Sylvester Gregory Babbs, in a similar position, heard a voice say +down at him, with a curious obliqueness: + +"If you please!" + +The keenest edge of it was lost on the flaring brewer, but his fingers +dropped, and he twisted his heavy watchchain uneasily. The meeting +began. Gaston in a few formal words, unconventional in idea, introduced +Mr. Babbs as "a gentleman whose name was a household word in the county, +who would carry into Parliament the civic responsibility shown in his +private life, who would render his party a support likely to fulfil its +purpose." + +When he sat down, Captain Maudsley said: "That's a trifle vague, +Belward." + +"How can one treat him with importance?" + +"He's the sort that makes a noise one way or another." + +"Yes. Obituary: 'At his residence in Babbslow Square, yesterday, Sir S. +G. Babbs, M. P., member of the London County Council. Sir S. G. Babbs, +it will be remembered, gave L100,000 to build a home for the propagation +of Vice, and--'" + +"That's droll!" + +"Why not Vice? 'Twould be just the same in his mind. He doesn't give +from a sense of moral duty. Not he; he's a bungowawen!" + +"What is that?" + +"That's Indian. You buy a lot of Indian or halfbreed loafers with +beaver-skins and rum, go to the Mount of the Burning Arrows, and these +fellows dance round you and call you one of the lost race, the Mighty +Men of the Kimash Hills. And they'll do that while the rum lasts. +Meanwhile you get to think yourself a devil of a swell--you and the +gods!... And now we had better listen to this bungowawen, hadn't we?" + +The room was full, and on the platform were gentlemen come to support +Sir William Belward. They were interested to see how Gaston would carry +it off. + +Mr. Babbs's speech was like a thousand others by the same kind of man. +More speeches--some opposing--followed, and at last came the chairman to +close the meeting. He addressed himself chiefly to a bunch of farmers, +artisans, and labouring-men near. After some good-natured raillery at +political meetings in general, the bigotry of party, the difficulty in +getting the wheat from the chaff, and some incisive thrusts at those +who promised the moon and gave a green cheese, who spent their time in +berating their opponents, he said: + +"There's a game that sailors play on board ship--men-o'-war and +sailing-ships mostly. I never could quite understand it, nor could any +officers ever tell me--the fo'castle for the men and the quarter-deck +for the officers, and what's English to one is Greek to the other. Well, +this was all I could see in the game. They sat about, sometimes talking, +sometimes not. All at once a chap would rise and say, 'Allow me to +speak, me noble lord,' and follow this by hitting some one of the party +wherever the blow got in easiest--on the head, anywhere! [Laughter.] +Then he would sit down seriously, and someone else spoke to his noble +lordship. Nobody got angry at the knocks, and Heaven only knows what +it was all about. That is much the way with politics, when it is played +fair. But here is what I want particularly to say: We are not all born +the same, nor can we live the same. One man is born a brute, and another +a good sort; one a liar, and one an honest man; one has brains, and the +other hasn't. Now, I've lived where, as they say, one man is as good +as another. But he isn't, there or here. A weak man can't run with a +strong. We have heard to-night a lot of talk for something and against +something. It is over. Are you sure you have got what was meant clear in +your mind? [Laughter, and 'Blowed if we'ave!'] Very well; do not worry +about that. We have been playing a game of 'Allow me to speak, me noble +lord!' And who is going to help you to get the most out of your country +and your life isn't easy to know. But we can get hold of a few clear +ideas, and measure things against them. I know and have talked with a +good many of you here ['That's so! That's so!'], and you know my ideas +pretty well--that they are honest at least, and that I have seen the +countries where freedom is 'on the job,' as they say. Now, don't put +your faith in men and in a party that cry, 'We will make all things +new,' to the tune of, 'We are a band of brothers.' Trust in one that +says, 'You cannot undo the centuries. Take off the roof, remove a wall, +let in the air, throw out a wing, but leave the old foundations.' And +that is the real difference between the other party and mine; and these +political games of ours come to that chiefly." + +Presently he called for the hands of the meeting. They were given for +Mr. Babbs. + +Suddenly a man's strong, arid voice came from the crowd: + +"'Allow me to speak, me noble lord!' [Great laughter. Then a pause.] +Where's my old chum, Jock Lawson?" + +The audience stilled. Gaston's face went grave. He replied, in a firm, +clear voice. + +"In Heaven, my man. You'll never see him more." There was silence for a +moment, a murmur, then a faint burst of applause. Presently John Cawley, +the landlord of "The Whisk o' Barley," made towards Gaston. Gaston +greeted him, and inquired after his wife. He was told that she was very +ill, and had sent her husband to beg Gaston to come. Gaston had dreaded +this hour, though he knew it would come one day. A woman on a death-bed +has a right to ask for and get the truth. He had forborne telling her of +her son; and she, whenever she had seen him, had contented herself with +asking general questions, dreading in her heart that Jock had died a +dreadful or shameful death, or else this gentleman would, voluntarily, +say more. But, herself on her way out of the world, as she feared, +wished the truth, whatever it might be. + +Gaston told Cawley that he would drive over at once, and then asked who +it was had called out at him. A drunken, poaching fellow, he was told, +who in all the years since Jock had gone, had never passed the inn +without stopping to say: "Where's my old chum, Jock Lawson?" In the past +he and Jock had been in more than one scrape together. He had learned +from Mrs. Cawley that Gaston had known Jock in Canada. + +When Cawley had gone, Gaston turned to the other gentlemen present. + +"An original speech, upon my word, Belward," said Captain Maudsley. + +Mr. Warren Gasgoyne came. + +"You are expected to lunch or something to-morrow, Belward, you +remember? Devil of a speech that! But, if you will 'allow me to speak, +me noble lord,' you are the rankest Conservative of us all." + +"Don't you know that the easiest constitutional step is from a republic +to an autocracy, and vice versa?" + +"I don't know it, and I don't know how you do it." + +"Do what?" + +"Make them think as you do." + +He waved his hand to the departing crowd. + +"I don't. I try to think as they do. I am always in touch with the +primitive mind." + +"You ought to do great things here, Belward," said the other seriously. +"You have the trick; and we need wisdom at Westminster." + +"Don't be mistaken; I am only adaptable. There's frank confession." + +At this point Mr. Babbs came up and said good-night in a large, +self-conscious way. Gaston hoped that his campaign would not be wasted, +and the fluffy gentleman retired. When he got out of earshot in +the shadows, he turned and shook his fist towards Gaston, saying: +"Half-breed upstart!" Then he refreshed his spirits by swearing at his +coachman. + +Gaston and Jacques drove quickly over to "The Whisk o' Barley." Gaston +was now intent to tell the whole truth. He wished that he had done it +before; but his motives had been good--it was not to save himself. Yet +he shrank. Presently he thought: + +"What is the matter with me? Before I came here, if I had an idea I +stuck to it, and didn't have any nonsense when I knew I was right. I am +getting sensitive--the thing I find everywhere in this country: fear of +feeling or giving pain; as though the bad tooth out isn't better than +the bad tooth in. When I really get sentimental I'll fold my Arab +tent--so help me, ye seventy Gods of Yath!" + +A little while after he was at Mrs. Cawley's bed, the landlord handing +him a glass of hot grog, Jock's mother eyeing him feverishly from the +quilt. Gaston quietly felt her wrist, counting the pulse-beats; then +told Cawley to wet a cloth and hand it to him. He put it gently on the +woman's head. The eyes of the woman followed him anxiously. He sat +down again, and in response to her questioning gaze, began the story of +Jock's life as he knew it. + +Cawley stood leaning on the foot-board; the woman's face was cowled +in the quilt with hungry eyes; and Gaston's voice went on in a low +monotone, to the ticking of the great clock in the next room. Gaston +watched her face, and there came to him like an inspiration little +things Jock did, which would mean more to his mother than large +adventures. Her lips moved now and again, even a smile flickered. At +last Gaston came to his father's own death and the years that followed; +then the events in Labrador. + +He approached this with unusual delicacy: it needed bravery to look into +the mother's eyes, and tell the story. He did not know how dramatically +he told it--how he etched it without a waste word. When he came to that +scene in the Fort, the three men sitting, targets for his bullets,--he +softened the details greatly. He did not tell it as he told it at the +Court, but the simpler, sparser language made it tragically clear. There +was no sound from the bed, none from the foot-board, but he heard a door +open and shut without, and footsteps somewhere near. + +How he put the body in the tree, and prayed over it and left it there, +was all told; and then he paused. He turned a little sick as he saw the +white face before him. She drew herself up, her fingers caught away +the night-dress at her throat; she stared hard at him for a moment, and +then, with a wild, moaning voice, cried out: + +"You killed my boy! You killed my boy! You killed my boy!" + +Gaston was about to take her hand, when he heard a shuffle and a rush +behind him. He rose, turned swiftly, saw a bottle swinging, threw up his +hand... and fell backwards against the bed. + +The woman caught his bleeding head to her breast and hugged it. + +"My Jock, my poor boy!" she cried in delirium now. Cawley had thrown his +arms about the struggling, drunken assailant--Jock's poaching friend. + +The mother now called out to the pinioned man, as she had done to +Gaston: + +"You have killed my boy!" She kissed Gaston's bloody face. + +A messenger was soon on the way to Ridley Court, and in a little upper +room Jacques was caring for his master. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. HE FINDS NEW SPONSORS + +Gaston lay for many days at "The Whisk o' Barley." During that time the +inn was not open to customers. The woman also for two days hung at +the point of death, and then rallied. She remembered the events of the +painful night, and often asked after Gaston. Somehow, her horror of her +son's death at his hands was met by the injury done him now. She vaguely +felt that there had been justice and punishment. She knew that in the +room at Labrador Gaston Belward had been scarcely less mad than her son. + +Gaston, as soon as he became conscious, said that his assailant must be +got out of the way of the police, and to that end bade Jacques send for +Mr. Warren Gasgoyne. Mr. Gasgoyne and Sir William arrived at the same +time, but Gaston was unconscious again. Jacques, however, told them +what his master's wishes were, and they were carried out; Jock's friend +secretly left England forever. Sir William and Mr. Gasgoyne got the +whole tale from the landlord, whom they asked to say nothing publicly. + +Lady Belward drove down each day, and sat beside him for a couple of +hours-silent, solicitous, smoothing his pillow or his wasting hand. The +brain had been injured, and recovery could not be immediate. Hovey the +housekeeper had so begged to be installed as nurse, that her wish was +granted, and she was with him night and day. Now she shook her head at +him sadly, now talked in broken sentences to herself, now bustled about +silently, a tyrant to the other servants sent down from the Court. +Every day also the headgroom and the huntsman came, and in the village +Gaston's humble friends discussed the mystery, stoutly defending him +when some one said it was "more nor gabble, that theer saying o' the +poacher at the meetin.'" + +But the landlord and his wife kept silence, the officers of the law took +no action, and the town and country newspapers could do no more than +speak of "A vicious assault upon the heir of Ridley Court." It had +become the custom now to leave Ian out of that question. But the wonder +died as all wonders do, and Gaston made his fight for health. + +The day before he was removed to the Court, Mrs. Cawley was helped +up-stairs to see him. She was gaunt and hollow-eyed. Lady Belward and +Mrs. Gasgoyne were present. The woman made her respects, and then stood +at Gaston's bedside. He looked up with a painful smile. + +"Do you forgive me?" he asked. "I've almost paid!" + +He touched his bandaged head. + +"It ain't for mothers to forgi'e the thing," she replied, in a steady +voice, "but I can forgi'e the man. 'Twere done i' madness--there beant +the will workin' i' such. 'Twere a comfort that he'd a prayin' over un." + +Gaston took the gnarled fingers in his. It had never struck him +how dreadful a thing it was--so used had he been to death in many +forms--till he had told the story to this mother. + +"Mrs. Cawley," he said, "I can't make up to you what Jock would have +been; but I can do for you in one way as much as Jock. This house is +yours from to-day." + +He drew a deed from the coverlet, and handed it to her. He had got it +from Sir William that morning. The poor and the crude in mind can only +understand an objective emotion, and the counters for these are this +world's goods. Here was a balm in Gilead. The love of her child was +real, but the consolation was so practical to Mrs. Cawley that the lips +which might have cursed, said: + +"Ah, sir, the wind do be fittin' the shore lamb! I' the last Judgen, +I'll no speak agen 'ee. I be sore fretted harm come to 'ee." + +At this Mrs. Gasgoyne rose, and in her bustling way dismissed the +grateful peasant, who fondled the deed and called eagerly down the +stairs to her husband as she went. + +Mrs. Gasgoyne then came back, sat down, and said: "Now you needn't fret +about that any longer--barbarian!" she added, shaking a finger. "Didn't +I say that you would get into trouble? that you would set the country +talking? Here you were, in the dead of night, telling ghost stories, and +raking up your sins, with no cause whatever, instead of in your bed. You +were to have lunched with us the next day--I had asked Lady Harriet to +meet you, too!--and you didn't; and you have wretched patches where +your hair ought to be. How can you promise that you'll not make a madder +sensation some day?" + +Gaston smiled up at her. Her fresh honesty, under the guise of banter, +was always grateful to him. He shook his head, smiled, and said nothing. + +She went on. + +"I want a promise that you will do what your godfather and godmother +will swear for you." + +She acted on him like wine. + +"Of course, anything. Who are my godfather and godmother?" + +She looked him steadily, warmly in the eyes: "Warren and myself." + +Now he understood: his promise to his grandmother and grandfather. So, +they had spoken! He was sure that Mrs. Gasgoyne had objected. He +knew that behind her playful treatment of the subject there was real +scepticism of himself. It put him on his mettle, and yet he knew she +read him deeper than any one else, and flattered him least. + +He put out his hand, and took hers. + +"You take large responsibilities," he said, "but I will try and justify +you--honestly, yes." + +In her hearty way, she kissed him on the cheek. "There," she responded, +"if you and Delia do make up your minds, see that you treat her +well. And you are to come, just as soon as you are able, to stay at +Peppingham. Delia, silly child, is anxious, and can't see why she +mustn't call with me now." + +In his room at the Court that night, Gaston inquired of Jacques about +Alice Wingfield, and was told that on the day of the accident she had +left with her grandfather for the Continent. He was not sorry. For his +own sake he could have wished an understanding between them. But now he +was on the way to marriage, and it was as well that there should be no +new situations. The girl could not wish the thing known. There would +be left him, in this case, to befriend her should it ever be needed. He +remembered the spring of pleasure he felt when he first saw other faces +like his father's--his grandfather's, his grandmother's. But this +girl's was so different to him; having the tragedy of the lawless, that +unconscious suffering stamped by the mother upon the child. There was, +however, nothing to be done. He must wait. + +Two days later Lady Dargan called to inquire after him. He was lying in +his study with a book, and Lady Belward sent to ask him if he would care +to see her and Lord Dargan's nephew, Cluny Vosse. Lady Belward did not +come; Sir William brought them. Lady Dargan came softly to him, smiled +more with her eyes than her lips, and told him how sorry she had been to +hear of his illness. Some months before Gaston had met Cluny Vosse, +who at once was his admirer. Gaston liked the youth. He was fresh, +high-minded, extravagant, idle; but he had no vices, and no particular +vanity save for his personal appearance. His face was ever radiant +with health, shining with satisfaction. People liked him, and did not +discount it by saying that he had nothing in him. Gaston liked him most +because he was so wholly himself, without guile, beautifully honest. + +Now Cluny sat down, tapped the crown of his hat, looked at him cheerily, +and said: + +"Got in a cracker, didn't he?" + +Gaston nodded, amused. + +"The fellows at Brooke's had a talkee-talkee, and they'd twenty +different stories. Of course it was rot. We were all cut up though +and hoped you'd pull through. Of course there couldn't be any doubt of +that--you've been through too many, eh?" + +Cluny always assumed that Gaston had had numberless tragical adventures +which, if told, must make Dumas turn in his grave with envy. + +Gaston smiled, and laid a hand upon the other's knee. "I'm not +shell-proof, Vosse, and it was rather a narrow squeak, I'm told. But I'm +kept, you see, for a worse fate and a sadder." + +"I say, Belward, you don't mean that! Your eyes go so queer sometimes, +that a chap doesn't know what to think. You ought to live to a hundred. +You'll have to. You've got it all--" + +"Oh no, my boy, I haven't got anything." He waved his hand pleasantly +towards his grandfather. "I'm on the knees of the gods merely." + +Cluny turned on Sir William. + +"It isn't any secret, is it, sir? He gets the lot, doesn't he?" + +Sir William's occasional smile came. + +"I fancy there's some condition about the plate, the pictures, and the +title; but I do not suppose that matters meanwhile." + +He spoke half-musingly and with a little unconscious irony, and the boy, +vaguely knowing that there was a cross-current somewhere, drifted. + +"No, of course not; he can have fun enough without them, can't he?" + +Lady Dargan here soothingly broke in, inquiring about Gaston's illness, +and showing a tactful concern. But the nephew persisted: + +"I say, Belward, Aunt Sophie was cut up no end when she heard of it. She +wouldn't go out to dinner that night at Lord Dunfolly's, and, of course, +I didn't go. And I wanted to; for Delia Gasgoyne was to be there, and +she's ripping." + +Lady Dargan, in spite of herself, blushed, but without confusion, and +Gaston adroitly led the conversation otherwhere. Presently she said that +they were to be at their villa in France during the late summer, and if +he chanced to be abroad would he come? He said that he intended to visit +his uncle in Paris, but that afterwards he would be glad to visit them +for a short time. + +She looked astonished. "With your uncle Ian!" + +"Yes. He is to show me art-life, and all that." + +She looked troubled. He saw that she wished to say something. + +"Yes, Lady Dargan?" he asked. + +She spoke with fluttering seriousness. + +"I asked you once to come to me if you ever needed a friend. I do not +wait for that. I ask you not to go to your uncle." + +"Why?" + +He was thinking that, despite social artifice and worldliness, she was +sentimental. + +"Because there will be trouble. I can see it. You may trust a woman's +instinct; and I know that man!" He did not reply at once, but presently +said: + +"I fancy I must keep my promise." + +"What is the book you are reading?" she said, changing the subject, for +Sir William was listening. + +He opened it, and smiled musingly. + +"It is called Affairs of Some Consequence in the Reign of Charles I. +In reading it I seemed to feel that it was incorrect, and my mind +kept wandering away into patches of things--incidents, scenes, bits +of talk--as I fancied they really were, not apocryphal or 'edited' as +here." + +"I say," said Cluny, "that's rum, isn't it?" + +"For instance," Gaston continued, "this tale of King Charles and +Buckingham." He read it. "Now here is the scene as I picture it." In +quick elliptical phrases he gave the tale from a different stand-point. + +Sir William stared curiously at Gaston, then felt for some keys in his +pocket. He got up and rang the bell. Gaston was still talking. He gave +the keys to Falby with a whispered word. In a few moments Falby placed a +small leather box beside Sir William, and retired at a nod. Sir William +presently said: "Where did you read those things?" + +"I do not know that I ever read them." + +"Did your father tell you them?" + +"I do not remember so, though he may have." + +"Did you ever see this box?" + +"Never before." + +"You do not know what is in it?" + +"Not in the least." + +"And you have never seen this key?" + +"Not to my knowledge." + +"It is very strange." He opened the box. "Now, here are private papers +of Sir Gaston Belward, more than two hundred years old, found almost +fifty years ago by myself in the office of our family solicitor. +Listen." + +He then began to read from the faded manuscript. A mysterious feeling +pervaded the room. Once or twice Cluny gave a dry nervous kind of laugh. +Much of what Gaston had said was here in stately old-fashioned language. +At a certain point the MS. ran: + +"I drew back and said, 'As your grace will have it, then--"' + +Here Gaston came to a sitting posture, and interrupted. + +"Wait, wait!" + +He rose, caught one of two swords that were crossed on the wall, and +stood out. + +"This is how it was. 'As your grace will have it, then, to no waste +of time!' We fell to. First he came carefully and made strange feints, +learned at King Louis's Court, to try my temper. But I had had these +tricks of my cousin Secord, and I returned his sport upon him. Then he +came swiftly, and forced me back upon the garden wall. I gave to him +foot by foot, for he was uncommon swift and dexterous. He pinched me +sorely once under the knee, and I returned him one upon the wrist, which +sent a devilish fire into his eyes. At that his play became so delicate +and confusing that I felt I should go dizzy if it stayed; so I tried the +one great trick cousin Secord taught me, making to run him through, as +a last effort. The thing went wrong, but checking off my blunder he +blundered too,--out of sheer wonder, perhaps, at my bungling,--and I +disarmed him. So droll was it that I laughed outright, and he, as quick +in humour as in temper, stood hand on hip, and presently came to a +smile. With that my cousin Secord cried: 'The king! the king!' I got me +up quickly--" + +Here Gaston, who had in a kind of dream acted the whole scene, swayed +with faintness, and Cluny caught him, saving him from a fall. Cluny's +colour was all gone. Lady Dargan had sat dazed, and Sir William's face +was anxious, puzzled. + +A few hours later Sir William was alone with Gaston, who was recovered +and cool. + +"Gaston," he said, "I really do not understand this faculty of memory, +or whatever it is. Have you any idea how you come by it?" + +"Have we any idea how life comes and goes, sir?" + +"I confess not. I confess not, really." + +"Well, I'm in the dark about it too; but I sometimes fancy that I'm +mixed up with that other Gaston." + +"It sounds fantastic." + +"It is fantastic. Now, here is this manuscript, and here is a letter I +wrote this morning. Put them together." + +Sir William did so. + +"The handwriting is singularly like." + +"Well," continued Gaston, smiling whimsically, "suppose that I am Sir +Gaston Belward, Baronet, who is thought to lie in the church yonder, the +title is mine, isn't it?" + +Sir William smiled also. + +"The evidence is scarce enough to establish succession." + +"But there would be no succession. A previous holder of the title isn't +dead: ergo, the present holder, has no right." + +Gaston had shaded his eyes with his hand, and he was watching Sir +William's face closely, out of curiosity chiefly. Sir William regarded +the thing with hesitating humour. + +"Well, well, suppose so. The property was in the hands of a younger +branch of the family then. There was no entail, as now." + +"Wasn't there?" said Gaston enigmatically. + +He was thinking of some phrases in a manuscript which he had found in +this box. + +"Perhaps where these papers came from there are others," he added. + +Sir William lifted his eyebrows ironically. "I hardly think so." + +Gaston laughed, not wishing him to take the thing at all seriously. He +continued airily: + +"It would be amusing if the property went with the title after all, +wouldn't it, sir?" + +Sir William got to his feet and said testily: "That should never be +while I lived!" + +"Of course not, sir." + +Sir William saw the bull, and laughed, heartily for him. + +They bade each other good-night. + +"I'll have a look in the solicitor's office all the same," said Gaston +to himself. + + + + +CHAPTER X. HE COMES TO "THE WAKING OF THE FIRE" + +A few days afterwards Gaston joined a small party at Peppingham. Without +any accent life was made easy for him. He was alone much, and yet, to +himself, he seemed to have enough of company. + +The situation did not impose itself conspicuously. Delia gave him no +especial reason to be vain. She had not an exceeding wit, but she had +charm, and her talk was interesting to Gaston, who had come, for the +first time, into somewhat intimate relations with an English girl. He +was struck with her conventional delicacy and honour on one side, and +the limitation of her ideas on the other. But with it all she had some +slight touch of temperament which lifted her from the usual level. And +just now her sprightliness was more marked than it had ever been. + +Her great hour seemed come to her. She knew that there had been talk +among the elders, and what was meant by Gaston's visit. Still, they were +not much alone together. Gaston saw her mostly with others. Even a woman +with a tender strain for a man knows what will serve for her ascendancy: +the graciousness of her disposition, the occasional flash of her +mother's temper, and her sense of being superior to a situation--the +gift of every well-bred English girl. + +Cluny Vosse was also at the house, and his devotion was divided between +Delia and Gaston. Cluny was a great favourite, and Agatha Gasgoyne, who +had a wild sense of humour, egged him on with her sister, which gave +Delia enough to do. At last Cluny, in a burst of confidence, declared +that he meant to propose to Delia. Agatha then became serious, and said +that Delia was at least four years older than himself, that he was just +her--Agatha's--age, and that the other match would be very unsuitable. +This put Cluny on Delia's defence, and he praised her youth, and hinted +at his own elderliness. He had lived, he had seen It (Cluny called the +world and all therein "It"), he was aged; he was in the large eye of +experience; he had outlived the vices and the virtues of his time, +which, told in his own naive staccato phrases, made Agatha hug herself. +She advised him to go and ask Mr. Belward's advice; begged him not to +act until he had done so. And Cluny, who was blind as a bat when a woman +mocked him, went to Gaston and said: + +"See, old chap,--I know you don't mind my calling you that--I've come +for advice. Agatha said I'd better. A fellow comes to a time when he +says, 'Here, I want a shop of my own,' doesn't he? He's seen It, he's +had It all colours, he's ready for family duties, and the rest. That's +so, isn't it?" + +Gaston choked back a laugh, and, purposely putting himself on the wrong +scent, said: + +"And does Agatha agree?" + +"Agatha? Come, Belward, that youngster! Agatha's only in on a +sisterly-brotherly basis. Now, see I've got a little load of L s. d., +and I'm to get more, especially if Uncle Dick keeps on thinking I am +artless. Well, why shouldn't I marry?" + +"No reason against it, if husband and father in you yearn for bibs and +petticoats." + +"I say, Belward, don't laugh!" + +"I never was more serious. Who is the girl?" + +"She looks up to you as I do-of course that's natural; and if it comes +off, no one'll have a jollier corner chez nous. It's Delia." + +"Delia? Delia who?" + +"Why, Delia Gasgoyne. I haven't done the thing quite regular, I know. I +ought to have gone to her people first; but they know all about me, +and so does Delia, and I'm on the spot, and it wouldn't look well to be +taking advantage of that with her father and mother-they'd feel bound to +be hospitable. So I've just gone on my own tack, and I've come to Agatha +and you. Agatha said to ask you if I'd better speak to Delia now." + +"My dear Cluny, are you very much in love?" + +"That sounds religious, doesn't it--a kind of Nonconformist business? I +think she's the very finest. A fellow'd hold himself up, 'd be a deuce +of a swell--and, hang it all, I hate breakfasting alone!" + +"Yes, yes, Cluny; but what about a pew in church, with regular +attendance, and a justice of the peace, and little Cluny Vosses on the +carpet?" + +Cluny's face went crimson. + +"I say, Belward, I've seen It all, of course; I know It backwards, and +I'm not squeamish, but that sounds--flippant-that, with her." + +Gaston reached out and caught the boy's shoulder. "Don't do it, Cluny. +Spare yourself. It couldn't come off. Agatha knows that, I fancy. She is +a little sportsman. I might let you go and speak; but I think my chances +are better than yours, Cluny. Hadn't you better let me try first? Then, +if I fail, your chances are still the same, eh?" + +Cluny gasped. His warm face went pale, then shot to purple, and finally +settled into a grey ruddiness. "Belward," he said at last, "I didn't +know; upon my soul, I didn't know, or I'd have cut off my head first." + +"My dear Cluny, you shall have your chance; but let me go first, I'm +older." + +"Belward, don't take me for a fool. Why, my trying what you go to do is +like--is like--" + +Cluny's similes failed to come. + +"Like a fox and a deer on the same trail?" + +"I don't understand that. Like a yeomanry steeplechase to Sandown--is +that it? Belward, I'm sorry. Playing it so low on a chap you like!" + +"Don't say a word, Cluny; and, believe me, you haven't yet seen all of +It. There's plenty of time. When you really have had It, you will learn +to say of a woman, not that she's the very finest, and that you hate +breakfasting alone, but something that'll turn your hair white, or keep +you looking forty when you're sixty." + +That evening Gaston dressed with unusual care. When he entered the +drawing-room, he looked as handsome as a man need in this world. +His illness had refined his features and form, and touched off his +cheerfulness with a fine melancholy. Delia glowed as she saw the +admiring glances sent his way, but burned with anger when she also saw +that he was to take in Lady Gravesend to dinner; for Lady Gravesend +had spoken slightingly of Gaston--had, indeed, referred to his "nigger +blood!" And now her mother had sent her in to dinner on his arm, she +affable, too affable by a great deal. Had she heard the dry and subtle +suggestion of Gaston's talk, she would, however, have justified her +mother. + +About half past nine Delia was in the doorway, talking to one of the +guests, who, at the call of some one else, suddenly left her. She heard +a voice behind her. "Will you not sing?" + +She thrilled, and turned to say: "What shall I sing, Mr. Belward?" + +"The song I taught you the other day--'The Waking of the Fire.'" + +"But I've never sung it before anybody." + +"Do I not count?--But, there, that's unfair! Believe me, you sing it +very well." + +She lifted her eyes to his: + +"You do not pay compliments, and I believe you. Your 'very well' means +much. If you say so, I will do my best." + +"I say so. You are amenable. Is that your mood to-night?" He smiled +brightly. + +Her eyes flashed with a sweet malice. + +"I am not at all sure. It depends on how your command to sing is +justified." + +"You cannot help but sing well." + +"Why?" + +"Because I will help you--make you." + +This startled her ever so little. Was there some fibre of cruelty in +him, some evil in this influence he had over her? She shrank, and yet +again she said that she would rather have his cruelty than another man's +tenderness, so long as she knew that she had his--She paused, and did +not say the word. She met his eyes steadily--their concentration dazed +her--then she said almost coldly, her voice sounding far away: + +"How, make me?" + +"How fine, how proud!" he said to himself, then added: + +"I meant 'make' in the helpful sense. I know the song: I've heard it +sung, I've sung it; I've taught you; my mind will act on yours, and you +will sing it well." + +"Won't you sing it yourself? Do, please." + +"No; to-night I wish to hear you." + +"Why?" + +"I will tell you later. Can you play the accompaniment? If not, I--" + +"Oh, will you? I could sing it then, I think. You played it so +beautifully the other day--with all those strange chords." + +He smiled. + +"It is one of the few things that I can play. I always had a taste +for music; and up in one of the forts there was an old melodeon, so I +hammered away for years. I had to learn difficult things at the start, +or none at all, or else those I improvised; and that's how I can play +one or two of Beethoven's symphonies pretty well, and this song, and a +few others, and go a cropper with a waltz. Will you come?" + +They moved to the piano. No one at first noticed them. When he sat down, +he said: + +"You remember the words?" + +"Yes, I learned them by heart." + +"Good!" + +He gently struck the chords. His gentleness had, however, a firmness, +a deep persuasiveness, which drew every face like a call. A few chords +waving, as it were, over the piano, and then he whispered: + +"Now." + +"Please go on for a minute longer," she begged. + +"My throat feels dry all at once." + +"Face away from the rest, towards me," he said gently. + +She did so. His voice took a note softly, and held it. Presently her +voice as softly joined it, his stopped, and hers went on: + + "In the lodge of the Mother of Men, + In the land of Desire, + Are the embers of fire, + Are the ashes of those who return, + Who return to the world: + Who flame at the breath + Of the Mockers of Death. + O Sweet, we will voyage again + To the camp of Love's fire, + Nevermore to return!" + +"How am I doing?" she said at the end of this verse. She really did +not know--her voice seemed an endless distance away. But she felt the +stillness in the drawing-room. + +"Well," he said. "Now for the other. Don't be afraid; let your voice, +let yourself, go." + +"I can't let myself go." + +"Yes, you can: just swim with the music." + +She did swim with it. Never before had Peppingham drawing-room heard a +song like this; never before, never after, did any of Delia Gasgoyne's +friends hear her sing as she did that night. And Lady Gravesend +whispered for a week afterwards that Delia Gasgoyne sang a wild love +song in the most abandoned way with that colonial Belward. Really a song +of the most violent sentiment! + +There had been witchery in it all. For Gaston lifted the girl on the +waves of his music, and did what he pleased with her, as she sang: + + "O love, by the light of thine eye + We will fare oversea, + We will be + As the silver-winged herons that rest + By the shallows, + The shallows of sapphire stone; + No more shall we wander alone. + As the foam to the shore + Is my spirit to thine; + And God's serfs as they fly,-- + The Mockers of Death + They will breathe on the embers of fire: + We shall live by that breath,-- + Sweet, thy heart to my heart, + As we journey afar, + No more, nevermore, to return!" + +When the song was ended there was silence, then an eager murmur, and +requests for more; but Gaston, still lengthening the close of the +accompaniment, said quietly: + +"No more. I wanted to hear you sing that song only." + +He rose. + +"I am so very hot," she said. + +"Come into the hall." + +They passed into the long corridor, and walked up and down, for a time +in silence. + +"You felt that music?" he asked at last. + +"As I never felt music before," she replied. + +"Do you know why I asked you to sing it?" + +"How should I know?" + +"To see how far you could go with it." + +"How far did I go?" + +"As far as I expected." + +"It was satisfactory?" + +"Perfectly." + +"But why--experiment--on me?" + +"That I might see if you were not, after all, as much a barbarian as I." + +"Am I?" + +"No. That was myself singing as well as you. You did not enjoy it +altogether, did you?" + +"In a way, yes. But--shall I be honest? I felt, too, as if, somehow, it +wasn't quite right; so much--what shall I call it?" + +"So much of old Adam and the Garden? Sit down here for a moment, will +you?" + +She trembled a little, and sat. + +"I want to speak plainly and honestly to you," he said, looking +earnestly at her. "You know my history--about my wife who died in +Labrador, and all the rest?" + +"Yes, they have told me." + +"Well, I have nothing to hide, I think; nothing more that you ought to +know: though I've been a scamp one way and another." + +"'That I ought to know'?" she repeated. + +"Yes: for when a man asks a woman to be his wife, he should be prepared +to open the cupboard of skeletons." She was silent; her heart was +beating so hard that it hurt her. + +"I am going to ask you to be my wife, Delia." + +She was silent, and sat motionless, her hands clasped in her lap. + +He went on + +"I don't know that you will be wise to accept me, but if you will take +the risk--" + +"Oh, Gaston, Gaston!" she said, and her hands fluttered towards his. + +An hour later, he said to her, as they parted for the night: + +"I hope, with all my heart, that you will never repent of it, Delia." + +"You can make me not repent of it. It rests with you, Gaston; indeed, +indeed, all with you." + +"Poor girl!" he said, unconsciously, as he entered his room. He could +not have told why he said it. "Why will you always sit up for me, +Brillon?" he asked a moment afterwards. + +Jacques saw that something had occurred. "I have nothing else to do, +sir," he replied. "Brillon," Gaston added presently, "we're in a devil +of a scrape now." + +"What shall we do, monsieur?" + +"Did we ever turn tail?" + +"Yes, from a prairie fire." + +"Not always. I've ridden through." + +"Alors, it's one chance in ten thousand!" + +"There's a woman to be thought of--Jacques." + +"There was that other time." + +"Well, then?" + +Presently Jacques said: "Who is she, monsieur?" + +Gaston did not answer. He was thinking hard. Jacques said no more. +The next morning early the guests knew who the woman was, and by noon +Jacques also. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST + +Gaston let himself drift. The game of love and marriage is exciting, the +girl was affectionate and admiring, the world was genial, and all things +came his way. Towards the end of the hunting season Captain Maudsley +had an accident. It would prevent him riding to hounds again, and at +his suggestion, backed by Lord Dunfolly and Lord Dargan, Gaston became +Master of the Hounds. His grandfather and great-grandfather had been +Master of the Hounds before him. Hunting was a keen enjoyment--one +outlet for wild life in him--and at the last meet of the year he rode +in Captain Maudsley's place. They had a good run, and the taste of it +remained with Gaston for many a day; he thought of it sometimes as he +rode in the Park now every morning--with Delia and her mother. + +Jacques and his broncho came no more, or if they did it was at +unseasonable hours, and then to be often reprimanded (and twice +arrested) for furious riding. Gaston had a bad moment when he told +Jacques that he need not come with him again. He did it casually, but, +cool as he was, a cold sweat came on his cheek. He had to take a little +brandy to steady himself--yet he had looked into menacing rifle-barrels +more than once without a tremor. It was clear, on the face of it, that +Delia and her mother should be his companions in the Park, and not +this grave little half-breed; but, somehow, it got on his nerves. He +hesitated for days before he could cast the die against Jacques. It had +been the one open bond of the old life; yet the man was but a servant, +and to be treated as such, and was, indeed, except on rarest occasions. +If Delia had known that Gaston balanced the matter between her and +Jacques, her indignation might perhaps have sent matters to a crisis. +But Gaston did the only possible thing; and the weeks drifted on. + +Happy? It was inexplicable even to himself that at times, when he left +Delia, he said unconsciously: "Well, it's a pity!" + +But she was happy in her way. His dark, mysterious face with its +background of abstraction, his unusual life, distinguished presence, +and the fact that people of great note sought his conversation, all +strengthened the bonds, and deepened her imagination; and imagination is +at the root of much that passes for love. Gaston was approached at Lord +Dargan's house by the Premier himself. It was suggested that he should +stand for a constituency in the Conservative interest. Lord Faramond, +himself picturesque, acute, with a keen knowledge of character and a +taste for originality, saw material for a useful supporter--fearless, +independent, with a gift for saying ironical things, and some primitive +and fundamental principles well digested. + +Gaston, smiling, said that he would only be a buffalo fretting on a +chain. + +Lord Faramond replied: + +"And why the chain?" He followed this up by saying: "It is but a case of +playing lion-tamer down there. Have one little gift all your own, +know when to impose it, and you have the pleasure of feeling that your +fingers move a great machine, the greatest in the world--yes the very +greatest. There is Little Grapnel just vacant: the faithful Glynn is +gone. Come: if you will, I'll send my secretary to-morrow morning-eh?" + +"You are not afraid of the buffalo, sir?" + +Lord Faramond's fingers touched his arm, drummed it "My greatest +need--one to roar as gently as the sucking-dove." + +"But what if I, not knowing the rules of the game, should think myself +on the corner of the veldt or in an Indian's tepee, and hit out?" + +"You do not carry derringers?" + +He smiled. "No; but--" + +He glanced down at his arms. + +"Well, well; that will come one day, perhaps!" Lord Faramond paused, +abstracted, then added: "But not through you. Good-bye, then, good-bye. +Little Grapnel in ten days!" + +And it was so. Little Grapnel was Conservative. It was mostly a matter +of nomination, and in two weeks Gaston, in a kind of dream, went down +to Westminster, lunched with Lord Faramond, and was introduced to +the House. The Ladies Gallery was full, for the matter was in all the +papers, and a pretty sensation had been worked up one way and another. + +That night, after dinner, Gaston rose to make his maiden speech on a +bill dealing with an imminent social question. He was not an amateur. +Time upon time he had addressed gatherings in the North, and had once +stood at the bar of the Canadian Commons to plead the cause of the +half-breeds. He was pale, but firm, and looked striking. His eyes went +slowly round the House, and he began in a low, clear, deliberate voice, +which got attention at once. The first sentence was, however, a surprise +to every one, and not the least to his own party, excepting Lord +Faramond. He disclaimed detailed and accurate knowledge of the subject. +He said this with an honesty which took away the breath of the House. In +a quiet, easy tone he then referred to what had been previously said in +the debate. + +The first thing he did was to crumble away with a regretful kind of +superiority the arguments of two Conservative speakers, to the sudden +amusement of the Opposition, who presently cheered him. He looked up as +though a little surprised, waited patiently, and went on. The iconoclasm +proceeded. He had one or two fixed ideas in his mind, simple principles +on social questions of which he had spoken to his leader, and he never +wavered from the sight of them, though he had yet to state them. The +Premier sat, head cocked, with an ironical smile at the cheering, but +he was wondering whether, after all, his man was sure; whether he could +stand this fire, and reverse his engine quite as he intended. One of the +previous speakers was furious, came over and appealed to Lord Faramond, +who merely said, "Wait." + +Gaston kept on. The flippant amusement of the Opposition continued. +Something, however, in his grim steadiness began to impress his own +party as the other, while from more than one quarter of the House there +came a murmur of sympathy. His courage, his stone-cold strength, the +disdain which was coming into his voice, impressed them, apart from his +argument or its bearing on the previous debate. Lord Faramond heard the +occasional murmurs of approval and smiled. Then there came a striking +silence, for Gaston paused. He looked towards the Ladies Gallery. As if +in a dream--for his brain was working with clear, painful power--he saw, +not Delia nor her mother, nor Lady Dargan, but Alice Wingfield! He had +a sting, a rush in his blood. He felt that none had an interest in him +such as she: shamed, sorrowful, denied the compensating comfort which +his brother's love might give her. Her face, looking through the +barriers, pale, glowing, anxious, almost weird, seemed set to the bars +of a cage. + +Gaston turned upon the House, and flashed a glance towards Lord +Faramond, who, turned round on the Treasury Bench, was looking up at +him. He began slowly to pit against his former startling admissions the +testimony of his few principles, and to buttress them on every side with +apposite observations, naive, pungent. Presently there came a poignant +edge to his trailing tones. After giving the subject new points of view, +showing him to have studied Whitechapel as well as Kicking Horse Pass, +he contended that no social problem could be solved by a bill so crudely +radical, so impractical. + +He was saying: "In the history of the British Parliament--" when some +angry member cried out, "Who coached you?" + +Gaston's quick eye found the man. + +"Once," he answered instantly, "one honourable gentleman asked that +of another in King Charles's Parliament, and the reply then is mine +now--'You, sir!'" + +"How?" returned the puzzled member. + +Gaston smiled: + +"The nakedness of the honourable gentleman's mind!" + +The game was in his hands. Lord Faramond twisted a shoulder with +satisfaction, tossed a whimsical look down the line of the Treasury +Bench, and from that Bench came unusual applause. + +"Where the devil did he get it?" queried a Minister. + +"Out on the buffalo-trail," replied Lord Faramond. "Good fellow!" + +In the Ladies Gallery, Delia clasped her mother's hand with delight; in +the Strangers Gallery, a man said softly, "Not so bad, Cadet." + +Alice Wingfield's face had a light of aching pleasure. "Gaston, Gaston!" +she said, in a whisper heard only by the woman sitting next to her, who +though a stranger gave a murmur of sympathy. + +Gaston made his last effort in a comparison of the state of the English +people now and before she became Cromwell's Commonwealth, and then +incisively traced the social development onwards. It was the work of a +man with a dramatic nature and a mathematical turn. He put the time, the +manners, the movements, the men, as in a picture. + +Presently he grew scornful. His words came hotly, like whip-lashes. +He rose to force and power, though his voice was never loud, rather +concentrated, resonant. It dropped suddenly to a tone of persuasiveness +and conciliation, and declaring that the bill would be merely vicious +where it meant to be virtuous, ended with the question: + +"Shall we burn the house to roast the pig?" + +"That sounds American," said the member for Burton-Halsey, "but he +hasn't an accent. Pig is vulgar though--vulgar." + +"Make it Lamb--make it Lamb!" urged his neighbour. + +Meanwhile both sides applauded. Maiden speeches like this were not +common. Lord Faramond turned round to him. Another member made way +and Gaston leaned towards the Premier, who nodded and smiled. "Most +excellent buffalo!" he said. + +"One day we will chain you--to the Treasury Bench." + +Gaston smiled. + +"You are thought prudent, sir!" + +"Ah! an enemy hath said this." + +Gaston looked towards the Ladies Gallery. Delia's eyes were on him; +Alice was gone. + +A half-hour later he stood in the lobby, waiting for Mrs. Gasgoyne, Lady +Dargan, and Delia to come. He had had congratulations in the House; he +was having them now. Presently some one touched him on the arm. + +"Not so bad, Cadet." + +Gaston turned and saw his uncle. They shook hands. "You've a gift that +way," Ian Belward continued, "but to what good? Bless you, the pot on +the crackling thorns! Don't you find it all pretty hollow?" + +Gaston was feeling reaction from the nervous work. "It is exciting." + +"Yes, but you'll never have it again as to-night. The place reeks with +smugness, vanity, and drudgery. It's only the swells--Derby, Gladstone, +and the few--who get any real sport out of it. I can show you much more +amusing things." + +"For instance?" + +"'Hast thou forgotten me?' You hungered for Paris and Art and the joyous +life. Well, I'm ready. I want you. Paris, too, is waiting, and a good +cuisine in a cheery menage. Sup with me at the Garrick, and I'll tell +you. Come along. Quis separabit?" + +"I have to wait for Mrs. Gasgoyne--and Delia." + +"Delia! Delia! Goddess of proprieties, has it come to that!" + +He saw a sudden glitter in Gaston's eyes, and changed his tone. + +"Well, an' a man will he will, and he must be wished good-luck. So, +good-luck to you! I'm sorry, though, for that cuisine in Paris, and the +grand picnic at Fontainebleau, and Moban and Cerise. But it can't be +helped." + +He eyed Gaston curiously. Gaston was not in the least deceived. His +uncle added presently, "But you will have supper with me just the same?" + +Gaston consented, and at this point the ladies appeared. He had a thrill +of pleasure at hearing their praises, but, somehow, of all the fresh +experiences he had had in England, this, the weightiest, left him least +elated. He had now had it all: the reaction was begun, and he knew it. + +"Well, Ian Belward, what mischief are you at now?" said Mrs. Gasgoyne. + +"A picture merely, and to offer homage. How have you tamed our lion, and +how sweetly does he roar! I feed him at my Club to-night." + +"Ian Belward, you are never so wicked as when you ought most to be +decent.--I wish I knew your place in this picture," she added brusquely. + +"Merely a little corner at their fireside." He nodded towards Delia and +Gaston. + +"The man has sense, and Delia is my daughter!" + +"Precisely why I wish a place in their affections." + +"Why don't you marry one of the women you have--spoiled, and spend the +rest of your time in living yourself down? You are getting old." + +"For their own sakes, I don't. Put that to my credit. I'll have but one +mistress only as the sand gets low. I've been true to her." + +"You, true to anything!" + +"The world has said so." + +"Nonsense! You couldn't be." + +"Visit my new picture in three months--my biggest thing. You will say my +mistress fares well at my hands." + +"Mere talk. I have seen your mistress, and before every picture I have +thought of those women! A thing cannot be good at your price: so don't +talk that sentimental stuff to me." + +"Be original; you said that to me thirty years ago." + +"I remember perfectly: that did not require much sense." + +"No; you tossed it off, as it were. Yet I'd have made you a good +husband. You are the most interesting woman I've ever met." + +"The compliment is not remarkable. Now, Ian Belward, don't try to say +clever things. And remember that I will have no mischief-making." + +"At thy command--" + +"Oh, cease acting, and take Sophie to her carriage." Two hours later, +Delia Gasgoyne sat in her bedroom wondering at Gaston's abstraction +during the drive home. Yet she had a proud elation at his success, and a +happy tear came to her eye. + +Meanwhile Gaston was supping with his uncle. Ian was in excellent +spirits: brilliant, caustic, genial, suggestive. After a little while +Gaston rose to the temper of his host. Already the scene in the Commons +was fading from him, and when Ian proposed Paris immediately, he did not +demur. The season was nearly over. + +Ian said; very well, why remain? His attendance at the House? Well, it +would soon be up for the session. Besides, the most effective thing he +could do was to disappear for the time. Be unexpected--that was the key +to notoriety. Delia Gasgoyne? Well, as Gaston had said, they were to +meet in the Mediterranean in September; meanwhile a brief separation +would be good for both. Last of all--he did not wish to press it--but +there was a promise! + +Gaston answered quietly, at last: "I will redeem the promise." + +"When?" + +"Within thirty-six hours." + +"That is, you will be at my studio in Paris within thirty-six hours from +now?" + +"That is it." + +"Good! I shall start at eight to-morrow morning. You will bring your +horse, Cadet?" + +"Yes, and Brillon." + +"He isn't necessary." Ian's brow clouded slightly. + +"Absolutely necessary." + +"A fantastic little beggar. You can get a better valet in France. Why +have one at all?" + +"I shall not decline from Brillon on a Parisian valet. Besides, he comes +as my camarade." + +"Goth! Goth! My friend the valet! Cadet, you're a wonderful fellow, but +you'll never fit in quite." + +"I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me." Ian smiled to himself. + +"He has tasted it all--it's not quite satisfying--revolution next! What +a smash-up there'll be! The romantic, the barbaric overlaps. Well, I +shall get my picture out of it, and the estate too." + +Gaston toyed with his wine-glass, and was deep in thought. Strange to +say, he was seeing two pictures. The tomb of Sir Gaston in the little +church at Ridley: A gipsy's van on the crest of a common, and a girl +standing in the doorway. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS + +The next morning he went down to the family solicitor's office. He had +done so, off and on, for weeks. He spent the time in looking through old +family papers, fishing out ancient documents, partly out of curiosity, +partly from an unaccountable presentiment. He had been there about an +hour this morning when a clerk brought him a small box, which, he said, +had been found inside another box belonging to the Belward-Staplings, a +distant branch of the family. These had asked for certain ancient papers +lately, and a search had been made, with this result. The little box +was not locked, and the key was in it. How the accident occurred was +not difficult to imagine. Generations ago there had probably been +a conference of the two branches of the family, and the clerk had +inadvertently locked the one box within the other. This particular box +of the Belward-Staplings was not needed again. Gaston felt that here +was something. These hours spent among old papers had given him strange +sensations, had, on the one hand, shown him his heritage; but had also +filled him with the spirit of that by-gone time. He had grown further +away from the present. He had played his part as in a drama: his real +life was in the distant past and out in the land of the heathen. + +Now he took out a bundle of papers with broken seals, and wound with a +faded tape. He turned the rich important parchments over in his hands. +He saw his own name on the outside of one: "Sir Gaston Robert Belward." +And there was added: "Bart." He laughed. Well, why not complete the +reproduction? He was an M. P.--why not a Baronet? He knew how it was +done. There were a hundred ways. Throw himself into the arbitration +question between Canada and the United States: spend ten thousand pounds +of--his grandfather's--money on the Party? His reply to himself was +cynical: the game was not worth the candle. What had he got out of +it all? Money? Yes: and he enjoyed that--the power that it +gave--thoroughly. The rest? He knew that it did not strike as deep as it +ought: the family tradition, the social scheme--the girl. + +"What a brute I am!" he said. "I'm never wholly of it. I either want to +do as they did when George Villiers had his innings, or play the gipsy +as I did so many years." + +The gipsy! As he held the papers in his hand he thought as he had done +last night, of the gipsy-van on Ridley Common, and of--how well he +remembered her name!--of Andree. + +He suddenly threw his head back, and laughed. "Well, well, but it is +droll! Last night, an English gentleman, an honourable member with the +Treasury Bench in view; this morning an adventurer, a Romany. I itch +for change. And why? Why? I have it all, yet I could pitch it away this +moment for a wild night on the slope, or a nigger hunt on the Rivas. +Chateau-Leoville, Goulet, and Havanas at a bob?--Jove, I thirst for +a swig of raw Bourbon and the bite of a penny Mexican! Games, Gaston, +games! Why the devil did little Joe worry at being made 'move on'? I've +got 'move on' in every pore: I'm the Wandering Jew. Oh, a gentleman born +am I! But the Romany sweats from every inch of you, Gaston Belward! What +was it that sailor on the Cyprian said of the other? 'For every hair of +him was rope-yarn, and every drop of blood Stockholm tar!'" + +He opened a paper. Immediately he was interested. Another; then, +quickly, two more; and at last, getting to his feet with an exclamation, +he held a document to the light, and read it through carefully. He was +alone in the room. He calmly folded it up, put it in his pocket, placed +the rest of the papers back, locked the box, and passing into the next +room, gave it to the clerk. Then he went out, a curious smile on his +face. He stopped presently on the pavement. + +"But it wouldn't hold good, I fancy, after all these years. Yet Law is a +queer business. Anyhow, I've got it." + +An hour later he called on Mrs. Gasgoyne and Delia. Mrs. Gasgoyne was +not at home. After a little while, Gaston, having listened to some +extracts from the newspapers upon his "brilliant, powerful, caustic +speech, infinite in promise of an important career," quietly told her +that he was starting for Paris, and asked when they expected to go +abroad in their yacht. Delia turned pale, and could not answer for a +moment. Then she became very still, and as quietly answered that they +expected to get away by the middle of August. He would join them? +Yes, certainly, at Marseilles, or perhaps, Gibraltar. Her manner, so +well-controlled, though her features seemed to shrink all at once, if it +did not deceive him, gave him the wish to say an affectionate thing. He +took her hand and said it. She thanked him, then suddenly dropped her +fingers on his shoulder, and murmured with infinite gentleness and +pride: + +"You will miss me; you ought to!" + +He drew the hand down. + +"I could not forget you, Delia," he said. + +Her eyes came up quickly, and she looked steadily, wonderingly at him. + +"Was it necessary to say that?" + +She was hurt--inexpressibly,--and she shrank. He saw that she +misunderstood him; but he also saw that, on the face of it, the phrase +was not complimentary. His reply was deeply kind, effective. There was +a pause--and the great moment for them both passed. Something ought to +have happened. It did not. If she had had that touch of abandon shown +when she sang "The Waking of the Fire," Gaston might, even at this +moment, have broken his promise to his uncle; but, somehow, he knew +himself slipping away from her. With the tenderness he felt, he still +knew that he was acting; imitating, reproducing other, better, moments +with her. He felt the disrespect to her, but it could not be helped--it +could not be helped. + +He said that he would call and say good-bye to her and Mrs. Gasgoyne +at four o'clock. Then he left. He went to his chambers, gave Jacques +instructions, did some writing, and returned at four. Mrs. Gasgoyne had +not come back. She had telegraphed that she would not be in for lunch. +There was nothing remarkable in Gaston's and Delia's farewell. She +thought he looked worn, and ought to have change, showing in every word +that she trusted him, and was anxious that he should be, as she put it +gaily, "comfy." She was composed. The cleverest men are blind in the +matter of a woman's affections; and Gaston was only a mere man, after +all. He thought that she had gone about as far in the way of feeling as +she could go. + +Nevertheless, in his hansom, he frowned, and said: "I oughtn't to go. +But I'm choking here. I can't play the game an hour longer without a +change. I'll come back all right. I'll meet her in the Mediterranean +after my kick-up, and it'll be all O. K. Jacques and I will ride down +through Spain to Gibraltar, and meet the Kismet there. I shall have got +rid of this restlessness then, and I'll be glad enough to settle down, +pose for throne and constitution, cultivate the olive branch, and have +family prayers." + +At eight o'clock he appeared at Ridley Court, and bade his grandfather +and grandmother good-bye. They were full of pride, and showed their +affection in indirect ways--Sir William most by offering his opinion +on the Bill and quoting Gaston frequently; Lady Belward, by saying that +next year she would certainly go up to town--she had not done so for +five years! They both agreed that a scamper on the Continent would now +be good for him. At nine o'clock he passed the rectory, on his way, +strange to note, to the church. There was one light burning, but it +was not in the study nor in Alice's window. He supposed they had not +returned. He paused and thought. If anything happened, she should know. +But what should happen? He shook his head. He moved on to the church. +The doors were unlocked. He went in, drew out a little pocket-lantern, +lit it, and walked up the aisle. + +"A sentimental business this: I don't know why I do it," he thought. + +He stopped at the tomb of Sir Gaston Belward, put his hand on it, and +stood looking at it. + +"I wonder if there is anything in it?" he said aloud: "if he does +influence me? if we've got anything to do with each other? What he did I +seem to know somehow, more or less. A little dwarf up in my brain drops +the nuts down now and then. Well, Sir Gaston Belward, what is going +to be the end of all this? If we can reach across the centuries, why, +good-night and goodbye to you. Good-bye." + +He turned and went down the aisle. At the door a voice, a whispering +voice, floated to him: "Good-bye." + +He stopped short and listened. All was still. He walked up the aisle, +and listened again.-Nothing! He stood before the tomb, looking at it +curiously. He was pale, but collected. He raised the light above his +head, and looked towards the altar.--Nothing! Then he went to the door +again, and paused.--Nothing! + +Outside he said + +"I'd stake my life I heard it!" + +A few minutes afterwards, a girl rose up from behind the organ in the +chancel, and felt her way outside. It was Alice Wingfield, who had gone +to the church to pray. It was her good-bye which had floated down to +Gaston. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. HE JOURNEYS AFAR + +Politicians gossiped. Where was the new member? His friends could not +tell, further than that he had gone abroad. Lord Faramond did not know, +but fetched out his lower lip knowingly. + +"The fellow has instinct for the game," he said. Sketches, portraits +were in the daily and weekly journals, and one hardy journalist even +gave an interview--which had never occurred. But Gaston remained a +picturesque nine-days' figure, and then Parliament rose for the year. + +Meanwhile he was in Paris, and every morning early he could be seen with +Jacques riding up the Champs Elysee and out to the Bois de Boulogne. +Every afternoon at three he sat for "Monmouth" or the "King of Ys" with +his horse in his uncle's garden. + +Ian Belward might have lived in a fashionable part; he preferred the +Latin Quarter, with incursions into the other at fancy. Gaston lived for +three days in the Boulevard Haussman, and then took apartments, neither +expensive nor fashionable, in a quiet street. He was surrounded +by students and artists, a few great men and a host of small men: +Collarossi's school here and Delacluse's there: models flitting in and +out of the studios in his court-yard, who stared at him as he rode, and +sought to gossip with Jacques--accomplished without great difficulty. + +Jacques was transformed. A cheerful hue grew on his face. He had been an +exile, he was now at home. His French tongue ran, now with words in the +patois of Normandy, now of Brittany; and all with the accent of French +Canada, an accent undisturbed by the changes and growths of France. He +gossiped, but no word escaped him which threw any light on his master's +history. + +Soon, in the Latin Quarter, they were as notable as they had been at +Ridley Court or in London. On the Champs Elysee side people stared +at the two: chiefly because of Gaston's splendid mount and Jacques's +strange broncho. But they felt that they were at home. Gaston's French +was not perfect, but it was enough for his needs. He got a taste of that +freedom which he had handed over to the dungeons of convention two years +before. He breathed. Everything interested him so much that the life he +had led in England seemed very distant. + +He wrote to Delia, of course. His letters were brief, most interesting, +not tenderly intimate, and not daily. From the first they puzzled her +a little, and continued to do so; but because her mother said, "What an +impossible man!" she said, "Perfectly possible! Of course he is not like +other men; he is a genius." + +And the days went on. + +Gaston little loved the purlieus of the Place de l'Opera. One evening +at a club in the Boulevard Malesherbes bored him. It was merely +Anglo-American enjoyment, dashed with French drama. The Bois was more to +his taste, for he could stretch his horse's legs; but every day he could +be found before some simple cafe in Montparnasse, sipping vermouth, and +watching the gay, light life about him. He sat up with delight to see an +artist and his "Madame" returning from a journey in the country, seated +upon sheaves of corn, quite unregarded by the world; doing as they +listed with unabashed simplicity. He dined often at the little Hotel St. +Malo near the Gare Montparnasse, where the excellent landlord played +the host, father, critic, patron, comrade--often benefactor--to his +bons enfants. He drank vin ordinaire, smoked caporal cigarettes, +made friends, and was in all as a savage--or a much-travelled English +gentleman. + +His uncle Ian had introduced him here as at other places of the kind, +and, whatever his ulterior object was, had an artist's pleasure at +seeing a layman enjoy the doings of Paris art life. Himself lived more +luxuriously. In an avenue not far from the Luxembourg he had a small +hotel with a fine old-fashioned garden behind it, and here distinguished +artists, musicians, actors, and actresses came at times. + +The evening of Gaston's arrival he took him to a cafe and dined him, and +afterwards to the Boullier--there, merely that he might see; but this +place had nothing more than a passing interest for him. His mind had +the poetry of a free, simple--even wild-life, but he had no instinct for +vice in the name of amusement. But the later hours spent in the garden +under the stars, the cheerful hum of the boulevards coming to them +distantly, stung his veins like good wine. They sat and talked, with no +word of England in it at all, Jacques near, listening. + +Ian Belward was at his best: genial, entertaining, with the art of the +man of no principles, no convictions, and a keen sense of life's sublime +incongruities. Even Jacques, whose sense of humour had grown by long +association with Gaston, enjoyed the piquant conversation. The next +evening the same. About ten o'clock a few men dropped in: a sculptor, +artists, and Meyerbeer, an American newspaper correspondent--who, +however, was not known as such to Gaston. + +This evening Ian determined to make Gaston talk. To deepen a man's love +for a thing, get him to talk of it to the eager listener--he passes from +the narrator to the advocate unconsciously. Gaston was not to talk of +England, but of the North, of Canada, of Mexico, the Lotos Isles. He did +so picturesquely, yet simply too, in imperfect but sufficient French. +But as he told of one striking incident in the Rockies, he heard Jacques +make a quick expression of dissent. He smiled. He had made some mistake +in detail. Now, Jacques had been in his young days in Quebec the +village story-teller; one who, by inheritance or competency, becomes +semi-officially a raconteur for the parish; filling in winter evenings, +nourishing summer afternoons, with tales, weird, childlike, daring. + +Now Gaston turned and said to Jacques: + +"Well, Brillon, I've forgotten, as you see; tell them how it was." + +Two hours later when Jacques retired on some errand, amid ripe applause, +Ian said: + +"You've got an artist there, Cadet: that description of the fight with +the loop garoo was as good as a thing from Victor Hugo. Hugo must have +heard just such yarns, and spun them on the pattern. Upon my soul, it's +excellent stuff. You've lived, you two." + +Another night Ian Belward gave a dinner, at which were present an +actress, a singer of some repute, the American journalist, and others. +Something that was said sent Gaston's mind to the House of Commons. +Presently he saw himself in a ridiculous picture: a buffalo dragging the +Treasury Bench about the Chamber; as one conjures things in an absurd +dream. He laughed outright, at a moment when Mademoiselle Cerise was +telling of a remarkable effect she produced one night in "Fedora," +unpremeditated, inspired; and Mademoiselle Cerise, with smiling lips and +eyes like daggers, called him a bear. This brought him to him self, and +he swam with the enjoyment. He did enjoy it, but not as his uncle wished +and hoped. Gaston did not respond eagerly to the charms of Mademoiselle +Cerise and Madame Juliette. + +Was Delia, then, so strong in the barbarian's mind? He could not think +so, but Gaston had not shown yet, either for model, for daughter of joy, +or for the mademoiselles of the stage any disposition to an amour or a +misalliance; and either would be interesting and sufficient! Models went +in and out of Ian's studio and the studios of others, and Gaston chatted +with them at times; and once he felt the bare arm and bare breast of +a girl as she sat for a nymph, and said in an interested way that her +flesh was as firm and fine as a Tongan's. He even disputed with his +uncle on the tints of her skin, on seeing him paint it in, showing +a fine eye for colour. But there was nothing more; he was impressed, +observant, interested--that was all. His uncle began to wonder if the +Englishman was, after all, deeper in the grain than the savage. He +contented himself with the belief that the most vigorous natures are the +most difficult to rouse. Mademoiselle Cerise sang, with chic and abandon +very fascinating to his own sensuous nature, a song with a charming air +and sentiment. It was after a night at the opera when they had seen her +in "Lucia," and the contrast, as she sang in his garden, softly lighted, +showed her at the most attractive angles. She drifted from a sparkling +chanson to the delicate pathos of a song of De Musset's. + +Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman--no. He had seen a new +life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could +still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had +come to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle +Cerise said to Ian at last: + +"Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no +matter." + +She made another effort to interest him, however. It galled her that he +did not fall at her feet as others had done. Even Ian had come there +in his day, but she knew him too well. She had said to him at the time: +"You, monsieur? No, thank you. A week, a month, and then the brute in +you would out. You make a woman fond, and then--a mat for your feet, and +your wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol +or the Seine. Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing +more. I will sing to you, dance to you, even pray for you--we poor +sinners do that sometimes, and go on sinning; but, again, nothing more." + +Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been +good friends. He had told her of his nephew's coming, had hinted at his +fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him, +even at marriage. She could not read his purpose, but she knew there +was something, and answering him with a yes, had waited. Had Gaston have +come to her feet she would probably have got at the truth somehow, and +have worked in his favour--the joy vice takes to side with virtue, at +times--when it is at no personal sacrifice. But Gaston was superior in +a grand way. He was simple, courteous, interested only. This stung her, +and she would bring him to his knees, if she could. This night she had +rung all the changes, and had done no more than get his frank applause. +She became petulant in an airy, exacting way. She asked him about his +horse. This interested him. She wanted to see it. To-morrow? No, no, +now. Perhaps to-morrow she would not care to; there was no joy in +deliberate pleasure. Now--now--now! He laughed. Well then, now, as she +wished! + +Jacques was called. She said to him: + +"Come here, little comrade." Jacques came. "Look at me," she added. +She fixed her eyes on him, and smiled. She was in the soft flare of the +lights. + +"Well," she said after a moment, "what do you think of me?" + +Jacques was confused. "Madame is beautiful." + +"The eyes?" she urged. + +"I have been to Gaspe, and west to Esquimault, and in England, but I +have never seen such as those," he said. Race and primitive man spoke +there. + +She laughed. "Come closer, little man." + +He did so. She suddenly rose, dropped her hands on his shoulders, and +kissed his cheek. + +"Now bring the horse, and I will kiss him too." + +Did she think she could rouse Gaston by kissing his servant? Yet it did +not disgust him. He knew it was a bit of acting, and it was well done. +Besides, Jacques Brillon was not a mere servant, and he, too, had done +well. She sat back and laughed lightly when Jacques was gone. Then she +said: "The honest fellow!" and hummed an air: + + "'The pretty coquette + Well she needs to be wise, + Though she strike to the heart + By a glance of her eyes. + + "'For the daintiest bird + Is the sport of the storm, + And the rose fadeth most + When the bosom is warm.'" + +In twenty minutes the gate of the garden opened, and Jacques appeared +with Saracen. The horse's black skin glistened in the lights, and he +tossed his head and champed his bit. Gaston rose. Mademoiselle Cerise +sprang to her feet and ran forward. Jacques put out his hand to stop +her, and Gaston caught her shoulder. "He's wicked with strangers," +Gaston said. "Chat!" she rejoined, stepped quickly to the horse's +head and, laughing, put out her hand to stroke him. Jacques caught the +beast's nose, and stopped a lunge of the great white teeth. + +"Enough, madame, he will kill you!" + +"Yet I am beautiful--is it not so?" + +"The poor beast is ver' blind." + +"A pretty compliment," she rejoined, yet angry at the beast. + +Gaston came, took the animal's head in his hands, and whispered. Saracen +became tranquil. Gaston beckoned to Mademoiselle Cerise. She came. He +took her hand in his and put it at the horse's lips. The horse whinnied +angrily at first, but permitted a caress from the actress's fingers. + +"He does not make friends easily," said Gaston. "Nor does his master." + +Her eyes lifted to his, the lids drooping suggestively. "But when the +pact is made--!" + +"Till death us do part?" + +"Death or ruin." + +"Death is better." + +"That depends!" + +"Ah! I understand," she said. + +"On--the woman?" + +"Yes." + +Then he became silent. "Mount the horse," she urged. + +Gaston sprang at one bound upon the horse's bare back. Saracen reared +and wheeled. + +"Splendid!" she said; then, presently: "Take me up with you." + +He looked doubting for a moment, then whispered to the horse. + +"Come quickly," he said. + +She came to the side of the horse. He stooped, caught her by the waist, +and lifted her up. Saracen reared, but Gaston had him down in a moment. + +Ian Belward suddenly called out: + +"For God's sake, keep that pose for five minutes--only five!" He caught +up some canvas. "Hold candles near them," he said to the others. They +did so. With great swiftness he sketched in the strange picture. It +looked weird, almost savage: Gaston's large form, his legs loose at the +horse's side, the woman in her white drapery clinging to him. + +In a little time the artist said: + +"There; that will do. Ten such sittings and my 'King of Ys' will have +its day with the world. I'd give two fortunes for the chance of it." + +The woman's heart had beat fast with Gaston's arm around her. He felt +the thrill of the situation. Man, woman, and horse were as of a piece. + +But Cerise knew, when Gaston let her to the ground again, that she had +not conquered. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED + +Next morning Gaston was visited by Meyerbeer the American journalist, of +whose profession he was still ignorant. He saw him only as a man of raw +vigour of opinion, crude manners, and heavy temperament. He had not been +friendly to him at night, and he was surprised at the morning visit. The +hour was such that Gaston must ask him to breakfast. The two were soon +at the table of the Hotel St. Malo. Meyerbeer sniffed the air when he +saw the place. The linen was ordinary, the rooms small; but all--he did +not take this into account--irreproachably clean. The walls were covered +with pictures; some taken for unpaid debts, gifts from students since +risen to fame or gone into the outer darkness,--to young artists' eyes, +the sordid moneymaking world,--and had there been lost; from a great +artist or two who remembered the days of his youth and the good host who +had seen many little colonies of artists come and go. + +They sat down to the table, which was soon filled with students and +artists. Then Meyerbeer began to see, not only an interesting thing, but +"copy." He was, in fact, preparing a certain article which, as he said +to himself, would "make 'em sit up" in London and New York. He had +found out Gaston's history, had read his speech in the Commons, had seen +paragraphs speculating as to where he was; and now he, Salem Meyerbeer, +would tell them what the wild fellow was doing. The Bullier, the +cafes in the Latin Quarter, apartments in a humble street, dining for +one-franc-fifty, supping with actresses, posing for the King of Ys with +that actress in his arms--all excellent in their way. But now there was +needed an entanglement, intrigue, amour, and then America should shriek +at his picture of one of the British aristocracy, and a gentleman of the +Commons, "on the loose," as he put it. + +He would head it: + + "ARISTOCRAT, POLITICIAN, LIBERTINE!" + +Then, under that he would put: + + "CAN THE ETHIOPIAN CHANGE HIS SKIN, OR THE + LEOPARD HIS SPOTS?" Jer. xi. 23. + +The morality of such a thing? Morality only had to do with ruining a +girl's name, or robbery. How did it concern this? + +So Mr. Meyerbeer kept his ears open. Presently one of the students said +to Bagshot, a young artist: "How does the dompteuse come on?" + +"Well, I think it's chic enough. She's magnificent. The colour of her +skin against the lions was splendid to-day: a regular rich gold with a +sweet stain of red like a leaf of maize in September. There's never been +such a Una. I've got my chance; and if I don't pull it off, + + 'Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket, + And say a poor buffer lies low!'" + +"Get the jacket ready," put in a young Frenchman, sneering. + +The Englishman's jaw hardened, but he replied coolly + +"What do you know about it?" + +"I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her." + +"How the devil does that concern my painting her?" There was iron in +Bagshot's voice. + +"Who says you are painting her?" + +The insult was conspicuous. Gaston quickly interposed. His clear strong +voice rang down the table: "Will you let me come and see your canvas +some day soon, Mr. Bagshot? I remember your picture 'A Passion in the +Desert,' at the Academy this year. A fine thing: the leopard was free +and strong. As an Englishman, I am proud to meet you." + +The young Frenchman stared. The quarrel had passed to a new and +unexpected quarter. Gaston's large, solid body, strong face, and +penetrating eyes were not to be sneered out of sight. The Frenchman, an +envious, disappointed artist, had had in his mind a bloodless duel, to +give a fillip to an unacquired fame. He had, however, been drinking. He +flung an insolent glance to meet Gaston's steady look, and said: + +"The cock crows of his dunghill!" + +Gaston looked at the landlord, then got up calmly and walked down the +table. The Frenchman, expecting he knew not what, sprang to his feet, +snatching up a knife; but Gaston was on him like a hawk, pinioning his +arms and lifting him off the ground, binding his legs too, all so tight +that the Frenchman squealed for breath. + +"Monsieur," said Gaston to the landlord, "from the door or the window?" + +The landlord was pale. It was in some respects a quarrel of races. For, +French and English at the tables had got up and were eyeing each other. +As to the immediate outcome of the quarrel, there could be no doubt. +The English and Americans could break the others to pieces; but neither +wished that. The landlord decided the matter: + +"Drop him from this window." + +He pushed a shutter back, and Gaston dropped the fellow on the hard +pavement--a matter of five feet. The Frenchman got up raging, and made +for the door; but this time he was met by the landlord, who gave him his +hat, and bade him come no more. There was applause from both English and +French. The journalist chuckled--another column! + +Gaston had acted with coolness and common-sense; and when he sat down +and began talking of the Englishman's picture again as if nothing had +happened, the others followed, and the meal went on cheerfully. + +Presently another young English painter entered, and listened to the +conversation, which Gaston brought back to Una and the lions. It was his +way to force things to his liking, if possible; and he wanted to hear +about the woman--why, he did not ask himself. The new arrival, Fancourt +by name, kept looking at him quizzically. Gaston presently said that he +would visit the menagerie and see this famous dompteuse that afternoon. + +"She's a brick," said Bagshot. "I was in debt, a year behind with my +Pelletier here, and it took all I got for 'A Passion in the Desert' to +square up. I'd nothing to go on with. I spent my last sou in visiting +the menagerie. There I got an idea. I went to her, told her how I was +fixed, and begged her to give me a chance. By Jingo! she brought the +water to my eyes. Some think she's a bit of a devil; but she can be a +devil of a saint, that's all I've got to say." + +"Zoug-Zoug's responsible for the devil," said Fancourt to Bagshot. + +"Shut up, Fan," rejoined Bagshot, hurriedly, and then whispered to him +quickly. + +Fancourt sent self-conscious glances down the table towards Gaston; and +then a young American, newly come to Paris, said: + +"Who's Zoug-Zoug, and what's Zoug-Zoug?" + +"It's milk for babes, youngster," answered Bagshot quickly, and changed +the conversation. + +Gaston saw something strange in the little incident; but he presently +forgot it for many a day, and then remembered it for many a day, when +the wheel had spun through a wild arc. + +When they rose from the table, Meyerbeer went to Bagshot, and said: + +"Say, who's Zoug-Zoug, anyway?" Bagshot coolly replied: + +"I'm acting for another paper. What price?" + +"Fifty dollars," in a low voice, eagerly. Bagshot meditated. + +"H'm, fifty dollars! Two hundred and fifty francs, or thereabouts. +Beggarly!" + +"A hundred, then." + +Bagshot got to his feet, lighting a cigarette. + +"Want to have a pretty story against a woman, and to smutch a man, do +you? Well, I'm hard up; I don't mind gossip among ourselves; but sell +the stuff to you--I'll see you damned first!" + +This was said sufficiently loud; and after that, Meyerbeer could not ask +Fancourt, so he departed with Gaston, who courteously dismissed him, +to his astonishment and regret, for he had determined to visit the +menagerie with his quarry. + +Gaston went to his apartments, and cheerily summoned Jacques. + +"Now, little man, for a holiday! The menagerie: lions, leopards, and a +grand dompteuse; and afterwards dinner with me at the Cafe Blanche. +I want a blow-out of lions and that sort. I'd like to be a lion-tamer +myself for a month, or as long as might be." + +He caught Jacques by the shoulders--he had not done so since that +memorable day at Ridley Court. "See, Jacques, we'll do this every year. +Six months in England, and three months on the Continent,--in your +France, if you like,--and three months in the out-of-the-wayest place, +where there'll be big game. Hidalgos for six months, Goths for the +rest." + +A half-hour later they were in the menagerie. They sat near the +doors where the performers entered. For a long time they watched +the performance with delight, clapping and calling bravo like +boys. Presently the famous dompteuse entered,--Mademoiselle +Victorine,--passing just below Gaston. He looked down, interested, +at the supple, lithe creature making for the cages of lions in the +amphitheatre. The figure struck him as familiar. Presently the girl +turned, throwing a glance round the theatre. He caught the dash of the +dark, piercing eyes, the luminous look, the face unpainted--in its own +natural colour: neither hot health nor paleness, but a thing to bear the +light of day. "Andree the gipsy!" he exclaimed in a low tone. + +In less than two years this! Here was fame. A wanderer, an Ishmael then, +her handful of household goods and her father in the grasp of the Law: +to-day, Mademoiselle Victorine, queen of animal-tamers! And her name +associated with the Comte Ploare! + +With the Comte Ploare? Had it come to that? He remembered the look in +her face when he bade her good-bye. Impossible! Then, immediately he +laughed. + +Why impossible? And why should he bother his head about it? People +of this sort: Mademoiselle Cerise, Madame Juliette, Mademoiselle +Victorine--what were they to him, or to themselves? + +There flashed through his brain three pictures: when he stood by the +bedside of the old dying Esquimaux in Labrador, and took a girl's hand +in his; when among the flowers at Peppingham he heard Delia say: "Oh, +Gaston! Gaston!" and Alice's face at midnight in the moonlit window at +Ridley Court. + +How strange this figure--spangled, gaudy, standing among her +lions--seemed by these. To think of her, his veins thumping thus, was +an insult to all three: to Delia, one unpardonable. And yet he could not +take his eyes off her. Her performance was splendid. He was interested, +speculative. She certainly had flown high; for, again, why should not a +dompteuse be a decent woman? And here were money, fame of a kind, and an +occupation that sent his blood bounding. A dompteur! He had tamed moose, +and young mountain lions, and a catamount, and had had mad hours with +pumas and arctic bears; and he could understand how even he might easily +pass from M.P. to dompteur. It was not intellectual, but it was power +of a kind; and it was decent, and healthy, and infinitely better than +playing the Jew in business, or keeping a tavern, or "shaving" notes, +and all that. Truly, the woman was to be admired, for she was earning +an honest living; and no doubt they lied when they named her with Count +Ploare. He kept coming back to that--Count Ploare! Why could they not +leave these women alone? Did they think none of them virtuous? He would +stake his life that Andree--he would call her that--was as straight as +the sun. + +"What do you think of her, Jacques?" he said suddenly. + +"It is grand. Mon Dieu, she is wonderful--and a face all fire!" + +Presently she came out of the cage, followed by two great lions. She +walked round the ring, a hand on the head of each: one growling, the +other purring against her, with a ponderous kind of affection. She +talked to them as they went, giving occasionally a deep purring sound +like their own. Her talk never ceased. She looked at the audience, +but only as in a dream. Her mind was all with the animals. There was +something splendid in it: she, herself, was a noble animal; and she +seemed entirely in place where she was. The lions were fond of her, and +she of them; but the first part of her performance had shown that they +could be capricious. A lion's love is but a lion's love after all--and +hers likewise, no doubt! The three seemed as one in their beauty, the +woman superbly superior. Meyerbeer, in a far corner, was still on the +trail of his sensation. He thought that he might get an article out of +it--with the help of Count Ploare and Zoug-Zoug. Who was Zoug-Zoug? He +exulted in her picturesqueness, and he determined to lie in wait. +He thought it a pity that Comte Ploare was not an Englishman or an +American; but it couldn't be helped. Yes, she was, as he said to +himself, "a stunner." Meanwhile he watched Gaston, noted his intense +interest. + +Presently the girl stopped beside the cage. A chariot was brought out, +and the two lions were harnessed to it. Then she called out another +larger lion, which came unwillingly at first. She spoke sharply, and +then struck him. He growled, but came on. Then she spoke softly to him, +and made that peculiar purr, soft and rich. Now he responded, walked +round her, coming closer, till his body made a half-circle about +her, and his head was at her knees. She dropped her hand on it. Great +applause rang through the building. This play had been quite accidental. +But there lay one secret of the girl's success. She was original; she +depended greatly on the power of the moment for her best effects, and +they came at unexpected times. + +It was at this instant that, glancing round the theatre in +acknowledgment of the applause, her eyes rested mechanically on Gaston's +box. There was generally some one important in that box: from a foreign +prince to a young gentleman whose proudest moment was to take off his +hat in the Bois to the queen of a lawless court. She had tired of being +introduced to princes. What could it mean to her? And for the young +bloods, whose greatest regret was that they could not send forth a +daughter of joy into the Champs Elysee in her carriage, she had ever +sent them about their business. She had no corner of pardon for them. +She kissed her lions, she hugged the lion's cub that rode back and +forth with her to the menagerie day by day--her companion in her modest +apartments; but sell one of these kisses to a young gentleman of Paris, +whose ambition was to master all the vices, and then let the vices +master him!--she had not come to that, though, as she said in some +bitter moments, she had come far. + +Count Ploare--there was nothing in that. A blase man of the world, +who had found it all not worth the bothering about, neither code nor +people--he saw in this rich impetuous nature a new range of emotions, a +brief return to the time when he tasted an open strong life in Algiers, +in Tahiti. And he would laugh at the world by marrying her--yes, +actually marrying her, the dompteuse! Accident had let him render her +a service, not unimportant, once at Versailles, and he had been so +courteous and considerate afterwards, that she had let him see her +occasionally, but never yet alone. He soon saw that an amour was +impossible. At last he spoke of marriage. She shook her head. She ought +to have been grateful, but she was not. Why should she be? She did +not know why he wished to marry her; but, whatever the reason, he was +selfish. Well, she would be selfish. She did not care for him. If she +married him, it would be because she was selfish: because of position, +ease; for protection in this shameless Paris; and for a home, she who +had been a wanderer since her birth. + +It was mere bargaining. But at last her free, independent nature +revolted. No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of +man, for three months that were burned into her brain--no more! If +ever she loved--all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the +affection she gave her lions freely. + +The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered +a price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as +such a man could be. She even visited his wife occasionally, and gave +gifts to his children; and the mother trusted her and told her her +trials. And so the thing went on, and the people talked. + +As we said, she turned her eyes to Gaston's box. Instantly they became +riveted, and then a deep flush swept slowly up her face and burned into +her splendid hair. Meyerbeer was watching through his opera-glasses. He +gave an exclamation of delight: + +"By the holy smoke, here's something!" he said aloud. + +For an instant Gaston and the girl looked at each other intently. He +made a slight sign of recognition with his hand, and then she turned +away, gone a little pale now. She stood looking at her lions, as if +trying to recollect herself. The lion at her feet helped her. He had +a change of temper, and, possibly fretting under inaction, growled. At +once she summoned him to get into the chariot. He hesitated, but did so. +She put the reins in his paws and took her place behind. Then a robe +of purple and ermine was thrown over her shoulders by an attendant; +she gave a sharp command, and the lions came round the ring, to wild +applause. Even a Parisian audience had never seen anything like this. It +was amusing too; for the coachman-lion was evidently disgusted with his +task, and growled in a helpless kind of way. + +As they passed Gaston's box, they were very near. The girl threw one +swift glance; but her face was well controlled now. She heard, however, +a whispered word come to her: + +"Andree!" + +A few moments afterwards she retired, and the performance was in other +and less remarkable hands. Presently the manager himself came, and said +that Mademoiselle Victorine would be glad to see Monsieur Belward if he +so wished. Gaston left Jacques, and went. + +Meyerbeer noticed the move, and determined to see the meeting if +possible. There was something in it, he was sure. He would invent an +excuse, and make his way behind. + +Gaston and the manager were in the latter's rooms waiting for Victorine. +Presently a messenger came, saying that Monsieur Belward would find +Mademoiselle in her dressing-room. Thither Gaston went, accompanied by +the manager, who, however, left him at the door, nodding good-naturedly +to Victorine, and inwardly praying that here was no danger to his +business, for Victorine was a source of great profit. Yet he had failed +himself, and all others had failed in winning her--why should this man +succeed, if that was his purpose? + +There was present an elderly, dark-featured Frenchwoman, who was always +with Victorine, vigilant, protective, loving her as her own daughter. + +"Monsieur!" said Andree, a warm colour in her cheek. Gaston shook her +hand cordially, and laughed. "Mademoiselle--Andree?" + +He looked inquiringly. "Yes, to you," she said. + +"You have it all your own way now--isn't it so?" + +"With the lions, yes. Please sit down. This is my dear keeper," she +said, touching the woman's shoulder. Then, to the woman: "Annette, you +have heard me speak of this gentleman?" + +The woman nodded, and modestly touched Gaston's outstretched hand. + +"Monsieur was kind once to my dear Mademoiselle," she said. + +Gaston cheerily smiled: + +"Nothing, nothing, upon my word!" Presently he continued: + +"Your father, what of him?" She sighed and shivered a little. + +"He died in Auvergne three months after you saw him." + +"And you?" He waved a hand towards the menagerie. + +"It is a long story," she answered, not meeting his eyes. "I hated the +Romany life. I became an artist's model; sickened of that,"--her voice +went quickly here, "joined a travelling menagerie, and became what I am. +That in brief." + +"You have done well," he said admiringly, his face glowing. + +"I am a successful dompteuse," she replied. + +She then asked him who was his companion in the box. He told her. +She insisted on sending for Jacques. Meanwhile they talked of her +profession, of the animals. She grew eloquent. Jacques arrived, and +suddenly remembered Andree--stammered, was put at his ease, and dropped +into talk with Annette. Gaston fell into reminiscences of wild game, and +talked intelligently, acutely of her work. He must wait, she said, until +the performance closed, and then she would show him the animals as a +happy family. Thus a half-hour went by. + +Meanwhile, Meyerbeer had asked the manager to take him to Mademoiselle; +but was told that Victorine never gave information to journalists, and +would not be interviewed. Besides, she had a visitor. Yes, Meyerbeer +knew it--Mr. Gaston Belward; but that did not matter. The manager +thought it did matter. Then, with an idea of the future, Meyerbeer asked +to be shown the menagerie thoroughly--he would write it up for England +and America. + +And so it happened that there were two sets of people inspecting the +menagerie after the performance. Andree let a dozen of the animals +out--lions, leopards, a tiger, and a bear,--and they gambolled round her +playfully, sometimes quarrelling with each other, but brought up smartly +by her voice and a little whip, which she always carried--the only sign +of professional life about her, though there was ever a dagger hid in +her dress. For the rest, she looked a splendid gipsy. + +Gaston suddenly asked if he might visit her. At the moment she was +playing with the young tiger. She paused, was silent, preoccupied. The +tiger, feeling neglected, caught her hand with its paw, tearing the +skin. Gaston whipped out his handkerchief, and stanched the blood. She +wrapped the handkerchief quickly round her hand, and then, recovering +herself, ordered the animals back into their cages. They trotted away, +and the attendant locked them up. Meanwhile Jacques had picked up and +handed to Gaston a letter, dropped when he drew out his handkerchief. It +was one received two days before from Delia Gasgoyne. He had a pang of +confusion, and hastily put it into his pocket. + +Up to this time there had been no confusion in his mind. He was going +back to do his duty; to marry the girl, union with whom would be an +honour; to take his place in his kingdom. He had had no minute's doubt +of that. It was necessary, and it should be done. The girl? Did he not +admire her, honour her, care for her? Why, then, this confusion? + +Andree said to him that he might come the next morning for breakfast. +She said it just as the manager and Meyerbeer passed her. Meyerbeer +heard it, and saw the look in the faces of both: in hers, bewildered, +warm, penetrating; in Gaston's, eager, glowing, bold, with a distant +kind of trouble. + +Here was a thickening plot for Paul Pry. He hugged himself. But who was +Zoug-Zoug? If he could but get at that! He asked the manager, who said +he did not know. He asked a dozen men that evening, but none knew. He +would ask Ian Belward. What a fool not to have thought of him at first. +He knew all the gossip of Paris, and was always communicative--but was +he, after all? He remembered now that the painter had a way of talking +at discretion: he had never got any really good material from him. But +he would try him in this. + +So, as Gaston and Jacques travelled down the Boulevard Montparnasse, +Meyerbeer was not far behind. The journalist found Ian Belward at home, +in a cynical indolent mood. + +"Wherefore Meyerbeer?" he said, as he motioned the other to a chair, and +pushed over vermouth and cigarettes. + +"To ask a question." + +"One question? Come, that's penance. Aren't you lying as usual?" + +"No; one only. I've got the rest of it." + +"Got the rest of it, eh? Nasty mess you've got, whatever it is, I'll be +bound. What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers!" + +"That's all right. This vermouth is good enough. Well, will you answer +my question?" + +"Possibly, if it's not personal. But Lord knows where your insolence may +run! You may ask if I'll introduce you to a decent London club!" + +Meyerbeer flushed at last. + +"You're rubbing it in," he said angrily. + +He did wish to be introduced to a good London club. "The question isn't +personal, I guess. It's this: Who's Zoug-Zoug?" + +Smoke had come trailing out of Belward's nose, his head thrown back, his +eyes on the ceiling. It stopped, and came out of his mouth on one long, +straight whiff. Then the painter brought his head to a natural position +slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said: + +"Who is what?" + +"Who's Zoug-Zoug?" + +"That is your one solitary question, is it?" + +"That's it." + +"Very well. Now, I'll be scavenger. What is the story? Who is the +woman--for you've got a woman in it, that's certain?" + +"Will you tell me, then, whether you know Zoug-Zoug?" + +"Yes." + +"The woman is Mademoiselle Victorine, the dompteuse." + +"Ah, I've not seen her yet. She burst upon Paris while I was away. Now, +straight: no lies: who are the others?" + +Meyerbeer hesitated; for, of course, he did not wish to speak of Gaston +at this stage in the game. But he said: + +"Count Ploare--and Zoug-Zoug." + +"Why don't you tell me the truth?" + +"I do. Now, who is Zoug-Zoug?" + +"Find out." + +"You said you'd tell me." + +"No. I said I'd tell you if I knew Zoug-Zoug. I do." + +"That's all you'll tell me?" + +"That's all. And see, scavenger, take my advice and let Zoug-Zoug alone. +He's a man of influence; and he's possessed of a devil. He'll make you +sorry, if you meddle with him!" + +He rose, and Meyerbeer did the same, saying: "You'd better tell me." + +"Now, don't bother me. Drink your vermouth, take that bundle of +cigarettes, and hunt Zoug-Zoug else where. If you find him, let me know. +Good-bye." + +Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic. + +"I'll give a sweet savour to your family name," he said with an oath, as +he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at +the ceiling reflectively. + +"H'm!" he said at last. "What the devil does this mean? Not Andree, +surely not Andree! Yet I wasn't called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was +Bagshot's insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!" + +He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, +put them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half +quizzically. + +"It was rough on you, Andree; but you were hard to please, and I am +constant to but one. Yet, begad, you had solid virtues; and I wish, for +your sake, I had been a different kind of fellow. Well, well, we'll meet +again some time, and then we'll be good friends, no doubt." + +He turned away from the sketches and picked up some illustrated +newspapers. In one was a portrait. He looked at it, then at the sketches +again and again. + +"There's a resemblance," he said. "But no, it's not possible. +Andree-Mademoiselle Victorine! That would be amusing. I'd go to-morrow +and see, if I weren't off to Fontainebleau. But there's no hurry: when I +come back will do." + + + + +CHAPTER XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN + +At Ridley Court and Peppingham all was serene to the eye. Letters had +come to the Court at least once every two weeks from Gaston, and the +minds of the Baronet and his wife were at ease. They even went so far as +to hope that he would influence his uncle; for it was clear to them both +that whatever Gaston's faults were, they were agreeably different from +Ian's. His fame and promise were sweet to their nostrils. Indeed, the +young man had brought the wife and husband nearer than they had +been since Robert vanished over-sea. Each had blamed the other in an +indefinite, secret way; but here was Robert's son, on whom they could +lavish--as they did--their affection, long since forfeited by Ian. +Finally, one day, after a little burst of thanksgiving, on getting an +excellent letter from Gaston, telling of his simple, amusing life in +Paris, Sir William sent him one thousand pounds, begging him to buy a +small yacht, or to do what he pleased with it. + +"A very remarkable man, my dear," Sir William said, as he enclosed the +cheque. "Excellent wisdom--excellent!" + +"Who could have guessed that he knew so much about the poor and the +East End, and all those social facts and figures?" Lady Belward answered +complacently. + +"An unusual mind, with a singular taste for history, and yet a deep +observation of the present. I don't know when and how he does it. I +really do not know." + +"It is nice to think that Lord Faramond approves of him." + +"Most noticeable. And we have not been a Parliamentary family since +the first Charles's time. And then it was a Gaston. Singular--quite +singular! Coincidences of looks and character. Nature plays strange +games. Reproduction--reproduction!" + +"The Pall Mall Gazette says that he may soon reach the Treasury Bench." + +Sir William was abstracted. He was thinking of that afternoon in +Gaston's bedroom, when his grandson had acted, before Lady Dargan and +Cluny Vosse, Sir Gaston's scene with Buckingham. + +"Really, most mysterious, most unaccountable. But it's one of the +virtues of having a descent. When it is most needed, it counts, it +counts." + +"Against the half-breed mother!" Lady Belward added. + +"Quite so, against the--was it Cree or Blackfoot? I've heard him speak +of both, but which is in him I do not remember." + +"It is very painful; but, poor fellow, it is not his fault, and we ought +to be content." + +"Indeed, it gives him great originality. Our old families need +refreshing now and then." + +"Ah, yes, I said so to Mrs. Gasgoyne the other day, and she replied that +the refreshment might prove intoxicating. Reine was always rude." + +Truth is, Mrs. Gasgoyne was not quite satisfied. That very day she said +to her husband: + +"You men always stand by each other; but I know you, and you know that I +know." + +"'Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts'; well, then, you know how we +love you. So, be merciful." + +"Nonsense, Warren! I tell you he oughtn't to have gone when he did. He +has the wild man in him, and I am not satisfied." + +"What do you want--me to play the spy?" + +"Warren, you're a fool! What do I want? I want the first of September +to come quickly, that we may have him with us. With Delia he must go +straight. She influences him, he admires her--which is better than mere +love. Away from her just now, who can tell what mad adventure--! You +see, he has had the curb so long!" + +But in a day or two there came a letter-unusually long for Gaston--to +Mrs. Gasgoyne herself. It was simple, descriptive, with a dash of +epigram. It acknowledged that he had felt the curb, and wanted a touch +of the unconventional. It spoke of Ian Belward in a dry phrase, and it +asked for the date of the yacht's arrival at Gibraltar. + +"Warren, the man is still sensible," she said. "This letter is honest. +He is much a heathen at heart, but I believe he hasn't given Delia cause +to blush--and that's a good deal! Dear me, I am fond of the fellow--he +is so clever. But clever men are trying." + +As for Delia, like every sensible English girl, she enjoyed herself in +the time of youth, drinking in delightedly the interest attaching +to Gaston's betrothed. His letters had been regular, kind yet not +emotionally affectionate, interesting, uncommon. He had a knack of +saying as much in one page as most people did in five. Her imagination +was not great, but he stimulated it. If he wrote a pungent line on +Daudet or Whistler, on Montaigne or Fielding, she was stimulated to know +them. One day he sent her Whitman's Leaves of Grass, which he had picked +up in New York on his way to England. This startled her. She had +never heard of Whitman. To her he seemed coarse, incomprehensible, +ungentlemanly. She could not understand how Gaston could say beautiful +things about Montaigne and about Whitman too. She had no conception how +he had in him the strain of that first Sir Gaston Belward, and was also +the son of a half-heathen. + +He interested her all the more. Her letters were hardly so fascinating +to him. She was beautifully correct, but she could not make a sentence +breathe. He was grateful, but nothing stirred in him. He could live +without her--that he knew regretfully. But he did his part with sincere +intention. + +That was up to the day when he saw Andree as Mademoiselle Victorine. +Then came a swift change. Day after day he visited her, always in the +presence of Annette. Soon they dined often together, still in Annette's +presence, and the severity of that rule was never relaxed. + +Count Ploare came no more; he had received his dismissal. Occasionally +Gaston visited the menagerie, but generally after the performance, when +Victorine had a half-hour's or an hour's romp with her animals. This was +a pleasant time to Gaston. The wild life in him responded. + +These were hours when the girl was quite naive and natural, when she +spent herself in ripe enjoyment--almost child-like, healthy. At other +times there was an indefinable something which Gaston had not noticed in +England. But then he had only seen her once. She, too, saw something in +him unnoticed before. It was on his tongue a hundred times to tell her +that that something was Delia Gasgoyne. He did not. Perhaps because it +seemed so grotesque, perhaps because it was easier to drift. Besides, as +he said to himself, he would soon go to join the yacht at Gibraltar, +and all this would be over-over. All this? All what? A gipsy, a +dompteuse--what was she to him? She interested him, he liked her, and +she liked him, but there had been nothing more between them. Near as he +was to her now, he very often saw her in his mind's eye as she passed +over Ridley Common, looking towards him, her eyes shaded by her hand. + +She, too, had continually said to herself that this man could be nothing +to her--nothing, never! Yet, why not? Count Ploare had offered her his +hand. But she knew what had been in Count Ploare's mind. Gaston Belward +was different--he had befriended her father. She had not singular +scruples regarding men, for she despised most of them. She was not a +Mademoiselle Cerise, nor a Madame Juliette, though they were higher on +the plane of art than she; or so the world put it. She had not known a +man who had not, one time or another, shown himself common or insulting. +But since the first moment she had seen Gaston, he had treated her as a +lady. + +A lady? She had seen enough to smile at that. She knew that she hadn't +it in her veins, that she was very much an actress, except in this man's +company, when she was mostly natural--as natural as one can be who has +a painful secret. They had talked together--for how many hours? She +knew exactly. And he had never descended to that which--she felt +instinctively--he would not have shown to the ladies of his English +world. She knew what ladies were. In her first few weeks in Paris, +her fame mounting, she had lunched with some distinguished people, who +entertained her as they would have done one of her lions, if that +were possible. She understood. She had a proud, passionate nature; she +rebelled at this. Invitations were declined at first on pink note-paper +with gaudy flowers in a corner, afterwards on cream-laid vellum, when +she saw what the great folk did. + +And so the days went on, he telling her of his life from his boyhood +up--all but the one thing! But that one thing she came to know, partly +by instinct, partly by something he accidentally dropped, partly from +something Jacques once said to him. Well, what did it matter to her? He +would go back; she would remain. It didn't matter.--Yet, why should she +lie to herself? It did matter. And why should she care about that girl +in England? She was not supposed to know. The other had everything in +her favour; what had Andree the gipsy girl, or Mademoiselle Victorine, +the dompteuse? + +One Sunday evening, after dining together, she asked him to take her +to see Saracen. It was a long-standing promise. She had never seen him +riding; for their hours did not coincide until the late afternoon +or evening. Taking Annette, they went to his new apartments. He +had furnished a large studio as a sitting-room, not luxuriantly but +pleasantly. It opened into a pretty little garden, with a few plants +and trees. They sat there while Jacques went for the horse. Next door +a number of students were singing a song of the boulevards. It was +followed by one in a woman's voice, sweet and clear and passionate, +pitifully reckless. It was, as if in pure contradiction, the opposite of +the other--simple, pathetic. At first there were laughing interruptions +from the students; but the girl kept on, and soon silence prevailed, +save for the voice: + + "And when the wine is dry upon the lip, + And when the flower is broken by the hand, + And when I see the white sails of thy ship + Fly on, and leave me there upon the sand: + Think you that I shall weep? Nay, I shall smile: + The wine is drunk, the flower it is gone, + One weeps not when the days no more beguile, + How shall the tear-drops gather in a stone?" + +When it was ended, Andree, who had listened intently, drew herself up +with a little shudder. She sat long, looking into the garden, the cub +playing at her feet. Gaston did not disturb her. He got refreshments and +put them on the table, rolled a cigarette, and regarded the scene. Her +knee was drawn up slightly in her hands, her hat was off, her rich brown +hair fell loosely about her head, framing it, her dark eyes glowed under +her bent brows. The lion's cub crawled up on the divan, and thrust its +nose under an arm. Its head clung to her waist. Who was she? thought +Gaston. Delilah, Cleopatra--who? She was lost in thought. She remained +so until the garden door opened, and Jacques entered with Saracen. + +She looked. Suddenly she came to her feet with a cry of delight, and +ran out towards the horse. There was something essentially child-like +in her, something also painfully wild-an animal, and a philosopher, and +twenty-three. + +Jacques put out his hand as he had done with Mademoiselle Cerise. + +"No, no; he is savage." + +"Nonsense!" she rejoined, and came closer. + +Gaston watched, interested. He guessed what she would do. + +"A horse!" she added. "Why, you have seen my lions! Leave him free: +stand away from him." + +Her words were peremptory, and Jacques obeyed. The horse stood alone, +a hoof pawing the ground. Presently it sprang away, then half-turned +towards the girl, and stood still. She kept talking to him and calling +softly, making a coaxing, animal-like sound, as she always did with her +lions. + +She stepped forward a little and paused. The horse suddenly turned +straight towards her, came over slowly, and, with arched neck, dropped +his head on her shoulder. She felt the folds of his neck and kissed him. +He followed her about the garden like a dog. She brought him to Gaston, +locked up, and said with a teasing look, "I have conquered him: he is +mine!" + +Gaston looked her in her eyes. "He is yours." + +"And you?" + +"He is mine." His look burned into her soul-how deep, how joyful! + +She turned away, her face going suddenly pale. She kept the horse for +some time, but at last gave him up again to Jacques. Gaston stepped from +the doorway into the garden and met her. It was now dusk. Annette was +inside. They walked together in silence for a time. Presently she drew +close to him. He felt his veins bounding. Her hand slid into his arm, +and, dark as it was, he could see her eyes lifting to his, shining, +profound. They had reached the end of the garden, and now turned to come +back again. + +Suddenly he said, his eyes holding hers: "The horse is yours--and mine." + +She stood still; but he could see her bosom heaving hard. She threw up +her head with a sound half sob, half laugh.... + +"You are mad!" she said a moment afterwards, as she lifted her head from +his breast. + +He laughed softly, catching her cheek to his. "Why be sane? It was to +be." + +"The gipsy and the gentleman?" + +"Gipsies all!" + +"And the end of it?" + +"Do you not love me, Andree?" She caught her hands over her eyes. + +"I do not know what it is--only that it is madness! I see, oh, I see a +hundred things." + +Her hot eyes were on space. "What do you see?" he urged. She gave a +sudden cry: + +"I see you at my feet--dead." + +"Better than you at mine, Andree." + +"Let us go," she said hurriedly. + +"Wait," he whispered. + +They talked for a little time. Then they entered the studio. Annette was +asleep in her chair. Andree waked her, and they bade Gaston good-night. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. WHEREIN LOVE KNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN'S WILL. + +In another week it was announced that Mademoiselle Victorine would take +a month's holiday; to the sorrow of her chief, and to the delight of Mr. +Meyerbeer, who had not yet discovered his man, though he had a pretty +scandal well-nigh brewed. + +Count Ploare was no more, Gaston Belward was. Zoug-Zoug was in the +country at Fontainebleau, working at his picture. He had left on the +morning after Gaston discovered Andree. He had written, asking his +nephew to come for some final sittings. Possibly, he said, Mademoiselle +Cerise and others would be down for a Sunday. Gaston had not gone, had +briefly declined. His uncle shrugged his shoulders, and went on with +other work. It would end in his having to go to Paris and finish the +picture there, he said. Perhaps the youth was getting into mischief? +So much the better. He took no newspapers.--What did an artist need of +them? He did not even read the notices sent by a press-cutting agency. +He had a model with him. She amused him for the time, but it was +unsatisfactory working on "The King of Ys" from photographs. He loathed +it, and gave it up. + +One evening Gaston and Andree met at the Gare Montparnasse. Jacques +was gone on, but Annette was there. Meyerbeer was there also, at a safe +distance. He saw Gaston purchase tickets, arrange his baggage, and enter +the train. He passed the compartment, looking in. Besides the three, +there was a priest and a young soldier. + +Gaston saw him, and guessed what brought him there. He had an impulse to +get out and shake him as would Andree's cub a puppy. But the train moved +off. Meyerbeer found Gaston's porter. A franc did the business. + +"Douarnenez, for Audierne, Brittany," was the legend written in +Meyerbeer's note-book. And after that: "Journey twenty hours--change at +Rennes, Redon, and Quimpere." + +"Too far. I've enough for now," said Meyerbeer, chuckling, as he walked +away. "But I'd give five hundred dollars to know who Zoug-Zoug is. I'll +make another try." + +So he held his sensation back for a while yet. Of the colony at the +Hotel St. Malo, not one of the three who knew would tell him. Bagshot +had sworn the others to secrecy. + +Jacques had gone on with the horses. He was to rent a house, or get +rooms at a hotel. He did very well. The horses were stalled at the Hotel +de France. He had rented an old chateau perched upon a hill, with steps +approaching, steps flanking; near it strange narrow alleys, leading +where one cared not to search; a garden of pears and figs, and grapes, +and innumerable flowers and an arbour; a pavilion, all windows, over +an entranceway, with a shrine in it--a be-starred shrine below it; bare +floors, simple furniture, primitiveness at every turn. + +Gaston and Andree came, of choice, with a courier in a racketing old +diligence from Douarnenez, and they laughed with delight, tired as they +were, at the new quarters. It must be a gipsy kind of existence at the +most. + +There were rooms for Jacques and Annette, who at once set to work with +the help of a little Breton maid. Jacques had not ordered a dinner at +the hotel, but had got in fresh fish, lobsters, chickens, eggs, and +other necessaries; and all was ready for a meal which could be got in an +hour. + +Jacques had now his hour of happiness. He knew not of these morals--they +were beyond him; but after a cheerful dinner in the pavilion, with an +omelette made by Andree herself, Annette went to her room and cried +herself to sleep. She was civilised, poor soul, and here they were +a stone's throw from the cure and the church! Gaston and Andree, +refreshed, travelled down the long steps to the village, over the place, +along the quay, to the lighthouse and the beach, through crowds of +sardine fishers and simple hard-tongued Bretons. Cheerful, buoyant at +dinner, there now came upon the girl an intense quiet and fatigue. She +stood and looked long at the sea. Gaston tried to rouse her. + +"This is your native Brittany, Andree," he said. She pointed far over +the sea: + +"Near that light at Penmark I was born." + +"Can you speak the Breton language?" + +"Far worse than you speak Parisian French." + +He laughed. "You are so little like these people!" + +She had vanity. That had been part of her life. Her beauty had brought +trade when she was a gipsy; she had been the admired of Paris: she was +only twenty three. Presently she became restless, and shrank from him. +Her eyes had a flitting hunted look. Once they met his with a wild +sort of pleading or revolt, he could not tell which, and then were +continually turned away. + +If either could have known how hard the little dwarf of sense and memory +was trying to tell her something. + +This new phase stunned him. What did it mean? He touched her hand. +It was hot, and withdrew from his. He put his arm around her, and she +shivered, cringed. But then she was a woman, he thought. He had met one +unlike any he had ever known. He would wait. He would be patient. Would +she come--home? She turned passively and took his arm. He talked, but he +knew he was talking poorly, and at last he became silent also. But when +they came to the steep steps leading to the chateau, he lifted her in +his arms, carried her to the house, and left her at their chamber-door. + +Then he went to the pavilion to smoke. He had no wish to think--at +least of anything but the girl. It was not a time for retrospect, but +to accept a situation. The die had been cast. He had followed what--his +nature, his instincts? The consequence? + +He heard Andree's voice. He went to her. + +The next morning they were in the garden walking about. They had been +speaking, but now both were silent. At last he turned again to her. + +"Andree, who was the other man?" he asked quietly, but with a strange +troubled look in his eyes. + +She shrank away confused, a kind of sickness in her eyes. + +"What does it matter?" she said. + +"Of course, of course," he returned in a low, nerveless tone. + +They were silent for a long time. Meanwhile, she seemed to beat up a +feverish cheerfulness. At last she said: + +"Where do we go this afternoon, Gaston?" + +"We will see," he replied. + +The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was +impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned, +entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion to +redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much. + +They rode, they took excursions in fishing-boats and little sail-boats. +Andree entered into these with zest: talked to the sailors, to Jacques, +caressed children, and was not indifferent to the notice she attracted +in the village; but was obviously distrait. Gaston was patient--and +unhappy. So, this was the merchandise for which he had bartered all! +But he had a will, he was determined; he had sowed, he would reap his +harvest to the useless stubble. + +"Do you wish to go back to your work?" he said quietly, once. + +"I have no work," she answered apathetically. He said no more just then. + +The days and weeks went by. The situation was impossible, not to be +understood. Gaston made his final move. He hoped that perhaps a forced +crisis might bring about a change. If it failed--he knew not what! She +was sitting in the garden below--he alone in the window, smoking. A +bundle of letters and papers, brought by the postman that evening, were +beside him. He would not open them yet. He felt that there was trouble +in them--he saw phrases, sentences flitting past him. But he would play +this other bitter game out first. He let them lie. He heard the bells in +the church ringing the village commerce done--it was nine o'clock. The +picture of that other garden in Paris came to him: that night when +he had first taken this girl into his arms. She sat below talking to +Annette and singing a little Breton chanson: + + "Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la lire! + Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la, la!" + +He called down to her presently. "Andree!" + +"Yes." + +"Will you come up for a moment, please?" + +"Surely." + +She came up, leaving the room door open, and bringing the cub with her. + +He called Jacques. + +"Take the cub to its quarters, Jacques," he said, quietly. + +She seemed about to protest, but sat back and watched him. He shut the +door--locked it. Then he came and sat down before her. + +"Andree," he said, "this is all impossible." + +"What is impossible?" + +"You know well. I am not a mere brute. The only thing that can redeem +this life is love." + +"That is true," she said, coldly. "What then?" + +"You do not redeem it. We must part." + +She laughed fitfully. "We must--?" + +She leaned towards him. + +"To-morrow evening you will go back to Paris. To-night we part, however: +that is, our relations cease." + +"I shall go from here when it pleases me, Gaston!" + +His voice came low and stern, but courteous: + +"You must go when I tell you. Do you think I am the weaker?" + +He could see her colour flying, her fingers lacing and interlacing. + +"Aren't you afraid to tell me that?" she asked. + +"Afraid? Of my life--you mean that? That you will be as common as that? +No: you will do as I tell you." + +He fixed his eyes on hers, and held them. She sat, looking. Presently +she tried to take her eyes away. She could not. She shuddered and +shrank. + +He withdrew his eyes for a moment. "You will go?" he asked. + +"It makes no difference," she answered; then added sharply: "Who are +you, to look at me like that, to--!" + +She paused. + +"I am your friend and your master!" + +He rose. "Good-night," he said, at the door, and went out. + +He heard the key turn in the lock. He had forgotten his papers and +letters. It did not matter. He would read them when she was gone--if she +did go. He was far from sure that he had succeeded. He went to bed in +another room, and was soon asleep. + +He was waked in the very early morning by feeling a face against his, +wet, trembling. + +"What is it, Andree?" he asked. Her arms ran round his neck. + +"Oh, mon amour! Mon adore! Je t'aime! Je t'aime!" + +In the evening of this day she said she knew not how it was, but on that +first evening in Audierne there suddenly came to her a strange terrible +feeling, which seemed to dry up all the springs of her desire for him. +She could not help it. She had fought against it, but it was no use; yet +she knew that she could not leave him. After he had told her to go, she +had had a bitter struggle: now tears, now anger, and a wish to hate. At +last she fell asleep. When she awoke she had changed, she was her old +self, as in Paris, when she had first confessed her love. She felt that +she must die if she did not go to him. All the first passion returned, +the passion that began on the common at Ridley Court. "And now--now," +she said, "I know that I cannot live without you." + +It seemed so. Her nature was emptying itself. Gaston had got the +merchandise for which he had given a price yet to be known. + +"You asked me of the other man," she said. "I will tell you." + +"Not now," he said. "You loved him?" + +"No--ah God, no!" she answered. + +An hour after, when she was in her room, he opened the little bundle of +correspondence.--A memorandum with money from his bankers. A letter from +Delia, and also one from Mrs. Gasgoyne, saying that they expected +to meet him at Gibraltar on a certain day, and asking why he had not +written; Delia with sorrowful reserve, Mrs. Gasgoyne with impatience. +His letters had missed them--he had written on leaving Paris, saying +that his plans were indefinite, but he would write them definitely soon. +After he came to Audierne it seemed impossible to write. How could he? +No, let the American journalist do it. Better so. Better himself in the +worst light, with the full penalty, than his own confession--in itself +an insult. So it had gone on. He slowly tore up the letters. The next +were from his grandfather and grandmother--they did not know yet. He +could not read them. A few loving sentences, and then he said: + +"What's the good! Better not." He tore them up also. Another--from his +uncle. It was brief: + + You've made a sweet mess of it, Cadet. It's in all the papers + to-day. Meyerbeer telegraphed it to New York and London. I'll + probably come down to see you. I want to finish my picture on the + site of the old City of Ys, there at Point du Raz. Your girl can + pose with you. I'll do all I can to clear the thing up. But a + British M.P.--that's a tough pill for Clapham! + +Gaston's foot tapped the floor angrily. He scattered the pieces of the +letter at his feet. Now for the newspapers. He opened Le Petit Journal, +Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it +was there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation. +Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all +unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand: + +There was a previous friend of the lady, unknown to the public, called +Zoug-Zoug. + +He remembered that day at the Hotel St. Malo! Well, the bolt was shot: +the worst was over. Quid refert? Justify himself? + +Certainly, to all but Delia Gasgoyne. + +Thousands of men did the same--did it in cold blood, without one honest +feeling. He did it, at least under a powerful influence. He could not +help but smile now at the thought of how he had filled both sides of +the equation. On his father's side, bringing down the mad record +from Naseby; on his mother's, true to the heathen, by following his +impulses--sacred to primitive man, justified by spear, arrow, and +a strong arm. Why sheet home this as a scandal? How did they--the +libellers--know but that he had married the girl? Exactly. He would see +to that. He would play his game with open sincerity now. He could +have wished secrecy for Delia Gasgoyne, and for his grandfather and +grandmother,--he was not wilfully brutal,--but otherwise he had no shame +at all; he would stand openly for his right. Better one honest passion +than a life of deception and miserable compromise. A British M.P.?--He +had thrown away his reputation, said the papers. By this? The girl was +no man's wife, he was no woman's husband! + +Marry her? Yes, he would marry her; she should be his wife. His people? +It was a pity. Poor old people--they would fret and worry. He had been +selfish, had not thought of them? Well, who could foresee this outrage +of journalism? The luck had been dead against him. Did he not know +plenty of men in London--he was going to say the Commons, but he was +fairer to the Commons than it, as a body, would be to him--who did much +worse? These had escaped: the hunters had been after him. What would +he do? Take the whip? He got to his feet with an oath. Take the whip? +Never--never! He would fight this thing tooth and nail. Had he come +to England to let them use him for a sensation only--a sequence of +surprises, to end in a tragedy, all for the furtive pleasure of the +British breakfast-table? No, by the Eternal! What had the first Gaston +done? He had fought--fought Villiers and others, and had held up his +head beside his King and Rupert till the hour of Naseby. + +When the summer was over he would return to Paris, to London. The +journalist--punish him? No; too little--a product of his time. But the +British people he would fight, and he would not give up Ridley Court. +He could throw the game over when it was all his, but never when it was +going dead against him. + +That speech in the Commons? He remembered gladly that he had contended +for conceptions of social miseries according to surrounding influences +of growth and situation. He had not played the hypocrite. + +No, not even with Delia. He had acted honestly at the beginning, +and afterwards he had done what he could so long as he could. It was +inevitable that she must be hurt, even if he had married, not giving +her what he had given this dompteuse. After all, was it so terrible? It +could not affect her much in the eyes of the world. And her heart? He +did not flatter himself. Yet he knew that it would be the thing--the +fallen idol--that would grieve her more than thought of the man. He +wished that he could have spared her in the circumstances. But it had +all come too suddenly: it was impossible. He had spared, he could spare, +nobody. There was the whole situation. What now to do?--To remain here +while it pleased them, then Paris, then London for his fight. + +Three days went round. There were idle hours by the sea, little +excursions in a sail-boat to Penmark, and at last to Point du Raz. It +was a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze, and the point was glorified. +The boat ran in lightly between the steep dark shore and the comb of +reef that looked like a host of stealthy pumas crumbling the water. They +anchored in the Bay des Trepasses. An hour on shore exploring the caves, +and lunching, and then they went back to the boat, accompanied by a +Breton sailor, who had acted as guide. + +Gaston lay reading,--they were in the shade of the cliff,--while Andree +listened to the Breton tell the legends of the coast. At length Gaston's +attention was attracted. The old sailor was pointing to the shore, and +speaking in bad French. + +"Voila, madame, where the City of Ys stood long before the Bretons came. +It was a foolish ride." + +"I do not know the story. Tell me." + +"There are two or three, but mine is the oldest. A flood came--sent by +the gods, for the woman was impious. The king must ride with her into +the sea and leave her there, himself to come back, and so save the +city." + +The sailor paused to scan the sea--something had struck him. He shook +his head. Gaston was watching Andree from behind his book. + +"Well, well," she said, impatiently, "what then? What did he do?" + +"The king took up the woman, and rode into the water as far as where you +see the great white stone--it has been there ever since. There he had +a fight--not with the woman, but in his heart. He turned to the people, +and cried: 'Dry be your streets, and as ashes your eyes for your king!' +And then he rode on with the woman till they saw him no more--never!" +Andree said instantly: + +"That was long ago. Now the king would ride back alone." + +She did not look at Gaston, but she knew that his eyes were on her. +He closed the book, got up, came forward to the sailor, who was again +looking out to sea, and said carelessly over his shoulder: + +"Men who lived centuries ago would act the same now, if they were here." + +Her response seemed quite as careless as his: "How do you know?" + +"Perhaps I had an innings then," he answered, smiling whimsically. + +She was about to speak again, but the guide suddenly said: + +"You must get away. There'll be a change of wind and a bad cross-current +soon." + +In a few minutes the two were bearing out--none too soon, for those +pumas crowded up once or twice within a fathom of their deck, devilish +and devouring. But they wore away with a capricious current, and down a +tossing sea made for Audierne. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE + +In a couple of hours they rounded Point de Leroily, and ran for the +harbour. By hugging the quay in the channel to the left of the bar, they +were sure of getting in, though the tide was low. The boat was docile +to the lug-sail and the helm. As they were beating in they saw a large +yacht running straight across a corner of the bar for the channel. It +was Warren Gasgoyne's Kismet. + +The Kismet had put into Audierne rather than try to pass Point du Raz +at night. At Gibraltar a telegram had come telling of the painful +sensation, and the yacht was instantly headed for England; Mrs. Gasgoyne +crossing the Continent, Delia preferring to go back with her father--his +sympathy was more tender. They had seen no newspapers, and they did not +know that Gaston was at Audierne. Gasgoyne knowing, as all the world +knew, that there was a bar at the mouth of the harbour, allowed himself, +as he thought, sufficient room, but the wind had suddenly drawn ahead, +and he was obliged to keep away. Presently the yacht took the ground +with great force. + +Gasgoyne put the helm hard down, but she would not obey. He tried at +once to get in his sails, but the surf was running very strong, and +presently a heavy sea broke clean over her. Then came confusion and +dismay: the flapping of the wet, half-lowered sails, and the whipping +of the slack ropes, making all effort useless. There was no chance +of her-holding. Foot by foot she was being driven towards the rocks. +Sailors stood motionless on the shore. The lifeboat would be of little +use: besides, it could not arrive for some time. + +Gaston had recognised the Kismet. He turned to Andree. + +"There's danger, but perhaps we can do it. Will you go?" + +She flushed. + +"Have I ever been a coward, Gaston? Tell me what to do." + +"Keep the helm firm, and act instantly on my orders." + +Instead of coming round into the channel, he kept straight on past the +lighthouse towards the yacht, until he was something to seaward of her. +Then, luffing quickly, he dropped sail, let go the anchor, and unshipped +the mast, while Andree got the oars into the rowlocks. It was his idea +to dip under the yacht's stern, but he found himself drifting alongside, +and in danger of dashing broadside on her. He got an oar and backed with +all his strength towards the stern, the anchor holding well. Then he +called to those on board to be ready to jump. Once in line with the +Kismet's counter, he eased off the painter rapidly, and now dropped +towards the stern of the wreck. + +Gaston was quite cool. He did not now think of the dramatic nature of +this meeting, apart from the physical danger. Delia also had recognised +him, and guessed who the girl was. Not to respond to Gaston's call was +her first instinct. But then, life was sweet. Besides, she had to think +of others. Her father, too, was chiefly concerned for her safety and for +his yacht. He had almost determined to get Delia on Gaston's boat, and +himself take the chances with the Kismet; but his sailors dissuaded him, +declaring that the chances were against succour. + +The only greetings were words of warning and direction from Gaston. +Presently there was an opportunity. Gaston called sharply to Delia, and +she, standing ready, jumped. He caught her in his arms as she came. The +boat swayed as the others leaped, and he held her close meanwhile. Her +eyes closed, she shuddered and went white. When he put her down, she +covered her face with her hands, trembling. Then, suddenly she came +huddling in a heap, and burst into tears. + +They slipped the painter, a sailor took Andree's place at the helm, the +oars were got out, and they made over to the channel, grazing the bar +once or twice, by reason of the now heavy load. + +Warren Gasgoyne and Gaston had not yet spoken in the way of greeting. +The former went to Delia now and said a few cheery words, but, from +behind her handkerchief, she begged him to leave her alone for a moment. + +"Nerves, all nerves, Mr. Belward," he said, turning towards Gaston. +"But, then, it was ticklish-ticklish." + +They did not shake hands. Gaston was looking at Delia, and he did not +reply. + +Mr. Gasgoyne continued: + +"Nasty sea coming on--afraid to try Point du Raz. Of course we didn't +know you were here." + +He looked at Andree curiously. He was struck by the girl's beauty and +force. But how different from Delia! + +He suddenly turned, and said bluntly, in a low voice: "Belward, what +a fool--what a fool! You had it all at your feet: the best--the very +best." + +Gaston answered quietly: + +"It's an awkward time for talking. The rocks will have your yacht in +half an hour." + +Gasgoyne turned towards it. + +"Yes, she'll get a raking fore and aft." Then, he added, suddenly: "Of +course you know how we feel about our rescue. It was plucky of you." + +"Pluckier in the girl," was the reply. "Brave enough," the honest +rejoinder. + +Gaston had an impulse to say, "Shall I thank her for you?" but he was +conscious how little right he had to be ironical with Warren Gasgoyne, +and he held his peace. + +While the two were now turned away towards the Kismet, Andree came to +Delia. She did not quite know how to comfort her, but she was a woman, +and perhaps a supporting arm would do something. + +"There, there," she said, passing a hand round her shoulder, "you are +all right now. Don't cry!" + +With a gasp of horror, Delia got to her feet, but swayed, and fell +fainting--into Andree's arms. + +She awoke near the landing-place, her father beside her. Meanwhile +Andree had read the riddle. As Mr. Gasgoyne bathed Delia's face, and +Gaston her wrists, and gave her brandy, she sat still and intent, +watching. Tears and fainting! Would she--Andree-have given way like that +in the same circumstances? No. But this girl--Delia--was of a different +order: was that it? All nerves and sentiment! At one of those lunches +in the grand world she had seen a lady burst into tears suddenly at some +one's reference to Senegal. She herself had only cried four times, +that she remembered; when her mother died; when her father was called a +thief; when, one day, she suffered the first great shame of her life in +the mountains of Auvergne; and the night when she waked a second time to +her love for Gaston. She dared to call it love, though good Annette had +called it a mortal sin. + +What was to be done? The other woman must suffer. + +The man was hers--hers for ever. He had said it: for ever. Yet her heart +had a wild hunger for that something which this girl had and she had +not. But the man was hers; she had won him away from this other. + +Delia came upon the quay bravely, passing through the crowd of staring +fishermen, who presently gave Gaston a guttural cheer. Three of them, +indeed, had been drinking his health. They embraced him and kissed him, +begging him to come with them for absinthe. He arranged the matter with +a couple of francs. + +Then he wondered what now was to be done. He could not insult the +Gasgoynes by asking them to come to the chateau. He proposed the Hotel +de France to Mr. Gasgoyne, who assented. It was difficult to separate +here on the quay: they must all walk together to the hotel. Gaston +turned to speak to Andree, but she was gone. She had saved the +situation. + +The three spoke little, and then but formally, as they walked to the +hotel. Mr. Gasgoyne said that they would leave by train for Paris the +next day, going to Douarnenez that evening. They had saved nothing from +the yacht. + +Delia did not speak. She was pale, composed now. In the hotel Mr. +Gasgoyne arranged for rooms, while Gaston got some sailors together, +and, in Mr. Gasgoyne's name, offered a price for the recovery of the +yacht or of certain things in her. Then he went into the hotel to see if +he could do anything further. The door of the sitting-room was open, and +no answer coming to his knock, he entered. + +Delia was standing in the window. Against her will her father had gone +to find a doctor. Gaston would have drawn back if she had not turned +round wearily to him. + +Perhaps it were well to get it over now. He came forward. She made no +motion. + +"I hope you feel better?" he said. "It was a bad accident." + +"I am tired and shaken, of course," she responded. "It was very brave of +you." + +He hesitated, then said: + +"We were more fortunate than brave." + +He was determined to have Andree included. She deserved that; the wrong +to Delia was not hers. + +But she answered after the manner of a woman: "The girl--ah, yes, please +thank her for us. What is her name?" + +"She is known in Audierne as Madame Belward." The girl started. Her +face had a cold, scornful pride. "The Bretons, then, have a taste for +fiction?" + +"No, they speak as they are taught." + +"They understand, then, as little as I." + +How proud, how ineffaceably superior she was! + +"Be ignorant for ever," he answered quietly. + +"I do not need the counsel, believe me." + +Her hand trembled, though it rested against the window-trembled with +indignation: the insult of his elopement kept beating up her throat in +spite of her. + +At that moment a servant knocked, entered, and said that a parcel +had been brought for mademoiselle. It was laid upon the table. +Delia, wondering, ordered it to be opened. A bundle of clothes was +disclosed--Andree's! Gaston recognised them, and caught his breath with +wonder and confusion. + +"Who has sent them?" Delia said to the servant. "They come from the +Chateau Ronan, mademoiselle." + +Delia dismissed the servant. + +"The Chateau Ronan?" she asked of Gaston. "Where I am living." + +"It is not necessary to speak of this?" She flushed. + +"Not at all. I will have them sent back. There is a little shop near by +where you can get what you may need." + +Andree had acted according to her lights. It was not an olive-branch, +but a touch of primitive hospitality. She was Delia's enemy at sight, +but a woman must have linen. + +Mr. Gasgoyne entered. Gaston prepared to go. "Is there anything more +that I can do?" he said, as it were, to both. + +The girl replied. "Nothing at all, thank you." They did not shake hands. + +Mr. Gasgoyne could not think that all had necessarily ended. The thing +might be patched up one day yet. This affair with the dompteuse was mad +sailing, but the man might round-to suddenly and be no worse for the +escapade. + +"We are going early in the morning," he said. "We can get along all +right. Good-bye. When do you come to England?" + +The reply was prompt. "In a few weeks." + +He looked at both. The girl, seeing that he was going to speak further, +bowed and left the room. + +His eyes followed her. After a moment, he said firmly + +"Mr. Gasgoyne, I am going to face all." + +"To live it down, Belward?" + +"I am going to fight it down." + +"Well, there's a difference. You have made a mess of things, and shocked +us all. I needn't say what more. It's done, and now you know what such +things mean to a good woman--and, I hope also, to the father of a good +woman." + +The man's voice broke a little. He added: + +"They used to come to swords or pistols on such points. We can't settle +it in that way. Anyhow, you have handicapped us to-day." Then, with +a burst of reproach, indignation, and trouble: "Great God, as if +you hadn't been the luckiest man on earth! Delia, the estate, the +Commons--all for a dompteuse!" + +"Let us say nothing more," said Gaston, choking down wrath at the +reference to Andree, but sorrowful, and pitying Mr. Gasgoyne. Besides, +the man had a right to rail. + +Soon after they parted courteously. + +Gaston went to the chateau. As he came up the stone steps he met a +procession--it was the feast-day of the Virgin--of priests and people +and little children, filing up from the village and the sea, singing as +they came. He drew up to the wall, stood upon the stone seat, and took +off his hat while the procession passed. He had met the cure, first +accidentally on the shore, and afterwards in the cure's house, finding +much in common--he had known many priests in the North, known much good +of them. The cure glanced up at him now as they passed, and a half-sad +smile crossed his face. Gaston caught it as it passed. The cure read +his case truly enough and gently enough too. In some wise hour he would +plead with Gaston for the woman's soul and his own. + +Gaston did not find Andree at the chateau. She had gone out alone +towards the sea, Annette said, by a route at the rear of the village. He +went also, but did not find her. As he came again to the quay he saw +the Kismet beating upon the rocks--the sailors had given up any idea +of saving her. He stood and watched the sea breaking over her, and +the whole scene flashed back on him. He thought how easily he could be +sentimental over the thing. But that was not his nature. He had made his +bed, but he would not lie in it--he would carry it on his back. They all +said that he had gone on the rocks. He laughed. + +"I can turn that tide: I can make things come my way," he said. "All +they want is sensation, it isn't morals that concerns them. Well, IT +give them sensation. They expect me to hide, and drop out of the game. +Never--so help me Heaven! I'll play it so they'll forget this!" + +He rolled and lighted a cigarette, and went again to the chateau. Dinner +was ready--had been ready for some time. He sat down, and presently +Andree came. There was a look in her face that he could not understand. +They ate their dinner quietly, not mentioning the events of the +afternoon. + +Presently a telegram was brought to him. It read: "Come. My office, +Downing Street, Friday. Expect you." It was signed "Faramond." At the +same time came letters: from his grandfather, from Captain Maudsley. The +first was stern, imperious, reproachful.--Shame for those that took him +in and made him, a ruined reputation, a spoiled tradition: he had been +but a heathen after all! There was only left to bid him farewell, and to +enclose a cheque for two thousand pounds. + +Captain Maudsley called him a fool, and asked him what he meant to +do--hoped he would give up the woman at once, and come back. He owed +something to his position as Master of the Hounds--a tradition that +oughtn't to be messed about. + +There it all was: not a word about radical morality or immorality; but +the tradition of Family, the Commons, Master of the Hounds! + +But there was another letter. He did not recognise the handwriting, and +the envelope had a black edge. He turned it over and over, forgetting +that Andree was watching him. Looking up, he caught her eyes, with +their strange, sad look. She guessed what was in these letters. She knew +English well enough to under stand them. He interpreted her look, and +pushed them over. + +"You may read them, if you wish; but I wouldn't, if I were you." + +She read the telegram first, and asked who "Faramond" was. Then she read +Sir William Belward's letter, and afterwards Captain Maudsley's. + +"It has all come at once," she said: "the girl and these! What will you +do? Give 'the woman' up for the honour of the Master of the Hounds?" + +The tone was bitter, exasperating. Gaston was patient. + +"What do you think, Andree?" + +"It has only begun," she said. "Wait, King of Ys. Read that other +letter." + +Her eyes were fascinated by the black border. He opened it with a +strange slowness. It began without any form of address, it had the +superscription of a street in Manchester Square: + + If you were not in deep trouble I would not write. But because I + know that more hard things than kind will be said by others, I want + to say what is in my heart, which is quick to feel for you. I know + that you have sinned, but I pray for you every day, and I cannot + believe that God will not answer. Oh! think of the wrong that you + have done: of the wrong to the girl, to her soul's good. Think of + that, and right the wrong in so far as you can. Oh, Gaston, my + brother, I need not explain why I write thus. My grandfather, + before he died, three weeks ago, told me that you know!--and I also + have known ever since the day you saved the boy. Ah, think of one + who would give years of her life to see you good and noble and + happy.... + +Then followed a deep, sincere appeal to his manhood, and afterwards a +wish that their real relations should be made known to the world if he +needed her, or if disaster came; that she might share and comfort his +life, whatever it might be. Then again: + + If you love her, and she loves you, and is sorry for what she has + done, marry her and save her from everlasting shame. I am staying + with my grandfather's cousin, the Dean of Dighbury, the father of + the boy you saved. He is very kind, and he knows all. May God + guide you aright, and may you believe that no one speaks more + truthfully to you than your sorrowful and affectionate sister, + + ALICE WINGFIELD. + +He put the letter down beside him, made a cigarette, and poured out some +coffee for them both. He was holding himself with a tight hand. This +letter had touched him as nothing in his life had done since his +father's death. It had nothing of noblesse oblige, but straight +statement of wrong, as she saw it. And a sister without an open right +to the title: the mere fidelity of blood! His father had brought this +sorrowful life into the world and he had made it more sorrowful--poor +little thing--poor girl! + +"What are you going to do?" asked Andree. "Do you go back--with Delia?" + +He winced. Yet why should he expect of her too great refinement? She +had not had a chance, she had not the stuff for it in her veins; she had +never been taught. But behind it all was her passion--her love--for him. + +"You know that's altogether impossible!" he answered. + +"She would not take you back." + +"Probably not. She has pride." + +"Pride-chat! She'd jump at the chance!" + +"That sounds rude, Andree; and it is contradictory." + +"Rude! Well, I'm only a gipsy and a dompteuse!" + +"Is that all, my girl?" + +"That's all, now." Then, with a sudden change and a quick sob: "But I +may be--Oh, I can't say it, Gaston!" She hid her face for a moment on +his shoulder. "My God!" + +He got to his feet. He had not thought of that--of another besides +themselves. He had drifted. A hundred ideas ran back and forth. He went +to the window and stood looking out. Alice's letter was still in his +fingers. + +She came and touched his shoulder. + +"Are you going to leave me, Gaston? What does that letter say?" + +He looked at her kindly, with a protective tenderness. + +"Read the letter, Andree," he said. + +She did so, at first slowly, then quickly, then over and over again. +He stood motionless in the window. She pushed the letter between his +fingers. He did not turn. "I cannot understand everything, but what she +says she means. Oh, Gaston, what a fool, what a fool you've been!" + +After a moment, however, she threw her arms about him with animal-like +fierceness. + +"But I can't give you up--I can't." Then, with another of those sudden +changes, she added, with a wild little laugh: "I can't, I can't, O +Master of the Hounds!" + +There came a knock at the door. Annette entered with a letter. The +postman had not delivered it on his rounds, because the address was not +correct. It was for madame. Andree took it, started at the handwriting, +tore open the envelope, and read: + + Zoug-Zoug congratulates you on the conquest of his nephew. Zoug-- + Zoug's name is not George Maur, as you knew him. Allah's blessing, + with Zoug-Zoug's! + + What fame you've got now--dompteuse, and the sweet scandal! + +The journalist had found out Zoug-Zoug at last, and Ian Belward had +talked with the manager of the menagerie. + +Andree shuddered and put the letter in her pocket. Now she understood +why she had shrunk from Gaston that first night and those first days +in Audierne: that strange sixth sense, divination--vague, helpless +prescience. And here, suddenly, she shrank again, but with a different +thought. She hurriedly left the room and went to her chamber. + +In a few moments he came to her. She was sitting upright in a chair, +looking straight before her. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes were +burning. He came and took her hands. + +"What is it, Andree?" he said. "That letter, what is it?" + +She looked at him steadily. "You'll be sorry if you read it." But she +gave it to him. He lighted a candle, put it on a little table, sat down, +and read. The shock went deep; so deep that it made no violent sign on +the surface. He spread the letter out before him. The candle showed +his face gone grey and knotted with misery. He could bear all the rest: +fight, do all that was right to the coming mother of his child; but this +made him sick and dizzy. He felt as he did when he waked up in Labrador, +with his wife's dead lips pressed to his neck. It was strange too that +Andree was as quiet as he: no storm-misery had gone deep with her also. + +"Do you care to tell me about it?" he asked. + +She sat back in her chair, her hands over her eyes. Presently, still +sitting so, she spoke. + +Ian Belward had painted them and their van in the hills of Auvergne, and +had persuaded her to sit for a picture. He had treated her courteously +at first. Her father was taken ill suddenly, and died. She was alone +for a few days afterwards. Ian Belward came to her. Of that miserable, +heart-rending, cruel time,--the life-sorrow of a defenceless +girl,--Gaston heard with a hard sort of coldness. The promised marriage +was a matter for the man's mirth a week later. They came across three +young artists from Paris--Bagshot, Fancourt, and another--who camped one +night beside them. It was then she fully realised the deep shame of her +position. The next night she ran away and joined a travelling menagerie. +The rest he knew. When she had ended there was silence for a time, +broken only by one quick gasping sob from Gaston. The girl sat still as +death, her eyes on him intently. + +"Poor Andree! Poor girl!" he said at last. She sighed pitifully. + +"What shall we do?" she asked. He scarcely spoke above a whisper: + +"There must be time to think. I will go to London." + +"You will come back?" + +"Yes--in five days, if I live." + +"I believe you," she said quietly. "You never lied to me. When you +return we will know what to do." Her manner was strangely quiet. "A +little trading schooner goes from Douarnenez to England to-morrow +morning," she went on. "There is a notice of it in the market-place. +That would save the journey to Paris.'" + +"Yes, that will do very well. I will start for Douarnenez at once." + +"Will Jacques go too?" + +"No." + +An hour later he passed Delia and her father on the road to Douarnenez. +He did not recognise them, but Delia, seeing him, shrank away in a +corner of the carriage, trembling. + +Jacques had wished to go to London with Gaston, but had been denied. He +was to care for the horses. When he saw his master ride down over the +place, waving a hand back towards him, he came in and said to Andree: + +"Madame, there is trouble--I do not know what. But I once said I would +never leave him, wherever he go or whatever he did. Well, I never will +leave him--or you, madame--no." + +"That is right, that is right," she said earnestly; "you must never +leave him, Jacques. He is a good man." + +When Jacques had gone she shut herself up in her room. She was gathering +all her life into the compass of an hour. She felt but one thing: the +ruin of her happiness and Gaston's. + +"He is a good man," she said over and over to herself. And the +other--Ian Belward? All the barbarian in her was alive. + +The next morning she started for Paris, saying to Jacques and Annette +that she would return in four days. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. "RETURN, O SHULAMITE!" + +Almost the first person that Gaston recognised in London was Cluny +Vosse. He had been to Victoria Station to see a friend off by the train, +and as he was leaving, Gaston and he recognised each other. The lad's +greeting was a little shy until he saw that Gaston was cool and composed +as usual--in effect, nothing had happened. Cluny was delighted, and +opened his mind: + +"They'd kicked up a deuce of a row in the papers, and there'd been no +end of talk; but he didn't see what all the babble was about, and he'd +said so again and again to Lady Dargan." + +"And Lady Dargan, Cluny?" asked Gaston quietly. Cluny could not be +dishonest, though he would try hard not to say painful things. + +"Well, she was a bit fierce at first--she's a woman, you know; but +afterwards she went like a baby; cried, and wouldn't stay at Cannes any +longer: so we're back in town. We're going down to the country, though, +to-morrow or next day." + +"Do you think I had better call, Cluny?" Gaston ventured suggestively. + +"Yes, yes, of course," Cluny replied, with great eagerness, as if to +justify the matter to himself. Gaston smiled, said that he might,--he +was only in town for a few days, and dropped Cluny in Pall Mall. Cluny +came running back. + +"I say, Belward, things'll come around just as they were before, won't +they? You're going to cut in, and not let 'em walk on you?" + +"Yes, I'm 'going to cut in,' Cluny boy." Cluny brightened. + +"And of course it isn't all over with Delia, is it?" He blushed. + +Gaston reached out and dropped a hand on Cluny's shoulder. + +"I'm afraid it is all over, Cluny." Cluny spoke without thinking. + +"I say, it's rough on her, isn't it?" + +Then he was confused, hurriedly offered Gaston a cigarette, a hasty +good-bye was said, and they parted. Gaston went first to Lord Faramond. +He encountered inquisition, cynical humour, flashes of sympathy, with a +general flavour of reproach. The tradition of the Commons! Ah, one way +only: he must come back alone--alone--and live it down. Fortunately, it +wasn't an intrigue--no matter of divorce--a dompteuse, he believed. +It must end, of course, and he would see what could be done. Such a +chance--such a chance as he had had! Make it up with his grandfather, +and reverse the record--reverse the record: that was the only way. This +meeting must, of course, be strictly between themselves. But he was +really interested for him, for his people, and for the tradition of the +Commons. + +"I am Master of the Hounds too," said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught +the meaning, and smiled grimly. + +Then came Gaston's decision--he would come back--not to live the thing +down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight. + +Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. "Without her?" + +"I cannot say that." + +"With her, I can promise nothing--nothing. You cannot fight it so. +No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of +pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case." + +The Premier's face had gone cold and disdainful. Why should a clever +man like Belward be so infatuated? He rose, Gaston thanked him for +the meeting, and was about to go, when the Prime Minister, tapping his +shoulder kindly, said: + +"Mr. Belward, you are not playing to the rules of the game." He waved +his hand towards the Chamber of the House. "It is the greatest game +in the world. She must go! Do not reply. You will come back without +her--good-bye!" + +Then came Ridley Court. He entered on Sir William and Lady Belward +without announcement. Sir William came to his feet, austere and pale. +Lady Belward's fingers trembled on the lace she held. They looked many +years older. Neither spoke his name, nor did they offer their hands. +Gaston did not wince, he had expected it. He owed these old people +something. They lived according to their lights, they had acted +righteously as by their code, they had used him well--well always. + +"Will you hear the whole story?" he said. He felt that it would be best +to tell them all. "Can it do any good?" asked Sir William. He looked +towards his wife. + +"Perhaps it is better to hear it," she murmured. She was clinging to a +vague hope. + +Gaston told the story plainly, briefly, as he had told his earlier +history. Its concision and simplicity were poignant. From the day he +first saw Andree in the justice's room till the hour when she opened Ian +Belward's letter, his tale went. Then he paused. + +"I remember very well," Sir William said, with painful meditation: "a +strange girl, with a remarkable face. You pleaded for her father then. +Ah, yes, an unhappy case!" + +"There is more?" asked Lady Belward, leaning on her cane. She seemed +very frail. + +Then with a terrible brevity Gaston told them of his uncle, of the +letter to Andree: all, except that Andree was his wife. He had no idea +of sparing Ian Belward now. A groan escaped Lady Belward. + +"And now--now, what will you do?" asked the baronet. + +"I do not know. I am going back first to Andree." Sir William's face was +ashy. + +"Impossible!" + +"I promised, and I will go back." Lady Belward's voice quivered: + +"Stay, ah, stay, and redeem the past! You can, you can outlive it." + +Always the same: live it down! + +"It is no use," he answered; "I must return." + +Then in a few words he thanked them for all, and bade them good-bye. +He did not offer his hand, nor did they. But at the door he heard Lady +Belward say in a pleading voice: + +"Gaston!" + +He returned. She held out her hand. + +"You must not do as your father did," she said. "Give the woman up, and +come back to us. Am I nothing to you--nothing?" + +"Is there no other way?" he asked, gravely, sorrowfully. + +She did not reply. He turned to his grandfather. "There is no other +way," said the old man, sternly. Then in a voice almost shrill with +pain and indignation, he cried out as he had never done in his +life: "Nothing, nothing, nothing but disgrace! My God in heaven! a +lion-tamer--a gipsy! An honourable name dragged through the mire! Go +back," he said grandly; "go back to the woman and her lions--savages, +savages, savages!" + +"Savages after the manner of our forefathers," Gaston answered quietly. +"The first Gaston showed us the way. His wife was a strolling player's +daughter. Good-bye, sir." + +Lady Belward's face was in her hands. "Good-bye-grandmother," he said at +the door, and then he was gone. + +At the outer door the old housekeeper stepped forward, her gloomy face +most agitated. + +"Oh, sir, oh, sir, you will come back again? Oh, don't go like your +father!" + +He suddenly threw an arm about her shoulder, and kissed her on the +cheek. + +"I'll come back--yes I'll come back here--if I can. Good-bye, Hovey." + +In the library Sir William and Lady Belward sat silent for a time. +Presently Sir William rose, and walked up and down. He paused at last, +and said, in a strange, hesitating voice, his hands chafing each other: + +"I forgot myself, my dear. I fear I was violent. I would like to ask his +pardon. Ah, yes, yes!" + +Then he sat down and took her hand, and held it long in the silence. + +"It all feels so empty--so empty," she said at last, as the tower-clock +struck hollow on the air. + +The old man could not reply, but he drew her close to him, and Hovey, +from the door, saw his tears dropping on her white hair. + +Gaston went to Manchester Square. He half dreaded a meeting with Alice, +and yet he wished it. He did not find her. She had gone to Paris with +her uncle, the servant said. He got their address. There was little left +to do but to avoid reporters, two of whom almost forced themselves +in upon him. He was to go back to Douarnenez by the little boat that +brought him, and at seven o'clock in the morning he watched the mists of +England recede. + +He chanced to put his hand into a light overcoat which he had got at his +chambers before he started. He drew out a paper, the one discovered in +the solicitor's office in London. It was an ancient deed of entail of +the property, drawn by Sir Gaston Belward, which, through being lost, +was never put into force. He was not sure that it had value. If it had, +all chance of the estate was gone for him; it would be his uncle's. +Well, what did it matter? Yes, it did matter: Andree! For her? No, not +for her. He would play straight. He would take his future as it came: he +would not drop this paper into the water. + +He smiled bitterly, got an envelope at a publichouse on the quay, wrote +a few words in pencil on the document, and in a few moments it was on +its way to Sir William Belward, who when he received it said: + +"Worthless, quite worthless, but he has an honest mind--an honest mind!" + +Meanwhile, Andree was in Paris. Leaving her bag at the Gare +Montparnasse, she had gone straight to Ian Belward's house. She had +lived years in the last few hours. She had had no sleep on the journey, +and her mind had been strained unbearably. It had, however, a fixed +idea, which shuttled in and out in a hundred shapes, but ever pointing +to one end. She had determined on a painful thing--the only way. + +She reached the house, and was admitted. In answer to questions, she had +an appointment with monsieur. He was not within. Well, she would wait. +She was motioned into the studio. She was outwardly calm. The servant +presently recognised her. He had been to the menagerie, and he had seen +her with Gaston. His manner changed instantly. Could he do anything? No, +nothing. She was left alone. For a long time she sat motionless, then a +sudden restlessness seized her. Her brain seemed a burning atmosphere, +in which every thought, every thing showed with an unbearable intensity. +The terrible clearness of it all--how it made her eyes, her heart ache! +Her blood was beating hard against every pore. She felt that she would +go mad if he did not come. Once she took out the stiletto she had +concealed in the bosom of her cloak, and looked at it. She had always +carried it when among the beasts at the menagerie, but had never yet +used it. + +Time passed. She felt ill; she became blind with pain. Presently the +servant entered with a telegram. His master would not be back until the +next morning. + +Very well, she would return in the morning. She gave him money. He was +not to say that she had called. In the Boulevard Montparnasse she took +a cab. To the menagerie, she said to the driver. How strange it all +looked: the Invalides, Notre Dame, the Tuileries Gardens, the Place de +la Concorde! The innumerable lights were so near and yet so far: it was +a kink of the brain, but she seemed withdrawn from them, not they from +her. A woman passed with a baby in her arms. The light from a kiosk fell +on it as she passed. What a pretty, sweet face it had. Why did it not +have a pretty, delicate Breton cap? As she went on, that kept beating +in her brain--why did not the child wear a dainty Breton cap--a white +Breton cap? The face kept peeping from behind the lights--without the +dainty Breton cap. + +The menagerie at last. She dismissed the cab, went to a little door at +the back of the building, and knocked. She was admitted. The care-taker +exclaimed with pleasure. She wished to visit the animals? He would go +with her; and he picked up a light. No, she would go alone. How were +Hector and Balzac, and Antoinette? She took the keys. How cool and +pleasant they were to the touch! The steel of the lantern too--how +exquisitely soothing! He must lie down again: she would wake him as she +came out. No, no, she would go alone. + +She went to cage after cage. At last to that of the largest lions. There +was a deep answering purr to her soft call. As she entered, she saw a +heap moving in one corner--a lion lately bought. She spoke, and there +was an angry growl. She wheeled to leave the cage, but her cloak caught +the door, and it snapped shut. + +Too late. A blow brought her to the ground. She had made no cry, and now +she lay so still! + +The watchman had fallen asleep again. In the early morning he +remembered. The greyish golden dawn was creeping in, when he found +her with two lions protecting, keeping guard over her, while another +crouched snarling in a corner. There was no mark on her face. + +The point of the stiletto which she had carried in her cloak had pierced +her when she fell. + +In a hotel near the Arc de Triomphe Alice Wingfield read the news. It +was she who tenderly prepared the body for burial, who telegraphed to +Gaston at Audierne, getting a reply from Jacques that he was not yet +back from London. The next day Andree was found a quiet place in the +cemetery at Montmartre. + +In the evening Alice and her relative started for Audierne. + + ......................... + +On board the Fleur d'Orange Gaston struggled with the problem. There was +one thought ever coming. He shut it out at this point, and it crept in +at that. He remembered when two men, old friends, discovered that one, +unknowingly, had been living with the wife of the other. There was one +too many--the situation was impossible. The men played a game of cards +to see which should die. But they did not reckon with the other factor. +It was the woman who died. + +Was not his own situation far worse? With his uncle living--but no, +no, it was out of the question! Yet Ian Belward had been shameless, a +sensualist, who had wrecked the girl's happiness and his. He himself +had done a mad thing in the eyes of the world, but it was more mad than +wicked. Had this happened in the North with another man, how easily +would the problem have been solved! + +Go to his uncle and tell him that he must remove himself for ever from +the situation? Demand it, force it? Impossible--this was Europe. + +They arrived at Douarnenez. The diligence had gone. A fishing-boat was +starting for Audierne. He decided to go by it. Breton fishermen are +usually shy of storm to foolishness, and one or two of the crew urged +the drunken skipper not to start, for there were signs of a south-west +wind, too friendly to the Bay des Trepasses. The skipper was, however, +cheerfully reckless, and growled down objection. + +The boat came on with a sweet wind off the land for a time. Suddenly, +when in the neighbourhood of Point du Raz, the wind drew ahead very +squally, with rain in gusts out of the south-west. The skipper put the +boat on the starboard tack, close-hauled and close-reefed the sails, +keeping as near the wind as possible, with the hope of weathering the +rocky point at the western extremity of the Bay des Trepasses. By that +time there was a heavy sea running; night came on, and the weather grew +very thick. They heard the breakers presently, but they could not make +out the Point. Old sailor as he was, and knowing as well as any man +the perilous ground, the skipper lost his drunken head this time, and +presently lost his way also in the dark and murk of the storm. + +At eight o'clock she struck. She was thrown on her side, a heavy sea +broke over her, and they were all washed off. No one raised a cry. They +were busy fighting Death. + +Gaston was a strong swimmer. It did not occur to him that perhaps this +was the easiest way out of the maze. He had ever been a fighter. +The seas tossed him here and there. He saw faces about him for an +instant--shaggy wild Breton faces--but they dropped away, he knew not +where. The current kept driving him inshore. As in a dream, he could +hear the breakers--the pumas on their tread-mill of death. How +long would it last? How long before he would be beaten upon that +tread-mill--fondled to death by those mad paws? Presently dreams +came-kind, vague, distant dreams. His brain flew like a drunken dove to +far points of the world and back again. A moment it rested. Andree! He +had made no provision for her, none at all. He must live, he must fight +on for her, the homeless girl, his wife. + +He fought on and on. No longer in the water, as it seemed to him. He had +travelled very far. He heard the clash of sabres, the distant roar of +cannon, the beating of horses' hoofs--the thud-thud, tread-tread of +an army. How reckless and wild it was! He stretched up his arm to +strike-what was it? Something hard that bruised: then his whole body was +dashed against the thing. He was back again, awake. With a last effort +he drew himself up on a huge rock that stands lonely in the wash of the +bay. Then he cried out, "Andree!" and fell senseless--safe. + +The storm went down. The cold, fast-travelling moon came out, saw the +one living thing in that wild bay, and hurried on into the dark again; +but came and went so till morning, playing hide-and-seek with the man +and his Ararat. + +Daylight saw him, wet, haggard, broken, looking out over the waste of +shaken water. Upon the shore glared the stone of the vanished City of +Ys in the warm sun, and the fierce pumas trod their grumbling way. +Sea-gulls flew about the quiet set figure, in whose brooding eyes there +were at once despair and salvation. + +He was standing between two worlds. He had had his great crisis, and his +wounded soul rested for a moment ere he ventured out upon the highways +again. He knew not how it was, but there had passed into him the dignity +of sorrow and the joy of deliverance at the same time. He saw life's +responsibilities clearer, duties swam grandly before him. It was a large +dream, in which, for the time, he was not conscious of those troubles +which, yesterday, had clenched his hands and knotted his forehead. +He had come a step higher in the way of life, and into his spirit had +flowed a new and sobered power. His heart was sore, but his mind was +lifted up. The fatal wrangle of the pumas there below, the sound of it, +would be in his ears for ever, but he had come above it; the searching +vigour of the sun entered into his bones. + +He knew that he was going back to England--to ample work and strong +days, but he did not know that he was going alone. He did not know +that Andree was gone forever; that she had found her true place: in his +undying memory. + +So intent was he, that at first he did not see a boat making into the +bay towards him. + + + ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + + Clever men are trying + Down in her heart, loves to be mastered + He had no instinct for vice in the name of amusement + He was strong enough to admit ignorance + I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me + Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love + Live and let live is doing good + Not to show surprise at anything + Truth waits long, but whips hard + What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Trespasser, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 6222.txt or 6222.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/2/6222/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bab063a --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #6222 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6222) diff --git a/old/gp49w10.txt b/old/gp49w10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c10c5a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gp49w10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7886 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook The Trespasser, by G. Parker, Complete +#49 in our series by Gilbert Parker + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: The Trespasser, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6222] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 27, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, BY PARKER, ALL *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + +[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the +file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an +entire meal of them. D.W.] + + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + +By Gilbert Parker + + +CONTENTS: +Volume 1 +I. ONE IN SEARCH OF A KINGDOM +II. IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN +III. HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE +IV. AN HOUR WITH HIS FATHER'S PAST +V. WHEREIN HE FINDS HIS ENEMY + +Volume 2. +VI. WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS +VII. WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET +VIII. HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION +IX. HE FINDS NEW SPONSORS +X. HE COMES TO "THE WAKING OF THE FIRE" +XI. HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST + +Volume 3. +XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS +XIII. HE JOURNEYS AFAR +XIV. IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED +XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN +XVI. WHEREIN LOVE SNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN'S +XVII. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE +XVIII. "RETURN, O SHULAMITE!" + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +While I was studying the life of French Canada in the winter of 1892, +in the city of Quebec or in secluded parishes, there was forwarded to me +from my London home a letter from Mr. Arrowsmith, the publisher, asking +me to write a novel of fifty thousand or sixty thousand words for what +was called his Annual. In this Annual had appeared Hugh Conway's 'Called +Back' and Anthony Hope's 'Prisoner of Zenda', among other celebrated +works of fiction. I cabled my acceptance of the excellent offer made me, +and the summer of 1893 found me at Audierne, in Brittany, with some +artist friends--more than one of whom has since come to eminence--living +what was really an out-door literary life; for the greater part of 'The +Trespasser' was written in a high-walled garden on a gentle hill, and the +remainder in a little tower-like structure of the villa where I lodged, +which was all windows. The latter I only used when it rained, and the +garden was my workshop. There were peaches and figs on the walls, +pleasant shrubs surrounded me, and the place was ideally quiet and +serene. Coffee or tea and toast was served me at 6.30 o'clock A.M., my +pad was on my knee at 8, and then there was practically uninterrupted +work till 12, when 'dejeuner a la fourchette', with its fresh sardines, +its omelettes, and its roast chicken, was welcome. The afternoon was +spent on the sea-shore, which is very beautiful at Audierne, and there I +watched my friends painting sea-scapes. In the late afternoon came +letter-writing and reading, and after a little and simple dinner at 6.30 +came bed at 9.45 or thereabouts. In such conditions for many weeks I +worked on The Trespasser; and I think the book has an outdoor spirit +which such a life would inspire. + +It was perhaps natural that, having lived in Canada and Australia, +and having travelled greatly in all the outer portions of the Empire, +I should be interested in and impelled to write regarding the impingement +of the outer life of our far dominions, through individual character, +upon the complicated, traditional, orderly life of England. That feeling +found expression in The Translation of a Savage, and I think that in +neither case the issue of the plot or the plot--if such it may be called +--nor the main incident, was exaggerated. Whether the treatment was free +from exaggeration, it is not my province to say. I only know what I +attempted to do. The sense produced by the contact of the outer life +with a refined, and perhaps overrefined, and sensitive, not to say +meticulous, civilisation, is always more sensational than the touch of +the representative of "the thousand years" with the wide, loosely +organised free life of what is still somewhat hesitatingly called the +Colonies, though the same remark could be applied to all new lands, such +as the United States. The representative of the older life makes no +signs, or makes little collision at any rate, when he touches the new +social organisms of the outer circle. He is not emphatic; he is typical, +but not individual; he seeks seclusion in the mass. It is not so with +the more dynamic personality of the over-sea citizen. For a time at +least he remains in the old civilisation an entity, an isolated, +unabsorbed fact which has capacities for explosion. All this was in my +mind when The Trespasser was written, and its converse was 'The Pomp of +the Lavilettes', which showed the invasion of the life of the outer land +by the representative of the old civilisation. + +I do not know whether I had the thought that the treatment of such themes +was interesting or not. The idea of The Trespasser was there in my mind, +and I had to use it. At the beginning of one's career, if one were to +calculate too carefully, impulse, momentum, daring, original conception +would be lost. To be too audacious, even to exaggerate, is no crime in +youth nor in the young artist. As a farmer once said to me regarding a +frisky mount, it is better to smash through the top bar than to have +spring-halt. + +The Trespasser took its place, and, as I think, its natural place, in the +development of my literary life. I did not stop to think whether it was +a happy theme or not, or whether it had popular elements. These things +did not concern me. When it was written I should not have known what was +a popular theme. It was written under circumstances conducive to its +artistic welfare; if it has not as many friends as 'The Right of Way' or +'The Seats of the Mighty' or 'The Weavers' or 'The Judgment House', that +is not the fault of the public or of the critics. + + + + +TO DOUGLAS ROBINSON, Esq., + +AND + +FRANK A. HILTON, Esq. + +My dear Douglas and Frank: + +I feel sure that this dedication will give you as much pleasure as it +does me. It will at least be evidence that I do not forget good days in +your company here and there in the world. I take pleasure in linking +your names; for you, who have never met, meet thus in the porch of a +little house that I have built. + +You, my dear Douglas, will find herein scenes, times, and things familiar +to you; and you, my dear Frank, reflections of hours when we camped by an +idle shore, or drew about the fire of winter nights, and told tales worth +more than this, for they were of the future, and it is of the past. + + Always sincerely yours, + GILBERT PARKER. + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + +CHAPTER I + +ONE IN SEARCH OF A KINGDOM + +Why Gaston Belward left the wholesome North to journey afar, Jacques +Brillon asked often in the brawling streets of New York, and oftener in +the fog of London as they made ready to ride to Ridley Court. There was +a railway station two miles from the Court, but Belward had had enough of +railways. He had brought his own horse Saracen, and Jacques's broncho +also, at foolish expense, across the sea, and at a hotel near Euston +Station master and man mounted and set forth, having seen their worldly +goods bestowed by staring porters, to go on by rail. + +In murky London they attracted little notice; but when their hired guide +left them at the outskirts, and they got away upon the highway towards +the Court, cottagers stood gaping. For, outside the town there was no +fog, and the fresh autumn air drew the people abroad. + +"What is it makes 'em stare, Jacques?!" asked Belward, with a humorous +sidelong glance. + +Jacques looked seriously at the bright pommel of his master's saddle and +the shining stirrups and spurs, dug a heel into the tender skin of his +broncho, and replied: + +"Too much silver all at once." + +He tossed his curling black hair, showing up the gold rings in his ears, +and flicked the red-and-gold tassels of his boots. + +"You think that's it, eh?!" rejoined Belward, as he tossed a shilling to +a beggar. + +"Maybe, too, your great Saracen to this tot of a broncho, and the grand +homme to little Jacques Brillon." Jacques was tired and testy. + +The other laid his whip softly on the half-breed's shoulder. + +"See, my peacock: none of that. You're a spanking good servant, but +you're in a country where it's knuckle down man to master; and what they +do here you've got to do, or quit--go back to your pea-soup and caribou. +That's as true as God's in heaven, little Brillon. We're not on the +buffalo trail now. You understand?" + +Jacques nodded. + +"Hadn't you better say it?" + +The warning voice drew up the half-breed's face swiftly, and he replied: + +"I am to do what you please." + +"Exactly. You've been with me six years--ever since I turned Bear Eye's +moccasins to the sun; and for that you swore you'd never leave me. Did +it on a string of holy beads, didn't you, Frenchman?" + +"I do it again." + +He drew out a rosary, and disregarding Belward's outstretched hand, said: + +"By the Mother of God, I will never leave you!" There was a kind of +wondering triumph in Belward's eyes, though he had at first shrunk from +Jacques's action, and a puzzling smile came. + +"Wherever I go, or whatever I do?" + +"Whatever you do, or wherever you go." + +He put the rosary to his lips, and made the sign of the cross. + +His master looked at him curiously, intently. Here was a vain, naturally +indolent half-breed, whose life had made for selfishness and +independence, giving his neck willingly to a man's heel, serving +with blind reverence, under a voluntary vow. + +"Well, it's like this, Jacques," Belward said presently; "I want you, and +I'm not going to say that you'll have a better time than you did in the +North, or on the Slope; but if you'd rather be with me than not, you'll +find that I'll interest you. There's a bond between us, anyway. You're +half French, and I'm one-fourth French, and more. You're half Indian, +and I'm one-fourth Indian--no more. That's enough. So far, I haven't +much advantage. But I'm one-half English--King's English, for there's +been an offshoot of royalty in our family somewhere, and there's the +royal difference. That's where I get my brains--and manners." + +"Where did you get the other?!" asked Jacques, shyly, almost furtively. + +"Money?" + +"Not money--the other." + +Belward spurred, and his horse sprang away viciously. A laugh came back +on Jacques, who followed as hard as he could, and it gave him a feeling +of awe. They were apart for a long time, then came together again, and +rode for miles without a word. At last Belward, glancing at a sign-post +before an inn door, exclaimed at the legend--"The Whisk o' Barley,"--and +drew rein. He regarded the place curiously for a minute. The landlord +came out. Belward had some beer brought. + +A half-dozen rustics stood gaping, not far away. He touched his horse +with a heel. Saracen sprang towards them, and they fell back alarmed. +Belward now drank his beer quietly, and asked question after question of +the landlord, sometimes waiting for an answer, sometimes not--a kind of +cross-examination. Presently he dismounted. + +As he stood questioning, chiefly about Ridley Court and its people, +a coach showed on the hill, and came dashing down and past. He lifted +his eyes idly, though never before had he seen such a coach as swings +away from Northumberland Avenue of a morning. He was not idle, however; +but he had not come to England to show surprise at anything. As the +coach passed his face lifted above the arm on the neck of the horse, +keen, dark, strange. A man on the box-seat, attracted at first by the +uncommon horses and their trappings, caught Belward's eyes. Not he +alone, but Belward started then. Some vague intelligence moved the minds +of both, and their attention was fixed till the coach rounded a corner +and was gone. + +The landlord was at Belward's elbow. + +"The gentleman on the box-seat be from Ridley Court. That's Maister Ian +Belward, sir." + +Gaston Belward's eyes half closed, and a sombre look came, giving his +face a handsome malice. He wound his fingers in his horse's mane, and +put a foot in the stirrup. + +"Who is 'Maister Ian'?" + +"Maister Ian be Sir William's eldest, sir. On'y one that's left, sir. +On'y three to start wi': and one be killed i' battle, and one had trouble +wi' his faither and Maister Ian; and he went away and never was heard on +again, sir. That's the end on him." + +"Oh, that's the end on him, eh, landlord? And how long ago was that?" + +"Becky, lass," called the landlord within the door, "wheniver was it +Maister Robert turned his back on the Court--iver so while ago? Eh, a +fine lad that Maister Robert as iver I see!" + +Fat laborious Becky hobbled out, holding an apple and a knife. She +blinked at her husband, and then at the strangers. + +"What be askin' o' the Court?!" she said. Her husband repeated the +question. + +She gathered her apron to her eyes with an unctuous sob: + +"Doan't a' know when Maister Robert went! He comes, i' the house 'ere +and says, 'Becky, gie us a taste o' the red-top-and where's Jock?' He was +always thinkin' a deal o' my son Jock. 'Jock be gone,' I says, 'and I +knows nowt o' his comin' back'--meanin', I was, that day. 'Good for +Jock!' says he, 'and I'm goin' too, Becky, and I knows nowt o' my comin' +back.' 'Where be goin', Maister Robert?' I says. 'To hell, Becky,' says +he, and he laughs. 'From hell to hell. I'm sick to my teeth o' one, +I'll try t'other'--a way like that speaks he." + +Belward was impatient, and to hurry the story he made as if to start on. +Becky, seeing, hastened. "Dear a' dear! The red-top were afore him, and +I tryin' to make what become to him. He throws arm 'round me, smacks me +on the cheek, and says he: 'Tell Jock to keep the mare, Becky.' Then he +flings away, and never more comes back to the Court. And that day one +year my Jock smacks me on the cheek, and gets on the mare; and when I +ask: 'Where be goin'?' he says: 'For a hunt i' hell wi' Maister Robert, +mother.' And from that day come back he never did, nor any word. There +was trouble wi' the lad-wi' him and Maister Robert at the Court; but I +never knowed nowt o' the truth. And it's seven-and-twenty years since +Maister Robert went." + +Gaston leaned over his horse's neck, and thrust a piece of silver into +the woman's hands. + +"Take that, Becky Lawson, and mop your eyes no more." + +She gaped. + +"How dost know my name is Becky Lawson? I havena been ca'd so these +three-and-twenty years--not since a' married good man here, and put +Jock's faither in 's grave yander." + +"The devil told me," he answered, with a strange laugh, and, spurring, +they were quickly out of sight. They rode for a couple of miles without +speaking. Jacques knew his master, and did not break the silence. +Presently they came over a hill, and down upon a little bridge. Belward +drew rein, and looked up the valley. About two miles beyond the roofs +and turrets of the Court showed above the trees. A whimsical smile came +to his lips. + +"Brillon," he said, "I'm in sight of home." + +The half-breed cocked his head. It was the first time that Belward had +called him "Brillon"--he had ever been "Jacques." This was to be a part +of the new life. They were not now hunting elk, riding to "wipe out" a +camp of Indians or navvies, dining the owner of a rancho or a deputation +from a prairie constituency in search of a member, nor yet with a senator +at Washington, who served tea with canvas-back duck and tooth-picks with +dessert. Once before had Jacques seen this new manner--when Belward +visited Parliament House at Ottawa, and was presented to some notable +English people, visitors to Canada. It had come to these notable folk +that Mr. Gaston Belward had relations at Ridley Court, and that of itself +was enough to command courtesy. But presently, they who would be +gracious for the family's sake, were gracious for the man's. He had that +which compelled interest--a suggestive, personal, distinguished air. +Jacques knew his master better than any one else knew him; and yet he +knew little, for Belward was of those who seem to give much confidence, +and yet give little--never more than he wished. + +"Yes, monsieur, in sight of home," Jacques replied, with a dry cadence. + +"Say 'sir,' not 'monsieur,' Brillon; and from the time we enter the Court +yonder, look every day and every hour as you did when the judge asked you +who killed Tom Daly." + +Jacques winced, but nodded his head. Belward continued: + +"What you hear me tell is what you can speak of; otherwise you are blind +and dumb. You understand?" Jacques's face was sombre, but he said +quickly: "Yes--sir." + +He straightened himself on his horse, as if to put himself into +discipline at once--as lead to the back of a racer. + +Belward read the look. He drew his horse close up. Then he ran an arm +over the other's shoulder. + +"See here, Jacques. This is a game that's got to be played up to the +hilt. A cat has nine lives, and most men have two. We have. Now +listen. You never knew me mess things, did you? Well, I play for keeps +in this; no monkeying. I've had the life of Ur of the Chaldees; now for +Babylon. I've lodged with the barbarian; here are the roofs of ivory. +I've had my day with my mother's people; voila! for my father's. You +heard what Becky Lawson said. My father was sick of it at twenty-five, +and got out. We'll see what my father's son will do. . . . I'm going +to say my say to you, and have done with it. As like as not there isn't +another man that I'd have brought with me. You're all right. But I'm +not going to rub noses. I stick when I do stick, but I know what's got +to be done here; and I've told you. You'll not have the fun out of it +that I will, but you won't have the worry. Now, we start fresh. I'm to +be obeyed; I'm Napoleon. I've got a devil, yet it needn't hurt you, and +it won't. But if I make enemies here--and I'm sure to--let them look +out. Give me your hand, Jacques; and don't you forget that there are two +Gaston Belwards, and the one you have hunted and lived with is the one +you want to remember when you get raw with the new one. For you'll hear +no more slang like this from me, and you'll have to get used to lots of +things." + +Without waiting reply, Belward urged on his horse, and at last paused on +the top of a hill, and waited for Jacques. It was now dusk, and the +landscape showed soft, sleepy, and warm. + +"It's all of a piece," Belward said to himself, glancing from the trim +hedges, the small, perfectly-tilled fields and the smooth roads, to +Ridley Court itself, where many lights were burning and gates opening and +shutting. There was some affair on at the Court, and he smiled to think +of his own appearance among the guests. + +"It's a pity I haven't clothes with me, Brillon; they have a show going +there." + +He had dropped again into the new form of master and man. His voice was +cadenced, gentlemanly. Jacques pointed to his own saddle-bag. + +"No, no, they are not the things needed. I want the evening-dress which +cost that cool hundred dollars in New York." + +Still Jacques was silent. He did not know whether, in his new position, +he was expected to suggest. Belward understood, and it pleased him. + +"If we had lost the track of a buck moose, or were nosing a cache of +furs, you'd find a way, Brillon." + +"Voila," said Jacques; "then, why not wear the buckskin vest, the red- +silk sash, and the boots like these?"--tapping his own leathers. "You +look a grand seigneur so." + +"But I am here to look an English gentleman, not a grand seigneur, nor a +company's trader on a break. Never mind, the thing will wait till we +stand in my ancestral halls," he added, with a dry laugh. + +They neared the Court. The village church was close by the Court-wall. +It drew Belward's attention. One by one lights were springing up in it. +It was a Friday evening, and the choir were come to practise. They saw +buxom village girls stroll in, followed by the organist, one or two young +men and a handful of boys. Presently the horsemen were seen, and a +staring group gathered at the church door. An idea came to Belward. + +"Kings used to make pilgrimages before they took their crowns, why +shouldn't I?!" he said half-jestingly. Most men placed similarly would +have been so engaged with the main event that they had never thought of +this other. But Belward was not excited. He was moving deliberately, +prepared for every situation. He had a great game in hand, and he had no +fear of his ability to play it. He suddenly stopped his horse, and threw +the bridle to Jacques, saying: + +"I'll be back directly, Brillon." + +He entered the churchyard, and passed to the door. As he came the group +under the crumbling arch fell back, and at the call of the organist went +to the chancel. Belward came slowly up the aisle, and paused about the +middle. Something in the scene gave him a new sensation. The church was +old, dilapidated; but the timbered roof, the Norman and Early English +arches incongruously side by side, with patches of ancient distemper and +paintings, and, more than all, the marble figures on the tombs, with +hands folded so foolishly,--yet impressively too, brought him up with a +quick throb of the heart. It was his first real contact with England; +for he had not seen London, save at Euston Station and in the north-west +district. But here he was in touch with his heritage. He rested his +hand upon a tomb beside him, and looked around slowly. + +The choir began the psalm for the following Sunday. At first he did not +listen; but presently the organist was heard alone, and then the choir +afterwards sang: + + "Woe is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Mesech: + And to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar." + +Simple, dusty, ancient church, thick with effigies and tombs; with +inscriptions upon pillars to virgins departed this life; and tablets +telling of gentlemen gone from great parochial virtues: it wakened in +Belward's brain a fresh conception of the life he was about to live--he +did not doubt that he would live it. He would not think of himself as +inacceptable to old Sir William Belward. He glanced to the tomb under +his hand. There was enough daylight yet to see the inscription on the +marble. Besides, a single candle was burning just over his head. He +stooped and read: + + SACRED TO THE MEMORY + OF + SIR GASTON ROBERT BELWARD, BART., + OF RIDLEY COURT, IN THIS PARISH OF GASTONBURY, + WHO, + AT THE AGE OF ONE AND FIFTY YEARS, + AFTER A LIFE OF DISTINGUISHED SERVICE FOR HIS KING + AND COUNTRY, + AND GRAVE AND CONSTANT CARE OF THOSE EXALTED WORKS + WHICH BECAME A GENTLEMAN OF ENGLAND; + MOST NOTABLE FOR HIS LOVE OF ARTS AND LETTERS; + SENSIBLE IN ALL GRACES AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS; + GIFTED WITH SINGULAR VIRTUES AND INTELLECTS; + AND + DELIGHTING AS MUCH IN THE JOYS OF PEACE + AS IN THE HEAVY DUTIES OF WAR: + WAS SLAIN BY THE SIDE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, + THE BELOVED AND ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE RUPERT, + AT THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, + IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD MDCXLV. + + "A Sojourner as all my Fathers were." + +"'Gaston Robert Belward'!" + +He read the name over and over, his fingers tracing the letters. + +His first glance at the recumbent figure had been hasty. Now, however, +he leaned over and examined it. It lay, hands folded, in the dress of +Prince Rupert's cavaliers, a sword at side, and great spurs laid beside +the heels. + +"'Gaston Robert Belward'!" + +As this other Gaston Robert Belward looked at the image of his dead +ancestor, a wild thought came: Had he himself not fought with Prince +Rupert? Was he not looking at himself in stone? Was he not here to show +England how a knight of Charles's time would look upon the life of the +Victorian age? Would not this still cold Gaston be as strange at Ridley +Court as himself fresh from tightening a cinch on the belly of a broncho? +Would he not ride from where he had been sojourning as much a stranger in +his England as himself? + +For a moment the idea possessed him. He was Sir Gaston Robert Belward, +Baronet. He remembered now how, at Prince Rupert's side, he had sped on +after Ireton's horse, cutting down Roundheads as he passed, on and on, +mad with conquest, yet wondering that Rupert kept so long in pursuit +while Charles was in danger with Cromwell: how, as the word came to wheel +back, a shot tore away the pommel of his saddle; then another, and +another, and with a sharp twinge in his neck he fell from his horse. He +remembered how he raised himself on his arm and shouted "God save the +King!" How he loosed his scarf and stanched the blood at his neck, then +fell back into a whirring silence, from which he was roused by feeling +himself in strong arms, and hearing a voice say: "Courage, Gaston." Then +came the distant, very distant, thud of hoofs, and he fell asleep; and +memory was done. + +He stood for a moment oblivious to everything: the evening bird +fluttering among the rafters, the song of the nightingale without, the +sighing wind in the tower entry, the rustics in the doorway, the group in +the choir. Presently he became conscious of the words sung: + + "A thousand ages in Thy sight + Are like an evening gone; + Short as the watch that ends the night + Before the rising sun. + + "Time, like an ever-rolling stream, + Bears all its sons away; + They fly, forgotten, as a dream + Dies at the opening day." + +He was himself again in an instant. He had been in a kind of dream. It +seemed a long time since he had entered the church--in reality but a few +moments. He caught his moustache in his fingers, and turned on his heel +with a musing smile. His spurs clinked as he went down the aisle; and, +involuntarily, he tapped a boot-leg with his riding-whip. The singing +ceased. His spurs made the only sound. The rustics at the door fell +back before him. He had to go up three steps to reach the threshold. As +he stood on the top one he paused and turned round. + +So, this was home: this church more so even than the Court hard by. +Here his ancestors--for how long he did not know, probably since the time +of Edward III--idled time away in the dust; here Gaston Belward had been +sleeping in effigy since Naseby Field. A romantic light came into his +face. Again, why not? Even in the Hudson's Bay country and in the Rocky +Mountains, he had been called, "Tivi, The Man of the Other." He had been +counted the greatest of Medicine Men--one of the Race: the people of the +Pole, who lived in a pleasant land, gifted as none others of the race of +men. Not an hour before Jacques had asked him where he got "the other." +No man can live in the North for any time without getting the strain +of its mystery and romance in him. Gaston waved his hand to the tomb, +and said half-believingly: + +"Gaston Robert Belward, come again to your kingdom." + +He turned to go out, and faced the rector of the parish,--a bent, benign- +looking man,--who gazed at him astonished. He had heard the strange +speech. His grave eyes rested on the stalwart stranger with courteous +inquiry. Gaston knew who it was. Over his left brow there was a scar. +He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon Varcoe +was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had thrown a +stick at his brother. It had struck the clergyman, leaving a scar. + +Gaston now raised his hat. As he passed, the rector looked after him, +puzzled; the words he had heard addressed to the effigy returning. His +eyes followed the young man to the gate, and presently, with a quick +lifting of the shoulders, he said: + +"Robert Belward!" Then added: "Impossible! But he is a Belward." + +He saw Gaston mount, then entered and went slowly up the aisle. He +paused beside the tomb of that other Belward. His wrinkled hand rested +on it. + +"That is it," he said at last. "He is like the picture of this Sir +Gaston. Strange." + +He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings +with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and +affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure, +and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe +was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be +useful. As he stood musing and listening to the music of the choir, +a girl came softly up the aisle, and touched him on the arm. + +"Grandfather, dear," she said, "aren't you going to the Court? You have +a standing invitation for this night in the week. You have not been +there for so long." + +He fondled the hand on his arm. + +"My dearest, they have not asked me for a long time." + +"But why not to-night? I have laid out everything nicely for you--your +new gaiters, and your D. C. L. coat with the pretty buttons and cord." + +"How can I leave you, my dear? And they do not ask you!" + +The voice tried for playfulness, but the eyes had a disturbed look. + +"Me? Oh! they never ask me to dinner-you know that. Tea and formal +visits are enough for Lady Belward, and almost too much for me. There is +yet time to dress. Do say you will go. I want you to be friendly with +them." + +The old man shook his head. + +"I do not care to leave you, my dearest." + +"Foolish old fatherkins! Who would carry me off?--'Nobody, no, not I, +nobody cares for me.'" Suddenly a new look shot up in her face. + +"Did you see that singular handsome man who came from the church--like +some one out of an old painting? Not that his dress was so strange; but +there was something in his face--something that you would expect to find +in--in a Garibaldi. Silly, am I not? Did you see him?" + +He looked at her gravely. + +"My dear," he said at last, "I think I will go after all, though I shall +be a little late." + +"A sensible grandfather. Come quickly, dear." He paused again. + +"But I fear I sent a note to say I could not dine." + +"No, you did not. It has been lying on your table for two days." + +"Dear me--dear me! I am getting very old." + +They passed out of the church. Presently, as they hurried to the rectory +near by, the girl said: + +"But you haven't answered. Did you see the stranger? Do you know who he +is?" + +The rector turned, and pointed to the gate of Ridley Court. Gaston and +Brillon were just entering. "Alice," he said, in a vague, half-troubled +way, "the man is a Belward, I think." + +"Why, of course!" the girl replied with a flash of excitement. "But +he's so dark, and foreign-looking! What Belward is he?" + +"I do not know yet, my dear." + +"I shall be up when you come back. But mind, don't leave just after +dinner. Stay and talk; you must tell me everything that's said and done +--and about the stranger." + + + + +CHAPTER II + +IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN + +Meanwhile, without a word, Gaston had mounted, ridden to the castle, +and passed through the open gates into the court-yard. Inside he paused. +In the main building many lights were burning. There came a rattle of +wheels behind him, and he shifted to let a carriage pass. Through the +window of the brougham he could see the shimmer of satin, lace, and soft +white fur, and he had an instant's glance of a pretty face. + +The carriage drew up to the steps, and presently three ladies and a +brusque gentleman passed into the hall-way, admitted by powdered footmen. +The incident had a manner, an air, which struck Gaston, he knew not why. +Perhaps it was the easy finesse of ceremonial. He looked at Brillon. He +had seen him sit arms folded like that, looking from the top of a bluff +down on an Indian village or a herd of buffaloes. There was wonder, but +no shyness or agitation, on his face; rather the naive, naked look of a +child. Belward laughed. + +"Come, Brillon; we are at home." + +He rode up to the steps, Jacques following. A foot man appeared and +stared. Gaston looked down on him neutrally, and dismounted. Jacques +did the same. The footman still stared. Another appeared behind. +Gaston eyed the puzzled servant calmly. + +"Why don't you call a groom?!" he presently said. There was a cold gleam +in his eye. + +The footman shrank. + +"Yessir, yessir," he said confusedly, and signalled. The other footman +came down, and made as if to take the bridle. Gaston waved him back. +None too soon, for the horse lunged at him. + +"A rub down, a pint of beer, and water and feed in an hour, and I'll come +to see him myself late to-night." Jacques had loosened the saddle-bags +and taken them off. Gaston spoke to the horse, patted his neck, and gave +him to the groom. Then he went up the steps, followed by Jacques. He +turned at the door to see the groom leading both horses off, and eyeing +Saracen suspiciously. He laughed noiselessly. + +"Saracen 'll teach him things," he said. "I might warn him, but it's +best for the horses to make their own impressions." + +"What name, sir?!" asked a footman. + +"You are--?" + +"Falby, Sir." + +"Falby, look after my man Brillon here, and take me to Sir William." + +"What name, sir?" + +Gaston, as if with sudden thought, stepped into the light of the candles, +and said in a low voice: "Falby, don't you know me?" + +The footman turned a little pale, as his eyes, in spite of themselves, +clung to Gaston's. A kind of fright came, and then they steadied. + +"Oh yes, sir," he said mechanically. + +"Where have you seen me?" + +"In the picture on the wall, sir." + +"Whose picture, Falby?" + +"Sir Gaston Belward, Sir." + +A smile lurked at the corners of Gaston's mouth. + +"Gaston Belward. Very well, then you know what to say to Sir William. +Show me into the library." + +"Or the justices' room, sir?" + +"The justices' room will do." + +Gaston wondered what the justices' room was. A moment after he stood in +it, and the dazed Falby had gone, trying vainly to reconcile the picture +on the wall, which, now that he could think, he knew was very old, with +this strange man who had sent a curious cold shiver through him. But, +anyhow, he was a Belward, that was certain: voice, face, manner showed +it. But with something like no Belward he had ever seen. Left to +himself, Gaston looked round on a large, severe room. Its use dawned on +him. This was part of the life: Sir William was a Justice of the Peace. +But why had he been brought here? Why not to the library as himself had +suggested? There would be some awkward hours for Falby in the future. +Gaston had as winning a smile, as sweet a manner, as any one in the +world, so long as a straight game was on; but to cross his will with the +other--he had been too long a power in that wild country where his father +had also been a power! He did not quite know how long he waited, for he +was busy with plans as to his career at Ridley Court. He was roused at +last by Falby's entrance. A keen, cold look shot from under his straight +brows. + +"Well?!" he asked. + +"Will you step into the library, sir? Sir William will see you there." + +Falby tried to avoid his look, but his eyes were compelled, and Gaston +said: + +"Falby, you will always hate to enter this room." Falby was agitated. + +"I hope not, sir." + +"But you will, Falby, unless--" + +"Yessir?" + +"Unless you are both the serpent and the dove, Falby." + +"Yessir." + +As they entered the hall, Brillon with the saddle-bags was being taken in +charge, and Gaston saw what a strange figure he looked beside the other +servants and in these fine surroundings. He could not think that himself +was so bizarre. Nor was he. But he looked unusual; as one of high +civilisation might, through long absence in primitive countries, return +in uncommon clothing, and with a manner of distinguished strangeness: the +barbaric to protect the refined, as one has seen a bush of firs set to +shelter a wheat-field from a seawind, or a wind-mill water cunningly- +begotten flowers. + +As he went through the hall other visitors were entering. They passed +him, making for the staircase. Ladies with the grand air looked at him +curiously, and two girls glanced shyly from the jingling spurs and +tasselled boots to his rare face. + +One of the ladies suddenly gave a little gasping cry, and catching the +arm of her companion, said: + +"Reine, how like Robert Belward! Who--who is he?" + +The other coolly put up her pince-nez. She caught Gaston's profile and +the turn of his shoulder. + +"Yes, like, Sophie; but Robert never had such a back, nor anything like +the face." + +She spoke with no attempt to modulate her voice, and it carried +distinctly to Gaston. He turned and glanced at them. + +"He's a Belward, certainly, but like what one I don't know; and he's +terribly eccentric, my dear! Did you see the boots and the sash? Why, +bless me, if you are not shaking! Don't be silly--shivering at the +thought of Robert Belward after all these years." + +So saying, Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne tapped Lady Dargan on the arm, and then +turned sharply to see if her daughters had been listening. She saw that +they had; and though herself and not her sister was to blame, she said: + +"Sophie, you are very indiscreet! If you had daughters of your own, you +would probably be more careful--though Heaven only knows, for you were +always difficult!" + +With this they vanished up the staircase, Mrs. Gasgoyne's daughters, +Delia and Agatha, smiling at each other and whispering about Gaston. + +Meanwhile the seeker after a kingdom was shown into Sir William Belward's +study. No one was there. He walked to the mantelpiece, and, leaning his +arm on it, looked round. Directly in front of him on the wall was the +picture of a lady in middle-life, sitting in an arbour. A crutch lay +against one arm of her chair, and her left hand leaned on an ebony +silver-topped cane. There was something painful, haunting, in the face +--a weirdness in the whole picture. The face was looking into the +sunlight, but the effect was rather of moonlight--distant, mournful. He +was fascinated; why, he could not tell. Art to him was an unknown book, +but he had the instinct, and he was quick to feel. This picture struck +him as being out of harmony with everything else in the room. Yet it +had, a strange compelling charm. + +Presently he started forward with an exclamation. Now he understood the +vague, eerie influence. Looking out from behind the foliage was a face, +so dim that one moment it seemed not to be there, and then suddenly to +flash in--as a picture from beyond sails, lightning-like, across the +filmy eyes of the dying. It was the face of a youth, elf-like, unreal, +yet he saw his father's features in it. + +He rubbed his eyes and looked again. It seemed very dim. Indeed, so +delicately, vaguely, had the work been done that only eyes like Gaston's, +trained to observe, with the sight of a hawk and a sense of the +mysterious, could have seen so quickly or so distinctly. He drew slowly +back to the mantel again, and mused. What did it mean? He was sure that +the woman was his grandmother. + +At that moment the door opened, and an alert, white-haired man stepped in +quickly, and stopped in the centre of the room, looking at his visitor. +His deep, keen eyes gazed out with an intensity that might almost be +fierceness, and the fingers of his fine hands opened and shut nervously. +Though of no great stature, he had singular dignity. He was in evening- +dress, and as he raised a hand to his chin quickly, as if in surprise or +perplexity, Gaston noticed that he wore a large seal-ring. It is +singular that while he was engaged with his great event, he was also +thinking what an air of authority the ring gave. + +For a moment the two men stood at gaze without speaking, though Gaston +stepped forward respectfully. A bewildered, almost shrinking look came +into Sir William's eyes, as the other stood full in the light of the +candles. + +Presently the old man spoke. In spite of conventional smoothness, his +voice had the ring of distance, which comes from having lived through and +above painful things. + +"My servant announced you as Sir Gaston Belward. There is some mistake?" + +"There is a mistake," was the slow reply. "I did not give my name as Sir +Gaston Belward. That was Falby's conclusion, sir. But I am Gaston +Robert Belward, just the same." + +Sir William was dazed, puzzled. He presently made a quick gesture, as if +driving away some foolish thought, and, motioning to a chair, said: + +"Will you be seated?" + +They both sat, Sir William by his writing-table. His look was now steady +and penetrating, but he met one just as firm. + +"You are--Gaston Robert Belward? May I ask for further information?" + +There was furtive humour playing at Gaston's mouth. The old man's manner +had been so unlike anything he had ever met, save, to an extent, in his +father, that it interested him. He replied, with keen distinctness: +"You mean, why I have come--home?" + +Sir William's fingers trembled on a paper-knife. "Are you-at home?" + +"I have come home to ask for my heritage--with interest compounded, sir." + +Sir William was now very pale. He got to his feet, came to the young +man, peered into his face, then drew back to the table and steadied +himself against it. Gaston rose also: his instinct of courtesy was +acute--absurdly civilised--that is, primitive. He waited. "You are +Robert's son?" + +"Robert Belward was my father." + +"Your father is dead?" + +"Twelve years ago." + +Sir William sank back in his chair. His thin fingers ran back and forth +along his lips. Presently he took out his handkerchief and coughed into +it nervously. His lips trembled. With a preoccupied air he arranged a +handful of papers on the table. + +"Why did you not come before?!" he asked at last, in a low, mechanical +voice. + +"It was better for a man than a boy to come." + +"May I ask why?" + +"A boy doesn't always see a situation--gives up too soon--throws away his +rights. My father was a boy." + +"He was twenty-five when he went away." + +"I am fifty!" + +Sir William looked up sharply, perplexed. "Fifty?" + +"He only knew this life: I know the world." + +"What world?" + +"The great North, the South, the seas at four corners of the earth." + +Sir William glanced at the top-boots, the peeping sash, the strong, +bronzed face. + +"Who was your mother?!" he asked abruptly. + +"A woman of France." + +The baronet made a gesture of impatience, and looked searchingly at the +young man. + +All at once Gaston shot his bolt, to have it over. "She had Indian blood +also." + +He stretched himself to his full height, easily, broadly, with a touch of +defiance, and leaned an arm against the mantel, awaiting Sir William's +reply. + +The old man shrank, then said coldly: "Have you the marriage- +certificate?" + +Gaston drew some papers from his pockets. + +"Here, sir, with a letter from my father, and one from the Hudson's Bay +Company." + +His grandfather took them. With an effort he steadied himself, then +opened and read them one by one, his son's brief letter last--it was +merely a calm farewell, with a request that justice should be done his +son. + +At that moment Falby entered and said: + +"Her ladyship's compliments, and all the guests have arrived, sir." + +"My compliments to her ladyship, and ask her to give me five minutes yet, +Falby." + +Turning to his grandson, there seemed to be a moment's hesitation, then +he reached out his hand. + +"You have brought your luggage? Will you care to dine with us?" + +Gaston took the cold outstretched fingers. + +"Only my saddle-bag, and I have no evening-dress with me, else I should +be glad." + +There was another glance up and down the athletic figure, a half- +apprehensive smile as the baronet thought of his wife, and then he said: + +"We must see if anything can be done." + +He pulled a bell-cord. A servant appeared. + +"Ask the housekeeper to come for a moment, please." Neither spoke till +the housekeeper appeared. "Hovey," he said to the grim woman, "give Mr. +Gaston the room in the north tower. Then, from the press in the same +room lay out the evening-dress which you will find there.... They were +your father's," he added, turning to the young man. "It was my wife's +wish to keep them. Have they been aired lately, Hovey?" + +"Some days ago, sir." + +"That will do." The housekeeper left, agitated. You will probably be in +time for the fish," he added, as he bowed to Robert. + +"If the clothes do not fit, sir?" + +"Your father was about your height and nearly as large, and fashions have +not changed much." + +A few moments afterwards Gaston was in the room which his father had +occupied twenty-seven years before. The taciturn housekeeper, eyeing him +excitedly the while, put out the clothes. He did not say anything till +she was about to go. Then: + +"Hovey, were you here in my father's time?" + +"I was under-parlourmaid, sir," she said. + +"And you are housekeeper now--good!" + +The face of the woman crimsoned, hiding her dour wrinkles. She turned +away her head. + +"I'd have given my right hand if he hadn't gone, sir." + +Gaston whistled softly, then: + +"So would he, I fancy, before he died. But I shall not go, so you will +not need to risk a finger for me. I am going to stay, Hovey. Good- +night. Look after Brillon, please." + +He held out his hand. Her fingers twitched in his, then grasped them +nervously. + +"Yes, sir. Good-night, Sir. It's--it's like him comin' back, sir." + +Then she suddenly turned and hurried from the room, a blunt figure to +whom emotion was not graceful. "H'm!" said Gaston, as he shut the door. +"Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! 'Voici le sabre de mon +pere!'" + + + + +CHAPTER III + +HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE + +Gaston Belward was not sentimental: that belongs to the middle-class +Englishman's ideal of civilisation. But he had a civilisation akin to +the highest; incongruous, therefore, to the general as the sympathy +between the United States and Russia. The highest civilisation can be +independent. The English aristocrat is at home in the lodge of a Sioux +chief or the bamboo-hut of a Fijian, and makes brothers of "savages," +when those other formal folk, who spend their lives in keeping their +dignity, would be lofty and superior. + +When Gaston looked at his father's clothes and turned them over, +he had a twinge of honest emotion; but his mind was on the dinner and +his heritage, and he only said, as he frowned at the tightness of the +waistband: + +"Never mind, we'll make 'em pay, shot and wadding, for what you lost, +Robert Belward; and wherever you are, I hope you'll see it." + +In twelve minutes from the time he entered the bedroom he was ready. +He pulled the bell-cord, and then passed out. A servant met him on the +stairs, and in another minute he was inside the dining-room. Sir +William's eyes flashed up. There was smouldering excitement in his face, +but one could not have guessed at anything unusual. A seat had been +placed for Gaston beside him. The situation was singular and trying. +It would have been easier if he had merely come into the drawing-room +after dinner. This was in Sir William's mind when he asked him to dine; +but it was as it was. Gaston's alert glance found the empty seat. He +was about to make towards it, but he caught Sir William's eye and saw it +signal him to the end of the table near him. His brain was working with +celerity and clearness. He now saw the woman whose portrait had so +fascinated him in the library. As his eyes fastened on her here, he +almost fancied he could see the boy's--his father's-face looking over +her shoulder. + +He instantly went to her, and said: "I am sorry to be late." + +His first impulse had been to offer his hand, as, naturally, he would +have done in "barbaric" lands, but the instinct of this other +civilisation was at work in him. He might have been a polite casual +guest, and not a grandson, bringing the remembrance, the culmination of +twenty-seven years' tragedy into a home; she might have been a hostess +with whom he wished to be on terms: that was all. + +If the situation was trying for him, it was painful for her. She had had +only a whispered announcement before Sir William led the way to dinner. +Yet she was now all her husband had been, and more. Repression had been +her practice for unnumbered years, and the only heralds of her feelings +were the restless wells of her dark eyes: the physical and mental misery +she had endured lay hid under the pale composure of her face. She was +now brought suddenly before the composite image of her past. Yet she +merely lifted a slender hand with long, fine fingers, which, as they +clasped his, all at once trembled, and then pressed them hotly, +nervously. To his surprise, it sent a twinge of colour to his cheek. +"It was good of you to come down after such a journey," she said. +Nothing more. + +Then he passed on, and sat down to Sir William's courteous gesture. The +situation had its difficulties for the guests--perfect guests as they +were. Every one was aware of a dramatic incident, for which there had +been no preparation save Sir William's remark that a grandson had arrived +from the North Pole or thereabouts; and to continue conversation and +appear casual put their resources to some test. But they stood it well, +though. their eyes were busy, and the talk was cheerfully mechanical. +So occupied were they with Gaston's entrance, that they did not know +how near Lady Dargan came to fainting. + +At the button-hole of the coat worn by Gaston hung a tiny piece of red +ribbon which she had drawn from her sleeve on the terrace twenty-seven +years ago, and tied there with the words: + +"Do you think you will wear it till we meet again?" And the man had +replied: + +"You'll not see me without it, pretty girl--pretty girl." + +A woman is not so unaccountable after all. She has more imagination than +a man; she has not many resources to console her for disappointments, and +she prizes to her last hour the swift moments when wonderful things +seemed possible. That man is foolish who shows himself jealous of a +woman's memories or tokens--those guarantees of her womanliness. + +When Lady Dargan saw the ribbon, which Gaston in his hurry had not +disturbed, tied exactly as she had tied it, a weird feeling came to her, +and she felt choking. But her sister's eyes were on her, and Mrs. +Gasgoyne's voice came across the table clearly: + +"Sophie, what were Fred Bideford's colours at Sandown? You always +remember that kind of thing." The warning was sufficient. Lady Dargan +could make no effort of memory, but she replied without hesitation--or +conscience: + +"Yellow and brown." + +"There," said Mrs. Gasgoyne, "we are both wrong, Captain Maudsley. +Sophie never makes a mistake." Maudsley assented politely, but, stealing +a look at Lady Dargan, wondered what the little by-play meant. Gaston +was between Sir William and Mrs. Gasgoyne. He declined soup and fish, +which had just been served, because he wished for time to get his +bearings. He glanced at the menu as if idly interested, conscious that +he was under observation. He felt that he had, some how, the situation +in his hands. Everything had gone well, and he knew that his part had +been played with some aplomb--natural, instinctive. Unlike most large +men, he had a mind always alert, not requiring the inspiration of unusual +moments. What struck him most forcibly now was the tasteful courtesy +which had made his entrance easy. He instinctively compared it to the +courtesy in the lodge of an Indian chief, or of a Hudson's Bay factor who +has not seen the outer world for half a century. It was so different, +and yet it was much the same. He had seen a missionary, a layreader, +come intoxicated into a council of chiefs. The chiefs did not show that +they knew his condition till he forced them to do so. Then two of the +young men rose, suddenly pinned him in their arms, carried him out, and +tied him in a lodge. The next morning they sent him out of their +country. Gaston was no philosopher, but he could place a thing when he +saw it: which is a kind of genius. + +Presently Sir William said quietly: + +"Mrs. Gasgoyne, you knew Robert well; his son ought to know you." + +Gaston turned to Mrs. Gasgoyne, and said in his father's manner as much +as possible, for now his mind ran back to how his father talked and +acted, forming a standard for him: + +"My father once told me a tale of the Keithley Hunt--something 'away up,' +as they say in the West--and a Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne was in it." + +He made an instant friend of Mrs. Gasgoyne--made her so purposely. +This was one of the few things from his father's talks upon his past +life. He remembered the story because it was interesting, the name +because it had a sound. + +She flushed with pleasure. That story of the Hunt was one of her +sweetest recollections. For her bravery then she had been voted by the +field "a good fellow," and an admiral present declared that she had a +head "as long as the maintop bow-line." She loved admiration, though she +had no foolish sentiment; she called men silly creatures, and yet would +go on her knees across country to do a deserving man-friend a service. +She was fifty and over, yet she had the springing heart of a girl--mostly +hid behind a brusque manner and a blunt, kindly tongue. + +"Your father could always tell a good story," she said. + +"He told me one of you: what about telling me one of him?" + +Adaptable, he had at once fallen in with her direct speech; the more so +because it was his natural way; any other ways were "games," as he +himself said. + +She flashed a glance at her sister, and smiled half-ironically. + +"I could tell you plenty," she said softly. "He was a startling fellow, +and went far sometimes; but you look as if you could go farther." + +Gaston helped himself to an entree, wondering whether a knife was used +with sweetbreads. + +"How far could he go?!" he asked. + +"In the hunting-field with anybody, with women endlessly, with meanness +like a snail, and when his blood was up, to the most nonsensical place +you can think of." + +Forks only for sweetbreads! Gaston picked one up. "He went there." + +"Who told you?" + +"I came from there." + +"Where is it?" + +"A few hundred miles from the Arctic circle." + +"Oh, I didn't think it was that climate!" + +"It never is till you arrive. You are always out in the cold there." + +"That sounds American." + +"Every man is a sinner one way or another." + +"You are very clever--cleverer than your father ever was. + +"I hope so." + +"Why?" + +"He went--there. I've come--from there." + +"And you think you will stay--never go back?" + +"He was out of it for twenty years, and died. If I am in it for that +long, I shall have had enough." + +Their eyes met. The woman looked at him steadily. "You won't be," she +replied, this time seriously, and in a very low voice. + +"No? Why?" + +"Because you will tire of it all--though you've started very well." + +She then answered a question of Captain Maudsley's and turned again to +Gaston. + +"What will make me tire of it?!" he inquired. She sipped her champagne +musingly. + +"Why, what is in you deeper than all this; with the help of some woman +probably." + +She looked at him searchingly, then added: + +"You seem strangely like and yet unlike your father to-night." + +"I am wearing his clothes," he said. + +She had plenty of nerve, but this startled her. She shrank a little: it +seemed uncanny. Now she remembered that ribbon in the button-hole. + +"Poor Sophie!" she thought. "And this one will make greater mischief +here." Then, aloud to him: "Your father was a good fellow, but he did +wild things." + +"I do not see the connection," he answered. "I am not a good man, and I +shall do wilder things--is that it?" + +"You will do mad things," she replied hardly above a whisper, and talked +once more with Captain Maudsley. Gaston now turned to his grandfather, +who had heard a sentence here and there, and felt that the young man +carried off the situation well enough. He then began to talk in a +general way about Gaston's voyage, of the Hudson's Bay Company, and +expeditions to the Arctic, drawing Lady Dargan into the conversation. + +Whatever might be said of Sir William Belward he was an excellent host. +He had a cool, unmalicious wit, but that man was unwise who offered +himself to its severity. To-night he surpassed himself in suggestive +talk, until, all at once, seeing Lady Dargan's eyes fixed on Gaston, +he went silent, sitting back in his chair abstracted. Soon, however, +a warning glance from his wife brought him back and saved Lady Dargan +from collapse; for it seemed impossible to talk alone to this ghost of +her past. + +At this moment Gaston heard a voice near: + +"As like as if he'd stepped out of the picture, if it weren't for the +clothes. A Gaston too!" + +The speaker was Lord Dargan. He was talking to Archdeacon Varcoe. + +Gaston followed Lord Dargan's glance to the portrait of that Sir Gaston +Belward whose effigy he had seen. He found himself in form, feature, +expression; the bold vigilance of eye, the primitive activity of +shoulder, the small firm foot, the nervous power of the hand. The eyes +seemed looking at him. He answered to the look. There was in him the +romantic strain, and something more! In the remote parts of his being +there was the capacity for the phenomenal, the strange. Once again, as +in the church, he saw the field of Naseby, King Charles, Ireton's men, +Cromwell and his Ironsides, Prince Rupert and the swarming rush of +cavalry, and the end of it all! Had it been a tale of his father's at +camp-fire? Had he read it somewhere? He felt his blood thump in his +veins. Another half-hour, wherein he was learning every minute, nothing +escaping him, everything interesting him; his grandfather and Mrs. +Gasgoyne especially, then the ladies retired slowly with their crippled +hostess, who gave Gaston, as she rose, a look almost painfully intense. +It haunted him. + +Now Gaston had his chance. He had no fear of what he could do with men: +he had measured himself a few times with English gentlemen as he +travelled, and he knew where his power lay--not in making himself +agreeable, but in imposing his personality. + +The guests were not soon to forget the talk of that hour. It played into +Gaston's hands. He pretended to nothing; he confessed ignorance here and +there with great simplicity; but he had the gift of reducing things, as +it were, to their original elements. He cut away to the core of a +matter, and having simple, fixed ideas, he was able to focus the talk, +which had begun with hunting stories, and ended with the morality of +duelling. Gaston's hunting stories had made them breathless, his views +upon duelling did not free their lungs. + +There were sentimentalists present; others who, because it had become +etiquette not to cross swords, thought it indecent. Archdeacon Varcoe +would not be drawn into discussion, but sipped his wine, listened, and +watched Gaston. + +The young man measured his grandfather's mind, and he drove home his +points mercilessly. + +Captain Maudsley said something about "romantic murder." + +"That's the trouble," Gaston said. "I don't know who killed duelling +in England, but behind it must have been a woman or a shopkeeper: +sentimentalism, timidity, dead romance. What is patriotism but romance? +Ideals is what they call it somewhere. I've lived in a land full of hard +work and dangers, but also full of romance. What is the result? Why, a +people off there whom you pity, and who don't need pity. Romance? See: +you only get square justice out of a wise autocrat, not out of your +'twelve true men'; and duelling is the last decent relic of autocracy. +Suppose the wronged man does get killed; that is all right: it wasn't +merely blood he was after, but the right to hit a man in the eye for a +wrong done. What is all this hullaballoo--about saving human life? +There's as much interest--and duty--in dying as living, if you go the +way your conscience tells you." + +A couple of hours later, Gaston, after having seen to his horse, stood +alone in the drawing-room with his grandfather and grandmother. As yet +Lady Belward had spoken not half a dozen words to him. Sir William +presently said to him: + +"Are you too tired to join us in the library?" + +"I'm as fresh as paint, sir," was the reply. + +Lady Belward turned without a word, and slowly passed from the room. +Gaston's eyes followed the crippled figure, which yet had a rare dignity. +He had a sudden impulse. He stepped to her and said with an almost +boyish simplicity: + +"You are very tired; let me carry you--grandmother." + +He could hear Sir William gasp a little as he laid a quick warm hand on +hers that held the cane. She looked at him gravely, sadly, and then +said: + +"I will take your arm, if you please." + +He took the cane, and she put a hand towards him. He ran his strong arm +around her waist with a little humouring laugh, her hand rested on his +shoulder, and he timed his step to hers. Sir William was in an eddy of +wonder--a strong head was "mazed." He had looked for a different +reception of this uncommon kinsman. How quickly had the new-comer +conquered himself! And yet he had a slight strangeness of accent--not +American, but something which seemed unusual. He did not reckon with a +voice which, under cover of easy deliberation, had a convincing quality; +with a manner of old-fashioned courtesy and stateliness. As Mrs. +Gasgoyne had said to the rector, whose eyes had followed Gaston +everywhere in the drawing-room: + +"My dear archdeacon, where did he get it? Why, he has lived most of his +life with savages!" + +"Vandyke might have painted the man," Lord Dargan had added. + +"Vandyke did paint him," had put in Delia Gasgoyne from behind her +mother. + +"How do you mean, Delia?!" Mrs. Gasgoyne had added, looking curiously at +her. + +"His picture hangs in the dining-room." + +Then the picture had been discussed, and the girl's eyes had followed +Gaston--followed him until he had caught their glance. Without an +introduction, he had come and dropped into conversation with her, till +her mother cleverly interrupted. + +Inside the library Lady Belward was comfortably placed, and looking up at +Gaston, said: + +"You have your father's ways: I hope that you will be wiser." + +"If you will teach me!" he answered gently. + +There came two little bright spots on her cheeks, and her hands clasped +in her lap. They all sat down. Sir William spoke: + +"It is much to ask that you should tell us of your life now, but it is +better that we should start with some knowledge of each other." + +At that moment Gaston's eyes caught the strange picture on the wall. + +"I understand," he answered. "But I would be starting in the middle of a +story." + +"You mean that you wish to hear your father's history? Did he not tell +you?" + +"Trifles--that is all." + +"Did he ever speak of me?!" asked Lady Belward with low anxiety. + +"Yes, when he was dying." + +"What did he say?" + +"He said: 'Tell my mother that Truth waits long, but whips hard. Tell +her that I always loved her.'" She shrank in her chair as if from a +blow, and then was white and motionless. + +"Let us hear your story," Sir William said with a sort of hauteur. +"You know your own, much of your father's lies buried with him." + +"Very well, sir." + +Sir William drew a chair up beside his wife. Gaston sat back, and for a +moment did not speak. He was looking into distance. Presently the blue +of his eyes went all black, and with strange unwavering concentration he +gazed straight before him. A light spread over his face, his hands felt +for the chair-arms and held them firmly. He began: + +"I first remember swinging in a blanket from a pine-tree at a buffalo- +hunt while my mother cooked the dinner. There were scores of tents, +horses, and many Indians and half-breeds, and a few white men. My father +was in command. I can see my mother's face as she stood over the fire. +It was not darker than mine; she always seemed more French than Indian, +and she was thought comely." + +Lady Belward shuddered a little, but Gaston did not notice. + +"I can remember the great buffalo-hunt. You heard a heavy rumbling +sound; you saw a cloud on the prairie. It heaved, a steam came from it, +and sometimes you caught the flash of ten thousand eyes as the beasts +tossed their heads and then bent them again to the ground and rolled on, +five hundred men after them, our women shouting and laughing, and arrows +and bullets flying. . . . I can remember a time also when a great +Indian battle happened just outside the fort, and, with my mother crying +after him, my father went out with a priest to stop it. My father was +wounded, and then the priest frightened them, and they gathered their +dead together and buried them. We lived in a fort for a long time, and +my mother died there. She was a good woman, and she loved my father. +I have seen her on her knees for hours praying when he was away.--I have +her rosary now. They called her Ste. Heloise. Afterwards I was always +with my father. He was a good man, but he was never happy; and only at +the last would he listen to the priest, though they were always great +friends. He was not a Catholic of course, but he said that didn't +matter." + +Sir William interrupted huskily. "Why did he never come back?" + +"I do not know quite, but he said to me once, 'Gaston, you'll tell them +of me some day, and it will be a soft pillow for their heads! You can +mend a broken life, but the ring of it is gone.' I think he meant to +come back when I was about fourteen; but things happened, and he stayed." + +There was a pause. Gaston seemed brooding, and Lady Belward said: + +"Go on, please." + +"There isn't so very much to tell. The life was the only one I had +known, and it was all right. But my father had told me of this life. +He taught me himself--he and Father Decluse and a Moravian missionary for +awhile. I knew some Latin and history, a bit of mathematics, a good deal +of astronomy, some French poets, and Shakespere. Shakespere is +wonderful. . . . My father wanted me to come here at once after he +died, but I knew better--I wanted to get sense first. So I took a place +in the Company. It wasn't all fun. + +"I had to keep my wits sharp. I was only a youngster, and I had to do +with men as crafty and as silly as old Polonius. I was sent to Labrador. +That was not a life for a Christian. Once a year a ship comes to the +port, bringing the year's mail and news from the world. When you watch +that ship go out again, and you turn round and see the filthy Esquimaux +and Indians, and know that you've got to live for another year with them, +sit in their dirty tepees, eat their raw frozen meat, with an occasional +glut of pemmican, and the thermometer 70 degrees below zero, you get a +lump in your throat. + +"Then came one winter. I had one white man, two half-breeds, and an +Indian with me. There was darkness day after day, and because the +Esquimaux and Indians hadn't come up to the fort that winter, it was +lonely as a tomb. One by one the men got melancholy and then went mad, +and I had to tie them up, and care for them and feed them. The Indian +was all right, but he got afraid, and wanted to start to a mission +station three hundred miles on. It was a bad look-out for me, but I told +him to go. I was left alone. I was only twenty-one, but I was steel to +my toes--good for wear and tear. Well, I had one solid month all alone +with my madmen. Their jabbering made me sea-sick some times. At last +one day I felt I'd go staring mad myself if I didn't do something +exciting to lift me, as it were. I got a revolver, sat at the opposite +end of the room from the three lunatics, and practised shooting at them. +I had got it into my head that they ought to die, but it was only fair, +I thought, to give them a chance. I would try hard to shoot all round +them--make a halo of bullets for the head of every one, draw them in +silhouettes of solid lead on the wall. + +"I talked to them first, and told them what I was going to do. They +seemed to understand, and didn't object. I began with the silhouettes, +of course. I had a box of bullets beside me. They never squealed. I +sent the bullets round them as pretty as the pattern of a milliner. Then +I began with their heads. I did two all right. They sat and never +stirred. But when I came to the last something happened. It was Jock +Lawson." + +Sir William interposed: + +"Jock Lawson--Jock Lawson from here?" + +"Yes. His mother keeps 'The Whisk o' Barley.'" + +"So, that is where Jock Lawson went? He followed your father?" + +"Yes. Jock was mad enough when I began--clean gone. But, somehow, the +game I was playing cured him. 'Steady, Jock!' I said. 'Steady!' for I +saw him move. I levelled for the second bead of the halo. My finger was +on the trigger. 'My God, don't shoot!' he called. It startled me, my +hand shook, the thing went off, and Jock had a bullet through his brain. + +". . . Then I waked up. Perhaps I had been mad myself--I don't know. +But my brain never seemed clearer than when I was playing that game. It +was like a magnifying glass: and my eyes were so clear and strong that I +could see the pores on their skin, and the drops of sweat breaking out on +Jock's forehead when he yelled." + +A low moan came from Lady Belward. Her face was drawn and pale, but her +eyes were on Gaston with a deep fascination. Sir William whispered to +her. + +"No," she said, "I will stay." + +Gaston saw the impression he had made. + +"Well, I had to bury poor Jock all alone. I don't think I should have +minded it so much, if it hadn't been for the faces of those other two +crazy men. One of them sat still as death, his eyes following me with +one long stare, and the other kept praying all the time--he'd been a +lay preacher once before he backslided, and it came back on him now +naturally. Now it would be from Revelation, now out of the Psalms, and +again a swingeing exhortation for the Spirit to come down and convict me +of sin. There was a lot of sanity in it too, for he kept saying at last: +'O shut not up my soul with the sinners: nor my life with the +bloodthirsty.' I couldn't stand it, with Jock dead there before me, +so I gave him a heavy dose of paregoric out of the Company's stores. +Before he took it he raised his finger and said to me, with a beastly +stare: 'Thou art the man!' But the paregoric put him to sleep. . . . + +"Then I gave the other something to eat, and dragged Jock out to bury +him. I remembered then that he couldn't be buried, for the ground was +too hard and the ice too thick; so I got ropes, and, when he stiffened, +slung him up into a big cedar tree, and then went up myself and arranged +the branches about him comfortably. It seemed to me that Jock was a baby +and I was his father. You couldn't see any blood, and I fixed his hair +so that it covered the hole in the forehead. I remember I kissed him on +the cheek, and then said a prayer--one that I'd got out of my father's +prayer-book: 'That it may please Thee to preserve all that travel by land +or by water, all women labouring of child, all sick persons and young +children; and to show Thy pity upon all prisoners and captives.' Somehow +I had got it into my head that Jock was going on a long journey, and that +I was a prisoner and a captive." + +Gaston broke off, and added presently: + +"Perhaps this is all too awful to hear, but it gives you an idea of what +kind of things went to make me." Lady Belward answered for both: + +"Tell us all--everything." + +"It is late," said Sir William, nervously. + +"What does it matter? It is once in a lifetime," she answered sadly. + +Gaston took up the thread: + +"Now I come to what will shock you even more, perhaps. So, be prepared. +I don't know how many days went, but at last I had three visitors--in +time I should think: a Moravian missionary, and an Esquimaux and his +daughter. I didn't tell the missionary about Jock--there was no use, +it could do no good. They stayed four weeks, and during that time one +of the crazy men died. The other got better, but had to be watched. I +could do anything with him, if I got my eye on him. Somehow, I must tell +you, I've got a lot of power that way. I don't know where it comes from. +Well, the missionary had to go. The old Esquimaux thought that he and +his daughter would stay on if I'd let them. I was only too glad. But it +wasn't wise for the missionary to take the journey alone--it was a bad +business in any case. I urged the man that had been crazy to go, for I +thought activity would do him good. He agreed, and the two left and got +to the Mission Station all right, after wicked trouble. I was alone with +the Esquimaux and his daughter. You never know why certain things +happen, and I can't tell why that winter was so weird; why the old +Esquimaux should take sick one morning, and in the evening should call +me and his daughter Lucy--she'd been given a Christian name, of course-- +and say that he was going to die, and he wanted me to marry her" (Lady +Belward exclaimed, Sir William's hands fingered the chair-arm nervously) +"there and then, so that he'd know she would be cared for. He was a +heathen, but he had been primed by the missionaries about his daughter. +She was a fine, clever girl, and well educated--the best product of their +mission. So he called for a Bible. There wasn't one in the place, but I +had my mother's Book of the Mass. I went to get it, but when I set my +eyes on it, I couldn't--no, I couldn't do it, for I hadn't the least idea +but what I should bid my lady good-bye when it suited, and I didn't want +any swearing at all--not a bit. I didn't do any. But what happened had +to be with or without any ring or book and 'Forasmuch as.' There had +been so much funeral and sudden death that a marriage would be a godsend +anyhow. So the old Esquimaux got our two hands in his, babbled away in +half-English, half-Esquimaux, with the girl's eyes shining like a she- +moose over a dying buck, and about the time we kissed each other, his +head dropped back--and that is all there was about that." + +Gaston now kept his eyes on his listeners. He was aware that his story +must sound to them as brutal as might be, but it was a phase of his life, +and, so far as he could, he wanted to start with a clean sheet; not out +of love of confidence, for he was self-contained, but he would have +enough to do to shepherd his future without shepherding his past. He saw +that Lady Belward had a sickly fear in her face, while Sir William had +gone stern and hard. + +He went on: + +"It saved the situation, did that marriage; though it was no marriage you +will say. Neither was it one way, and I didn't intend at the start to +stand by it an hour longer than I wished. But she was more than I looked +for, and it seems to me that she saved my life that winter, or my reason +anyhow. There had been so much tragedy that I used to wonder every day +what would happen before night; and that's not a good thing for the brain +of a chap of twenty-one or two. The funny part of it is that she wasn't +a pagan--not a bit. She could read and speak English in a sweet old- +fashioned way, and she used to sing to me--such a funny, sorry little +voice she had--hymns the Moravians had taught her, and one or two English +songs. I taught her one or two besides, 'Where the Hawthorn Tree is +Blooming,' and 'Allan Water'--the first my father had taught me, the +other an old Scotch trader. It's different with a woman and a man in a +place like that. Two men will go mad together, but there's a saving +something in the contact of a man's brain with a woman's. I got fond of +her, any man would have, for she had something that I never saw in any +heathen, certainly in no Indian; you'll see it in women from Iceland. +I determined to marry her in regular style when spring and a missionary +came. You can't understand, maybe, how one can settle to a life where +you've got companionship, and let the world go by. About that time, I +thought that I'd let Ridley Court and the rest of it go as a boy's dreams +go. I didn't seem to know that I was only satisfied in one set of my +instincts. Spring came, so did a missionary, and for better or worse it +was." + +Sir William came to his feet. "Great Heaven!" he broke out. + +His wife tried to rise, but could not. + +"This makes everything impossible," added the baronet shortly. + +"No, no, it makes nothing impossible--if you will listen." + +Gaston was cool. He had begun playing for the stakes from one stand- +point, and he would not turn back. + +He continued: + +"I lived with her happily: I never expect to have happiness like that +again,--never,--and after two years at another post in Labrador, came +word from the Company that I might go to Quebec, there to be given my +choice of posts. I went. By this time I had again vague ideas that +sometime I should come here, but how or why I couldn't tell; I was +drifting, and for her sake willing to drift. I was glad to take her to +Quebec, for I guessed she would get ideas, and it didn't strike me that +she would be out of place. So we went. But she was out of place in +many ways. It did not suit at all. We were asked to good houses, for I +believe I have always had enough of the Belward in me to keep my end up +anywhere. The thing went on pretty well, but at last she used to beg me +to go without her to excursions and parties. There were always one or +two quiet women whom she liked to sit with, and because she seemed +happier for me to go, I did. I was popular, and got along with women +well; but I tell you honestly I loved my wife all the time; so that when +a Christian busy-body poured into her ears some self-made scandal, it was +a brutal, awful lie--brutal and awful, for she had never known jealousy; +it did not belong to her old social creed. But it was in the core of her +somewhere, and an aboriginal passion at work naked is a thing to be +remembered. I had to face it one night. . . . + +"I was quiet, and did what I could. After that I insisted on her going +with me wherever I went, but she had changed, and I saw that, in spite of +herself, the thing grew. One day we went on an excursion down the St. +Lawrence. We were merry, and I was telling yarns. We were just nearing +a landing-stage, when a pretty girl, with more gush than sense, caught me +by the arm and begged some ridiculous thing of me--an autograph, or what +not. A minute afterwards I saw my wife spring from the bulwarks down on +the landing-stage, and rush up the shore into the woods. . . . We +were two days finding her. That settled it. I was sick enough at heart, +and I determined to go back to Labrador. We did so. Every thing had +gone on the rocks. My wife was not, never would be, the same again. She +taunted me and worried me, and because I would not quarrel, seemed to +have a greater grievance--jealousy is a kind of madness. One night she +was most galling, and I sat still and said nothing. My life seemed gone +of a heap: I was sick--sick to the teeth; hopeless, looking forward to +nothing. I imagine my hard quietness roused her. She said something +hateful--something about having married her, and not a woman from Quebec. +I smiled--I couldn't help it; then I laughed, a bit wild, I suppose. +I saw the flash of steel. . . . I believe I laughed in her face as I +fell. When I came to she was lying with her head on my breast--dead-- +stone dead." + +Lady Belward sat with closed eyes, her fingers clasping and unclasping on +the top of her cane; but Sir William wore a look half-satisfied, half- +excited. + +He now hurried his story. + +"I got well, and after that stayed in the North for a year. Then I +passed down the continent to Mexico and South America. There I got a +commission to go to New Zealand and Australia to sell a lot of horses. +I did so, and spent some time in the South Sea Islands. Again I drifted +back to the Rockies and over into the plains; found Jacques Brillon, my +servant, had a couple of years' work and play, gathered together some +money, as good a horse and outfit as the North could give, and started +with Brillon and his broncho--having got both sense and experience, I +hope--for Ridley Court. And here I am. There's a lot of my life that I +haven't told you of, but it doesn't matter, because it's adventure +mostly, and it can be told at any time; but these are essential facts, +and it is better that you should hear them. And that is all, grandfather +and grandmother." + +After a minute Lady Belward rose, leaned on her crutch, and looked at him +wistfully. Sir William said: "Are you sure that you will suit this life, +or it you?" + +"It is the only idea I have at present; and, anyhow, it is my rightful +home, sir." + +"I was not thinking of your rights, but of the happiness of us all." + +Lady Belward limped to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. + +"You have had one great tragedy, so have we: neither could bear another. +Try to be worthy--of your home." + +Then she solemnly kissed him on the cheek. Soon afterwards they went to +their rooms. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +AN HOUR WITH HIS FATHER'S PAST + +In his bedroom Gaston made a discovery. He chanced to place his hand in +the tail-pocket of the coat he had worn. He drew forth a letter. The +ink was faded, and the lines were scrawled. It ran: + + It's no good. Mr. Ian's been! It's face the musik now. If you + want me, say so. I'm for kicks or ha'pence--no diffrense. + Yours, J. + +He knew the writing very well--Jock Lawson's. There had been some +trouble, and Mr. Ian had "been," bringing peril. What was it? His +father and Jock had kept the secret from him. + +He put his hand in the pocket again. There was another note--this time +in a woman's handwriting: + + Oh, come to me, if you would save us both! Do not fail. God help + us! Oh, Robert! + +It was signed "Agnes." + +Well, here was something of mystery; but he did not trouble himself about +that. He was not at Ridley Court to solve mysteries, to probe into the +past, to set his father's wrongs right; but to serve himself, to reap for +all those years wherein his father had not reaped. He enjoyed life, and +he would search this one to the full of his desires. Before he retired +he studied the room, handling things that lay where his father placed +them so many years before. He was not without emotions in this, but he +held himself firm. + +As he stood ready to get into bed, his eyes chanced upon a portrait of +his uncle Ian. + +"There's where the tug comes!" he said, nodding at it. "Shake hands, +and ten paces, Uncle Ian?" + +Then he blew out the candle, and in five minutes was sound asleep. + +He was out at six o'clock. He made for the stables, and found Jacques +pacing the yard. He smiled at Jacques's dazed look. + +"What about the horse, Brillon?!" he said, nodding as he came up. + +"Saracen's had a slice of the stable-boy's shoulder--sir." + +Amusement loitered in Gaston's eyes. The "sir" had stuck in Jacques's +throat. + +"Saracen has established himself, then? Good! And the broncho?" + +"Bien, a trifle only. They laugh much in the kitchen--" + +"The hall, Brillon." + +"--in the hall last night. That hired man over there--" + +"That groom, Brillon." + +"--that groom, he was a fool, and fat. He was the worst. This morning +he laugh at my broncho. He say a horse like that is nothing: no pace, no +travel. I say the broncho was not so ver' bad, and I tell him try the +paces. I whisper soft, and the broncho stand like a lamb. He mount, +and sneer, and grin at the high pommel, and start. For a minute it was +pretty; and then I give a little soft call, and in a minute there was the +broncho bucking--doubling like a hoop, and dropping same as lead. Once +that--groom--come down on the pommel, then over on the ground like a +ball, all muck and blood." + +The half-breed paused, looking innocently before him. Gaston's mouth +quirked. + +"A solid success, Brillon. Teach them all the tricks you can. At ten +o'clock come to my room. The campaign begins then." + +Jacques ran a hand through his long black hair, and fingered his sash. +Gaston understood. + +"The hair and ear-rings may remain, Brillon; but the beard and clothes +must go--except for occasions. Come along." + +For the next two hours Gaston explored the stables and the grounds. +Nothing escaped him. He gathered every incident of the surroundings, +and talked to the servants freely, softly, and easily, yet with a +superiority, which suddenly was imposed in the case of the huntsman at +the kennels--for the Whipshire hounds were here. Gaston had never ridden +to hounds. It was not, however, his cue to pretend knowledge. He was +strong enough to admit ignorance. He stood leaning against the door of +the kennels, arms folded, eyes half-closed, with the sense of a painter, +before the turning bunch of brown and white, getting the charm of +distance and soft tones. His blood beat hard, for suddenly he felt as +if he had been behind just such a pack one day, one clear desirable day +of spring. He saw people gathering at the kennels; saw men drink beer +and eat sandwiches at the door of the huntsman's house,--a long, low +dwelling, with crumbling arched doorways like those of a monastery, +watched them get away from the top of the moor, he among them; heard +the horn, the whips; and saw the fox break cover. + +Then came a rare run for five sweet miles--down a long valley--over +quick-set hedges, with stiffish streams--another hill--a great combe-- +a lovely valley stretching out--a swerve to the right--over a gate-- +and the brush got at a farmhouse door. + +Surely, he had seen it all; but what kink of the brain was it that the +men wore flowing wigs and immense boot-legs, and sported lace in the +hunting-field? And why did he see within that picture another of two +ladies and a gentleman hawking? + +He was roused from his dream by hearing the huntsman say in a quizzical +voice: + +"How do you like the dogs, sir?" + +To his last day Lugley, the huntsman, remembered the slow look of cold +surprise, of masterful malice, scathing him from head to foot. The words +that followed the look, simple as they were, drove home the naked +reproof: + +"What is your name, my man?" + +"Lugley, sir." + +"Lugley! Lugley! H'm! Well, Lugley, I like the hounds better than +I like you. Who is Master of the Hounds, Lugley?" + +"Captain Maudsley, sir." + +"Just so. You are satisfied with your place, Lugley?" + +"Yes, sir," said the man in a humble voice, now cowed. + +The news of the arrival of the strangers had come to him late at night, +and, with Whipshire stupidity, he had thought that any one coming from +the wilds of British America must be but a savage after all. + +"Very well; I wouldn't throw myself out of a place, if I were you." + +"Oh, no, sir! Beg pardon, sir, I--" + +"Attend to your hounds there, Lugley." + +So saying, Gaston nodded Jacques away with him, leaving the huntsman sick +with apprehension. + +"You see how it is to be done, Brillon?!" said Gaston. Jacques's brown +eyes twinkled. + +"You have the grand trick, sir." + +"I enjoy the game; and so shall you, if you will. You've begun well. +I don't know much of this life yet; but it seems to me that they are all +part of a machine, not the idea behind the machine. They have no +invention. Their machine is easy to learn. Do not pretend; but for +every bit you learn show something better, something to make them dizzy +now and then." + +He paused on a knoll and looked down. The castle, the stables, the +cottages of labourers and villagers lay before them. In a certain +highly-cultivated field, men were working. It was cut off in squares and +patches. It had an air which struck Gaston as unusual; why, he could not +tell. But he had a strange divining instinct, or whatever it may be +called. He made for the field and questioned the workmen. + +The field was cut up into allotment gardens. Here, at a nominal rent, +the cottager could grow his vegetables; a little spot of the great acre +of England, which gave the labourer a tiny sense of ownership, of +manhood. Gaston was interested. More, he was determined to carry that +experiment further, if he ever got the chance. There was no socialism +in him. The true barbarian is like the true aristocrat: more a giver of +gifts than a lover of co-operation; conserving ownership by right of +power and superior independence, hereditary or otherwise. Gaston was +both barbarian and aristocrat. + +"Brillon," he said, as they walked on, "do you think they would be +happier on the prairies with a hundred acres of land, horses, cows, +and a pen of pigs?" + +"Can I be happy here all at once, sir?" + +"That's just it. It's too late for them. They couldn't grasp it unless +they went when they were youngsters. They'd long for 'Home and Old +England' and this grub-and-grind life. Gracious heaven, look at them-- +crumpled-up creatures! And I'll stake my life, they were as pretty +children as you'd care to see. They are out of place in the landscape, +Brillon; for it is all luxury and lush, and they are crumples--crumples! +But yet there isn't any use being sorry for them, for they don't grasp +anything outside the life they are living. Can't you guess how they +live? Look at the doors of the houses shut, and the windows sealed; +yet they've been up these three hours! And they'll suck in bad air, +and bad food; and they'll get cancer, and all that; and they'll die and +be trotted away to the graveyard for 'passun' to hurry them into their +little dark cots, in the blessed hope of everlasting life! I'm going to +know this thing, Brillon, from tooth to ham-string; and, however it goes, +we'll have lived up and down the whole scale; and that's something." + +He suddenly stopped, and then added: + +"I'm likely to go pretty far in this. I can't tell how or why, but it's +so. Now, once more, as yesterday afternoon, for good or for bad, for +long or for short, for the gods or for the devil, are you with me? +There's time to turn back even yet, and I'll say no word to your going." + +"But no, no! a vow is a vow. When I cannot run I will walk, when I +cannot walk I will crawl after you--comme ca!" + +Lady Belward did not appear at breakfast. Sir William and Gaston +breakfasted alone at half past nine o'clock. The talk was of the +stables and the estate generally. + +The breakfast-room looked out on a soft lawn, stretching away into a +broad park, through which a stream ran; and beyond was a green hillside. +The quiet, the perfect order and discipline, gave a pleasant tingle to +Gaston's veins. It was all so easy, and yet so admirable--elegance +without weight. He felt at home. He was not certain of some trifles +of etiquette; but he and Sir William were alone, and he followed his +instincts. Once he frankly asked his grandfather of a matter of form, +of which he was uncertain the evening before. The thing was done so +naturally that the conventional mind of the baronet was not disturbed. +The Belwards were notable for their brains, and Sir William saw that +the young man had an unusual share. He also felt that this startling +individuality might make a hazardous future; but he liked the fellow, and +he had a debt to pay to the son of his own dead son. Of course, if their +wills came into conflict, there could be but one thing--the young man +must yield; or, if he played the fool, there must be an end. Still, he +hoped the best. When breakfast was finished, he proposed going to the +library. + +There Sir William talked of the future, asked what Gaston's ideas were, +and questioned him as to his present affairs. Gaston frankly said that +he wanted to live as his father would have done, and that he had no +property, and no money beyond a hundred pounds, which would last him +a couple of years on the prairies, but would be fleeting here. + +Sir William at once said that he would give him a liberal allowance, +with, of course, the run of his own stables and their house in town: +and when he married acceptably, his allowance would be doubled. + +"And I wish to say, Gaston," he added, "that your uncle Ian, though heir +to the title, does not necessarily get the property, which is not +entailed. Upon that point I need hardly say more. He has disappointed +us. + +"Through him Robert left us. Of his character I need not speak. Of his +ability the world speaks variably: he is an artist. Of his morals I need +only say that they are scarcely those of an English gentleman, though +whether that is because he is an artist, I cannot say--I really cannot +say. I remember meeting a painter at Lord Dunfolly's,--Dunfolly is a +singular fellow--and he struck me chiefly as harmless, distinctly +harmless. I could not understand why he was at Dunfolly's, he seemed +of so little use, though Lady Malfire, who writes or something, mooned +with him a good deal. I believe there was some scandal or something +afterwards. I really do not know. But you are not a painter, and I +believe you have character--I fancy so." + +"If you mean that I don't play fast and loose, sir, you are right. +What I do, I do as straight as a needle." The old man sighed carefully. + +"You are very like Robert, and yet there is something else. I don't +know, I really don't know what!" + +"I ought to have more in me than the rest of the family, sir." + +This was somewhat startling. Sir William's fingers stroked his beardless +cheek uncertainly. "Possibly--possibly." + +"I've lived a broader life, I've got wider standards, and there are three +races at work in me." + +"Quite so, quite so;" and Sir William fumbled among his papers nervously. + +"Sir," said Gaston suddenly, "I told you last night the honest story of +my life. I want to start fair and square. I want the honest story of my +father's life here; how and why he left, and what these letters mean." + +He took from his pocket the notes he had found the night before, and +handed them. Sir William read them with a disturbed look, and turned +them over and over. Gaston told where he had found them. + +Sir William spoke at last. + +"The main story is simple enough. Robert was extravagant, and Ian was +vicious and extravagant also. Both got into trouble. I was younger +then, and severe. Robert hid nothing, Ian all he could. One day things +came to a climax. In his wild way, Robert--with Jock Lawson--determined +to rescue a young man from the officers of justice, and to get him out of +the country. There were reasons. He was the son of a gentleman; and, as +we discovered afterwards, Robert had been too intimate with the wife--his +one sin of the kind, I believe. Ian came to know, and prevented the +rescue. Meanwhile, Robert was liable to the law for the attempt. There +was a bitter scene here, and I fear that my wife and I said hard things +to Robert." + +Gaston's eyes were on Lady Belward's portrait. "What did my grandmother +say?" + +There was a pause, then: + +"That she would never call him son again, I believe; that the shadow of +his life would be hateful to her always. I tell you this because I see +you look at that portrait. What I said, I think, was no less. So, +Robert, after a wild burst of anger, flung away from us out of the house. +His mother, suddenly repenting, ran to follow him, but fell on the stone +steps at the door, and became a cripple for life. At first she remained +bitter against Robert, and at that time Ian painted that portrait. It is +clever, as you may see, and weird. But there came a time when she kept +it as a reproach to herself, not Robert. She is a good woman--a very +good woman. I know none better, really no one." + +"What became of the arrested man?!" Gaston asked quietly, with the +oblique suggestiveness of a counsel. + +"He died of a broken blood-vessel on the night of the intended rescue, +and the matter was hushed up." + +"What became of the wife?" + +"She died also within a year." + +"Were there any children?" + +"One--a girl." + +"Whose was the child?" + +"You mean--?" + +"The husband's or the lover's?" There was a pause. + +"I cannot tell you." + +"Where is the girl?" + +"My son, do not ask that. It can do no good--really no good." + +"Is it not my due?" + +"Do not impose your due. Believe me, I know best. If ever there is need +to tell you, you shall be told. Trust me. Has not the girl her due +also?" + +Gaston's eyes held Sir William's a moment. "You are right, sir," he +said, "quite right. I shall not try to know. But if--" He paused. + +Sir William spoke: + +"There is but one person in the world who knows the child's father; and I +could not ask him, though I have known him long and well--indeed, no." + +"I do not ask to understand more," Gaston replied. "I almost wish I had +known nothing. And yet I will ask one thing: is the girl in comfort and +good surroundings?" + +"The best--ah, yes, the very best." + +There was a pause, in which both sat thinking; then Sir William wrote out +a cheque and offered it, with a hint of emotion. He was recalling how he +had done the same with this boy's father. + +Gaston understood. He got up, and said: "Honestly, sir, I don't know how +I shall turn out here; for, if I didn't like it, it couldn't hold me, or, +if it did, I should probably make things uncomfortable. But I think I +shall like it, and I will do my best to make things go well. Good- +morning, sir." + +With courteous attention Sir William let his grandson out of the room. + +And thus did a young man begin his career as Gaston Belward, gentleman. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +WHEREIN HE FINDS HIS ENEMY + +How that career was continued there are many histories: Jock Lawson's +mother tells of it in her way, Mrs. Gasgoyne in hers, Hovey in hers, +Captain Maudsley in his; and so on. Each looks at it from an individual +stand-point. But all agree on two matters: that he did things hitherto +unknown in the countryside; and that he was free and affable, but could +pull one up smartly if necessary. + +He would sit by the hour and talk with Bimley, the cottager; with Rosher, +the hotel-keeper, who when young had travelled far; with a sailorman, +home for a holiday, who said he could spin a tidy yarn; and with Pogan, +the groom, who had at last won Saracen's heart. But one day when the +meagre village chemist saw him cracking jokes with Beard, the carpenter, +and sidled in with a silly air of equality, which was merely insolence, +Gaston softly dismissed him, with his ears tingling. The carpenter +proved his right to be a friend of Gaston's by not changing countenance +and by never speaking of the thing afterwards. + +His career was interesting during the eighteen months wherein society +papers chatted of him amiably and romantically. He had entered into the +joys of hunting with enthusiasm and success, and had made a fast and +admiring friend of Captain Maudsley; while Saracen held his own grandly. +He had dined with country people, and had dined them; had entered upon +the fag-end of the London season with keen, amused enjoyment; and had +engrafted every little use of the convention. The art was learned, but +the man was always apart from it; using it as a toy, yet not despising +it; for, as he said, it had its points, it was necessary. There was +yachting in the summer; but he was keener to know the life of England +and his heritage than to roam afar, and most of the year was spent on the +estate and thereabouts: with the steward, with the justices of the peace, +in the fields, in the kennels, among the accounts. + +To-day he was in London, haunting Tattersall's, the East End, the docks, +his club, the London Library--he had a taste for English history, +especially for that of the seventeenth century; he saturated himself with +it: to-morrow he would present to his grandfather a scheme for improving +the estate and benefiting the cottagers. Or he would suddenly enter the +village school, and daze and charm the children by asking them strange +yet simple questions, which sent a shiver of interest to their faces. + +One day at the close of his second hunting-season there was to be a ball +at the Court, the first public declaration of acceptance by his people; +for, at his wish, they did not entertain for him in town the previous +season--Lady Belward had not lived in town for years. But all had gone +so well, if not with absolute smoothness, and with some strangeness,-- +that Gaston had become an integral part of their life, and they had +ceased to look for anything sensational. + +This ball was to be the seal of their approval. It had been mentioned in +'Truth' with that freshness and point all its own. What character than +Gaston's could more appeal to his naive imagination? It said in a +piquant note that he did not wear a dagger and sombrero. + +Everything was ready. Decorations were up, the cook and the butler had +done their parts. At eleven in the morning Gaston had time on his hands. +Walking out, he saw two or three children peeping in at the gateway. + +He would visit the village school. He found the junior curate troubling +the youthful mind with what their godfathers and godmothers did for them, +and begging them to do their duty "in that state of life," etc. He +listened, wondering at the pious opacity, and presently asked the +children to sing. With inimitable melancholy they sang: "Oh, the Roast +Beef of Old England!" + +Gaston sat back and laughed softly till the curate felt uneasy, till the +children, waking to his humour, gurgled a little in the song. With his +thumbs caught lightly in his waistcoat pockets, he presently began to +talk with the children in an easy, quiet voice. He asked them little +out-of-the-way questions, he lifted the school-room from their minds, and +then he told them a story, showing them on the map where the place was, +giving them distances, the kind of climate, and a dozen other matters of +information, without the nature of a lesson. Then he taught them the +chorus--the Board forbade it afterwards--of a negro song, which told how +those who behaved themselves well in this world should ultimately: + +"Blow on, blow on, blow on dat silver horn!" + +It was on this day that, as he left the school, he saw Ian Belward +driving past. He had not met his uncle since his arrival,--the artist +had been in Morocco,--nor had he heard of him save through a note in a +newspaper which said that he was giving no powerful work to the world, +nor, indeed, had done so for several years; and that he preferred the +purlieus of Montparnasse to Holland Park. + +They recognised each other. Ian looked his nephew up and down with a +cool kind of insolence as he passed, but did not make any salutation. +Gaston went straight to the castle. He asked for his uncle, and was told +that he had gone to Lady Belward. He wandered to the library: it was +empty. He lit a cigar, took down a copy of Matthew Arnold's poems, +opening at "Sohrab and Rustum," read it with a quick-beating heart, and +then came to "Tristram and Iseult." He knew little of "that Arthur" and +his knights of the Round Table, and Iseult of Brittany was a new figure +of romance to him. In Tennyson, he had got no further than "Locksley +Hall," which, he said, had a right tune and wrong words; and "Maud," +which "was big in pathos." The story and the metre of "Tristram and +Iseult" beat in his veins. He got to his feet, and, standing before the +window, repeated a verse aloud: + + "Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, + O hunter! and without a fear + Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow, + And through the glades thy pasture take + For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! + For these thou seest are unmoved; + Cold, cold as those who lived and loved + A thousand years ago." + +He was so engrossed that he did not hear the door open. He again +repeated the lines with the affectionate modulation of a musician. He +knew that they were right. They were hot with life--a life that was no +more a part of this peaceful landscape than a palm-tree would be. He +felt that he ought to read the poem in a desert, out by the Polar Sea, +down on the Amazon, yonder at Nukualofa; that it would fit in with +bearding the Spaniards two hundred years ago. Bearding the Spaniards-- +what did he mean by that? He shut his eyes and saw a picture: A Moorish +castle, men firing from the battlements under a blazing sun, a multitude +of troops before a tall splendid-looking man, in armour chased with gold +and silver, and fine ribbons flying. A woman was lifted upon the +battlements. He saw the gold of her necklace shake on her flesh like +sunlight on little waves. He heard a cry: + +At that moment some one said behind him: "You have your father's romantic +manner." + +He quietly put down the book, and met the other's eyes with a steady +directness. + +"Your memory is good, sir." + +"Less than thirty years--h'm, not so very long!" + +"Looking back--no. You are my father's brother, Ian Belward?" + +"Your uncle Ian." + +There was a kind of quizzical loftiness in Ian Belward's manner. + +"Well, Uncle Ian, my father asked me to say that he hoped you would get +as much out of life as he had, and that you would leave it as honest." + +"Thank you. That is very like Robert. He loved making little speeches. +It is a pity we did not pull together; but I was hasty, and he was rash. +He had a foolish career, and you are the result. My mother has told me +the story--his and yours." + +He sat down, ran his fingers through his grey-brown hair, and looking +into a mirror, adjusted the bow of his tie, and flipped the flying ends. +The kind of man was new to Gaston: self-indulgent, intelligent, heavily +nourished, nonchalant, with a coarse kind of handsomeness. He felt that +here was a man of the world, equipped mentally cap-a-pie, as keen as +cruel. Reading that in the light of the past, he was ready. + +"And yet his rashness will hurt you longer than your haste hurt him." + +The artist took the hint bravely. + +"That you will have the estate, and I the title, eh? Well, that looks +likely just now; but I doubt it all the same. You'll mess the thing one +way or another." + +He turned from the contemplation of himself, and eyed Gaston lazily. +Suddenly he started. + +"Begad," he said, "where did you get it?" He rose. + +Gaston understood that he saw the resemblance to Sir Gaston Belward. + +"Before you were, I am. I am nearer the real stuff." + +The other measured his words insolently: + +"But the Pocahontas soils the stream--that's plain." + +A moment after Gaston was beside the prostrate body of his uncle, +feeling his heart. + +"Good God," he said, "I didn't think I hit so hard!" He felt the pulse, +looked at the livid face, then caught open the waistcoat and put his ear +to the chest. He did it all coolly, though swiftly--he was' born for +action and incident. And during that moment of suspense he thought of a +hundred things, chiefly that, for the sake of the family--the family! +--he must not go to trial. There were easier ways. + +But presently he found that the heart beat. + +"Good! good!" he said, undid the collar, got some water, and rang a +bell. Falby came. Gaston ordered some brandy, and asked for Sir +William. After the brandy had been given, consciousness returned. +Gaston lifted him up. + +He presently swallowed more brandy, and while yet his head was at +Gaston's shoulder, said: + +"You are a hard hitter. But you've certainly lost the game now." + +Here he made an effort, and with Gaston's assistance got to his feet. +At that moment Falby entered to say that Sir William was not in the +house. With a wave of the hand Gaston dismissed him. Deathly pale, +his uncle lifted his eyebrows at the graceful gesture. + +"You do it fairly, nephew," he said ironically yet faintly,--"fairly in +such little things; but a gentleman, your uncle, your elder, with fists +--that smacks of low company!" + +Gaston made a frank reply as he smothered his pride + +"I am sorry for the blow, sir; but was the fault all mine?" + +"The fault? Is that the question? Faults and manners are not the same. +At bottom you lack in manners; and that will ruin you at last." + +"You slighted my mother!" + +"Oh, no! and if I had, you should not have seen it." + +"I am not used to swallow insults. It is your way, sir. I know your +dealings with my father." + +"A little more brandy, please. But your father had manners, after all. +You are as rash as he; and in essential matters clownish--which he was +not." + +Gaston was well in hand now, cooler even than his uncle. + +"Perhaps you will sum up your criticism now, sir, to save future +explanation; and then accept my apology." + +"To apologise for what no gentleman pardons or does, or acknowledges +openly when done--H'm! Were it not well to pause in time, and go back +to your wild North? Why so difficult a saddle--Tartarin after Napoleon? +Think--Tartarin's end!" + +Gaston deprecated with a gesture: "Can I do anything for you, sir?" + +His uncle now stood up, but swayed a little, and winced from sudden pain. +A wave of malice crossed his face. + +"It's a pity we are relatives, with France so near," he said, "for I see +you love fighting." After an instant he added, with a carelessness as +much assumed as natural: "You may ring the bell, and tell Falby to come +to my room. And because I am to appear at the flare-up to-night--all in +honour of the prodigal's son--this matter is between us, and we meet as +loving relatives. You understand my motives, Gaston Robert Belward?" + +"Thoroughly." + +Gaston rang the bell, and went to open the door for his uncle to pass +out. Ian Belward buttoned his close-fitting coat, cast a glance in the +mirror, and then eyed Gaston's fine figure and well-cut clothes. In the +presence of his nephew, there grew the envy of a man who knew that youth +was passing while every hot instinct and passion remained. For his age +he was impossibly young. Well past fifty he looked thirty-five, no more. +His luxurious soul loathed the approach of age. Unlike many men of +indulgent natures, he loved youth for the sake of his art, and he had +sacrificed upon that altar more than most men-sacrificed others. His +cruelty was not as that of the roughs of Seven Dials or Belleville, but +it was pitiless. He admitted to those who asked him why and wherefore +when his selfishness became brutality, that everything had to give way +for his work. His painting of Ariadne represented the misery of two +women's lives. And of such was his kingdom of Art. + +As he now looked at Gaston he was again struck with the resemblance to +the portrait in the dining-room, with his foreign out-of-the-way air: +something that should be seen beneath the flowing wigs of the Stuart +period. He had long wanted to do a statue of the ill-fated Monmouth, +and another greater than that. Here was the very man: with a proud, +daring, homeless look, a splendid body, and a kind of cavalier conceit. +It was significant of him, of his attitude towards himself where his work +was concerned, that he suddenly turned and shut the door again, telling +Falby, who appeared, to go to his room; and then said: + +"You are my debtor, Cadet--I shall call you that: you shall have a chance +of paying." + +"How?" + +In a few concise words he explained, scanning the other's face eagerly. + +Gaston showed nothing. He had passed the apogee of irritation. + +"A model?!" he questioned drily. + +"Well, if you put it that way. 'Portrait' sounds better. It shall be +Gaston Belward, gentleman; but we will call it in public, 'Monmouth the +Trespasser.'" + +Gaston did not wince. He had taken all the revenge he needed. The idea +rather pleased him than other wise. He had instincts about art, and he +liked pictures; statuary, poetry, romance; but he had no standards. He +was keen also to see the life of the artist, to touch that aristocracy +more distinguished by mind than manners. + +"If that gives 'clearance,' yes. And your debt to me?" + +"I owe you nothing. You find your own meaning in my words. I was +railing, you were serious. Do not be serious. Assume it sometimes, +if you will; be amusing mostly. So, you will let me paint you--on your +own horse, eh?" + +"That is asking much. Where?" + +"Well, a sketch here this afternoon, while the thing is hot--if this +damned headache stops! Then at my studio in London in the spring, or" +--here he laughed--"in Paris. I am modest, you see." + +"As you will." + +Gaston had had a desire for Paris, and this seemed to give a cue for +going. He had tested London nearly all round. He had yet to be +presented at St. James's, and elected a member of the Trafalgar Club. +Certainly he had not visited the Tower, Windsor Castle, and the Zoo; +but that would only disqualify him in the eyes of a colonial. + +His uncle's face flushed slightly. He had not expected such good +fortune. He felt that he could do anything with this romantic figure. +He would do two pictures: Monmouth, and an ancient subject--that legend +of the ancient city of Ys, on the coast of Brittany. He had had it in +his mind for years. He came back and sat down, keen, eager. + +"I've a big subject brewing," he said; "better than the Monmouth, though +it is good enough as I shall handle it. It shall be royal, melancholy, +devilish: a splendid bastard with creation against him; the best, most +fascinating subject in English history. The son dead on against the +father--and the uncle!" + +He ceased for a minute, fashioning the picture in his mind; his face +pale, but alive with interest, which his enthusiasm made into dignity. +Then he went on: + +"But the other: when the king takes up the woman--his mistress--and rides +into the sea with her on his horse, to save the town! By Heaven, with +you to sit, it's my chance! You've got it all there in you--the immense +manner. You, a nineteenth century gentleman, to do this game of Ridley +Court, and paddle round the Row? Not you! You're clever, and you're +crafty, and you've a way with you. But you'll come a cropper at this as +sure as I shall paint two big pictures--if you'll stand to your word." + +"We need not discuss my position here. I am in my proper place--in my +father's home. But for the paintings and Paris, as you please." + +"That is sensible--Paris is sensible; for you ought to see it right, and +I'll show you what half the world never see, and wouldn't appreciate if +they did. You've got that old, barbaric taste, romance, and you'll find +your metier in Paris." + +Gaston now knew the most interesting side of his uncle's character--which +few people ever saw, and they mostly women who came to wish they had +never felt the force of that occasional enthusiasm. He had been in the +National Gallery several times, and over and over again he had visited +the picture places in Bond Street as he passed; but he wanted to get +behind art life, to dig out the heart of it. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +He was strong enough to admit ignorance +Not to show surprise at anything +Truth waits long, but whips hard + + + + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 2. + + +VI. WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS +VII. WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET +VIII. HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION +IX. HE FINDS NEW SPONSORS +X. HE COMES TO "THE WAKING OF THE FIRE" +XI. HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST + + + +CHAPTER VI + +WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS + +A few hours afterwards Gaston sat on his horse, in a quiet corner of the +grounds, while his uncle sketched him. After a time he said that Saracen +would remain quiet no longer. His uncle held up the sketch. Gaston +could scarcely believe that so strong and life-like a thing were possible +in the time. It had force and imagination. He left his uncle with a +nod, rode quietly through the park, into the village, and on to the moor. +At the top he turned and looked down. The perfectness of the landscape +struck him; it was as if the picture had all grown there--not a suburban +villa, not a modern cottage, not one tall chimney of a manufactory, but +just the sweet common life. The noises of the village were soothing, the +soft smell of the woodland came over. He watched a cart go by idly, +heavily clacking. + +As he looked, it came to him: was his uncle right after all? Was he out +of place here? He was not a part of this, though he had adapted himself +and had learned many fine social ways. He knew that he lived not exactly +as though born here and grown up with it all. But it was also true that +he had a native sense of courtesy which people called distinguished. +There was ever a kind of mannered deliberation in his bearing--a part of +his dramatic temper, and because his father had taught him dignity where +there were no social functions for its use. His manner had, therefore, +a carefulness which in him was elegant artifice. + +It could not be complained that he did not act after the fashion of +gentle people when with them. But it was equally true that he did many +things which the friends of his family could not and would not have done. +For instance, none would have pitched a tent in the grounds, slept in it, +read in it, and lived in it--when it did not rain. Probably no one of +them would have, at individual expense, sent the wife of the village +policeman to a hospital in London, to be cured--or to die--of cancer. +None would have troubled to insist that a certain stagnant pool in the +village be filled up. Nor would one have suddenly risen in court and +have acted as counsel for a gipsy! At the same time, all were too well- +bred to think that Gaston did this because the gipsy had a daughter with +him, a girl of strong, wild beauty, with a look of superiority over her +position. + +He thought of all the circumstances now. + +It was very many months ago. The man had been accused of stealing and +assault, but the evidence was unconvincing to Gaston. The feeling in +court was against the gipsy. Fearing a verdict against him, Gaston rose +and cross-examined the witnesses, and so adroitly bewildered both them +and the justices who sat with his grandfather on the case, that, at last, +he secured the man's freedom. The girl was French, and knew English +imperfectly. Gaston had her sworn, and made the most of her evidence. +Then, learning that an assault had been made on the gipsy's van by some +lads who worked at mills in a neighbouring town, he pushed for their +arrest, and himself made up the loss to the gipsy. + +It is possible that there was in the mind of the girl what some common +people thought: that the thing was done for her favour; for she viewed it +half-gratefully, half-frowningly, till, on the village green, Gaston +asked her father what he wished to do--push on or remain to act against +the lads. + +The gipsy, angry as he was, wished to move on. Gaston lifted his hat to +the girl and bade her good-bye. Then she saw that his motives had been +wholly unselfish--even quixotic, as it appeared to her--silly, she would +have called it, if silliness had not seemed unlikely in him. She had +never met a man like him before. She ran her fingers through her golden- +brown hair nervously, caught at a flying bit of old ribbon at her waist, +and said in French: + +"He is honest altogether, sir. He did not steal, and he was not there +when it happened." + +"I know that, my girl. That is why I did it." + +She looked at him keenly. Her eyes ran up and down his figure, then met +his curiously. Their looks swam for a moment. Something thrilled in +them both. The girl took a step nearer. + +"You are as much a Romany here as I am," she said, touching her bosom +with a quick gesture. "You do not belong; you are too good for it. How +do I know? I do not know; I feel. I will tell your fortune," she +suddenly added, reaching for his hand. "I have only known three that I +could do it with honestly and truly, and you are one. It is no lie. +There is something in it. My mother had it; but it's all sham mostly." +Then, under a tree on the green, he indifferent to village gossip, she +took his hand and told him--not of his fortune alone. In half-coherent +fashion she told him of the past--of his life in the North. She then +spoke of his future. She told him of a woman, of another, and another +still; of an accident at sea, and of a quarrel; then, with a low, wild +laugh, she stopped, let go his hand, and would say no more. But her face +was all flushed, and her eyes like burning beads. Her father stood near, +listening. Now he took her by the arm. + +"Here, Andree, that's enough," he said, with rough kindness; "it's no +good for you or him." + +He turned to Gaston, and said in English: + +"She's sing'lar, like her mother afore her. But she's straight." + +Gaston lit a cigar. + +"Of course." He looked kindly at the girl. "You are a weird sort, +Andree, and perhaps you are right that I'm a Romany too; but I don't know +where it begins and where it ends. You are not English gipsies?!" he +added, to the father. + +"I lived in England when I was young. Her mother was a Breton--not a +Romany. We're on the way to France now. She wants to see where her +mother was born. She's got the Breton lingo, and she knows some English; +but she speaks French mostly." + +"Well, well," rejoined Gaston, "take care of yourself, and good luck to +you. Good-bye--good-bye, Andree." He put his hand in his pocket to give +her some money, but changed his mind. Her eye stopped him. He shook +hands with the man, then turned to her again. Her eyes were on him--hot, +shining. He felt his blood throb, but he returned the look with good- +natured nonchalance, shook her hand, raised his hat, and walked away, +thinking what a fine, handsome creature she was. Presently he said: +"Poor girl, she'll look at some fellow like that one day, with tragedy +the end thereof!" + +He then fell to wondering about her almost uncanny divination. He knew +that all his life he himself had had strange memories, as well as certain +peculiar powers which had put the honest phenomena and the trickery of +the Medicine Men in the shade. He had influenced people by the sheer +force of presence. As he walked on, he came to a group of trees in the +middle of the common. He paused for a moment, and looked back. The +gipsy's van was moving away, and in the doorway stood the girl, her hand +over her eyes, looking towards him. He could see the raw colour of her +scarf. "She'll make wild trouble," he said to himself. + +As Gaston thought of this event, he moved his horse slowly towards a +combe, and looked out over a noble expanse--valley, field, stream, and +church-spire. As he gazed, he saw seated at some distance a girl +reading. Not far from her were two boys climbing up and down the combe. +He watched them. Presently he saw one boy creep along a shelf of rock +where the combe broke into a quarry, let himself drop upon another shelf +below, and then perch upon an overhanging ledge. He presently saw that +the lad was now afraid to return. He heard the other lad cry out, saw +the girl start up, and run forward, look over the edge of the combe, and +then make as if to go down. He set his horse to the gallop, and called +out. The girl saw him, and paused. In two minutes he was off his horse +and beside her. + +It was Alice Wingfield. She had brought out three boys, who had come +with her from London, where she had spent most of the year nursing their +sick mother, her relative. + +"I'll have him up in a minute," he said, as he led Saracen to a sapling +near. "Don't go near the horse." + +He swung himself down from ledge to ledge, and soon was beside the boy. +In another moment he had the youngster on his back, came slowly up, and +the adventurer was safe. + +"Silly Walter," the girl said, "to frighten yourself and give Mr. Belward +trouble." + +"I didn't think I'd be afraid," protested the lad; "but when I looked +over the ledge my head went round, and I felt sick--like with the +channel." + +Gaston had seen Alice Wingfield several times at church and in the +village, and once when, with Lady Belward, he had returned the +archdeacon's call; but she had been away most of the time since his +arrival. She had impressed him as a gentle, wise, elderly little +creature, who appeared to live for others, and chiefly for her +grandfather. She was not unusually pretty, nor yet young,--quite +as old as himself,--and yet he wondered what it was that made her so +interesting. He decided that it was the honesty of her nature, her +beautiful thoroughness; and then he thought little more about her. But +now he dropped into quiet, natural talk with her, as if they had known +each other for years. But most women found that they dropped quickly +into easy talk with him. That was because he had not learned the small +gossip which varies little with a thousand people in the same +circumstances. But he had a naive fresh sense, everything interested +him, and he said what he thought with taste and tact, sometimes with wit, +and always in that cheerful contemplative mood which influences women. +Some of his sayings were so startling and heretical that they had gone +the rounds, and certain crisp words out of the argot of the North were +used by women who wished to be chic and amusing. + +Not quite certain why he stayed, but talking on reflectively, Gaston at +last said: + +"You will be coming to us to-night, of course? We are having a barbecue +of some kind." + +"Yes, I hope so; though my grandfather does not much care to have me go." + +"I suppose it is dull for him." + +"I am not sure it is that." + +"No? What then?" + +She shook her head. + +"The affair is in your honour, Mr. Belward, isn't it? + +"Does that answer my question?!" he asked genially. + +She blushed. + +"No, no, no! That is not what I meant." + +"I was unfair. Yes, I believe the matter does take that colour; +though why, I don't know." + +She looked at him with simple earnestness. + +"You ought to be proud of it; and you ought to be glad of such a high +position where you can do so much good, if you will." + +He smiled, and ran his hand down his horse's leg musingly before he +replied: + +"I've not thought much of doing good, I tell you frankly. I wasn't +brought up to think about it; I don't know that I ever did any good in my +life. I supposed it was only missionaries and women who did that sort of +thing." + +"But you wrong yourself. You have done good in this village. Why, we +all have talked of it; and though it wasn't done in the usual way--rather +irregularly--still it was doing good." + +He looked down at her astonished. + +"Well, here's a pretty libel! Doing good 'irregularly'? Why, where have +I done good at all?" + +She ran over the names of several sick people in the village whose bills +he had paid, the personal help and interest he had given to many, and, +last of all, she mentioned the case of the village postmaster. + +Since Gaston had come, postmasters had been changed. The little pale- +faced man who had first held the position disappeared one night, and in +another twenty-four hours a new one was in his place. Many stories had +gone about. It was rumoured that the little man was short in his +accounts, and had been got out of the way by Gaston Belward. +Archdeacon Varcoe knew the truth, and had said that Gaston's sin was not +unpardonable, in spite of a few squires and their dames who declared it +was shocking that a man should have such loose ideas, that no good could +come to the county from it, and that he would put nonsense into the heads +of the common people. Alice Wingfield was now to hear Gaston's view of +the matter. + +"So that's it, eh? Live and let live is doing good? In that case it +is easy to be a saint. What else could a man do? You say that I am +generous--How? What have I spent out of my income on these little +things? My income--how did I get it? I didn't earn it; neither did my +father. Not a stroke have I done for it. I sit high and dry there in +the Court, they sit low there in the village; and you know how they live. +Well, I give away a little money which these people and their fathers +earned for my father and me; and for that you say I am doing good, and +some other people say I am doing harm--'dangerous charity,' and all that! +I say that the little I have done is what is always done where man is +most primitive, by people who never heard 'doing good' preached." + +"We must have names for things, you know," she said. + +"I suppose so, where morality and humanity have to be taught as Christian +duty, and not as common manhood." + +"Tell me," she presently said, "about Sproule, the postmaster." + +"Oh, that? Well, I will. The first time I entered the post-office I saw +there was something on the man's mind. A youth of twenty-three oughtn't +to look as he did--married only a year or two also, with a pretty wife +and child. I used to talk to them a good deal, and one day I said to +him: 'You look seedy; what's the matter?' He flushed, and got nervous. +I made up my mind it was money. If I had been here longer, I should have +taken him aside and talked to him like a father. As it was, things slid +along. I was up in town, and here and there. One evening as I came back +from town I saw a nasty-looking Jew arrive. The little postmaster met +him, and they went away together. He was in the scoundrel's hands; +had been betting, and had borrowed first from the Jew, then from the +Government. The next evening I was just starting down to have a talk +with him, when an official came to my grandfather to swear out a warrant. +I lost no time; got my horse and trap, went down to the office, gave +the boy three minutes to tell me the truth, and then I sent him away. +I fixed it up with the authorities, and the wife and child follow the +youth to America next week. That's all." + +"He deserved to get free, then?" + +"He deserved to be punished, but not as he would have been. There wasn't +really a vicious spot in the man. And the wife and child--what was a +little justice to the possible happiness of those three? Discretion is a +part of justice, and I used it, as it is used every day in business and +judicial life, only we don't see it. When it gets public, why, some one +gets blamed. In this case I was the target; but I don't mind in the +least--not in the least. . . . Do you think me very startling or +lawless?" + +"Never lawless; but one could not be quite sure what you would do in any +particular case." She looked up at him admiringly. + +They had not noticed the approach of Archdeacon Varcoe till he was very +near them. His face was troubled. He had seen how earnest was their +conversation, and for some reason it made him uneasy. The girl saw him +first, and ran to meet him. He saw her bright delighted look, and he +sighed involuntarily. "Something has worried you," she said caressingly. +Then she told him of the accident, and they all turned and went back +towards the Court, Gaston walking his horse. Near the church they met +Sir William and Lady Belward. There were salutations, and presently +Gaston slowly followed his grandfather and grandmother into the +courtyard. + +Sir William, looking back, said to his wife: "Do you think that Gaston +should be told?" + +"No, no, there is no danger. Gaston, my dear, shall marry Delia +Gasgoyne." + +"Shall marry? wherefore 'shall'? Really, I do not see." + +"She likes him, she is quite what we would have her, and he is interested +in her. My dear, I have seen--I have watched for a year." + +He put his hand on hers. + +"My wife, you are a goodly prophet." + +When Archdeacon Varcoe entered his study on returning, he sat down in a +chair, and brooded long. "She must be told," he said at last, aloud. +"Yes, yes, at once. God help us both!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +WHEREIN THE SEAL OF HIS HERITAGE IS SET + +"Sophie, when you talk with the man, remember that you are near fifty, +and faded. Don't be sentimental." So said Mrs. Gasgoyne to Lady Dargan, +as they saw Gaston coming down the ballroom with Captain Maudsley. + +"Reine, you try one's patience. People would say you were not quite +disinterested." + +"You mean Delia! Now, listen. I haven't any wish but that Gaston +Belward shall see Delia very seldom indeed. He will inherit the property +no doubt, and Sir William told me that he had settled a decent fortune on +him; but for Delia--no--no--no. Strange, isn't it, when Lady Harriet +over there aches for him, Indian blood and all? And why? Because this +is a good property, and the fellow is distinguished and romantic-looking: +but he is impossible--perfectly impossible. Every line of his face says +shipwreck." + +"You are not usually so prophetic." + +"Of course. But I am prophetic now, for Delia is more than interested, +silly chuck! Did you ever read the story of the other Gaston--Sir +Gaston--whom this one resembles? No? Well, you will find it thinly +disguised in The Knight of Five Joys. He was killed at Naseby, my dear; +killed, not by the enemy, but by a page in Rupert's cavalry. The page +was a woman! It's in this one too. Indian and French blood is a sad +tincture. He is not wicked at heart, not at all; but he will do mad +things yet, my dear. For he'll tire of all this, and then--half-mourning +for some one!" + +Gaston enjoyed talking with Mrs. Gasgoyne as to no one else. Other women +often flattered him, she never did. Frankly, crisply, she told him +strange truths, and, without mercy, crumbled his wrong opinions. He had +a sense of humour, and he enjoyed her keen chastening raillery. Besides, +her talk was always an education in the fine lights and shadows of this +social life. He came to her now with a smile, greeted her heartily, and +then turned to Lady Dargan. Captain Maudsley carried off Mrs. Gasgoyne, +and the two were left together--the second time since the evening of +Gaston's arrival, so many months before. Lady Dargan had been abroad, +and was just returned. + +They talked a little on unimportant things, and presently Lady Dargan +said: + +"Pardon my asking, but will you tell me why you wore a red ribbon in your +button-hole the first night you came?" + +He smiled, and then looked at her a little curiously. "My luggage had +not come, and I wore an old suit of my father's." + +Lady Dargan sighed deeply. + +"The last night he was in England he wore that coat at dinner," she +murmured. + +"Pardon me, Lady Dargan--you put that ribbon there?" + +"Yes." + +Her eyes were on him with a candid interest and regard. + +"I suppose," he went on, "that his going was abrupt to you?" + +"Very--very!" she answered. + +She longed to ask if his father ever mentioned her name, but she dared +not. Besides, as she said to herself, to what good now? But she asked +him to tell her something about his father. He did so quietly, picking +out main incidents, and setting them forth, as he had the ability, with +quiet dramatic strength. He had just finished when Delia Gasgoyne came +up with Lord Dargan. + +Presently Lord Dargan asked Gaston if he would bring Lady Dargan to the +other end of the room, where Miss Gasgoyne was to join her mother. As +they went, Lady Dargan said a little breathlessly: + +"Will you do something for me?" + +"I would do much for you," was his reply, for he understood! + +"If ever you need a friend, if ever you are in trouble, will you let me +know? I wish to take an interest in you. Promise me." + +"I cannot promise, Lady Dargan," he answered, "for such trouble as I have +had before I have had to bear alone, and the habit is fixed, I fear. +Still, I am grateful to you just the same, and I shall never forget it. +But will you tell me why people regard me from so tragical a stand- +point?" + +"Do they?" + +"Well, there's yourself, and there's Mrs. Gasgoyne, and there's my uncle +Ian." + +"Perhaps we think you may have trouble because of your uncle Ian." + +Gaston shook his head enigmatically, and then said ironically: + +"As they would put it in the North, Lady Dargan, he'll cut no figure in +that matter. I remember for two." + +"That is right--that is right. Always think that Ian Belward is bad--bad +at heart. He is as fascinating as--" + +"As the Snake?" + +"--as the Snake, and as cruel! It is the cruelty of wicked selfishness. +Somehow, I forget that I am talking to his nephew. But we all know Ian +Belward--at least, all women do." + +"And at least one man does," he answered gravely. The next minute Gaston +walked down the room with Delia Gasgoyne on his arm. The girl delicately +showed her preference, and he was aware of it. It pleased him--pleased +his unconscious egoism. The early part of his life had been spent among +Indian women, half-breeds, and a few dull French or English folk, whose +chief charm was their interest in that wild, free life, now so distant. +He had met Delia many times since his coming; and there was that in her +manner--a fine high-bred quality, a sweet speaking reserve--which +interested him. He saw her as the best product of this convention. + +She was no mere sentimental girl, for she had known at least six seasons, +and had refused at least six lovers. She had a proud mind, not wide, +suited to her position. Most men had flattered her, had yielded to her; +this man, either with art or instinctively, mastered her, secured her +interest by his personality. Every woman worth the having, down in her +heart, loves to be mastered: it gives her a sense of security, and she +likes to lean; for, strong as she may be at times, she is often +singularly weak. She knew that her mother deprecated "that Belward +enigma," but this only sent her on the dangerous way. + +To-night she questioned him about his life, and how he should spend the +summer. Idling in France, he said. And she? She was not sure; but she +thought that she also would be idling about France in her father's yacht. +So they might happen to meet. Meanwhile? Well, meanwhile, there were +people coming to stay at Peppingham, their home. August would see that +over. Then freedom. + +Was it freedom, to get away from all this--from England and rule and +measure? No, she did not mean quite that. She loved the life with all +its rules; she could not live without it. She had been brought up to +expect and to do certain things. She liked her comforts, her luxuries, +many pretty things about her, and days without friction. To travel? +Yes, with all modern comforts, no long stages, a really good maid, and +some fresh interesting books. + +What kind of books? Well, Walter Pater's essays; "The Light of Asia"; +a novel of that wicked man Thomas Hardy; and something light--"The +Innocents Abroad"--with, possibly, a struggle through De Musset, +to keep up her French. + +It did not seem exciting to Gaston, but it did sound honest, and it was +in the picture. He much preferred Meredith, and Swinburne, and Dumas, +and Hugo; but with her he did also like the whimsical Mark Twain. + +He thought of suggestions that Lady Belward had often thrown out; of +those many talks with Sir William, excellent friends as they were, in +which the baronet hinted at the security he would feel if there was a +second family of Belwards. What if he--? He smiled strangely, and +shrank. + +Marriage? There was the touchstone. + +After the dance, when he was taking her to her mother, he saw a pale +intense face looking out to him from a row of others. He smiled, and the +smile that came in return was unlike any he had ever seen Alice Wingfield +wear. He was puzzled. It flashed to him strange pathos, affection, and +entreaty. He took Delia Gasgoyne to her mother, talked to Lady Belward +a little, and then went quietly back to where he had seen Alice. She was +gone. Just then some people from town came to speak to him, and he was +detained. When he was free he searched, but she was nowhere to be found. +He went to Lady Belward. Yes, Miss Wingfield had gone. Lady Belward +looked at Gaston anxiously, and asked him why he was curious. "Because +she's a lonely-looking little maid," he said, "and I wanted to be kind to +her. She didn't seem happy a while ago." + +Lady Belward was reassured. + +"Yes, she is a sweet creature, Gaston," she said, and added: "You are a +good boy to-night, a very good host indeed. It is worth the doing," she +went on, looking out on the guests proudly. "I did not think I should +ever come to it again with any heart, but I do it for you gladly. Now, +away to your duty," she added, tapping his breast affectionately with her +fan, "and when everything is done, come and take me to my room." + +Ian Belward passed Gaston as he went. He had seen the affectionate +passages. + +"'For a good boy!' 'God bless our Home!"' he said, ironically. + +Gaston saw the mark of his hand on his uncle's chin, and he forbore +ironical reply. + +"The home is worth the blessing," he rejoined quietly, and passed on. + +Three hours later the guests had all gone, and Lady Belward, leaning on +her grandson's arm, went to her boudoir, while Ian and his father sought +the library. Ian was going next morning. The conference was not likely +to be cheerful. + +Inside her boudoir, Lady Belward sank into a large chair, and let her +head fall back and her eyes close. She motioned Gaston to a seat. +Taking one near, he waited. After a time she opened her eyes and drew +herself up. + +"My dear," she said, "I wish to talk with you." + +"I shall be very glad; but isn't it late? and aren't you tired, +grandmother?" + +"I shall sleep better after," she responded, gently. She then began +to review the past; her own long unhappiness, Robert's silence, her +uncertainty as to his fate, and the after hopelessness, made greater +by Ian's conduct. In low, kind words she spoke of his coming and the +renewal of her hopes, coupled with fear also that he might not fit in +with his new life, and--she could say it now--do something unbearable. +Well, he had done nothing unworthy of their name; had acted, on the +whole, sensibly; and she had not been greatly surprised at certain little +oddnesses, such as the tent in the grounds, an impossible deer-hunt, and +some unusual village charities and innovations on the estate. Nor did +she object to Brillon, though he had sometimes thrown servants'-hall into +disorder, and had caused the stablemen and the footmen to fight. His +ear-rings and hair were startling, but they were not important. Gaston +had been admired by the hunting-field--of which they were glad, for it +was a test of popularity. She saw that most people liked him. Lord +Dunfolly and Admiral Highburn were enthusiastic. For her own part, she +was proud and grateful. She could enjoy every grain of comfort he gave +them; and she was thankful to make up to Robert's son what Robert himself +had lost--poor boy--poor boy! + +Her feelings were deep, strong, and sincere. Her grandson had come, +strong, individual, considerate, and had moved the tender courses of her +nature. At this moment Gaston had his first deep feeling of +responsibility. + +"My dear," she said at last, "people in our position have important +duties. Here is a large estate. Am I not clear? You will never be +quite part of this life till you bring a wife here. That will give you a +sense of responsibility. You will wake up to many things then. Will you +not marry? There is Delia Gasgoyne. Your grandfather and I would be so +glad. She is worthy in every way, and she likes you. She is a good +girl. She has never frittered her heart away; and she would make you +proud of her." + +She reached out an anxious hand, and touched his shoulder. His eyes were +playing with the pattern of the carpet; but he slowly raised them to +hers, and looked for a moment without speaking. Suddenly, in spite of +himself, he laughed--laughed outright, but not loudly. + +Marriage? Yes, here was the touchstone. Marry a girl whose family had +been notable for hundreds of years? For the moment he did not remember +his own family. This was one of the times when he was only conscious +that he had savage blood, together with a strain of New World French, +and that his life had mostly been a range of adventure and common toil. +This new position was his right, but there were times when it seemed to +him that he was an impostor; others, when he felt himself master of it +all, when he even had a sense of superiority--why he could not tell; +but life in this old land of tradition and history had not its due +picturesqueness. With his grandmother's proposal there shot up in him +the thought that for him this was absurd. He to pace the world beside +this fine queenly creature--Delia Gasgoyne--carrying on the traditions +of the Belwards! Was it, was it possible? + +"Pardon me," he said at last gently, as he saw Lady Belward shrink and +then look curiously at him, "something struck me, and I couldn't help +it." + +"Was what I said at all ludicrous?" + +"Of course not; you said what was natural for you to say, and I thought +what was natural for me to think, at first blush." + +"There is something wrong," she urged fearfully. "Is there any reason +why you cannot marry? Gaston,"--she trembled towards him,--"you have not +deceived us--you are not married?" + +"My wife is dead, as I told you," he answered gravely, musingly. + +"Tell me: there is no woman who has a claim on you?" + +"None that I know of--not one. My follies have not run that way." + +"Thank God! Then there is no reason why you should not marry. Oh, when +I look at you I am proud, I am glad that I live! You bring my youth, my +son back; and I long for a time when I may clasp your child in my arms, +and know that Robert's heritage will go on and on, and that there will be +made up to him, somehow, all that he lost. Listen: I am an old, +crippled, suffering woman; I shall soon have done with all this coming +and going, and I speak to you out of the wisdom of sorrow. Had Robert +married, all would have gone well. He did not: he got into trouble, +then came Ian's hand in it all; and you know the end. I fear for you, +I do indeed. You will have sore temptations. Marry--marry soon, +and make us happy." + +He was quiet enough now. He had seen the grotesque image, now he was +facing the thing behind it. "Would it please you so very much?!" he +said, resting a hand gently on hers. + +"I wish to see a child of yours in my arms, dear." + +"And the woman you have chosen is Delia Gasgoyne?" + +"The choice is for you; but you seem to like each other, and we care for +her." + +He sat thinking for a time, then he got up, and said slowly: + +"It shall be so, if Miss Gasgoyne will have me. And I hope it may turn +out as you wish." + +Then he stooped and kissed her on the cheek. The proud woman, who had +unbent little in her lifetime, whose eyes had looked out so coldly on the +world, who felt for her son Ian an almost impossible aversion, drew down +his head and kissed it. + +"Indian and all?!" he asked, with a quaint bitterness. + +"Everything, my dear," she answered. "God bless you! Good-night." + +A few moments after, Gaston went to the library. He heard the voices +of Sir William and his uncle. He knocked and entered. Ian, with +exaggerated courtesy, rose. Gaston, with easy coolness, begged him +to sit, lit a cigar, and himself sat. + +"My father has been feeding me with raw truths, Cadet," said his uncle; +"and I've been eating them unseasoned. We have not been, nor are likely +to be, a happy family, unless in your saturnian reign we learn to say, +pax vobiscum--do you know Latin? For I'm told the money-bags and the +stately pile are for you. You are to beget children before the Lord, +and sit in the seat of Justice: 'tis for me to confer honour on you all +by my genius!" + +Gaston sat very still, and, when the speech was ended, said tentatively: + +"Why rob yourself?" + +"In honouring you all?" + +"No, sir; in not yourself having 'a saturnian reign'." + +"You are generous." + +"No: I came here to ask for a home, for what was mine through my father. +I ask, and want, nothing more--not even to beget children before the +Lord!" + +"How mellow the tongue! Well, Cadet, I am not going to quarrel. Here +we are with my father. See, I am willing to be friends. But you mustn't +expect that I will not chasten your proud spirit now and then. That you +need it, this morning bears witness." + +Sir William glanced from one to the other curiously. He was cold and +calm, and looked worn. He had had a trying half-hour with his son, and +it had told on him. + +Gaston at once said to his grandfather: "Of this morning, sir, I will +tell you. I--" + +Ian interrupted him. + +"No, no; that is between us. Let us not worry my father." + +Sir William smiled ironically. + +"Your solicitude is refreshing, Ian." + +"Late fruit is the sweetest, sir." + +Presently Sir William asked Gaston the result of the talk with Lady +Belward. Gaston frankly said that he was ready to do as they wished. +Sir William then said they had chosen this time because Ian was there, +and it was better to have all open and understood. + +Ian laughed. + +"Taming the barbarian! How seriously you all take it. I am the jester +for the King. In the days of the flood I'll bring the olive leaf. You +are all in the wash of sentiment: you'll come to the wicked uncle one day +for common-sense. But, never mind, Cadet; we are to be friends. Yes, +really. I do not fear for my heritage, and you'll need a helping hand +one of these days. Besides, you are an interesting fellow. So, if you +will put up with my acid tongue, there's no reason why we shouldn't hit +it off." + +To Sir William's great astonishment, Ian held out his hand with a +genial smile, which was tolerably honest, for his indulgent nature was +as capable of great geniality as incapable of high moral conceptions. +Then, he had before his eye, "Monmouth" and "The King of Ys." + +Gaston took his hand, and said: "I have no wish to be an enemy." + +Sir William rose, looking at them both. He could not understand Ian's +attitude, and he distrusted. Yet peace was better than war. Ian's truce +was also based on a belief that Gaston would make skittles of things. +A little while afterwards Gaston sat in his room, turning over events +in his mind. Time and again his thoughts returned to the one thing-- +marriage. That marriage with his Esquimaux wife had been in one sense +none at all, for the end was sure from the beginning. It was in keeping +with his youth, the circumstances, the life, it had no responsibilities. +But this? To become an integral part of the life--the English country +gentleman; to be reduced, diluted, to the needs of the convention, and no +more? Let him think of the details:--a justice of the peace: to sit on a +board of directors; to be, perhaps, Master of the Hounds; to unite with +the Bishop in restoring the cathedral; to make an address at the annual +flower show. His wife to open bazaars, give tennis-parties, and be +patron to the clergy; himself at last, no doubt, to go into Parliament; +to feel the petty, or serious, responsibilities of a husband and a +landlord. Monotony, extreme decorum, civility to the world; endless +politeness to his wife; with boys at Eton and girls somewhere else; and +the kind of man he must be to do his duty in all and to all! + +It seemed impossible. He rose and paced the floor. Never till this +moment had the full picture of his new life come close. He felt stifled. +He put on a cap, and, descending the stairs, went out into the court-yard +and walked about, the cool air refreshing him. Gradually there settled +upon him a stoic acceptance of the conditions. But would it last? + +He stood still and looked at the pile of buildings before him; then he +turned towards the little church close by, whose spire and roof could be +seen above the wall. He waved his hand, as when within it on the day of +his coming, and said with irony: + +"Now for the marriage-linen, Sir Gaston!" + +He heard a low knocking at the gate. He listened. Yes, there was no +mistake. He went to it, and asked quietly: + +"Who is there?" + +There was no reply. Still the knocking went on. He quietly opened the +gate, and threw it back. A figure in white stepped through and slowly +passed him. It was Alice Wingfield. He spoke to her. She did not +answer. He went close to her and saw that she was asleep! + +She was making for the entrance door. He took her hand gently, and led +her into a side door, and on into the ballroom. She moved towards a +window through which the moonlight streamed, and sat on a cushioned bench +beneath it. It was the spot where he had seen her at the dance. She +leaned forward, looking into space, as she did at him then. He moved +and got in her line of vision. + +The picture was weird. She wore a soft white chamber-gown, her hair +hung loose on her shoulders, her pale face cowled it in. The look was +inexpressibly sad. Over her fell dim, coloured lights from the stained- +glass windows; and shadowy ancestors looked silently down from the +armour-hung walls. + +To Gaston, collected as he was, it gave an ominous feeling. Why did she +come here even in her sleep? What did that look mean? He gazed intently +into her eyes. + +All at once her voice came low and broken, and a sob followed the words: + +"Gaston, my brother, my brother!" + +He stood for a moment stunned, gazing helplessly at her passive figure. + +"Gaston, my brother!" he repeated to himself. Then the painful matter +dawned upon him. This girl, the granddaughter of the rector of the +parish, was his father's daughter--his own sister. He had a sudden +spring of new affection--unfelt for those other relations, his by the +rights of the law and the gospel. The pathos of the thing caught him in +the throat--for her how pitiful, how unhappy! He was sure that, somehow, +she had only come to know of it since the afternoon. Then there had been +so different a look in her face! + +One thing was clear: he had no right to this secret, and it must be for +now as if it had never been. He came to her, and took her hand. She +rose. He led her from the room, out into the court-yard, and from there +through the gate into the road. + +All was still. They passed over to the rectory. Just inside the gate, +Gaston saw a figure issue from the house, and come quickly towards them. +It was the rector, excited, anxious. + +Gaston motioned silence, and pointed to her. Then he briefly whispered +how she had come. The clergyman said that he had felt uneasy about her, +had gone to her room, and was just issuing in search of her. Gaston +resigned her, softly advised not waking her, and bade the clergyman good- +night. + +But presently he turned, touched the arm of the old man, and said +meaningly: + +"I know." + +The rector's voice shook as he replied: "You have not spoken to her?" + +"No." + +"You will not speak of it?" + +"No." + +"Unless I should die, and she should wish it?" + +"Always as she wishes." + +They parted, and Gaston returned to the Court. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION + +The next morning Brillon brought a note from Ian Belward, which said that +he was starting, and asked Gaston to be sure and come to Paris. The note +was carelessly friendly. After reading it, he lay thinking. Presently +he chanced to see Jacques look intently at him. + +"Well, Brillon, what is it?!" he asked genially. Jacques had come on +better than Gaston had hoped for, but the light play of his nature was +gone--he was grave, almost melancholy; and, in his way, as notable as his +master. Their life in London had changed him much. A valet in St. +James's Street was not a hunting comrade on the Coppermine River. Often +when Jacques was left alone he stood at the window looking out on the gay +traffic, scarcely stirring; his eyes slow, brooding. Occasionally, +standing so, he would make the sacred gesture. One who heard him swear +now and then, in a calm, deliberate way,--at the cook and the porter,-- +would have thought the matters in strange contrast. But his religion +was a central habit, followed as mechanically as his appetite or the +folding of his master's clothes. Besides, like most woodsmen, he was +superstitious. Gaston was kind with him, keeping, however, a firm hand +till his manner had become informed by the new duties. Jacques's +greatest pleasure was his early morning visits to the stables. Here were +Saracen and Jim the broncho-sleek, savage, playful. But he touched the +highest point of his London experience when they rode in the Park. + +In this Gaston remained singular. He rode always with Jacques. Perhaps +he wished to preserve one possible relic of the old life, perhaps he +liked this touch of drama; or both. It created notice, criticism, but he +was superior to that. Time and again people asked him to ride, but he +always pleaded another engagement. He would then be seen with Jacques +plus Jacques's earrings and the wonderful hair, riding grandly in the +Row. Jacques's eyes sparkled and a snatch of song came to his lips at +these times. + +No figures in the Park were so striking. There was nothing bizarre, but +Gaston had a distinguished look, and women who had felt his hand at their +waists in the dance the night before, now knew him, somehow, at a grave +distance. Though Gaston did not say it to himself, these were the hours +when he really was with the old life--lived it again--prairie, savannah, +ice-plain, alkali desert. When, dismounting, the horses were taken and +they went up the stairs, Gaston would softly lay his whip across +Jacques's shoulders without speaking. This was their only ritual of +camaraderie, and neglect of it would have fretted the half-breed. Never +had man such a servant. No matter at what hour Gaston returned, he found +Jacques waiting; and when he woke he found him ready, as now, on this +morning, after a strange night. + +"What is it, Jacques?!" he repeated. + +The old name! Jacques shivered a little with pleasure. Presently he +broke out with: + +"Monsieur, when do we go back?" + +"Go back where?" + +"To the North, monsieur." + +"What's in your noddle now, Brillon?" + +The impatient return to "Brillon" cut Jacques like a whip. + +"Monsieur," he suddenly said, his face glowing, his hands opening +nervously, "we have eat, we have drunk, we have had the dance and the +great music here: is it enough? Sometimes as you sleep you call out, and +you toss to the strokes of the tower-clock. When we lie on the Plains of +Yath from sunset to sunrise, you never stir then. You remember when we +sleep on the ledge of the Voshti mountain--so narrow that we were tied +together? Well, we were as babes in blankets. In the Prairie of the Ten +Stars your fingers were on the trigger firm as a bolt; here I have watch +them shake with the coffee-cup. Monsieur, you have seen: is it enough? +You have lived here: is it like the old lodge and the long trail?" + +Gaston sat up in bed, looked in the mirror opposite, ran his fingers +through his hair, regarded his hands, turning them over, and then, with +sharp impatience, said: + +"Go to hell!" + +The little man's face flushed to his hair; he sucked in the air with a +gasp. Without a word, he went to the dressing-table, poured out the +shaving-water, threw a towel over his arm, and turned to come to the bed; +but, all at once, he sidled back, put down the water, and furtively drew +a sleeve across his eyes. + +Gaston saw, and something suddenly burned in him. He dropped his eyes, +slid out of bed, into his dressing-gown, and sat down. + +Jacques made ready. He was not prepared to have Gaston catch him by the +shoulders with a nervous grip, search his eyes, and say: + +"You damned little fool, I'm not worth it!" Jacques's face shone. + +"Every great man has his fool--alors!" was the happy reply. + +"Jacques," Gaston presently said, "what's on your mind?" + +"I saw--last night, monsieur," he said. + +"You saw what?" + +"I saw you in the court-yard with the lady." Gaston was now very grave. + +"Did you recognise her?" + +"No: she moved all as a spirit." + +"Jacques, that matter is between you and me. I'm going to tell you, +though, two things; and--where's your string of beads?" + +Jacques drew out his rosary. + +"That's all right. Mum as Manitou! She was asleep; she is my sister. +And that is all, till there's need for you to know more." + +In this new confidence Jacques was content. The life was a gilded mess, +but he could endure it now. Three days passed. During that time Gaston +was up to town twice; lunched at Lady Dargan's, and dined at Lord +Dunfolly's. For his grandfather, who was indisposed, he was induced to +preside at a political meeting in the interest of a wealthy local brewer, +who confidently expected the seat, and, through gifts to the party, +a knighthood. Before the meeting, in the gush of--as he put it "kindred +aims," he laid a finger familiarly in Gaston's button-hole. Jacques, who +was present, smiled, for he knew every change in his master's face, and +he saw a glitter in his eye. He remembered when they two were in trouble +with a gang of river-drivers, and one did this same thing rudely: how +Gaston looked down, and said, with a devilish softness: "Take it away." +And immediately after the man did so. + +Mr. Sylvester Gregory Babbs, in a similar position, heard a voice say +down at him, with a curious obliqueness: + +"If you please!" + +The keenest edge of it was lost on the flaring brewer, but his fingers +dropped, and he twisted his heavy watchchain uneasily. The meeting +began. Gaston in a few formal words, unconventional in idea, introduced +Mr. Babbs as "a gentleman whose name was a household word in the county, +who would carry into Parliament the civic responsibility shown in his +private life, who would render his party a support likely to fulfil its +purpose." + +When he sat down, Captain Maudsley said: "That's a trifle vague, +Belward." + +"How can one treat him with importance?" + +"He's the sort that makes a noise one way or another." + +"Yes. Obituary: 'At his residence in Babbslow Square, yesterday, Sir S. +G. Babbs, M. P., member of the London County Council. Sir S. G. Babbs, +it will be remembered, gave L100,000 to build a home for the propagation +of Vice, and--'" + +"That's droll!" + +"Why not Vice? 'Twould be just the same in his mind. He doesn't give +from a sense of moral duty. Not he; he's a bungowawen!" + +"What is that?" + +"That's Indian. You buy a lot of Indian or halfbreed loafers with +beaver-skins and rum, go to the Mount of the Burning Arrows, and these +fellows dance round you and call you one of the lost race, the Mighty Men +of the Kimash Hills. And they'll do that while the rum lasts. Meanwhile +you get to think yourself a devil of a swell--you and the gods! . . . +And now we had better listen to this bungowawen, hadn't we?" + +The room was full, and on the platform were gentlemen come to support +Sir William Belward. They were interested to see how Gaston would +carry it off. + +Mr. Babbs's speech was like a thousand others by the same kind of man. +More speeches--some opposing--followed, and at last came the chairman to +close the meeting. He addressed himself chiefly to a bunch of farmers, +artisans, and labouring-men near. After some good-natured raillery at +political meetings in general, the bigotry of party, the difficulty in +getting the wheat from the chaff, and some incisive thrusts at those who +promised the moon and gave a green cheese, who spent their time in +berating their opponents, he said: + +"There's a game that sailors play on board ship--men-o'-war and sailing- +ships mostly. I never could quite understand it, nor could any officers +ever tell me--the fo'castle for the men and the quarter-deck for the +officers, and what's English to one is Greek to the other. Well, this +was all I could see in the game. They sat about, sometimes talking, +sometimes not. All at once a chap would rise and say, 'Allow me to +speak, me noble lord,' and follow this by hitting some one of the party +wherever the blow got in easiest--on the head, anywhere! [Laughter.] +Then he would sit down seriously, and someone else spoke to his noble +lordship. Nobody got angry at the knocks, and Heaven only knows what it +was all about. That is much the way with politics, when it is played +fair. But here is what I want particularly to say: We are not all born +the same, nor can we live the same. One man is born a brute, and another +a good sort; one a liar, and one an honest man; one has brains, and the +other hasn't. Now, I've lived where, as they say, one man is as good as +another. But he isn't, there or here. A weak man can't run with a +strong. We have heard to-night a lot of talk for something and against +something. It is over. Are you sure you have got what was meant clear +in your mind? [Laughter, and 'Blowed if we'ave!'] Very well; do not +worry about that. We have been playing a game of 'Allow me to speak, me +noble lord!' And who is going to help you to get the most out of your +country and your life isn't easy to know. But we can get hold of a few +clear ideas, and measure things against them. I know and have talked +with a good many of you here ['That's so! That's so!'], and you know my +ideas pretty well--that they are honest at least, and that I have seen +the countries where freedom is 'on the job,' as they say. Now, don't put +your faith in men and in a party that cry, 'We will make all things new,' +to the tune of, 'We are a band of brothers.' Trust in one that says, +'You cannot undo the centuries. Take off the roof, remove a wall, let in +the air, throw out a wing, but leave the old foundations.' And that is +the real difference between the other party and mine; and these political +games of ours come to that chiefly." + +Presently he called for the hands of the meeting. They were given for +Mr. Babbs. + +Suddenly a man's strong, arid voice came from the crowd: + +"'Allow me to speak, me noble lord!' [Great laughter. Then a pause.] +Where's my old chum, Jock Lawson?" + +The audience stilled. Gaston's face went grave. He replied, in a firm, +clear voice. + +"In Heaven, my man. You'll never see him more." There was silence for a +moment, a murmur, then a faint burst of applause. Presently John Cawley, +the landlord of "The Whisk o' Barley," made towards Gaston. Gaston +greeted him, and inquired after his wife. He was told that she was very +ill, and had sent her husband to beg Gaston to come. Gaston had dreaded +this hour, though he knew it would come one day. A woman on a death-bed +has a right to ask for and get the truth. He had forborne telling her of +her son; and she, whenever she had seen him, had contented herself with +asking general questions, dreading in her heart that Jock had died a +dreadful or shameful death, or else this gentleman would, voluntarily, +say more. But, herself on her way out of the world, as she feared, +wished the truth, whatever it might be. + +Gaston told Cawley that he would drive over at once, and then asked who +it was had called out at him. A drunken, poaching fellow, he was told, +who in all the years since Jock had gone, had never passed the inn +without stopping to say: "Where's my old chum, Jock Lawson?" In the past +he and Jock had been in more than one scrape together. He had learned +from Mrs. Cawley that Gaston had known Jock in Canada. + +When Cawley had gone, Gaston turned to the other gentlemen present. + +"An original speech, upon my word, Belward," said Captain Maudsley. + +Mr. Warren Gasgoyne came. + +"You are expected to lunch or something to-morrow, Belward, you remember? +Devil of a speech that! But, if you will 'allow me to speak, me noble +lord,' you are the rankest Conservative of us all." + +"Don't you know that the easiest constitutional step is from a republic +to an autocracy, and vice versa?" + +"I don't know it, and I don't know how you do it." + +"Do what?" + +"Make them think as you do." + +He waved his hand to the departing crowd. + +"I don't. I try to think as they do. I am always in touch with the +primitive mind." + +"You ought to do great things here, Belward," said the other seriously. +"You have the trick; and we need wisdom at Westminster." + +"Don't be mistaken; I am only adaptable. There's frank confession." + +At this point Mr. Babbs came up and said good-night in a large, self- +conscious way. Gaston hoped that his campaign would not be wasted, and +the fluffy gentleman retired. When he got out of earshot in the shadows, +he turned and shook his fist towards Gaston, saying: "Half-breed +upstart!" Then he refreshed his spirits by swearing at his coachman. + +Gaston and Jacques drove quickly over to "The Whisk o' Barley." Gaston +was now intent to tell the whole truth. He wished that he had done it +before; but his motives had been good--it was not to save himself. Yet +he shrank. Presently he thought: + +"What is the matter with me? Before I came here, if I had an idea I +stuck to it, and didn't have any nonsense when I knew I was right. I am +getting sensitive--the thing I find everywhere in this country: fear of +feeling or giving pain; as though the bad tooth out isn't better than the +bad tooth in. When I really get sentimental I'll fold my Arab tent--so +help me, ye seventy Gods of Yath!" + +A little while after he was at Mrs. Cawley's bed, the landlord handing +him a glass of hot grog, Jock's mother eyeing him feverishly from the +quilt. Gaston quietly felt her wrist, counting the pulse-beats; then +told Cawley to wet a cloth and hand it to him. He put it gently on the +woman's head. The eyes of the woman followed him anxiously. He sat down +again, and in response to her questioning gaze, began the story of Jock's +life as he knew it. + +Cawley stood leaning on the foot-board; the woman's face was cowled in +the quilt with hungry eyes; and Gaston's voice went on in a low monotone, +to the ticking of the great clock in the next room. Gaston watched her +face, and there came to him like an inspiration little things Jock did, +which would mean more to his mother than large adventures. Her lips +moved now and again, even a smile flickered. At last Gaston came to his +father's own death and the years that followed; then the events in +Labrador. + +He approached this with unusual delicacy: it needed bravery to look into +the mother's eyes, and tell the story. He did not know how dramatically +he told it--how he etched it without a waste word. When he came to that +scene in the Fort, the three men sitting, targets for his bullets,--he +softened the details greatly. He did not tell it as he told it at the +Court, but the simpler, sparser language made it tragically clear. There +was no sound from the bed, none from the foot-board, but he heard a door +open and shut without, and footsteps somewhere near. + +How he put the body in the tree, and prayed over it and left it there, +was all told; and then he paused. He turned a little sick as he saw the +white face before him. She drew herself up, her fingers caught away the +night-dress at her throat; she stared hard at him for a moment, and then, +with a wild, moaning voice, cried out: + +"You killed my boy! You killed my boy! You killed my boy!" + +Gaston was about to take her hand, when he heard a shuffle and a rush +behind him. He rose, turned swiftly, saw a bottle swinging, threw up his +hand . . . and fell backwards against the bed. + +The woman caught his bleeding head to her breast and hugged it. + +"My Jock, my poor boy!" she cried in delirium now. Cawley had thrown +his arms about the struggling, drunken assailant--Jock's poaching friend. + +The mother now called out to the pinioned man, as she had done to Gaston: + +"You have killed my boy!" She kissed Gaston's bloody face. + +A messenger was soon on the way to Ridley Court, and in a little upper +room Jacques was caring for his master. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +HE FINDS NEW SPONSORS + +Gaston lay for many days at "The Whisk o' Barley." During that time the +inn was not open to customers. The woman also for two days hung at the +point of death, and then rallied. She remembered the events of the +painful night, and often asked after Gaston. Somehow, her horror of her +son's death at his hands was met by the injury done him now. She vaguely +felt that there had been justice and punishment. She knew that in the +room at Labrador Gaston Belward had been scarcely less mad than her son. + +Gaston, as soon as he became conscious, said that his assailant must be +got out of the way of the police, and to that end bade Jacques send for +Mr. Warren Gasgoyne. Mr. Gasgoyne and Sir William arrived at the same +time, but Gaston was unconscious again. Jacques, however, told them what +his master's wishes were, and they were carried out; Jock's friend +secretly left England forever. Sir William and Mr. Gasgoyne got the +whole tale from the landlord, whom they asked to say nothing publicly. + +Lady Belward drove down each day, and sat beside him for a couple of +hours-silent, solicitous, smoothing his pillow or his wasting hand. The +brain had been injured, and recovery could not be immediate. Hovey the +housekeeper had so begged to be installed as nurse, that her wish was +granted, and she was with him night and day. Now she shook her head at +him sadly, now talked in broken sentences to herself, now bustled about +silently, a tyrant to the other servants sent down from the Court. Every +day also the headgroom and the huntsman came, and in the village Gaston's +humble friends discussed the mystery, stoutly defending him when some one +said it was "more nor gabble, that theer saying o' the poacher at the +meetin.'" + +But the landlord and his wife kept silence, the officers of the law took +no action, and the town and country newspapers could do no more than +speak of "A vicious assault upon the heir of Ridley Court." It had +become the custom now to leave Ian out of that question. But the wonder +died as all wonders do, and Gaston made his fight for health. + +The day before he was removed to the Court, Mrs. Cawley was helped up- +stairs to see him. She was gaunt and hollow-eyed. Lady Belward and Mrs. +Gasgoyne were present. The woman made her respects, and then stood at +Gaston's bedside. He looked up with a painful smile. + +"Do you forgive me?!" he asked. "I've almost paid!" + +He touched his bandaged head. + +"It ain't for mothers to forgi'e the thing," she replied, in a steady +voice, "but I can forgi'e the man. 'Twere done i' madness--there beant +the will workin' i' such. 'Twere a comfort that he'd a prayin' over un." + +Gaston took the gnarled fingers in his. It had never struck him how +dreadful a thing it was--so used had he been to death in many forms--till +he had told the story to this mother. + +"Mrs. Cawley," he said, "I can't make up to you what Jock would have +been; but I can do for you in one way as much as Jock. This house is +yours from to-day." + +He drew a deed from the coverlet, and handed it to her. He had got it +from Sir William that morning. The poor and the crude in mind can only +understand an objective emotion, and the counters for these are this +world's goods. Here was a balm in Gilead. The love of her child was +real, but the consolation was so practical to Mrs. Cawley that the lips +which might have cursed, said: + +"Ah, sir, the wind do be fittin' the shore lamb! I' the last Judgen, +I'll no speak agen 'ee. I be sore fretted harm come to 'ee." + +At this Mrs. Gasgoyne rose, and in her bustling way dismissed the +grateful peasant, who fondled the deed and called eagerly down the stairs +to her husband as she went. + +Mrs. Gasgoyne then came back, sat down, and said: "Now you needn't fret +about that any longer--barbarian!" she added, shaking a finger. "Didn't +I say that you would get into trouble? that you would set the country +talking? Here you were, in the dead of night, telling ghost stories, +and raking up your sins, with no cause whatever, instead of in your bed. +You were to have lunched with us the next day--I had asked Lady Harriet +to meet you, too!--and you didn't; and you have wretched patches where +your hair ought to be. How can you promise that you'll not make a madder +sensation some day?" + +Gaston smiled up at her. Her fresh honesty, under the guise of banter, +was always grateful to him. He shook his head, smiled, and said nothing. + +She went on. + +"I want a promise that you will do what your godfather and godmother +will swear for you." + +She acted on him like wine. + +"Of course, anything. Who are my godfather and godmother?" + +She looked him steadily, warmly in the eyes: "Warren and myself." + +Now he understood: his promise to his grandmother and grandfather. +So, they had spoken! He was sure that Mrs. Gasgoyne had objected. +He knew that behind her playful treatment of the subject there was real +scepticism of himself. It put him on his mettle, and yet he knew she +read him deeper than any one else, and flattered him least. + +He put out his hand, and took hers. + +"You take large responsibilities," he said, "but I will try and justify +you--honestly, yes." + +In her hearty way, she kissed him on the cheek. "There," she responded, +"if you and Delia do make up your minds, see that you treat her well. +And you are to come, just as soon as you are able, to stay at Peppingham. +Delia, silly child, is anxious, and can't see why she mustn't call with +me now." + +In his room at the Court that night, Gaston inquired of Jacques about +Alice Wingfield, and was told that on the day of the accident she had +left with her grandfather for the Continent. He was not sorry. For his +own sake he could have wished an understanding between them. But now he +was on the way to marriage, and it was as well that there should be no +new situations. The girl could not wish the thing known. There would be +left him, in this case, to befriend her should it ever be needed. He +remembered the spring of pleasure he felt when he first saw other faces +like his father's--his grandfather's, his grandmother's. But this girl's +was so different to him; having the tragedy of the lawless, that +unconscious suffering stamped by the mother upon the child. There was, +however, nothing to be done. He must wait. + +Two days later Lady Dargan called to inquire after him. He was lying in +his study with a book, and Lady Belward sent to ask him if he would care +to see her and Lord Dargan's nephew, Cluny Vosse. Lady Belward did not +come; Sir William brought them. Lady Dargan came softly to him, smiled +more with her eyes than her lips, and told him how sorry she had been to +hear of his illness. Some months before Gaston had met Cluny Vosse, who +at once was his admirer. Gaston liked the youth. He was fresh, high- +minded, extravagant, idle; but he had no vices, and no particular vanity +save for his personal appearance. His face was ever radiant with health, +shining with satisfaction. People liked him, and did not discount it by +saying that he had nothing in him. Gaston liked him most because he was +so wholly himself, without guile, beautifully honest. + +Now Cluny sat down, tapped the crown of his hat, looked at him cheerily, +and said: + +"Got in a cracker, didn't he?" + +Gaston nodded, amused. + +"The fellows at Brooke's had a talkee-talkee, and they'd twenty different +stories. Of course it was rot. We were all cut up though and hoped +you'd pull through. Of course there couldn't be any doubt of that-- +you've been through too many, eh?" + +Cluny always assumed that Gaston had had numberless tragical adventures +which, if told, must make Dumas turn in his grave with envy. + +Gaston smiled, and laid a hand upon the other's knee. "I'm not shell- +proof, Vosse, and it was rather a narrow squeak, I'm told. But I'm kept, +you see, for a worse fate and a sadder." + +"I say, Belward, you don't mean that! Your eyes go so queer sometimes, +that a chap doesn't know what to think. You ought to live to a hundred. +You'll have to. You've got it all--" + +"Oh no, my boy, I haven't got anything." He waved his hand pleasantly +towards his grandfather. "I'm on the knees of the gods merely." + +Cluny turned on Sir William. + +"It isn't any secret, is it, sir? He gets the lot, doesn't he?" + +Sir William's occasional smile came. + +"I fancy there's some condition about the plate, the pictures, and the +title; but I do not suppose that matters meanwhile." + +He spoke half-musingly and with a little unconscious irony, and the boy, +vaguely knowing that there was a cross-current somewhere, drifted. + +"No, of course not; he can have fun enough without them, can't he?" + +Lady Dargan here soothingly broke in, inquiring about Gaston's illness, +and showing a tactful concern. But the nephew persisted: + +"I say, Belward, Aunt Sophie was cut up no end when she heard of it. She +wouldn't go out to dinner that night at Lord Dunfolly's, and, of course, +I didn't go. And I wanted to; for Delia Gasgoyne was to be there, and +she's ripping." + +Lady Dargan, in spite of herself, blushed, but without confusion, and +Gaston adroitly led the conversation otherwhere. Presently she said that +they were to be at their villa in France during the late summer, and if +he chanced to be abroad would he come? He said that he intended to visit +his uncle in Paris, but that afterwards he would be glad to visit them +for a short time. + +She looked astonished. "With your uncle Ian!" + +"Yes. He is to show me art-life, and all that." + +She looked troubled. He saw that she wished to say something. + +"Yes, Lady Dargan?!" he asked. + +She spoke with fluttering seriousness. + +"I asked you once to come to me if you ever needed a friend. I do not +wait for that. I ask you not to go to your uncle." + +"Why?" + +He was thinking that, despite social artifice and worldliness, she was +sentimental. + +"Because there will be trouble. I can see it. You may trust a woman's +instinct; and I know that man!" He did not reply at once, but presently +said: + +"I fancy I must keep my promise." + +"What is the book you are reading?!" she said, changing the subject, for +Sir William was listening. + +He opened it, and smiled musingly. + +"It is called Affairs of Some Consequence in the Reign of Charles I. +In reading it I seemed to feel that it was incorrect, and my mind kept +wandering away into patches of things--incidents, scenes, bits of talk +--as I fancied they really were, not apocryphal or 'edited' as here." + +"I say," said Cluny, "that's rum, isn't it?" + +"For instance," Gaston continued, "this tale of King Charles and +Buckingham." He read it. "Now here is the scene as I picture it." In +quick elliptical phrases he gave the tale from a different stand-point. + +Sir William stared curiously at Gaston, then felt for some keys in his +pocket. He got up and rang the bell. Gaston was still talking. He gave +the keys to Falby with a whispered word. In a few moments Falby placed a +small leather box beside Sir William, and retired at a nod. Sir William +presently said: "Where did you read those things?" + +"I do not know that I ever read them." + +"Did your father tell you them?" + +"I do not remember so, though he may have." + +"Did you ever see this box?" + +"Never before." + +"You do not know what is in it?" + +"Not in the least." + +"And you have never seen this key?" + +"Not to my knowledge." + +"It is very strange." He opened the box. "Now, here are private papers +of Sir Gaston Belward, more than two hundred years old, found almost +fifty years ago by myself in the office of our family solicitor. +Listen." + +He then began to read from the faded manuscript. A mysterious feeling +pervaded the room. Once or twice Cluny gave a dry nervous kind of laugh. +Much of what Gaston had said was here in stately old-fashioned language. +At a certain point the MS. ran: + +"I drew back and said, 'As your grace will have it, then--"' + +Here Gaston came to a sitting posture, and interrupted. + +"Wait, wait!" + +He rose, caught one of two swords that were crossed on the wall, and +stood out. + +"This is how it was. 'As your grace will have it, then, to no waste of +time!' We fell to. First he came carefully and made strange feints, +learned at King Louis's Court, to try my temper. But I had had these +tricks of my cousin Secord, and I returned his sport upon him. Then he +came swiftly, and forced me back upon the garden wall. I gave to him +foot by foot, for he was uncommon swift and dexterous. He pinched me +sorely once under the knee, and I returned him one upon the wrist, which +sent a devilish fire into his eyes. At that his play became so delicate +and confusing that I felt I should go dizzy if it stayed; so I tried the +one great trick cousin Secord taught me, making to run him through, as a +last effort. The thing went wrong, but checking off my blunder he +blundered too,--out of sheer wonder, perhaps, at my bungling,--and I +disarmed him. So droll was it that I laughed outright, and he, as quick +in humour as in temper, stood hand on hip, and presently came to a smile. +With that my cousin Secord cried: 'The king! the king!' I got me up +quickly--" + +Here Gaston, who had in a kind of dream acted the whole scene, swayed +with faintness, and Cluny caught him, saving him from a fall. Cluny's +colour was all gone. Lady Dargan had sat dazed, and Sir William's face +was anxious, puzzled. + +A few hours later Sir William was alone with Gaston, who was recovered +and cool. + +"Gaston," he said, "I really do not understand this faculty of memory, or +whatever it is. Have you any idea how you come by it?" + +"Have we any idea how life comes and goes, sir?" + +"I confess not. I confess not, really." + +"Well, I'm in the dark about it too; but I sometimes fancy that I'm mixed +up with that other Gaston." + +"It sounds fantastic." + +"It is fantastic. Now, here is this manuscript, and here is a letter I +wrote this morning. Put them together." + +Sir William did so. + +"The handwriting is singularly like." + +"Well," continued Gaston, smiling whimsically, "suppose that I am Sir +Gaston Belward, Baronet, who is thought to lie in the church yonder, the +title is mine, isn't it?" + +Sir William smiled also. + +"The evidence is scarce enough to establish succession." + +"But there would be no succession. A previous holder of the title isn't +dead: ergo, the present holder, has no right." + +Gaston had shaded his eyes with his hand, and he was watching Sir +William's face closely, out of curiosity chiefly. Sir William regarded +the thing with hesitating humour. + +"Well, well, suppose so. The property was in the hands of a younger +branch of the family then. There was no entail, as now." + +"Wasn't there?!" said Gaston enigmatically. + +He was thinking of some phrases in a manuscript which he had found in +this box. + +"Perhaps where these papers came from there are others," he added. + +Sir William lifted his eyebrows ironically. "I hardly think so." + +Gaston laughed, not wishing him to take the thing at all seriously. He +continued airily: + +"It would be amusing if the property went with the title after all, +wouldn't it, sir?" + +Sir William got to his feet and said testily: "That should never be while +I lived!" + +"Of course not, sir." + +Sir William saw the bull, and laughed, heartily for him. + +They bade each other good-night. + +"I'll have a look in the solicitor's office all the same," said Gaston to +himself. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +HE COMES TO "THE WAKING OF THE FIRE" + +A few days afterwards Gaston joined a small party at Peppingham. Without +any accent life was made easy for him. He was alone much, and yet, to +himself, he seemed to have enough of company. + +The situation did not impose itself conspicuously. Delia gave him no +especial reason to be vain. She had not an exceeding wit, but she had +charm, and her talk was interesting to Gaston, who had come, for the +first time, into somewhat intimate relations with an English girl. He +was struck with her conventional delicacy and honour on one side, and +the limitation of her ideas on the other. But with it all she had some +slight touch of temperament which lifted her from the usual level. And +just now her sprightliness was more marked than it had ever been. + +Her great hour seemed come to her. She knew that there had been talk +among the elders, and what was meant by Gaston's visit. Still, they were +not much alone together. Gaston saw her mostly with others. Even a +woman with a tender strain for a man knows what will serve for her +ascendancy: the graciousness of her disposition, the occasional flash of +her mother's temper, and her sense of being superior to a situation--the +gift of every well-bred English girl. + +Cluny Vosse was also at the house, and his devotion was divided between +Delia and Gaston. Cluny was a great favourite, and Agatha Gasgoyne, who +had a wild sense of humour, egged him on with her sister, which gave +Delia enough to do. At last Cluny, in a burst of confidence, declared +that he meant to propose to Delia. Agatha then became serious, and said +that Delia was at least four years older than himself, that he was just +her--Agatha's--age, and that the other match would be very unsuitable. +This put Cluny on Delia's defence, and he praised her youth, and hinted +at his own elderliness. He had lived, he had seen It (Cluny called the +world and all therein "It"), he was aged; he was in the large eye of +experience; he had outlived the vices and the virtues of his time, which, +told in his own naive staccato phrases, made Agatha hug herself. She +advised him to go and ask Mr. Belward's advice; begged him not to act +until he had done so. And Cluny, who was blind as a bat when a woman +mocked him, went to Gaston and said: + +"See, old chap,--I know you don't mind my calling you that--I've come for +advice. Agatha said I'd better. A fellow comes to a time when he says, +'Here, I want a shop of my own,' doesn't he? He's seen It, he's had It +all colours, he's ready for family duties, and the rest. That's so, +isn't it?" + +Gaston choked back a laugh, and, purposely putting himself on the wrong +scent, said: + +"And does Agatha agree?" + +"Agatha? Come, Belward, that youngster! Agatha's only in on a sisterly- +brotherly basis. Now, see I've got a little load of L s. d., and I'm to +get more, especially if Uncle Dick keeps on thinking I am artless. Well, +why shouldn't I marry?" + +"No reason against it, if husband and father in you yearn for bibs and +petticoats." + +"I say, Belward, don't laugh!" + +"I never was more serious. Who is the girl?" + +"She looks up to you as I do-of course that's natural; and if it comes +off, no one'll have a jollier corner chez nous. It's Delia." + +"Delia? Delia who?" + +"Why, Delia Gasgoyne. I haven't done the thing quite regular, I know. +I ought to have gone to her people first; but they know all about me, +and so does Delia, and I'm on the spot, and it wouldn't look well to be +taking advantage of that with her father and mother-they'd feel bound to +be hospitable. So I've just gone on my own tack, and I've come to Agatha +and you. Agatha said to ask you if I'd better speak to Delia now." + +"My dear Cluny, are you very much in love?" + +"That sounds religious, doesn't it--a kind of Nonconformist business? +I think she's the very finest. A fellow'd hold himself up, 'd be a deuce +of a swell--and, hang it all, I hate breakfasting alone!" + +"Yes, yes, Cluny; but what about a pew in church, with regular +attendance, and a justice of the peace, and little Cluny Vosses on the +carpet?" + +Cluny's face went crimson. + +"I say, Belward, I've seen It all, of course; I know It backwards, and +I'm not squeamish, but that sounds--flippant-that, with her." + +Gaston reached out and caught the boy's shoulder. "Don't do it, Cluny. +Spare yourself. It couldn't come off. Agatha knows that, I fancy. She +is a little sportsman. I might let you go and speak; but I think my +chances are better than yours, Cluny. Hadn't you better let me try +first? Then, if I fail, your chances are still the same, eh?" + +Cluny gasped. His warm face went pale, then shot to purple, and finally +settled into a grey ruddiness. "Belward," he said at last, "I didn't +know; upon my soul, I didn't know, or I'd have cut off my head first." + +"My dear Cluny, you shall have your chance; but let me go first, I'm +older." + +"Belward, don't take me for a fool. Why, my trying what you go to do is +like--is like--" + +Cluny's similes failed to come. + +"Like a fox and a deer on the same trail?" + +"I don't understand that. Like a yeomanry steeplechase to Sandown--is +that it? Belward, I'm sorry. Playing it so low on a chap you like!" + +"Don't say a word, Cluny; and, believe me, you haven't yet seen all of +It. There's plenty of time. When you really have had It, you will learn +to say of a woman, not that she's the very finest, and that you hate +breakfasting alone, but something that'll turn your hair white, or keep +you looking forty when you're sixty." + +That evening Gaston dressed with unusual care. When he entered the +drawing-room, he looked as handsome as a man need in this world. +His illness had refined his features and form, and touched off his +cheerfulness with a fine melancholy. Delia glowed as she saw the +admiring glances sent his way, but burned with anger when she also saw +that he was to take in Lady Gravesend to dinner; for Lady Gravesend had +spoken slightingly of Gaston--had, indeed, referred to his "nigger +blood!" And now her mother had sent her in to dinner on his arm, she +affable, too affable by a great deal. Had she heard the dry and subtle +suggestion of Gaston's talk, she would, however, have justified her +mother. + +About half past nine Delia was in the doorway, talking to one of the +guests, who, at the call of some one else, suddenly left her. She heard +a voice behind her. "Will you not sing?" + +She thrilled, and turned to say: "What shall I sing, Mr. Belward?" + +"The song I taught you the other day--'The Waking of the Fire.'" + +"But I've never sung it before anybody." + +"Do I not count?--But, there, that's unfair! Believe me, you sing it +very well." + +She lifted her eyes to his: + +"You do not pay compliments, and I believe you. Your 'very well' means +much. If you say so, I will do my best." + +"I say so. You are amenable. Is that your mood to-night?" He smiled +brightly. + +Her eyes flashed with a sweet malice. + +"I am not at all sure. It depends on how your command to sing is +justified." + +"You cannot help but sing well." + +"Why?" + +"Because I will help you--make you." + +This startled her ever so little. Was there some fibre of cruelty in +him, some evil in this influence he had over her? She shrank, and yet +again she said that she would rather have his cruelty than another man's +tenderness, so long as she knew that she had his-- She paused, and did +not say the word. She met his eyes steadily--their concentration dazed +her--then she said almost coldly, her voice sounding far away: + +"How, make me?" + +"How fine, how proud!" he said to himself, then added: + +"I meant 'make' in the helpful sense. I know the song: I've heard it +sung, I've sung it; I've taught you; my mind will act on yours, and you +will sing it well." + +"Won't you sing it yourself? Do, please." + +"No; to-night I wish to hear you." + +"Why?" + +"I will tell you later. Can you play the accompaniment? If not, I--" + +"Oh, will you? I could sing it then, I think. You played it so +beautifully the other day--with all those strange chords." + +He smiled. + +"It is one of the few things that I can play. I always had a taste for +music; and up in one of the forts there was an old melodeon, so I +hammered away for years. I had to learn difficult things at the start, +or none at all, or else those I improvised; and that's how I can play one +or two of Beethoven's symphonies pretty well, and this song, and a few +others, and go a cropper with a waltz. Will you come?" + +They moved to the piano. No one at first noticed them. When he sat +down, he said: + +"You remember the words?" + +"Yes, I learned them by heart." + +"Good!" + +He gently struck the chords. His gentleness had, however, a firmness, a +deep persuasiveness, which drew every face like a call. A few chords +waving, as it were, over the piano, and then he whispered: + +"Now." + +"Please go on for a minute longer," she begged. + +"My throat feels dry all at once." + +"Face away from the rest, towards me," he said gently. + +She did so. His voice took a note softly, and held it. Presently her +voice as softly joined it, his stopped, and hers went on: + + "In the lodge of the Mother of Men, + In the land of Desire, + Are the embers of fire, + Are the ashes of those who return, + Who return to the world: + Who flame at the breath + Of the Mockers of Death. + O Sweet, we will voyage again + To the camp of Love's fire, + Nevermore to return!" + +"How am I doing?!" she said at the end of this verse. She really did not +know--her voice seemed an endless distance away. But she felt the +stillness in the drawing-room. + +"Well," he said. "Now for the other. Don't be afraid; let your voice, +let yourself, go." + +"I can't let myself go." + +"Yes, you can: just swim with the music." + +She did swim with it. Never before had Peppingham drawing-room heard a +song like this; never before, never after, did any of Delia Gasgoyne's +friends hear her sing as she did that night. And Lady Gravesend +whispered for a week afterwards that Delia Gasgoyne sang a wild love song +in the most abandoned way with that colonial Belward. Really a song of +the most violent sentiment! + +There had been witchery in it all. For Gaston lifted the girl on the +waves of his music, and did what he pleased with her, as she sang: + + "O love, by the light of thine eye + We will fare oversea, + We will be + As the silver-winged herons that rest + By the shallows, + The shallows of sapphire stone; + No more shall we wander alone. + As the foam to the shore + Is my spirit to thine; + And God's serfs as they fly,-- + The Mockers of Death + They will breathe on the embers of fire: + We shall live by that breath,-- + Sweet, thy heart to my heart, + As we journey afar, + No more, nevermore, to return!" + +When the song was ended there was silence, then an eager murmur, and +requests for more; but Gaston, still lengthening the close of the +accompaniment, said quietly: + +"No more. I wanted to hear you sing that song only." + +He rose. + +"I am so very hot," she said. + +"Come into the hall." + +They passed into the long corridor, and walked up and down, for a time in +silence. + +"You felt that music?!" he asked at last. + +"As I never felt music before," she replied. + +"Do you know why I asked you to sing it?" + +"How should I know?" + +"To see how far you could go with it." + +"How far did I go?" + +"As far as I expected." + +"It was satisfactory?" + +"Perfectly." + +"But why--experiment--on me?" + +"That I might see if you were not, after all, as much a barbarian as I." + +"Am I?" + +"No. That was myself singing as well as you. You did not enjoy it +altogether, did you?" + +"In a way, yes. But--shall I be honest? I felt, too, as if, somehow, +it wasn't quite right; so much--what shall I call it?" + +"So much of old Adam and the Garden? Sit down here for a moment, will +you?" + +She trembled a little, and sat. + +"I want to speak plainly and honestly to you," he said, looking earnestly +at her. "You know my history--about my wife who died in Labrador, and +all the rest?" + +"Yes, they have told me." + +"Well, I have nothing to hide, I think; nothing more that you ought to +know: though I've been a scamp one way and another." + +"'That I ought to know'?!" she repeated. + +"Yes: for when a man asks a woman to be his wife, he should be prepared +to open the cupboard of skeletons." She was silent; her heart was +beating so hard that it hurt her. + +"I am going to ask you to be my wife, Delia." + +She was silent, and sat motionless, her hands clasped in her lap. + +He went on + +"I don't know that you will be wise to accept me, but if you will take +the risk--" + +"Oh, Gaston, Gaston!" she said, and her hands fluttered towards his. + +An hour later, he said to her, as they parted for the night: + +"I hope, with all my heart, that you will never repent of it, Delia." + +"You can make me not repent of it. It rests with you, Gaston; indeed, +indeed, all with you." + +"Poor girl!" he said, unconsciously, as he entered his room. He could +not have told why he said it. "Why will you always sit up for me, +Brillon?!" he asked a moment afterwards. + +Jacques saw that something had occurred. "I have nothing else to do, +sir," he replied. "Brillon," Gaston added presently, "we're in a devil +of a scrape now." + +"What shall we do, monsieur?" + +"Did we ever turn tail?" + +"Yes, from a prairie fire." + +"Not always. I've ridden through." + +"Alors, it's one chance in ten thousand!" + +"There's a woman to be thought of--Jacques." + +"There was that other time." + +"Well, then?" + +Presently Jacques said: "Who is she, monsieur?" + +Gaston did not answer. He was thinking hard. Jacques said no more. The +next morning early the guests knew who the woman was, and by noon Jacques +also. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +HE MAKES A GALLANT CONQUEST + +Gaston let himself drift. The game of love and marriage is exciting, the +girl was affectionate and admiring, the world was genial, and all things +came his way. Towards the end of the hunting season Captain Maudsley had +an accident. It would prevent him riding to hounds again, and at his +suggestion, backed by Lord Dunfolly and Lord Dargan, Gaston became Master +of the Hounds. His grandfather and great-grandfather had been Master of +the Hounds before him. Hunting was a keen enjoyment--one outlet for wild +life in him--and at the last meet of the year he rode in Captain +Maudsley's place. They had a good run, and the taste of it remained with +Gaston for many a day; he thought of it sometimes as he rode in the Park +now every morning--with Delia and her mother. + +Jacques and his broncho came no more, or if they did it was at +unseasonable hours, and then to be often reprimanded (and twice arrested) +for furious riding. Gaston had a bad moment when he told Jacques that he +need not come with him again. He did it casually, but, cool as he was, +a cold sweat came on his cheek. He had to take a little brandy to steady +himself--yet he had looked into menacing rifle-barrels more than once +without a tremor. It was clear, on the face of it, that Delia and her +mother should be his companions in the Park, and not this grave little +half-breed; but, somehow, it got on his nerves. He hesitated for days +before he could cast the die against Jacques. It had been the one open +bond of the old life; yet the man was but a servant, and to be treated as +such, and was, indeed, except on rarest occasions. If Delia had known +that Gaston balanced the matter between her and Jacques, her indignation +might perhaps have sent matters to a crisis. But Gaston did the only +possible thing; and the weeks drifted on. + +Happy? It was inexplicable even to himself that at times, when he left +Delia, he said unconsciously: "Well, it's a pity!" + +But she was happy in her way. His dark, mysterious face with its +background of abstraction, his unusual life, distinguished presence, +and the fact that people of great note sought his conversation, all +strengthened the bonds, and deepened her imagination; and imagination is +at the root of much that passes for love. Gaston was approached at Lord +Dargan's house by the Premier himself. It was suggested that he should +stand for a constituency in the Conservative interest. Lord Faramond, +himself picturesque, acute, with a keen knowledge of character and a +taste for originality, saw material for a useful supporter--fearless, +independent, with a gift for saying ironical things, and some primitive +and fundamental principles well digested. + +Gaston, smiling, said that he would only be a buffalo fretting on a +chain. + +Lord Faramond replied: + +"And why the chain?" He followed this up by saying: "It is but a case of +playing lion-tamer down there. Have one little gift all your own, know +when to impose it, and you have the pleasure of feeling that your fingers +move a great machine, the greatest in the world--yes the very greatest. +There is Little Grapnel just vacant: the faithful Glynn is gone. Come: +if you will, I'll send my secretary to-morrow morning-eh?" + +"You are not afraid of the buffalo, sir?" + +Lord Faramond's fingers touched his arm, drummed it "My greatest need-- +one to roar as gently as the sucking-dove." + +"But what if I, not knowing the rules of the game, should think myself +on the corner of the veldt or in an Indian's tepee, and hit out?" + +"You do not carry derringers?" + +He smiled. "No; but--" + +He glanced down at his arms. + +"Well, well; that will come one day, perhaps!" Lord Faramond paused, +abstracted, then added: "But not through you. Good-bye, then, good-bye. +Little Grapnel in ten days!" + +And it was so. Little Grapnel was Conservative. It was mostly a matter +of nomination, and in two weeks Gaston, in a kind of dream, went down to +Westminster, lunched with Lord Faramond, and was introduced to the House. +The Ladies Gallery was full, for the matter was in all the papers, and a +pretty sensation had been worked up one way and another. + +That night, after dinner, Gaston rose to make his maiden speech on a bill +dealing with an imminent social question. He was not an amateur. Time +upon time he had addressed gatherings in the North, and had once stood at +the bar of the Canadian Commons to plead the cause of the half-breeds. +He was pale, but firm, and looked striking. His eyes went slowly round +the House, and he began in a low, clear, deliberate voice, which got +attention at once. The first sentence was, however, a surprise to every +one, and not the least to his own party, excepting Lord Faramond. He +disclaimed detailed and accurate knowledge of the subject. He said this +with an honesty which took away the breath of the House. In a quiet, +easy tone he then referred to what had been previously said in the +debate. + +The first thing he did was to crumble away with a regretful kind of +superiority the arguments of two Conservative speakers, to the sudden +amusement of the Opposition, who presently cheered him. He looked up as +though a little surprised, waited patiently, and went on. The iconoclasm +proceeded. He had one or two fixed ideas in his mind, simple principles +on social questions of which he had spoken to his leader, and he never +wavered from the sight of them, though he had yet to state them. The +Premier sat, head cocked, with an ironical smile at the cheering, but he +was wondering whether, after all, his man was sure; whether he could +stand this fire, and reverse his engine quite as he intended. One of the +previous speakers was furious, came over and appealed to Lord Faramond, +who merely said, "Wait." + +Gaston kept on. The flippant amusement of the Opposition continued. +Something, however, in his grim steadiness began to impress his own party +as the other, while from more than one quarter of the House there came a +murmur of sympathy. His courage, his stone-cold strength, the disdain +which was coming into his voice, impressed them, apart from his argument +or its bearing on the previous debate. Lord Faramond heard the +occasional murmurs of approval and smiled. Then there came a striking +silence, for Gaston paused. He looked towards the Ladies Gallery. As if +in a dream--for his brain was working with clear, painful power--he saw, +not Delia nor her mother, nor Lady Dargan, but Alice Wingfield! He had a +sting, a rush in his blood. He felt that none had an interest in him +such as she: shamed, sorrowful, denied the compensating comfort which his +brother's love might give her. Her face, looking through the barriers, +pale, glowing, anxious, almost weird, seemed set to the bars of a cage. + +Gaston turned upon the House, and flashed a glance towards Lord Faramond, +who, turned round on the Treasury Bench, was looking up at him. He began +slowly to pit against his former startling admissions the testimony of +his few principles, and to buttress them on every side with apposite +observations, naive, pungent. Presently there came a poignant edge to +his trailing tones. After giving the subject new points of view, showing +him to have studied Whitechapel as well as Kicking Horse Pass, he +contended that no social problem could be solved by a bill so crudely +radical, so impractical. + +He was saying: "In the history of the British Parliament--" when some +angry member cried out, "Who coached you?" + +Gaston's quick eye found the man. + +"Once," he answered instantly, "one honourable gentleman asked that of +another in King Charles's Parliament, and the reply then is mine now-- +'You, sir!'" + +"How?!" returned the puzzled member. + +Gaston smiled: + +"The nakedness of the honourable gentleman's mind!" + +The game was in his hands. Lord Faramond twisted a shoulder with +satisfaction, tossed a whimsical look down the line of the Treasury +Bench, and from that Bench came unusual applause. + +"Where the devil did he get it?!" queried a Minister. + +"Out on the buffalo-trail," replied Lord Faramond. "Good fellow!" + +In the Ladies Gallery, Delia clasped her mother's hand with delight; in +the Strangers Gallery, a man said softly, "Not so bad, Cadet." + +Alice Wingfield's face had a light of aching pleasure. "Gaston, Gaston!" +she said, in a whisper heard only by the woman sitting next to her, who +though a stranger gave a murmur of sympathy. + +Gaston made his last effort in a comparison of the state of the English +people now and before she became Cromwell's Commonwealth, and then +incisively traced the social development onwards. It was the work of a +man with a dramatic nature and a mathematical turn. He put the time, +the manners, the movements, the men, as in a picture. + +Presently he grew scornful. His words came hotly, like whip-lashes. +He rose to force and power, though his voice was never loud, rather +concentrated, resonant. It dropped suddenly to a tone of persuasiveness +and conciliation, and declaring that the bill would be merely vicious +where it meant to be virtuous, ended with the question: + +"Shall we burn the house to roast the pig?" + +"That sounds American," said the member for Burton-Halsey, "but he hasn't +an accent. Pig is vulgar though--vulgar." + +"Make it Lamb--make it Lamb!" urged his neighbour. + +Meanwhile both sides applauded. Maiden speeches like this were not +common. Lord Faramond turned round to him. Another member made way +and Gaston leaned towards the Premier, who nodded and smiled. "Most +excellent buffalo!" he said. + +"One day we will chain you--to the Treasury Bench." + +Gaston smiled. + +"You are thought prudent, sir!" + +"Ah! an enemy hath said this." + +Gaston looked towards the Ladies Gallery. Delia's eyes were on him; +Alice was gone. + +A half-hour later he stood in the lobby, waiting for Mrs. Gasgoyne, Lady +Dargan, and Delia to come. He had had congratulations in the House; he +was having them now. Presently some one touched him on the arm. + +"Not so bad, Cadet." + +Gaston turned and saw his uncle. They shook hands. "You've a gift that +way," Ian Belward continued, "but to what good? Bless you, the pot on +the crackling thorns! Don't you find it all pretty hollow?" + +Gaston was feeling reaction from the nervous work. "It is exciting." + +"Yes, but you'll never have it again as to-night. The place reeks with +smugness, vanity, and drudgery. It's only the swells--Derby, Gladstone, +and the few--who get any real sport out of it. I can show you much more +amusing things." + +"For instance?" + +"'Hast thou forgotten me?' You hungered for Paris and Art and the joyous +life. Well, I'm ready. I want you. Paris, too, is waiting, and a good +cuisine in a cheery menage. Sup with me at the Garrick, and I'll tell you. +Come along. Quis separabit?" + +"I have to wait for Mrs. Gasgoyne--and Delia." + +"Delia! Delia! Goddess of proprieties, has it come to that!" + +He saw a sudden glitter in Gaston's eyes, and changed his tone. + +"Well, an' a man will he will, and he must be wished good-luck. So, +good-luck to you! I'm sorry, though, for that cuisine in Paris, and the +grand picnic at Fontainebleau, and Moban and Cerise. But it can't be +helped." + +He eyed Gaston curiously. Gaston was not in the least deceived. His +uncle added presently, "But you will have supper with me just the same?" + +Gaston consented, and at this point the ladies appeared. He had a thrill +of pleasure at hearing their praises, but, somehow, of all the fresh +experiences he had had in England, this, the weightiest, left him least +elated. He had now had it all: the reaction was begun, and he knew it. + +"Well, Ian Belward, what mischief are you at now?!" said Mrs. Gasgoyne. + +"A picture merely, and to offer homage. How have you tamed our lion, +and how sweetly does he roar! I feed him at my Club to-night." + +"Ian Belward, you are never so wicked as when you ought most to be +decent.--I wish I knew your place in this picture," she added brusquely. + +"Merely a little corner at their fireside." He nodded towards Delia and +Gaston. + +"The man has sense, and Delia is my daughter!" + +"Precisely why I wish a place in their affections." + +"Why don't you marry one of the women you have--spoiled, and spend the +rest of your time in living yourself down? You are getting old." + +"For their own sakes, I don't. Put that to my credit. I'll have but +one mistress only as the sand gets low. I've been true to her." + +"You, true to anything!" + +"The world has said so." + +"Nonsense! You couldn't be." + +"Visit my new picture in three months--my biggest thing. You will say +my mistress fares well at my hands." + +"Mere talk. I have seen your mistress, and before every picture I have +thought of those women! A thing cannot be good at your price: so don't +talk that sentimental stuff to me." + +"Be original; you said that to me thirty years ago." + +"I remember perfectly: that did not require much sense." + +"No; you tossed it off, as it were. Yet I'd have made you a good +husband. You are the most interesting woman I've ever met." + +"The compliment is not remarkable. Now, Ian Belward, don't try to say +clever things. And remember that I will have no mischief-making." + +"At thy command--" + +"Oh, cease acting, and take Sophie to her carriage." Two hours later, +Delia Gasgoyne sat in her bedroom wondering at Gaston's abstraction +during the drive home. Yet she had a proud elation at his success, +and a happy tear came to her eye. + +Meanwhile Gaston was supping with his uncle. Ian was in excellent +spirits: brilliant, caustic, genial, suggestive. After a little while +Gaston rose to the temper of his host. Already the scene in the Commons +was fading from him, and when Ian proposed Paris immediately, he did not +demur. The season was nearly over, + +Ian said; very well, why remain? His attendance at the House? Well, it +would soon be up for the session. Besides, the most effective thing he +could do was to disappear for the time. Be unexpected--that was the key +to notoriety. Delia Gasgoyne? Well, as Gaston had said, they were to +meet in the Mediterranean in September; meanwhile a brief separation +would be good for both. Last of all--he did not wish to press it--but +there was a promise! + +Gaston answered quietly, at last: "I will redeem the promise." + +"When?" + +"Within thirty-six hours." + +"That is, you will be at my studio in Paris within thirty-six hours from +now?" + +"That is it." + +"Good! I shall start at eight to-morrow morning. You will bring your +horse, Cadet?" + +"Yes, and Brillon." + +"He isn't necessary." Ian's brow clouded slightly. + +"Absolutely necessary." + +"A fantastic little beggar. You can get a better valet in France. Why +have one at all?" + +"I shall not decline from Brillon on a Parisian valet. Besides, he comes +as my camarade." + +"Goth! Goth! My friend the valet! Cadet, you're a wonderful fellow, +but you'll never fit in quite." + +"I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me." Ian smiled to himself. + +"He has tasted it all--it's not quite satisfying--revolution next! What +a smash-up there'll be! The romantic, the barbaric overlaps. Well, I +shall get my picture out of it, and the estate too." + +Gaston toyed with his wine-glass, and was deep in thought. Strange to +say, he was seeing two pictures. The tomb of Sir Gaston in the little +church at Ridley: A gipsy's van on the crest of a common, and a girl +standing in the doorway. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Down in her heart, loves to be mastered +I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me +Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love +Live and let live is doing good + + + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 3. + + + +XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS +XIII. HE JOURNEYS AFAR +XIV. IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED +XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN +XVI. WHEREIN LOVE SNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN'S +XVII. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE +XVIII. "RETURN, O SHULAMITE!" + + + +CHAPTER XII + +HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS + +The next morning he went down to the family solicitor's office. He had +done so, off and on, for weeks. He spent the time in looking through old +family papers, fishing out ancient documents, partly out of curiosity, +partly from an unaccountable presentiment. He had been there about an +hour this morning when a clerk brought him a small box, which, he said, +had been found inside another box belonging to the Belward-Staplings, a +distant branch of the family. These had asked for certain ancient papers +lately, and a search had been made, with this result. The little box was +not locked, and the key was in it. How the accident occurred was not +difficult to imagine. Generations ago there had probably been a +conference of the two branches of the family, and the clerk had +inadvertently locked the one box within the other. This particular box +of the Belward-Staplings was not needed again. Gaston felt that here was +something. These hours spent among old papers had given him strange +sensations, had, on the one hand, shown him his heritage; but had also +filled him with the spirit of that by-gone time. He had grown further +away from the present. He had played his part as in a drama: his real +life was in the distant past and out in the land of the heathen. + +Now he took out a bundle of papers with broken seals, and wound with a +faded tape. He turned the rich important parchments over in his hands. +He saw his own name on the outside of one: "Sir Gaston Robert Belward." +And there was added: "Bart." He laughed. Well, why not complete the +reproduction? He was an M. P.--why not a, Baronet? He knew how it was +done. There were a hundred ways. Throw himself into the arbitration +question between Canada and the United States: spend ten thousand pounds +of--his grandfather's--money on the Party? His reply to himself was +cynical: the game was not worth the candle. What had he got out of it +all? Money? Yes: and he enjoyed that--the power that it gave-- +thoroughly. The rest? He knew that it did not strike as deep as it +ought: the family tradition, the social scheme--the girl. + +"What a brute I am!" he said. "I'm never wholly of it. I either want +to do as they did when George Villiers had his innings, or play the gipsy +as I did so many years." + +The gipsy! As he held the papers in his hand he thought as he had done +last night, of the gipsy-van on Ridley Common, and of--how well he +remembered her name!--of Andree. + +He suddenly threw his head back, and laughed. "Well, well, but it is +droll! Last night, an English gentleman, an honourable member with the +Treasury Bench in view; this morning an adventurer, a Romany. I itch for +change. And why? Why? I have it all, yet I could pitch it away this +moment for a wild night on the slope, or a nigger hunt on the Rivas. +Chateau-Leoville, Goulet, and Havanas at a bob?--Jove, I thirst for a +swig of raw Bourbon and the bite of a penny Mexican! Games, Gaston, +games! Why the devil did little Joe worry at being made 'move on'? I've +got 'move on' in every pore: I'm the Wandering Jew. Oh, a gentleman born +am I! But the Romany sweats from every inch of you, Gaston Belward! +What was it that sailor on the Cyprian said of the other? 'For every +hair of him was rope-yarn, and every drop of blood Stockholm tar!'" + +He opened a paper. Immediately he was interested. Another; then, +quickly, two more; and at last, getting to his feet with an exclamation, +he held a document to the light, and read it through carefully. He was +alone in the room. He calmly folded it up, put it in his pocket, placed +the rest of the papers back, locked the box, and passing into the next +room, gave it to the clerk. Then he went out, a curious smile on his +face. He stopped presently on the pavement. + +"But it wouldn't hold good, I fancy, after all these years. Yet Law is +a queer business. Anyhow, I've got it." + +An hour later he called on Mrs. Gasgoyne and Delia. Mrs. Gasgoyne was +not at home. After a little while, Gaston, having listened to some +extracts from the newspapers upon his "brilliant, powerful, caustic +speech, infinite in promise of an important career," quietly told her +that he was starting for Paris, and asked when they expected to go abroad +in their yacht. Delia turned pale, and could not answer for a moment. +Then she became very still, and as quietly answered that they expected to +get away by the middle of August. He would join them? Yes, certainly, +at Marseilles, or perhaps, Gibraltar. Her manner, so well-controlled, +though her features seemed to shrink all at once, if it did not deceive +him, gave him the wish to say an affectionate thing. He took her hand +and said it. She thanked him, then suddenly dropped her fingers on his +shoulder, and murmured with infinite gentleness and pride: + +"You will miss me; you ought to!" + +He drew the hand down. + +"I could not forget you, Delia," he said. + +Her eyes came up quickly, and she looked steadily, wonderingly at him. + +"Was it necessary to say that?" + +She was hurt--inexpressibly,--and she shrank. He saw that she +misunderstood him; but he also saw that, on the face of it, the phrase +was not complimentary. His reply was deeply kind, effective. There was +a pause--and the great moment for them both passed. Something ought to +have happened. It did not. If she had had that touch of abandon shown +when she sang "The Waking of the Fire," Gaston might, even at this +moment, have broken his promise to his uncle; but, somehow, he knew +himself slipping away from her. With the tenderness he felt, he still +knew that he was acting; imitating, reproducing other, better, moments +with her. He felt the disrespect to her, but it could not be helped--it +could not be helped. + +He said that he would call and say good-bye to her and Mrs. Gasgoyne at +four o'clock. Then he left. He went to his chambers, gave Jacques +instructions, did some writing, and returned at four. Mrs. Gasgoyne had +not come back. She had telegraphed that she would not be in for lunch. +There was nothing remarkable in Gaston's and Delia's farewell. She +thought he looked worn, and ought to have change, showing in every word +that she trusted him, and was anxious that he should be, as she put it +gaily, "comfy." She was composed. The cleverest men are blind in the +matter of a woman's affections; and Gaston was only a mere man, after +all. He thought that she had gone about as far in the way of feeling as +she could go. + +Nevertheless, in his hansom, he frowned, and said: "I oughtn't to go. +But I'm choking here. I can't play the game an hour longer without a +change. I'll come back all right. I'll meet her in the Mediterranean +after my kick-up, and it'll be all O. K. Jacques and I will ride down +through Spain to Gibraltar, and meet the Kismet there. I shall have got +rid of this restlessness then, and I'll be glad enough to settle down, +pose for throne and constitution, cultivate the olive branch, and have +family prayers." + +At eight o'clock he appeared at Ridley Court, and bade his grandfather +and grandmother good-bye. They were full of pride, and showed their +affection in indirect ways--Sir William most by offering his opinion on +the Bill and quoting Gaston frequently; Lady Belward, by saying that next +year she would certainly go up to town--she had not done so for five +years! They both agreed that a scamper on the Continent would now be +good for him. At nine o'clock he passed the rectory, on his way, strange +to note, to the church. There was one light burning, but it was not in +the study nor in Alice's window. He supposed they had not returned. +He paused and thought. If anything happened, she should know. But what +should happen? He shook his head. He moved on to the church. The doors +were unlocked. He went in, drew out a little pocket-lantern, lit it, and +walked up the aisle. + +"A sentimental business this: I don't know why I do it," he thought. + +He stopped at the tomb of Sir Gaston Belward, put his hand on it, and +stood looking at it. + +"I wonder if there is anything in it?!" he said aloud: "if he does +influence me? if we've got anything to do with each other? What he did +I seem to know somehow, more or less. A little dwarf up in my brain +drops the nuts down now and then. Well, Sir Gaston Belward, what is +going to be the end of all this? If we can reach across the centuries, +why, good-night and goodbye to you. Good-bye." + +He turned and went down the aisle. At the door a voice, a whispering +voice, floated to him: "Good-bye." + +He stopped short and listened. All was still. He walked up the aisle, +and listened again.-Nothing! He stood before the tomb, looking at it +curiously. He was pale, but collected. He raised the light above his +head, and looked towards the altar.--Nothing! Then he went to the door +again, and paused.--Nothing! + +Outside he said + +"I'd stake my life I heard it!" + +A few minutes afterwards, a girl rose up from behind the organ in the +chancel, and felt her way outside. It was Alice Wingfield, who had gone +to the church to pray. It was her good-bye which had floated down to +Gaston. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +HE JOURNEYS AFAR + +Politicians gossiped. Where was the new member? His friends could not +tell, further than that he had gone abroad. Lord Faramond did not know, +but fetched out his lower lip knowingly. + +"The fellow has instinct for the game," he said. Sketches, portraits +were in the daily and weekly journals, and one hardy journalist even +gave an interview--which had never occurred. But Gaston remained a +picturesque nine-days' figure, and then Parliament rose for the year. + +Meanwhile he was in Paris, and every morning early he could be seen with +Jacques riding up the Champs Elysee and out to the Bois de Boulogne. +Every afternoon at three he sat for "Monmouth" or the "King of Ys" with +his horse in his uncle's garden. + +Ian Belward might have lived in a fashionable part; he preferred the +Latin Quarter, with incursions into the other at fancy. Gaston lived for +three days in the Boulevard Haussman, and then took apartments, neither +expensive nor fashionable, in a quiet street. He was surrounded by +students and artists, a few great men and a host of small men: +Collarossi's school here and Delacluse's there: models flitting in and +out of the studios in his court-yard, who stared at him as he rode, and +sought to gossip with Jacques--accomplished without great difficulty. + +Jacques was transformed. A cheerful hue grew on his face. He had been +an exile, he was now at home. His French tongue ran, now with words in +the patois of Normandy, now of Brittany; and all with the accent of +French Canada, an accent undisturbed by the changes and growths of +France. He gossiped, but no word escaped him which threw any light on +his master's history. + +Soon, in the Latin Quarter, they were as notable as they had been at +Ridley Court or in London. On the Champs Elysee side people stared at +the two: chiefly because of Gaston's splendid mount and Jacques's strange +broncho. But they felt that they were at home. Gaston's French was not +perfect, but it was enough for his needs. He got a taste of that freedom +which he had handed over to the dungeons of convention two years before. +He breathed. Everything interested him so much that the life he had led +in England seemed very distant. + +He wrote to Delia, of course. His letters were brief, most interesting, +not tenderly intimate, and not daily. From the first they puzzled her a +little, and continued to do so; but because her mother said, "What an +impossible man!" she said, "Perfectly possible! Of course he is not +like other men; he is a genius." + +And the days went on. + +Gaston little loved the purlieus of the Place de l'Opera. One evening at +a club in the Boulevard Malesherbes bored him. It was merely Anglo- +American enjoyment, dashed with French drama. The Bois was more to his +taste, for he could stretch his horse's legs; but every day he could be +found before some simple cafe in Montparnasse, sipping vermouth, and +watching the gay, light life about him. He sat up with delight to see an +artist and his "Madame" returning from a journey in the country, seated +upon sheaves of corn, quite unregarded by the world; doing as they listed +with unabashed simplicity. He dined often at the little Hotel St. Malo +near the Gare Montparnasse, where the excellent landlord played the host, +father, critic, patron, comrade--often benefactor--to his bons enfants. +He drank vin ordinaire, smoked caporal cigarettes, made friends, and was +in all as a savage--or a much-travelled English gentleman. + +His uncle Ian had introduced him here as at other places of the kind, +and, whatever his ulterior object was, had an artist's pleasure at seeing +a layman enjoy the doings of Paris art life. Himself lived more +luxuriously. In an avenue not far from the Luxembourg he had a small +hotel with a fine old-fashioned garden behind it, and here distinguished +artists, musicians, actors, and actresses came at times. + +The evening of Gaston's arrival he took him to a cafe and dined him, and +afterwards to the Boullier--there, merely that he might see; but this +place had nothing more than a passing interest for him. His mind had the +poetry of a free, simple--even wild-life, but he had no instinct for vice +in the name of amusement. But the later hours spent in the garden under +the stars, the cheerful hum of the boulevards coming to them distantly, +stung his veins like good wine. They sat and talked, with no word of +England in it at all, Jacques near, listening. + +Ian Belward was at his best: genial, entertaining, with the art of the +man of no principles, no convictions, and a keen sense of life's sublime +incongruities. Even Jacques, whose sense of humour had grown by long +association with Gaston, enjoyed the piquant conversation. The next +evening the same. About ten o'clock a few men dropped in: a sculptor, +artists, and Meyerbeer, an American newspaper correspondent--who, +however, was not known as such to Gaston. + +This evening Ian determined to make Gaston talk. To deepen a man's love +for a thing, get him to talk of it to the eager listener--he passes from +the narrator to the advocate unconsciously. Gaston was not to talk of +England, but of the North, of Canada, of Mexico, the Lotos Isles. He did +so picturesquely, yet simply too, in imperfect but sufficient French. +But as he told of one striking incident in the Rockies, he heard Jacques +make a quick expression of dissent. He smiled. He had made some mistake +in detail. Now, Jacques had been in his young days in Quebec the village +story-teller; one who, by inheritance or competency, becomes semi- +officially a raconteur for the parish; filling in winter evenings, +nourishing summer afternoons, with tales, weird, childlike, daring. + +Now Gaston turned and said to Jacques: + +"Well, Brillon, I've forgotten, as you see; tell them how it was." + +Two hours later when Jacques retired on some errand, amid ripe applause, +Ian said: + +"You've got an artist there, Cadet: that description of the fight with +the loop garoo was as good as a thing from Victor Hugo. Hugo must have +heard just such yarns, and spun them on the pattern. Upon my soul, it's +excellent stuff. You've lived, you two." + +Another night Ian Belward gave a dinner, at which were present an +actress, a singer of some repute, the American journalist, and others. +Something that was said sent Gaston's mind to the House of Commons. +Presently he saw himself in a ridiculous picture: a buffalo dragging the +Treasury Bench about the Chamber; as one conjures things in an absurd +dream. He laughed outright, at a moment when Mademoiselle Cerise was +telling of a remarkable effect she produced one night in "Fedora," +unpremeditated, inspired; and Mademoiselle Cerise, with smiling lips and +eyes like daggers, called him a bear. This brought him to him self, and +he swam with the enjoyment. He did enjoy it, but not as his uncle wished +and hoped. Gaston did not respond eagerly to the charms of Mademoiselle +Cerise and Madame Juliette. + +Was Delia, then, so strong in the barbarian's mind? He could not think +so, but Gaston had not shown yet, either for model, for daughter of joy, +or for the mademoiselles of the stage any disposition to an amour or a +misalliance; and either would be interesting and sufficient! Models went +in and out of Ian's studio and the studios of others, and Gaston chatted +with them at times; and once he felt the bare arm and bare breast of a +girl as she sat for a nymph, and said in an interested way that her flesh +was as firm and fine as a Tongan's. He even disputed with his uncle on +the tints of her skin, on seeing him paint it in, showing a fine eye for +colour. But there was nothing more; he was impressed, observant, +interested--that was all. His uncle began to wonder if the Englishman +was, after all, deeper in the grain than the savage. He contented +himself with the belief that the most vigorous natures are the most +difficult to rouse. Mademoiselle Cerise sang, with chic and abandon very +fascinating to his own sensuous nature, a song with a charming air and +sentiment. It was after a night at the opera when they had seen her in +"Lucia," and the contrast, as she sang in his garden, softly lighted, +showed her at the most attractive angles. She drifted from a sparkling +chanson to the delicate pathos of a song of De Musset's. + +Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman--no. He had seen a new +life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could +still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had come +to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle +Cerise said to Ian at last: + +"Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no +matter." + +She made another effort to interest him, however. It galled her that he +did not fall at her feet as others had done. Even Ian had come there in +his day, but she knew him too well. She had said to him at the time: +"You, monsieur? No, thank you. A week, a month, and then the brute in +you would out. You make a woman fond, and then--a mat for your feet, and +your wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol +or the Seine. Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing +more. I will sing to you, dance to you, even pray for you--we poor +sinners do that sometimes, and go on sinning; but, again, nothing more." + +Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been +good friends. He had told her of his nephew's coming, had hinted at his +fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him, even +at marriage. She could not read his purpose, but she knew there was +something, and answering him with a yes, had waited. Had Gaston have +come to her feet she would probably have got at the truth somehow, and +have worked in his favour--the joy vice takes to side with virtue, at +times--when it is at no personal sacrifice. But Gaston was superior in a +grand way. He was simple, courteous, interested only. This stung her, +and she would bring him to his knees, if she could. This night she had +rung all the changes, and had done no more than get his frank applause. +She became petulant in an airy, exacting way. She asked him about his +horse. This interested him. She wanted to see it. To-morrow? No, no, +now. Perhaps to-morrow she would not care to; there was no joy in +deliberate pleasure. Now--now--now! He laughed. Well then, now, as she +wished! + +Jacques was called. She said to him: + +"Come here, little comrade." Jacques came. "Look at me," she added. +She fixed her eyes on him, and smiled. She was in the soft flare of the +lights. + +"Well," she said after a moment, "what do you think of me?" + +Jacques was confused. "Madame is beautiful." + +"The eyes?!" she urged. + +"I have been to Gaspe, and west to Esquimault, and in England, but I have +never seen such as those," he said. Race and primitive man spoke there. + +She laughed. "Come closer, little man." + +He did so. She suddenly rose, dropped her hands on his shoulders, and +kissed his cheek. + +"Now bring the horse, and I will kiss him too." + +Did she think she could rouse Gaston by kissing his servant? Yet it did +not disgust him. He knew it was a bit of acting, and it was well done. +Besides, Jacques Brillon was not a mere servant, and he, too, had done +well. She sat back and laughed lightly when Jacques was gone. Then she +said: "The honest fellow!" and hummed an air: + + "'The pretty coquette + Well she needs to be wise, + Though she strike to the heart + By a glance of her eyes. + + "'For the daintiest bird + Is the sport of the storm, + And the rose fadeth most + When the bosom is warm.'" + +In twenty minutes the gate of the garden opened, and Jacques appeared +with Saracen. The horse's black skin glistened in the lights, and he +tossed his head and champed his bit. Gaston rose. Mademoiselle Cerise +sprang to her feet and ran forward. Jacques put out his hand to stop +her, and Gaston caught her shoulder. "He's wicked with strangers," +Gaston said. "Chat!" she rejoined, stepped quickly to the horse's head +and, laughing, put out her hand to stroke him. Jacques caught the +beast's nose, and stopped a lunge of the great white teeth. + +"Enough, madame, he will kill you!" + +"Yet I am beautiful--is it not so?" + +"The poor beast is ver' blind." + +"A pretty compliment," she rejoined, yet angry at the beast. + +Gaston came, took the animal's head in his hands, and whispered. Saracen +became tranquil. Gaston beckoned to Mademoiselle Cerise. She came. He +took her hand in his and put it at the horse's lips. The horse whinnied +angrily at first, but permitted a caress from the actress's fingers. + +"He does not make friends easily," said Gaston. "Nor does his master." + +Her eyes lifted to his, the lids drooping suggestively. "But when the +pact is made--!" + +"Till death us do part?" + +"Death or ruin." + +"Death is better." + +"That depends!" + +"Ah! I understand," she said. + +"On--the woman?" + +"Yes." + +Then he became silent. "Mount the horse," she urged. + +Gaston sprang at one bound upon the horse's bare back. Saracen reared +and wheeled. + +"Splendid!" she said; then, presently: "Take me up with you." + +He looked doubting for a moment, then whispered to the horse. + +"Come quickly," he said. + +She came to the side of the horse. He stooped, caught her by the waist, +and lifted her up. Saracen reared, but Gaston had him down in a moment. + +Ian Belward suddenly called out: + +"For God's sake, keep that pose for five minutes--only five!" He caught +up some canvas. "Hold candles near them," he said to the others. They +did so. With great swiftness he sketched in the strange picture. It +looked weird, almost savage: Gaston's large form, his legs loose at the +horse's side, the woman in her white drapery clinging to him. + +In a little time the artist said: + +"There; that will do. Ten such sittings and my 'King of Ys' will have +its day with the world. I'd give two fortunes for the chance of it." + +The woman's heart had beat fast with Gaston's arm around her. He felt +the thrill of the situation. Man, woman, and horse were as of a piece. + +But Cerise knew, when Gaston let her to the ground again, that she had +not conquered. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED + +Next morning Gaston was visited by Meyerbeer the American journalist, of +whose profession he was still ignorant. He saw him only as a man of raw +vigour of opinion, crude manners, and heavy temperament. He had not been +friendly to him at night, and he was surprised at the morning visit. The +hour was such that Gaston must ask him to breakfast. The two were soon +at the table of the Hotel St. Malo. Meyerbeer sniffed the air when he +saw the place. The linen was ordinary, the rooms small; but all--he did +not take this into account--irreproachably clean. The walls were covered +with pictures; some taken for unpaid debts, gifts from students since +risen to fame or gone into the outer darkness,--to young artists' eyes, +the sordid moneymaking world,--and had there been lost; from a great +artist or two who remembered the days of his youth and the good host who +had seen many little colonies of artists come and go. + +They sat down to the table, which was soon filled with students and +artists. Then Meyerbeer began to see, not only an interesting thing, but +"copy." He was, in fact, preparing a certain article which, as he said +to himself, would "make 'em sit up" in London and New York. He had found +out Gaston's history, had read his speech in the Commons, had seen +paragraphs speculating as to where he was; and now he, Salem Meyerbeer, +would tell them what the wild fellow was doing. The Bullier, the cafes +in the Latin Quarter, apartments in a humble street, dining for one- +franc-fifty, supping with actresses, posing for the King of Ys with that +actress in his arms--all excellent in their way. But now there was +needed an entanglement, intrigue, amour, and then America should shriek +at his picture of one of the British aristocracy, and a gentleman of the +Commons, "on the loose," as he put it. + +He would head it: + + "ARISTOCRAT, POLITICIAN, LIBERTINE!" + +Then, under that he would put: + + "CAN THE ETHIOPIAN CHANGE HIS SKIN, OR THE + LEOPARD HIS SPOTS?" Jer. xi. 23. + +The morality of such a thing? Morality only had to do with ruining a +girl's name, or robbery. How did it concern this? + +So Mr. Meyerbeer kept his ears open. Presently one of the students said +to Bagshot, a young artist: "How does the dompteuse come on?" + +"Well, I think it's chic enough. She's magnificent. The colour of her +skin against the lions was splendid to-day: a regular rich gold with a +sweet stain of red like a leaf of maize in September. There's never been +such a Una. I've got my chance; and if I don't pull it off, + + 'Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket, + And say a poor buffer lies low!'" + +"Get the jacket ready," put in a young Frenchman, sneering. + +The Englishman's jaw hardened, but he replied coolly + +"What do you know about it?" + +"I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her." + +"How the devil does that concern my painting her?" There was iron in +Bagshot's voice. + +"Who says you are painting her?" + +The insult was conspicuous. Gaston quickly interposed. His clear strong +voice rang down the table: "Will you let me come and see your canvas some +day soon, Mr. Bagshot? I remember your picture 'A Passion in the +Desert,' at the Academy this year. A fine thing: the leopard was free +and strong. As an Englishman, I am proud to meet you." + +The young Frenchman stared. The quarrel had passed to a new and +unexpected quarter. Gaston's large, solid body, strong face, and +penetrating eyes were not to be sneered out of sight. The Frenchman, +an envious, disappointed artist, had had in his mind a bloodless duel, +to give a fillip to an unacquired fame. He had, however, been drinking. +He flung an insolent glance to meet Gaston's steady look, and said: + +"The cock crows of his dunghill!" + +Gaston looked at the landlord, then got up calmly and walked down the +table. The Frenchman, expecting he knew not what, sprang to his feet, +snatching up a knife; but Gaston was on him like a hawk, pinioning his +arms and lifting him off the ground, binding his legs too, all so tight +that the Frenchman squealed for breath. + +"Monsieur," said Gaston to the landlord, "from the door or the window?" + +The landlord was pale. It was in some respects a quarrel of races. +For, French and English at the tables had got up and were eyeing each +other. As to the immediate outcome of the quarrel, there could be no +doubt. The English and Americans could break the others to pieces; +but neither wished that. The landlord decided the matter: + +"Drop him from this window." + +He pushed a shutter back, and Gaston dropped the fellow on the hard +pavement--a matter of five feet. The Frenchman got up raging, and made +for the door; but this time he was met by the landlord, who gave him his +hat, and bade him come no more. There was applause from both English and +French. The journalist chuckled--another column! + +Gaston had acted with coolness and common-sense; and when he sat down +and began talking of the Englishman's picture again as if nothing had +happened, the others followed, and the meal went on cheerfully. + +Presently another young English painter entered, and listened to the +conversation, which Gaston brought back to Una and the lions. It was his +way to force things to his liking, if possible; and he wanted to hear +about the woman--why, he did not ask himself. The new arrival, Fancourt +by name, kept looking at him quizzically. Gaston presently said that he +would visit the menagerie and see this famous dompteuse that afternoon. + +"She's a brick," said Bagshot. "I was in debt, a year behind with my +Pelletier here, and it took all I got for 'A Passion in the Desert' to +square up. I'd nothing to go on with. I spent my last sou in visiting +the menagerie. There I got an idea. I went to her, told her how I was +fixed, and begged her to give me a chance. By Jingo! she brought the +water to my eyes. Some think she's a bit of a devil; but she can be a +devil of a saint, that's all I've got to say." + +"Zoug-Zoug's responsible for the devil," said Fancourt to Bagshot. + +"Shut up, Fan," rejoined Bagshot, hurriedly, and then whispered to him +quickly. + +Fancourt sent self-conscious glances down the table towards Gaston; and +then a young American, newly come to Paris, said: + +"Who's Zoug-Zoug, and what's Zoug-Zoug?" + +"It's milk for babes, youngster," answered Bagshot quickly, and changed +the conversation. + +Gaston saw something strange in the little incident; but he presently +forgot it for many a day, and then remembered it for many a day, when the +wheel had spun through a wild arc. + +When they rose from the table, Meyerbeer went to Bagshot, and said: + +"Say, who's Zoug-Zoug, anyway?!" Bagshot coolly replied: + +"I'm acting for another paper. What price?" + +"Fifty dollars," in a low voice, eagerly. Bagshot meditated. + +"H'm, fifty dollars! Two hundred and fifty francs, or thereabouts. +Beggarly!" + +"A hundred, then." + +Bagshot got to his feet, lighting a cigarette. + +"Want to have a pretty story against a woman, and to smutch a man, do +you? Well, I'm hard up; I don't mind gossip among ourselves; but sell +the stuff to you--I'll see you damned first!" + +This was said sufficiently loud; and after that, Meyerbeer could not ask +Fancourt, so he departed with Gaston, who courteously dismissed him, to +his astonishment and regret, for he had determined to visit the menagerie +with his quarry. + +Gaston went to his apartments, and cheerily summoned Jacques. + +"Now, little man, for a holiday! The menagerie: lions, leopards, and a +grand dompteuse; and afterwards dinner with me at the Cafe Blanche. I +want a blow-out of lions and that sort. I'd like to be a lion-tamer +myself for a month, or as long as might be." + +He caught Jacques by the shoulders--he had not done so since that +memorable day at Ridley Court. "See, Jacques, we'll do this every year. +Six months in England, and three months on the Continent,--in your +France, if you like,--and three months in the out-of-the-wayest place, +where there'll be big game. Hidalgos for six months, Goths for the +rest." + +A half-hour later they were in the menagerie. They sat near the +doors where the performers entered. For a long time they watched the +performance with delight, clapping and calling bravo like boys. +Presently the famous dompteuse entered,--Mademoiselle Victorine,--passing +just below Gaston. He looked down, interested, at the supple, lithe +creature making for the cages of lions in the amphitheatre. The figure +struck him as familiar. Presently the girl turned, throwing a glance +round the theatre. He caught the dash of the dark, piercing eyes, the +luminous look, the face unpainted--in its own natural colour: neither hot +health nor paleness, but a thing to bear the light of day. "Andree the +gipsy!" he exclaimed in a low tone. + +In less than two years this! Here was fame. A wanderer, an Ishmael +then, her handful of household goods and her father in the grasp of the +Law: to-day, Mademoiselle Victorine, queen of animal-tamers! And her +name associated with the Comte Ploare! + +With the Comte Ploare? Had it come to that? He remembered the look in +her face when he bade her good-bye. Impossible! Then, immediately he +laughed. + +Why impossible? And why should he bother his head about it? People of +this sort: Mademoiselle Cerise, Madame Juliette, Mademoiselle Victorine-- +what were they to him, or to themselves? + +There flashed through his brain three pictures: when he stood by the +bedside of the old dying Esquimaux in Labrador, and took a girl's hand in +his; when among the flowers at Peppingham he heard Delia say: "Oh, +Gaston! Gaston!" and Alice's face at midnight in the moonlit window at +Ridley Court. + +How strange this figure--spangled, gaudy, standing among her lions-- +seemed by these. To think of her, his veins thumping thus, was an insult +to all three: to Delia, one unpardonable. And yet he could not take his +eyes off her. Her performance was splendid. He was interested, +speculative. She certainly had flown high; for, again, why should not a +dompteuse be a decent woman? And here were money, fame of a kind, and an +occupation that sent his blood bounding. A dompteur! He had tamed +moose, and young mountain lions, and a catamount, and had had mad hours +with pumas and arctic bears; and he could understand how even he might +easily pass from M.P. to dompteur. It was not intellectual, but it was +power of a kind; and it was decent, and healthy, and infinitely better +than playing the Jew in business, or keeping a tavern, or "shaving" +notes, and all that. Truly, the woman was to be admired, for she was +earning an honest living; and no doubt they lied when they named her with +Count Ploare. He kept coming back to that--Count Ploare! Why could they +not leave these women alone? Did they think none of them virtuous? He +would stake his life that Andree--he would call her that--was as straight +as the sun. + +"What do you think of her, Jacques?!" he said suddenly. + +"It is grand. Mon Dieu, she is wonderful--and a face all fire!" + +Presently she came out of the cage, followed by two great lions. She +walked round the ring, a hand on the head of each: one growling, the +other purring against her, with a ponderous kind of affection. She +talked to them as they went, giving occasionally a deep purring sound +like their own. Her talk never ceased. She looked at the audience, but +only as in a dream. Her mind was all with the animals. There was +something splendid in it: she, herself, was a noble animal; and she +seemed entirely in place where she was. The lions were fond of her, and +she of them; but the first part of her performance had shown that they +could be capricious. A lion's love is but a lion's love after all--and +hers likewise, no doubt! The three seemed as one in their beauty, the +woman superbly superior. Meyerbeer, in a far corner, was still on the +trail of his sensation. He thought that he might get an article out of +it--with the help of Count Ploare and Zoug-Zoug. Who was Zoug-Zoug? +He exulted in her picturesqueness, and he determined to lie in wait. He +thought it a pity that Comte Ploare was not an Englishman or an American; +but it couldn't be helped. Yes, she was, as he said to himself, "a +stunner." Meanwhile he watched Gaston, noted his intense interest. + +Presently the girl stopped beside the cage. A chariot was brought out, +and the two lions were harnessed to it. Then she called out another +larger lion, which came unwillingly at first. She spoke sharply, and +then struck him. He growled, but came on. Then she spoke softly to him, +and made that peculiar purr, soft and rich. Now he responded, walked +round her, coming closer, till his body made a half-circle about her, and +his head was at her knees. She dropped her hand on it. Great applause +rang through the building. This play had been quite accidental. But +there lay one secret of the girl's success. She was original; she +depended greatly on the power of the moment for her best effects, and +they came at unexpected times. + +It was at this instant that, glancing round the theatre in acknowledgment +of the applause, her eyes rested mechanically on Gaston's box. There was +generally some one important in that box: from a foreign prince to a +young gentleman whose proudest moment was to take off his hat in the Bois +to the queen of a lawless court. She had tired of being introduced to +princes. What could it mean to her? And for the young bloods, whose +greatest regret was that they could not send forth a daughter of joy into +the Champs Elysee in her carriage, she had ever sent them about their +business. She had no corner of pardon for them. She kissed her lions, +she hugged the lion's cub that rode back and forth with her to the +menagerie day by day--her companion in her modest apartments; but sell +one of these kisses to a young gentleman of Paris, whose ambition was to +master all the vices, and then let the vices master him!--she had not +come to that, though, as she said in some bitter moments, she had come +far. + +Count Ploare--there was nothing in that. A blase man of the world, who +had found it all not worth the bothering about, neither code nor people-- +he saw in this rich impetuous nature a new range of emotions, a brief +return to the time when he tasted an open strong life in Algiers, in +Tahiti. And he would laugh at the world by marrying her--yes, actually +marrying her, the dompteuse! Accident had let him render her a service, +not unimportant, once at Versailles, and he had been so courteous and +considerate afterwards, that she had let him see her occasionally, but +never yet alone. He soon saw that an amour was impossible. At last he +spoke of marriage. She shook her head. She ought to have been grateful, +but she was not. Why should she be? She did not know why he wished to +marry her; but, whatever the reason, he was selfish. Well, she would be +selfish. She did not care for him. If she married him, it would be +because she was selfish: because of position, ease; for protection in +this shameless Paris; and for a home, she who had been a wanderer since +her birth. + +It was mere bargaining. But at last her free, independent nature +revolted. No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of +man, for three months that were burned into her brain--no more! If ever +she loved--all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the +affection she gave her lions freely. + +The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered a +price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as +such a man could be. She even visited his wife occasionally, and gave +gifts to his children; and the mother trusted her and told her her +trials. And so the thing went on, and the people talked. + +As we said, she turned her eyes to Gaston's box. Instantly they became +riveted, and then a deep flush swept slowly up her face and burned into +her splendid hair. Meyerbeer was watching through his opera-glasses. +He gave an exclamation of delight: + +"By the holy smoke, here's something!" he said aloud. + +For an instant Gaston and the girl looked at each other intently. He +made a slight sign of recognition with his hand, and then she turned +away, gone a little pale now. She stood looking at her lions, as if +trying to recollect herself. The lion at her feet helped her. He had +a change of temper, and, possibly fretting under inaction, growled. At +once she summoned him to get into the chariot. He hesitated, but did so. +She put the reins in his paws and took her place behind. Then a robe of +purple and ermine was thrown over her shoulders by an attendant; she gave +a sharp command, and the lions came round the ring, to wild applause. +Even a Parisian audience had never seen anything like this. It was +amusing too; for the coachman-lion was evidently disgusted with his task, +and growled in a helpless kind of way. + +As they passed Gaston's box, they were very near. The girl threw one +swift glance; but her face was well controlled now. She heard, however, +a whispered word come to her: + +"Andree!" + +A few moments afterwards she retired, and the performance was in other +and less remarkable hands. Presently the manager himself came, and said +that Mademoiselle Victorine would be glad to see Monsieur Belward if he +so wished. Gaston left Jacques, and went. + +Meyerbeer noticed the move, and determined to see the meeting if +possible. There was something in it, he was sure. He would invent an +excuse, and make his way behind. + +Gaston and the manager were in the latter's rooms waiting for Victorine. +Presently a messenger came, saying that Monsieur Belward would find +Mademoiselle in her dressing-room. Thither Gaston went, accompanied by +the manager, who, however, left him at the door, nodding good-naturedly +to Victorine, and inwardly praying that here was no danger to his +business, for Victorine was a source of great profit. Yet he had failed +himself, and all others had failed in winning her--why should this man +succeed, if that was his purpose? + +There was present an elderly, dark-featured Frenchwoman, who was always +with Victorine, vigilant, protective, loving her as her own daughter. + +"Monsieur!" said Andree, a warm colour in her cheek. Gaston shook her +hand cordially, and laughed. "Mademoiselle--Andree?" + +He looked inquiringly. "Yes, to you," she said. + +"You have it all your own way now--isn't it so?" "With the lions, yes. +Please sit down. This is my dear keeper," she said, touching the woman's +shoulder. Then, to the woman: "Annette, you have heard me speak of this +gentleman?" + +The woman nodded, and modestly touched Gaston's outstretched hand. + +"Monsieur was kind once to my dear Mademoiselle," she said. + +Gaston cheerily smiled: + +"Nothing, nothing, upon my word!" Presently he continued: + +"Your father, what of him?" She sighed and shivered a little. + +"He died in Auvergne three months after you saw him." + +"And you?" He waved a hand towards the menagerie. + +"It is a long story," she answered, not meeting his eyes. "I hated the +Romany life. I became an artist's model; sickened of that,"--her voice +went quickly here, "joined a travelling menagerie, and became what I am. +That in brief." + +"You have done well," he said admiringly, his face glowing. + +"I am a successful dompteuse," she replied. + +She then asked him who was his companion in the box. He told her. +She insisted on sending for Jacques. Meanwhile they talked of her +profession, of the animals. She grew eloquent. Jacques arrived, and +suddenly remembered Andree--stammered, was put at his ease, and dropped +into talk with Annette. Gaston fell into reminiscences of wild game, and +talked intelligently, acutely of her work. He must wait, she said, until +the performance closed, and then she would show him the animals as a +happy family. Thus a half-hour went by. + +Meanwhile, Meyerbeer had asked the manager to take him to Mademoiselle; +but was told that Victorine never gave information to journalists, and +would not be interviewed. Besides, she had a visitor. Yes, Meyerbeer +knew it--Mr. Gaston Belward; but that did not matter. The manager +thought it did matter. Then, with an idea of the future, Meyerbeer asked +to be shown the menagerie thoroughly--he would write it up for England +and America. + +And so it happened that there were two sets of people inspecting the +menagerie after the performance. Andree let a dozen of the animals out-- +lions, leopards, a tiger, and a bear,--and they gambolled round her +playfully, sometimes quarrelling with each other, but brought up smartly +by her voice and a little whip, which she always carried--the only sign +of professional life about her, though there was ever a dagger hid in her +dress. For the rest, she looked a splendid gipsy. + +Gaston suddenly asked if he might visit her. At the moment she was +playing with the young tiger. She paused, was silent, preoccupied. The +tiger, feeling neglected, caught her hand with its paw, tearing the skin. +Gaston whipped out his handkerchief, and stanched the blood. She wrapped +the handkerchief quickly round her hand, and then, recovering herself, +ordered the animals back into their cages. They trotted away, and the +attendant locked them up. Meanwhile Jacques had picked up and handed to +Gaston a letter, dropped when he drew out his handkerchief. It was one +received two days before from Delia Gasgoyne. He had a pang of +confusion, and hastily put it into his pocket. + +Up to this time there had been no confusion in his mind. He was going +back to do his duty; to marry the girl, union with whom would be an +honour; to take his place in his kingdom. He had had no minute's doubt +of that. It was necessary, and it should be done. The girl? Did he not +admire her, honour her, care for her? Why, then, this confusion? + +Andree said to him that he might come the next morning for breakfast. +She said it just as the manager and Meyerbeer passed her. Meyerbeer +heard it, and saw the look in the faces of both: in hers, bewildered, +warm, penetrating; in Gaston's, eager, glowing, bold, with a distant kind +of trouble. + +Here was a thickening plot for Paul Pry. He hugged himself. But who was +Zoug-Zoug? If he could but get at that! He asked the manager, who said +he did not know. He asked a dozen men that evening, but none knew. He +would ask Ian Belward. What a fool not to have thought of him at first. +He knew all the gossip of Paris, and was always communicative--but was +he, after all? He remembered now that the painter had a way of talking +at discretion: he had never got any really good material from him. But +he would try him in this. + +So, as Gaston and Jacques travelled down the Boulevard Montparnasse, +Meyerbeer was not far behind. The journalist found Ian Belward at home, +in a cynical indolent mood. + +"Wherefore Meyerbeer?!" he said, as he motioned the other to a chair, and +pushed over vermouth and cigarettes. + +"To ask a question." + +"One question? Come, that's penance. Aren't you lying as usual?" + +"No; one only. I've got the rest of it." + +"Got the rest of it, eh? Nasty mess you've got, whatever it is, I'll be +bound. What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers!" + +"That's all right. This vermouth is good enough. Well, will you answer +my question?" + +"Possibly, if it's not personal. But Lord knows where your insolence may +run! You may ask if I'll introduce you to a decent London club!" + +Meyerbeer flushed at last. + +"You're rubbing it in," he said angrily. + +He did wish to be introduced to a good London club. "The question isn't +personal, I guess. It's this: Who's Zoug-Zoug?" + +Smoke had come trailing out of Belward's nose, his head thrown back, his +eyes on the ceiling. It stopped, and came out of his mouth on one long, +straight whiff. Then the painter brought his head to a natural position +slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said: + +"Who is what?" + +"Who's Zoug-Zoug?" + +"That is your one solitary question, is it?" + +"That's it." + +"Very well. Now, I'll be scavenger. What is the story? Who is the +woman--for you've got a woman in it, that's certain?" + +"Will you tell me, then, whether you know Zoug-Zoug?" + +"Yes." + +"The woman is Mademoiselle Victorine, the dompteuse." + +"Ah, I've not seen her yet. She burst upon Paris while I was away. Now, +straight: no lies: who are the others?" + +Meyerbeer hesitated; for, of course, he did not wish to speak of Gaston +at this stage in the game. But he said: + +"Count Ploare--and Zoug-Zoug." + +"Why don't you tell me the truth?" + +"I do. Now, who is Zoug-Zoug?" + +"Find out." + +"You said you'd tell me." + +"No. I said I'd tell you if I knew Zoug-Zoug. I do." + +"That's all you'll tell me?" + +"That's all. And see, scavenger, take my advice and let Zoug-Zoug alone. +He's a man of influence; and he's possessed of a devil. He'll make you +sorry, if you meddle with him!" + +He rose, and Meyerbeer did the same, saying: "You'd better tell me." + +"Now, don't bother me. Drink your vermouth, take that bundle of +cigarettes, and hunt Zoug-Zoug else where. If you find him, let me know. +Good-bye." + +Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic. + +"I'll give a sweet savour to your family name," he said with an oath, as +he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at +the ceiling reflectively. + +"H'm!" he said at last. "What the devil does this mean? Not Andree, +surely not Andree! Yet I wasn't called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was +Bagshot's insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!" + +He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, put +them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half +quizzically. + +"It was rough on you, Andree; but you were hard to please, and I am +constant to but one. Yet, begad, you had solid virtues; and I wish, for +your sake, I had been a different kind of fellow. Well, well, we'll meet +again some time, and then we'll be good friends, no doubt." + +He turned away from the sketches and picked up some illustrated +newspapers. In one was a portrait. He looked at it, then at the +sketches again and again. + +"There's a resemblance," he said. "But no, it's not possible. Andree- +Mademoiselle Victorine! That would be amusing. I'd go to-morrow and +see, if I weren't off to Fontainebleau. But there's no hurry: when I +come back will do." + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN + +At Ridley Court and Peppingham all was serene to the eye. Letters had +come to the Court at least once every two weeks from Gaston, and the +minds of the Baronet and his wife were at ease. They even went so far as +to hope that he would influence his uncle; for it was clear to them both +that whatever Gaston's faults were, they were agreeably different from +Ian's. His fame and promise were sweet to their nostrils. Indeed, the +young man had brought the wife and husband nearer than they had been +since Robert vanished over-sea. Each had blamed the other in an +indefinite, secret way; but here was Robert's son, on whom they could +lavish--as they did--their affection, long since forfeited by Ian. +Finally, one day, after a little burst of thanksgiving, on getting an +excellent letter from Gaston, telling of his simple, amusing life in +Paris, Sir William sent him one thousand pounds, begging him to buy a +small yacht, or to do what he pleased with it. + +"A very remarkable man, my dear," Sir William said, as he enclosed the +cheque. "Excellent wisdom--excellent!" + +"Who could have guessed that he knew so much about the poor and the East +End, and all those social facts and figures?!" Lady Belward answered +complacently. + +"An unusual mind, with a singular taste for history, and yet a deep +observation of the present. I don't know when and how he does it. I +really do not know." + +"It is nice to think that Lord Faramond approves of him." + +"Most noticeable. And we have not been a Parliamentary family since +the first Charles's time. And then it was a Gaston. Singular--quite +singular! Coincidences of looks and character. Nature plays strange +games. Reproduction--reproduction!" + +"The Pall Mall Gazette says that he may soon reach the Treasury Bench." + +Sir William was abstracted. He was thinking of that afternoon in +Gaston's bedroom, when his grandson had acted, before Lady Dargan and +Cluny Vosse, Sir Gaston's scene with Buckingham. + +"Really, most mysterious, most unaccountable. But it's one of the +virtues of having a descent. When it is most needed, it counts, it +counts." + +"Against the half-breed mother!" Lady Belward added. + +"Quite so, against the--was it Cree or Blackfoot? I've heard him speak +of both, but which is in him I do not remember." + +"It is very painful; but, poor fellow, it is not his fault, and we ought +to be content." + +"Indeed, it gives him great originality. Our old families need +refreshing now and then." + +"Ah, yes, I said so to Mrs. Gasgoyne the other day, and she replied that +the refreshment might prove intoxicating. Reine was always rude." + +Truth is, Mrs. Gasgoyne was not quite satisfied. That very day she said +to her husband: + +"You men always stand by each other; but I know you, and you know that I +know." + +"'Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts'; well, then, you know how we +love you. So, be merciful." + +"Nonsense, Warren! I tell you he oughtn't to have gone when he did. He +has the wild man in him, and I am not satisfied." + +"What do you want--me to play the spy?" + +"Warren, you're a fool! What do I want? I want the first of September +to come quickly, that we may have him with us. With Delia he must go +straight. She influences him, he admires her--which is better than mere +love. Away from her just now, who can tell what mad adventure--! You +see, he has had the curb so long!" + +But in a day or two there came a letter-unusually long for Gaston-- +to Mrs. Gasgoyne herself. It was simple, descriptive, with a dash of +epigram. It acknowledged that he had felt the curb, and wanted a touch +of the unconventional. It spoke of Ian Belward in a dry phrase, and it +asked for the date of the yacht's arrival at Gibraltar. + +"Warren, the man is still sensible," she said. "This letter is honest. +He is much a heathen at heart, but I believe he hasn't given Delia cause +to blush--and that's a good deal! Dear me, I am fond of the fellow-- +he is so clever. But clever men are trying." + +As for Delia, like every sensible English girl, she enjoyed herself +in the time of youth, drinking in delightedly the interest attaching +to Gaston's betrothed. His letters had been regular, kind yet not +emotionally affectionate, interesting, uncommon. He had a knack of +saying as much in one page as most people did in five. Her imagination +was not great, but he stimulated it. If he wrote a pungent line on +Daudet or Whistler, on Montaigne or Fielding, she was stimulated to know +them. One day he sent her Whitman's Leaves of Grass, which he had picked +up in New York on his way to England. This startled her. She had +never heard of Whitman. To her he seemed coarse, incomprehensible, +ungentlemanly. She could not understand how Gaston could say beautiful +things about Montaigne and about Whitman too. She had no conception how +he had in him the strain of that first Sir Gaston Belward, and was also +the son of a half-heathen. + +He interested her all the more. Her letters were hardly so fascinating +to him. She was beautifully correct, but she could not make a sentence +breathe. He was grateful, but nothing stirred in him. He could live +without her--that he knew regretfully. But he did his part with sincere +intention. + +That was up to the day when he saw Andree as Mademoiselle Victorine. +Then came a swift change. Day after day he visited her, always in the +presence of Annette. Soon they dined often together, still in Annette's +presence, and the severity of that rule was never relaxed. + +Count Ploare came no more; he had received his dismissal. Occasionally +Gaston visited the menagerie, but generally after the performance, when +Victorine had a half-hour's or an hour's romp with her animals. This was +a pleasant time to Gaston. The wild life in him responded. + +These were hours when the girl was quite naive and natural, when she +spent herself in ripe enjoyment--almost child-like, healthy. At other +times there was an indefinable something which Gaston had not noticed in +England. But then he had only seen her once. She, too, saw something in +him unnoticed before. It was on his tongue a hundred times to tell her +that that something was Delia Gasgoyne. He did not. Perhaps because it +seemed so grotesque, perhaps because it was easier to drift. Besides, as +he said to himself, he would soon go to join the yacht at Gibraltar, and +all this would be over-over. All this? All what? A gipsy, a dompteuse +--what was she to him? She interested him, he liked her, and she liked +him, but there had been nothing more between them. Near as he was to her +now, he very often saw her in his mind's eye as she passed over Ridley +Common, looking towards him, her eyes shaded by her hand. + +She, too, had continually said to herself that this man could be nothing +to her--nothing, never! Yet, why not? Count Ploare had offered her his +hand. But she knew what had been in Count Ploare's mind. Gaston Belward +was different--he had befriended her father. She had not singular +scruples regarding men, for she despised most of them. She was not a +Mademoiselle Cerise, nor a Madame Juliette, though they were higher on +the plane of art than she; or so the world put it. She had not known a +man who had not, one time or another, shown himself common or insulting. +But since the first moment she had seen Gaston, he had treated her as a +lady. + +A lady? She had seen enough to smile at that. She knew that she hadn't +it in her veins, that she was very much an actress, except in this man's +company, when she was mostly natural--as natural as one can be who +has a painful secret. They had talked together--for how many hours? +She knew exactly. And he had never descended to that which--she felt +instinctively--he would not have shown to the ladies of his English +world. She knew what ladies were. In her first few weeks in Paris, +her fame mounting, she had lunched with some distinguished people, who +entertained her as they would have done one of her lions, if that were +possible. She understood. She had a proud, passionate nature; she +rebelled at this. Invitations were declined at first on pink note-paper +with gaudy flowers in a corner, afterwards on cream-laid vellum, when she +saw what the great folk did. + +And so the days went on, he telling her of his life from his boyhood up +--all but the one thing! But that one thing she came to know, partly by +instinct, partly by something he accidentally dropped, partly from +something Jacques once said to him. Well, what did it matter to her? +He would go back; she would remain. It didn't matter.--Yet, why should +she lie to herself? It did matter. And why should she care about that +girl in England? She was not supposed to know. The other had everything +in her favour; what had Andree the gipsy girl, or Mademoiselle Victorine, +the dompteuse? + +One Sunday evening, after dining together, she asked him to take her to +see Saracen. It was a long-standing promise. She had never seen him +riding; for their hours did not coincide until the late afternoon or +evening. Taking Annette, they went to his new apartments. He had +furnished a large studio as a sitting-room, not luxuriantly but +pleasantly. It opened into a pretty little garden, with a few plants +and trees. They sat there while Jacques went for the horse. Next door +a number of students were singing a song of the boulevards. It was +followed by one in a woman's voice, sweet and clear and passionate, +pitifully reckless. It was, as if in pure contradiction, the opposite +of the other--simple, pathetic. At first there were laughing +interruptions from the students; but the girl kept on, and soon silence +prevailed, save for the voice: + + "And when the wine is dry upon the lip, + And when the flower is broken by the hand, + And when I see the white sails of thy ship + Fly on, and leave me there upon the sand: + Think you that I shall weep? Nay, I shall smile: + The wine is drunk, the flower it is gone, + One weeps not when the days no more beguile, + How shall the tear-drops gather in a stone?" + +When it was ended, Andree, who had listened intently, drew herself up +with a little shudder. She sat long, looking into the garden, the cub +playing at her feet. Gaston did not disturb her. He got refreshments +and put them on the table, rolled a cigarette, and regarded the scene. +Her knee was drawn up slightly in her hands, her hat was off, her rich +brown hair fell loosely about her head, framing it, her dark eyes glowed +under her bent brows. The lion's cub crawled up on the divan, and thrust +its nose under an arm. Its head clung to her waist. Who was she? +thought Gaston. Delilah, Cleopatra--who? She was lost in thought. She +remained so until the garden door opened, and Jacques entered with +Saracen. + +She looked. Suddenly she came to her feet with a cry of delight, and ran +out towards the horse. There was something essentially child-like in +her, something also painfully wild-an animal, and a philosopher, and +twenty-three. + +Jacques put out his hand as he had done with Mademoiselle Cerise. + +"No, no; he is savage." + +"Nonsense!" she rejoined, and came closer. + +Gaston watched, interested. He guessed what she would do. + +"A horse!" she added. "Why, you have seen my lions! Leave him free: +stand away from him." + +Her words were peremptory, and Jacques obeyed. The horse stood alone, +a hoof pawing the ground. Presently it sprang away, then half-turned +towards the girl, and stood still. She kept talking to him and calling +softly, making a coaxing, animal-like sound, as she always did with her +lions. + +She stepped forward a little and paused. The horse suddenly turned +straight towards her, came over slowly, and, with arched neck, dropped +his head on her shoulder. She felt the folds of his neck and kissed him. +He followed her about the garden like a dog. She brought him to Gaston, +locked up, and said with a teasing look, "I have conquered him: he is +mine!" + +Gaston looked her in her eyes. "He is yours." + +"And you?" + +"He is mine." His look burned into her soul-how deep, how joyful! + +She turned away, her face going suddenly pale. She kept the horse for +some time, but at last gave him up again to Jacques. Gaston stepped from +the doorway into the garden and met her. It was now dusk. Annette was +inside. They walked together in silence for a time. Presently she drew +close to him. He felt his veins bounding. Her hand slid into his arm, +and, dark as it was, he could see her eyes lifting to his, shining, +profound. They had reached the end of the garden, and now turned to come +back again. + +Suddenly he said, his eyes holding hers: "The horse is yours--and mine." + +She stood still; but he could see her bosom heaving hard. She threw up +her head with a sound half sob, half laugh. . . . + +"You are mad!" she said a moment afterwards, as she lifted her head from +his breast. + +He laughed softly, catching her cheek to his. "Why be sane? It was to +be." + +"The gipsy and the gentleman?" + +"Gipsies all!" + +"And the end of it?" + +"Do you not love me, Andree?" She caught her hands over her eyes. + +"I do not know what it is--only that it is madness! I see, oh, I see a +hundred things." + +Her hot eyes were on space. "What do you see?!" he urged. She gave a +sudden cry: + +"I see you at my feet--dead." + +"Better than you at mine, Andree." + +"Let us go," she said hurriedly. + +"Wait," he whispered. + +They talked for a little time. Then they entered the studio. Annette +was asleep in her chair. Andree waked her, and they bade Gaston good- +night. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +WHEREIN LOVE KNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN'S WILL + +In another week it was announced that Mademoiselle Victorine would take a +month's holiday; to the sorrow of her chief, and to the delight of Mr. +Meyerbeer, who had not yet discovered his man, though he had a pretty +scandal well-nigh brewed. + +Count Ploare was no more, Gaston Belward was. Zoug-Zoug was in the +country at Fontainebleau, working at his picture. He had left on the +morning after Gaston discovered Andree. He had written, asking his +nephew to come for some final sittings. Possibly, he said, Mademoiselle +Cerise and others would be down for a Sunday. Gaston had not gone, had +briefly declined. His uncle shrugged his shoulders, and went on with +other work. It would end in his having to go to Paris and finish the +picture there, he said. Perhaps the youth was getting into mischief? +So much the better. He took no newspapers.--What did an artist need of +them? He did not even read the notices sent by a press-cutting agency. +He had a model with him. She amused him for the time, but it was +unsatisfactory working on "The King of Ys" from photographs. He loathed +it, and gave it up. + +One evening Gaston and Andree met at the Gare Montparnasse. Jacques +was gone on, but Annette was there. Meyerbeer was there also, at a safe +distance. He saw Gaston purchase tickets, arrange his baggage, and enter +the train. He passed the compartment, looking in. Besides the three, +there was a priest and a young soldier. + +Gaston saw him, and guessed what brought him there. He had an impulse to +get out and shake him as would Andree's cub a puppy. But the train moved +off. Meyerbeer found Gaston's porter. A franc did the business. + +"Douarnenez, for Audierne, Brittany," was the legend written in +Meyerbeer's note-book. And after that: "Journey twenty hours--change at +Rennes, Redon, and Quimpere." + +"Too far. I've enough for now," said Meyerbeer, chuckling, as he walked +away. "But I'd give five hundred dollars to know who Zoug-Zoug is. I'll +make another try." + +So he held his sensation back for a while yet. Of the colony at the +Hotel St. Malo, not one of the three who knew would tell him. Bagshot +had sworn the others to secrecy. + +Jacques had gone on with the horses. He was to rent a house, or get +rooms at a hotel. He did very well. The horses were stalled at the +Hotel de France. He had rented an old chateau perched upon a hill, with +steps approaching, steps flanking; near it strange narrow alleys, leading +where one cared not to search; a garden of pears and figs, and grapes, +and innumerable flowers and an arbour; a pavilion, all windows, over an +entranceway, with a shrine in it--a be-starred shrine below it; bare +floors, simple furniture, primitiveness at every turn. + +Gaston and Andree came, of choice, with a courier in a racketing old +diligence from Douarnenez, and they laughed with delight, tired as they +were, at the new quarters. It must be a gipsy kind of existence at the +most. + +There were rooms for Jacques and Annette, who at once set to work with +the help of a little Breton maid. Jacques had not ordered a dinner at +the hotel, but had got in fresh fish, lobsters, chickens, eggs, and other +necessaries; and all was ready for a meal which could be got in an hour. + +Jacques had now his hour of happiness. He knew not of these morals-- +they were beyond him; but after a cheerful dinner in the pavilion, with +an omelette made by Andree herself, Annette went to her room and cried +herself to sleep. She was civilised, poor soul, and here they were a +stone's throw from the cure and the church! Gaston and Andree, +refreshed, travelled down the long steps to the village, over the place, +along the quay, to the lighthouse and the beach, through crowds of +sardine fishers and simple hard-tongued Bretons. Cheerful, buoyant at +dinner, there now came upon the girl an intense quiet and fatigue. She +stood and looked long at the sea. Gaston tried to rouse her. + +"This is your native Brittany, Andree," he said. She pointed far over +the sea: + +"Near that light at Penmark I was born." + +"Can you speak the Breton language?" + +"Far worse than you speak Parisian French." + +He laughed. "You are so little like these people!" + +She had vanity. That had been part of her life. Her beauty had brought +trade when she was a gipsy; she had been the admired of Paris: she was +only twenty three. Presently she became restless, and shrank from him. +Her eyes had a flitting hunted look. Once they met his with a wild sort +of pleading or revolt, he could not tell which, and then were continually +turned away. + +If either could have known how hard the little dwarf of sense and memory +was trying to tell her something. + +This new phase stunned him. What did it mean? He touched her hand. +It was hot, and withdrew from his. He put his arm around her, and she +shivered, cringed. But then she was a woman, he thought. He had met +one unlike any he had ever known. He would wait. He would be patient. +Would she come--home? She turned passively and took his arm. He talked, +but he knew he was talking poorly, and at last he became silent also. +But when they came to the steep steps leading to the chateau, he lifted +her in his arms, carried her to the house, and left her at their chamber- +door. + +Then he went to the pavilion to smoke. He had no wish to think-- +at least of anything but the girl. It was not a time for retrospect, +but to accept a situation. The die had been cast. He had followed what +--his nature, his instincts? The consequence? + +He heard Andree's voice. He went to her. + +The next morning they were in the garden walking about. They had been +speaking, but now both were silent. At last he turned again to her. + +"Andree, who was the other man?!" he asked quietly, but with a strange +troubled look in his eyes. + +She shrank away confused, a kind of sickness in her eyes. + +"What does it matter?!" she said. + +"Of course, of course," he returned in a low, nerveless tone. + +They were silent for a long time. Meanwhile, she seemed to beat up +a feverish cheerfulness. At last she said: + +"Where do we go this afternoon, Gaston?" + +"We will see," he replied. + +The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was +impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned, +entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion +to redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much. + +They rode, they took excursions in fishing-boats and little sail-boats. +Andree entered into these with zest: talked to the sailors, to Jacques, +caressed children, and was not indifferent to the notice she attracted in +the village; but was obviously distrait. Gaston was patient--and +unhappy. So, this was the merchandise for which he had bartered all! +But he had a will, he was determined; he had sowed, he would reap his +harvest to the useless stubble. + +"Do you wish to go back to your work?!" he said quietly, once. + +"I have no work," she answered apathetically. He said no more just then. + +The days and weeks went by. The situation was impossible, not to be +understood. Gaston made his final move. He hoped that perhaps a forced +crisis might bring about a change. If it failed--he knew not what! +She was sitting in the garden below--he alone in the window, smoking. +A bundle of letters and papers, brought by the postman that evening, were +beside him. He would not open them yet. He felt that there was trouble +in them--he saw phrases, sentences flitting past him. But he would play +this other bitter game out first. He let them lie. He heard the bells +in the church ringing the village commerce done--it was nine o'clock. +The picture of that other garden in Paris came to him: that night when +he had first taken this girl into his arms. She sat below talking to +Annette and singing a little Breton chanson: + + "Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la lire! + Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la, la!" + +He called down to her presently. "Andree!" + +"Yes." + +"Will you come up for a moment, please?" + +"Surely." + +She came up, leaving the room door open, and bringing the cub with her. + +He called Jacques. + +"Take the cub to its quarters, Jacques," he said, quietly. + +She seemed about to protest, but sat back and watched him. He shut the +door--locked it. Then he came and sat down before her. + +"Andree," he said, "this is all impossible." + +"What is impossible?" + +"You know well. I am not a mere brute. The only thing that can redeem +this life is love." + +"That is true," she said, coldly. "What then?" + +"You do not redeem it. We must part." + +She laughed fitfully. "We must--?" + +She leaned towards him. + +"To-morrow evening you will go back to Paris. To-night we part, however: +that is, our relations cease." + +"I shall go from here when it pleases me, Gaston!" + +His voice came low and stern, but courteous: + +"You must go when I tell you. Do you think I am the weaker?" + +He could see her colour flying, her fingers lacing and interlacing. + +"Aren't you afraid to tell me that?!" she asked. + +"Afraid? Of my life--you mean that? That you will be as common as that? +No: you will do as I tell you." + +He fixed his eyes on hers, and held them. She sat, looking. Presently +she tried to take her eyes away. She could not. She shuddered and +shrank. + +He withdrew his eyes for a moment. "You will go?!" he asked. + +"It makes no difference," she answered; then added sharply: "Who are you, +to look at me like that, to--!" + +She paused. + +"I am your friend and your master!" + +He rose. "Good-night," he said, at the door, and went out. + +He heard the key turn in the lock. He had forgotten his papers and +letters. It did not matter. He would read them when she was gone--if +she did go. He was far from sure that he had succeeded. He went to bed +in another room, and was soon asleep. + +He was waked in the very early morning by feeling a face against his, +wet, trembling. + +"What is it, Andree?!" he asked. Her arms ran round his neck. + +"Oh, mon amour! Mon adore! Je t'aime! Je t'aime!" + +In the evening of this day she said she knew not how it was, but on that +first evening in Audierne there suddenly came to her a strange terrible +feeling, which seemed to dry up all the springs of her desire for him. +She could not help it. She had fought against it, but it was no use; yet +she knew that she could not leave him. After he had told her to go, she +had had a bitter struggle: now tears, now anger, and a wish to hate. At +last she fell asleep. When she awoke she had changed, she was her old +self, as in Paris, when she had first confessed her love. She felt that +she must die if she did not go to him. All the first passion returned, +the passion that began on the common at Ridley Court. "And now--now," +she said, "I know that I cannot live without you." + +It seemed so. Her nature was emptying itself. Gaston had got the +merchandise for which he had given a price yet to be known. + +"You asked me of the other man," she said. "I will tell you." + +"Not now," he said. "You loved him?" + +"No--ah God, no!" she answered. + +An hour after, when she was in her room, he opened the little bundle of +correspondence.--A memorandum with money from his bankers. A letter from +Delia, and also one from Mrs. Gasgoyne, saying that they expected to meet +him at Gibraltar on a certain day, and asking why he had not written; +Delia with sorrowful reserve, Mrs. Gasgoyne with impatience. His letters +had missed them--he had written on leaving Paris, saying that his plans +were indefinite, but he would write them definitely soon. After he came +to Audierne it seemed impossible to write. How could he? No, let the +American journalist do it. Better so. Better himself in the worst +light, with the full penalty, than his own confession--in itself an +insult. So it had gone on. He slowly tore up the letters. The next +were from his grandfather and grandmother--they did not know yet. He +could not read them. A few loving sentences, and then he said: + +"What's the good! Better not." He tore them up also. Another--from his +uncle. It was brief: + + You've made a sweet mess of it, Cadet. It's in all the papers to- + day. Meyerbeer telegraphed it to New York and London. I'll + probably come down to see you. I want to finish my picture on the + site of the old City of Ys, there at Point du Raz. Your girl can + pose with you. I'll do all I can to clear the thing up. But a + British M.P.--that's a tough pill for Clapham! + +Gaston's foot tapped the floor angrily. He scattered the pieces of the +letter at his feet. Now for the newspapers. He opened Le Petit Journal, +Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it was +there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation. +Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all +unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand: + +There was a previous friend of the lady, unknown to the public, called +Zoug-Zoug. + +He remembered that day at the Hotel St. Malo! Well, the bolt was shot: +the worst was over. Quid refert? Justify himself? + +Certainly, to all but Delia Gasgoyne. + +Thousands of men did the same--did it in cold blood, without one honest +feeling. He did it, at least under a powerful influence. He could not +help but smile now at the thought of how he had filled both sides of the +equation. On his father's side, bringing down the mad record from +Naseby; on his mother's, true to the heathen, by following his impulses +--sacred to primitive man, justified by spear, arrow, and a strong arm. +Why sheet home this as a scandal? How did they--the libellers--know but +that he had married the girl? Exactly. He would see to that. He would +play his game with open sincerity now. He could have wished secrecy for +Delia Gasgoyne, and for his grandfather and grandmother,--he was not +wilfully brutal,--but otherwise he had no shame at all; he would stand +openly for his right. Better one honest passion than a life of deception +and miserable compromise. A British M.P.?--He had thrown away his +reputation, said the papers. By this? The girl was no man's wife, he +was no woman's husband! + +Marry her? Yes, he would marry her; she should be his wife. His people? +It was a pity. Poor old people--they would fret and worry. He had been +selfish, had not thought of them? Well, who could foresee this outrage +of journalism? The luck had been dead against him. Did he not know +plenty of men in London--he was going to say the Commons, but he was +fairer to the Commons than it, as a body, would be to him--who did much +worse? These had escaped: the hunters had been after him. What would he +do? Take the whip? He got to his feet with an oath. Take the whip? +Never--never! He would fight this thing tooth and nail. Had he come to +England to let them use him for a sensation only--a sequence of +surprises, to end in a tragedy, all for the furtive pleasure of the +British breakfast-table? No, by the Eternal! What had the first Gaston +done? He had fought--fought Villiers and others, and had held up his +head beside his King and Rupert till the hour of Naseby. + +When the summer was over he would return to Paris, to London. The +journalist--punish him? No; too little--a product of his time. But +the British people he would fight, and he would not give up Ridley Court. +He could throw the game over when it was all his, but never when it was +going dead against him. + +That speech in the Commons? He remembered gladly that he had contended +for conceptions of social miseries according to surrounding influences of +growth and situation. He had not played the hypocrite. + +No, not even with Delia. He had acted honestly at the beginning, +and afterwards he had done what he could so long as he could. It was +inevitable that she must be hurt, even if he had married, not giving her +what he had given this dompteuse. After all, was it so terrible? It +could not affect her much in the eyes of the world. And her heart? He +did not flatter himself. Yet he knew that it would be the thing--the +fallen idol--that would grieve her more than thought of the man. He +wished that he could have spared her in the circumstances. But it had +all come too suddenly: it was impossible. He had spared, he could spare, +nobody. There was the whole situation. What now to do?--To remain here +while it pleased them, then Paris, then London for his fight. + +Three days went round. There were idle hours by the sea, little +excursions in a sail-boat to Penmark, and at last to Point du Raz. It +was a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze, and the point was glorified. +The boat ran in lightly between the steep dark shore and the comb of reef +that looked like a host of stealthy pumas crumbling the water. They +anchored in the Bay des Trepasses. An hour on shore exploring the caves, +and lunching, and then they went back to the boat, accompanied by a +Breton sailor, who had acted as guide. + +Gaston lay reading,--they were in the shade of the cliff,--while Andree +listened to the Breton tell the legends of the coast. At length Gaston's +attention was attracted. The old sailor was pointing to the shore, and +speaking in bad French. + +"Voila, madame, where the City of Ys stood long before the Bretons came. +It was a foolish ride." + +"I do not know the story. Tell me." + +"There are two or three, but mine is the oldest. A flood came--sent by +the gods, for the woman was impious. The king must ride with her into +the sea and leave her there, himself to come back, and so save the city." + +The sailor paused to scan the sea--something had struck him. He shook +his head. Gaston was watching Andree from behind his book. + +"Well, well," she said, impatiently, "what then? What did he do?" + +"The king took up the woman, and rode into the water as far as where you +see the great white stone--it has been there ever since. There he had a +fight--not with the woman, but in his heart. He turned to the people, +and cried: 'Dry be your streets, and as ashes your eyes for your king!' +And then he rode on with the woman till they saw him no more--never!" +Andree said instantly: + +"That was long ago. Now the king would ride back alone." + +She did not look at Gaston, but she knew that his eyes were on her. +He closed the book, got up, came forward to the sailor, who was again +looking out to sea, and said carelessly over his shoulder: + +"Men who lived centuries ago would act the same now, if they were here." + +Her response seemed quite as careless as his: "How do you know?" + +"Perhaps I had an innings then," he answered, smiling whimsically. + +She was about to speak again, but the guide suddenly said: + +"You must get away. There'll be a change of wind and a bad cross-current +soon." + +In a few minutes the two were bearing out--none too soon, for those pumas +crowded up once or twice within a fathom of their deck, devilish and +devouring. But they wore away with a capricious current, and down a +tossing sea made for Audierne. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE + +In a couple of hours they rounded Point de Leroily, and ran for the +harbour. By hugging the quay in the channel to the left of the bar, they +were sure of getting in, though the tide was low. The boat was docile to +the lug-sail and the helm. As they were beating in they saw a large +yacht running straight across a corner of the bar for the channel. It +was Warren Gasgoyne's Kismet. + +The Kismet had put into Audierne rather than try to pass Point du Raz +at night. At Gibraltar a telegram had come telling of the painful +sensation, and the yacht was instantly headed for England; Mrs. Gasgoyne +crossing the Continent, Delia preferring to go back with her father--his +sympathy was more tender. They had seen no newspapers, and they did not +know that Gaston was at Audierne. Gasgoyne knowing, as all the world +knew, that there was a bar at the mouth of the harbour, allowed himself, +as he thought, sufficient room, but the wind had suddenly drawn ahead, +and he was obliged to keep away. Presently the yacht took the ground +with great force. + +Gasgoyne put the helm hard down, but she would not obey. He tried at +once to get in his sails, but the surf was running very strong, and +presently a heavy sea broke clean over her. Then came confusion and +dismay: the flapping of the wet, half-lowered sails, and the whipping of +the slack ropes, making all effort useless. There was no chance of her- +holding. Foot by foot she was being driven towards the rocks. Sailors +stood motionless on the shore. The lifeboat would be of little use: +besides, it could not arrive for some time. + +Gaston had recognised the Kismet. He turned to Andree. + +"There's danger, but perhaps we can do it. Will you go?" + +She flushed. + +"Have I ever been a coward, Gaston? Tell me what to do." + +"Keep the helm firm, and act instantly on my orders." + +Instead of coming round into the channel, he kept straight on past the +lighthouse towards the yacht, until he was something to seaward of her. +Then, luffing quickly, he dropped sail, let go the anchor, and unshipped +the mast, while Andree got the oars into the rowlocks. It was his idea +to dip under the yacht's stern, but he found himself drifting alongside, +and in danger of dashing broadside on her. He got an oar and backed with +all his strength towards the stern, the anchor holding well. Then he +called to those on board to be ready to jump. Once in line with the +Kismet's counter, he eased off the painter rapidly, and now dropped +towards the stern of the wreck. + +Gaston was quite cool. He did not now think of the dramatic nature of +this meeting, apart from the physical danger. Delia also had recognised +him, and guessed who the girl was. Not to respond to Gaston's call was +her first instinct. But then, life was sweet. Besides, she had to think +of others. Her father, too, was chiefly concerned for her safety and for +his yacht. He had almost determined to get Delia on Gaston's boat, and +himself take the chances with the Kismet; but his sailors dissuaded him, +declaring that the chances were against succour. + +The only greetings were words of warning and direction from Gaston. +Presently there was an opportunity. Gaston called sharply to Delia, +and she, standing ready, jumped. He caught her in his arms as she +came. The boat swayed as the others leaped, and he held her close +meanwhile. Her eyes closed, she shuddered and went white. When he put +her down, she covered her face with her hands, trembling. Then, suddenly +she came huddling in a heap, and burst into tears. + +They slipped the painter, a sailor took Andree's place at the helm, the +oars were got out, and they made over to the channel, grazing the bar +once or twice, by reason of the now heavy load. + +Warren Gasgoyne and Gaston had not yet spoken in the way of greeting. +The former went to Delia now and said a few cheery words, but, from +behind her handkerchief, she begged him to leave her alone for a moment. + +"Nerves, all nerves, Mr. Belward," he said, turning towards Gaston. +"But, then, it was ticklish-ticklish." + +They did not shake hands. Gaston was looking at Delia, and he did not +reply. + +Mr. Gasgoyne continued: + +"Nasty sea coming on--afraid to try Point du Raz. Of course we didn't +know you were here." + +He looked at Andree curiously. He was struck by the girl's beauty and +force. But how different from Delia! + +He suddenly turned, and said bluntly, in a low voice: "Belward, what a +fool--what a fool! You had it all at your feet: the best--the very +best." + +Gaston answered quietly: + +"It's an awkward time for talking. The rocks will have your yacht in +half an hour." + +Gasgoyne turned towards it. + +"Yes, she'll get a raking fore and aft." Then, he added, suddenly: "Of +course you know how we feel about our rescue. It was plucky of you." + +"Pluckier in the girl," was the reply. "Brave enough," the honest +rejoinder. + +Gaston had an impulse to say, "Shall I thank her for you?" but he was +conscious how little right he had to be ironical with Warren Gasgoyne, +and he held his peace. + +While the two were now turned away towards the Kismet, Andree came to +Delia. She did not quite know how to comfort her, but she was a woman, +and perhaps a supporting arm would do something. + +"There, there," she said, passing a hand round her shoulder, "you are all +right now. Don't cry!" + +With a gasp of horror, Delia got to her feet, but swayed, and fell +fainting--into Andree's arms. + +She awoke near the landing-place, her father beside her. Meanwhile +Andree had read the riddle. As Mr. Gasgoyne bathed Delia's face, and +Gaston her wrists, and gave her brandy, she sat still and intent, +watching. Tears and fainting! Would she--Andree-have given way like +that in the same circumstances? No. But this girl--Delia--was of a +different order: was that it? All nerves and sentiment! At one of those +lunches in the grand world she had seen a lady burst into tears suddenly +at some one's reference to Senegal. She herself had only cried four +times, that she remembered; when her mother died; when her father was +called a thief; when, one day, she suffered the first great shame of her +life in the mountains of Auvergne; and the night when she waked a second +time to her love for Gaston. She dared to call it love, though good +Annette had called it a mortal sin. + +What was to be done? The other woman must suffer. + +The man was hers--hers for ever. He had said it: for ever. Yet her +heart had a wild hunger for that something which this girl had and she +had not. But the man was hers; she had won him away from this other. + +Delia came upon the quay bravely, passing through the crowd of staring +fishermen, who presently gave Gaston a guttural cheer. Three of them, +indeed, had been drinking his health. They embraced him and kissed him, +begging him to come with them for absinthe. He arranged the matter with +a couple of francs. + +Then he wondered what now was to be done. He could not insult the +Gasgoynes by asking them to come to the chateau. He proposed the Hotel +de France to Mr. Gasgoyne, who assented. It was difficult to separate +here on the quay: they must all walk together to the hotel. Gaston +turned to speak to Andree, but she was gone. She had saved the +situation. + +The three spoke little, and then but formally, as they walked to the +hotel. Mr. Gasgoyne said that they would leave by train for Paris the +next day, going to Douarnenez that evening. They had saved nothing from +the yacht. + +Delia did not speak. She was pale, composed now. In the hotel Mr. +Gasgoyne arranged for rooms, while Gaston got some sailors together, and, +in Mr. Gasgoyne's name, offered a price for the recovery of the yacht or +of certain things in her. Then he went into the hotel to see if he could +do anything further. The door of the sitting-room was open, and no +answer coming to his knock, he entered. + +Delia was standing in the window. Against her will her father had gone +to find a doctor. Gaston would have drawn back if she had not turned +round wearily to him. + +Perhaps it were well to get it over now. He came forward. She made no +motion. + +"I hope you feel better?!" he said. "It was a bad accident." + +"I am tired and shaken, of course," she responded. "It was very brave of +you." + +He hesitated, then said: + +"We were more fortunate than brave." + +He was determined to have Andree included. She deserved that; the wrong +to Delia was not hers. + +But she answered after the manner of a woman: "The girl--ah, yes, please +thank her for us. What is her name?" + +"She is known in Audierne as Madame Belward." The girl started. Her +face had a cold, scornful pride. "The Bretons, then, have a taste for +fiction?" + +"No, they speak as they are taught." + +"They understand, then, as little as I." + +How proud, how ineffaceably superior she was! + +"Be ignorant for ever," he answered quietly. + +"I do not need the counsel, believe me." + +Her hand trembled, though it rested against the window-trembled with +indignation: the insult of his elopement kept beating up her throat in +spite of her. + +At that moment a servant knocked, entered, and said that a parcel had +been brought for mademoiselle. It was laid upon the table. Delia, +wondering, ordered it to be opened. A bundle of clothes was disclosed-- +Andree's! Gaston recognised them, and caught his breath with wonder and +confusion. + +"Who has sent them?!" Delia said to the servant. "They come from the +Chateau Ronan, mademoiselle." + +Delia dismissed the servant. + +"The Chateau Ronan?!" she asked of Gaston. "Where I am living." + +"It is not necessary to speak of this?" She flushed. + +"Not at all. I will have them sent back. There is a little shop near by +where you can get what you may need." + +Andree had acted according to her lights. It was not an olive-branch, +but a touch of primitive hospitality. She was Delia's enemy at sight, +but a woman must have linen. + +Mr. Gasgoyne entered. Gaston prepared to go. "Is there anything more +that I can do?!" he said, as it were, to both. + +The girl replied. "Nothing at all, thank you." They did not shake +hands. + +Mr. Gasgoyne could not think that all had necessarily ended. The thing +might be patched up one day yet. This affair with the dompteuse was mad +sailing, but the man might round-to suddenly and be no worse for the +escapade. + +"We are going early in the morning," he said. "We can get along all +right. Good-bye. When do you come to England?" + +The reply was prompt. "In a few weeks." + +He looked at both. The girl, seeing that he was going to speak further, +bowed and left the room. + +His eyes followed her. After a moment, he said firmly + +"Mr. Gasgoyne, I am going to face all." + +"To live it down, Belward?" + +"I am going to fight it down." + +"Well, there's a difference. You have made a mess of things, and shocked +us all. I needn't say what more. It's done, and now you know what such +things mean to a good woman--and, I hope also, to the father of a good +woman." + +The man's voice broke a little. He added: + +"They used to come to swords or pistols on such points. We can't settle +it in that way. Anyhow, you have handicapped us to-day." Then, with a +burst of reproach, indignation, and trouble: "Great God, as if you hadn't +been the luckiest man on earth! Delia, the estate, the Commons--all for +a dompteuse!" + +"Let us say nothing more," said Gaston, choking down wrath at the +reference to Andree, but sorrowful, and pitying Mr. Gasgoyne. Besides, +the man had a right to rail. + +Soon after they parted courteously. + +Gaston went to the chateau. As he came up the stone steps he met a +procession--it was the feast-day of the Virgin--of priests and people +and little children, filing up from the village and the sea, singing as +they came. He drew up to the wall, stood upon the stone seat, and took +off his hat while the procession passed. He had met the cure, first +accidentally on the shore, and afterwards in the cure's house, finding +much in common--he had known many priests in the North, known much good +of them. The cure glanced up at him now as they passed, and a half-sad +smile crossed his face. Gaston caught it as it passed. The cure read +his case truly enough and gently enough too. In some wise hour he would +plead with Gaston for the woman's soul and his own. + +Gaston did not find Andree at the chateau. She had gone out alone +towards the sea, Annette said, by a route at the rear of the village. +He went also, but did not find her. As he came again to the quay he saw +the Kismet beating upon the rocks--the sailors had given up any idea of +saving her. He stood and watched the sea breaking over her, and the +whole scene flashed back on him. He thought how easily he could be +sentimental over the thing. But that was not his nature. He had made +his bed, but he would not lie in it--he would carry it on his back. +They all said that he had gone on the rocks. He laughed. + +"I can turn that tide: I can make things come my way," he said. "All +they want is sensation, it isn't morals that concerns them. Well, IT +give them sensation. They expect me to hide, and drop out of the game. +Never--so help me Heaven! I'll play it so they'll forget this!" + +He rolled and lighted a cigarette, and went again to the chateau. Dinner +was ready--had been ready for some time. He sat down, and presently +Andree came. There was a look in her face that he could not understand. +They ate their dinner quietly, not mentioning the events of the +afternoon. + +Presently a telegram was brought to him. It read: "Come. My office, +Downing Street, Friday. Expect you." It was signed "Faramond." At the +same time came letters: from his grandfather, from Captain Maudsley. The +first was stern, imperious, reproachful.--Shame for those that took him +in and made him, a ruined reputation, a spoiled tradition: he had been +but a heathen after all! There was only left to bid him farewell, +and to enclose a cheque for two thousand pounds. + +Captain Maudsley called him a fool, and asked him what he meant to do +--hoped he would give up the woman at once, and come back. He owed +something to his position as Master of the Hounds--a tradition that +oughtn't to be messed about. + +There it all was: not a word about radical morality or immorality; but +the tradition of Family, the Commons, Master of the Hounds! + +But there was another letter. He did not recognise the handwriting, and +the envelope had a black edge. He turned it over and over, forgetting +that Andree was watching him. Looking up, he caught her eyes, with their +strange, sad look. She guessed what was in these letters. She knew +English well enough to under stand them. He interpreted her look, and +pushed them over. + +"You may read them, if you wish; but I wouldn't, if I were you." + +She read the telegram first, and asked who "Faramond" was. Then she read +Sir William Belward's letter, and afterwards Captain Maudsley's. + +"It has all come at once," she said: "the girl and these! What will you +do? Give 'the woman' up for the honour of the Master of the Hounds?" + +The tone was bitter, exasperating. Gaston was patient. + +"What do you think, Andree?" + +"It has only begun," she said. "Wait, King of Ys. Read that other +letter." + +Her eyes were fascinated by the black border. He opened it with a +strange slowness. It began without any form of address, it had the +superscription of a street in Manchester Square: + + If you were not in deep trouble I would not write. But because I + know that more hard things than kind will be said by others, I want + to say what is in my heart, which is quick to feel for you. I know + that you have sinned, but I pray for you every day, and I cannot + believe that God will not answer. Oh! think of the wrong that you + have done: of the wrong to the girl, to her soul's good. Think of + that, and right the wrong in so far as you can. Oh, Gaston, my + brother, I need not explain why I write thus. My grandfather, + before he died, three weeks ago, told me that you know!--and I also + have known ever since the day you saved the boy. Ah, think of one + who would give years of her life to see you good and noble and + happy. . . . + +Then followed a deep, sincere appeal to his manhood, and afterwards a +wish that their real relations should be made known to the world if he +needed her, or if disaster came; that she might share and comfort his +life, whatever it might be. Then again: + + If you love her, and she loves you, and is sorry for what she has + done, marry her and save her from everlasting shame. I am staying + with my grandfather's cousin, the Dean of Dighbury, the father of + the boy you saved. He is very kind, and he knows all. May God + guide you aright, and may you believe that no one speaks more + truthfully to you than your sorrowful and affectionate sister, + + ALICE WINGFIELD. + +He put the letter down beside him, made a cigarette, and poured out some +coffee for them both. He was holding himself with a tight hand. This +letter had touched him as nothing in his life had done since his father's +death. It had nothing of noblesse oblige, but straight statement of +wrong, as she saw it. And a sister without an open right to the title: +the mere fidelity of blood! His father had brought this sorrowful life +into the world and he had made it more sorrowful--poor little thing--poor +girl! + +"What are you going to do?!" asked Andree. "Do you go back--with Delia?" + +He winced. Yet why should he expect of her too great refinement? She +had not had a chance, she had not the stuff for it in her veins; she had +never been taught. But behind it all was her passion--her love--for him. + +"You know that's altogether impossible!" he answered. + +"She would not take you back." + +"Probably not. She has pride." + +"Pride-chat! She'd jump at the chance!" + +"That sounds rude, Andree; and it is contradictory." + +"Rude! Well, I'm only a gipsy and a dompteuse!" + +"Is that all, my girl?" + +"That's all, now." Then, with a sudden change and a quick sob: "But I +may be-- Oh, I can't say it, Gaston!" She hid her face for a moment on +his shoulder. "My God!" + +He got to his feet. He had not thought of that--of another besides +themselves. He had drifted. A hundred ideas ran back and forth. He +went to the window and stood looking out. Alice's letter was still in +his fingers. + +She came and touched his shoulder. + +"Are you going to leave me, Gaston? What does that letter say?" + +He looked at her kindly, with a protective tenderness. + +"Read the letter, Andree," he said. + +She did so, at first slowly, then quickly, then over and over again. +He stood motionless in the window. She pushed the letter between his +fingers. He did not turn. "I cannot understand everything, but what she +says she means. Oh, Gaston, what a fool, what a fool you've been!" + +After a moment, however, she threw her arms about him with animal-like +fierceness. + +"But I can't give you up--I can't." Then, with another of those sudden +changes, she added, with a wild little laugh: "I can't, I can't, O Master +of the Hounds!" + +There came a knock at the door. Annette entered with a letter. The +postman had not delivered it on his rounds, because the address was not +correct. It was for madame. Andree took it, started at the handwriting, +tore open the envelope, and read: + + Zoug-Zoug congratulates you on the conquest of his nephew. Zoug- + Zoug's name is not George Maur, as you knew him. Allah's blessing, + with Zoug-Zoug's! + + What fame you've got now--dompteuse, and the sweet scandal! + +The journalist had found out Zoug-Zoug at last, and Ian Belward had +talked with the manager of the menagerie. + +Andree shuddered and put the letter in her pocket. Now she understood +why she had shrunk from Gaston that first night and those first days in +Audierne: that strange sixth sense, divination--vague, helpless +prescience. And here, suddenly, she shrank again, but with a different +thought. She hurriedly left the room and went to her chamber. + +In a few moments he came to her. She was sitting upright in a chair, +looking straight before her. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes were +burning. He came and took her hands. + +"What is it, Andree?!" he said. "That letter, what is it?" + +She looked at him steadily. "You'll be sorry if you read it." But she +gave it to him. He lighted a candle, put it on a little table, sat down, +and read. The shock went deep; so deep that it made no violent sign on +the surface. He spread the letter out before him. The candle showed his +face gone grey and knotted with misery. He could bear all the rest: +fight, do all that was right to the coming mother of his child; but this +made him sick and dizzy. He felt as he did when he waked up in Labrador, +with his wife's dead lips pressed to his neck. It was strange too that +Andree was as quiet as he: no storm-misery had gone deep with her also. + +"Do you care to tell me about it?!" he asked. + +She sat back in her chair, her hands over her eyes. Presently, still +sitting so, she spoke. + +Ian Belward had painted them and their van in the hills of Auvergne, and +had persuaded her to sit for a picture. He had treated her courteously +at first. Her father was taken ill suddenly, and died. She was alone +for a few days afterwards. Ian Belward came to her. Of that miserable, +heart-rending, cruel time,--the life-sorrow of a defenceless girl,-- +Gaston heard with a hard sort of coldness. The promised marriage was +a matter for the man's mirth a week later. They came across three young +artists from Paris--Bagshot, Fancourt, and another--who camped one night +beside them. It was then she fully realised the deep shame of her +position. The next night she ran away and joined a travelling menagerie. +The rest he knew. When she had ended there was silence for a time, +broken only by one quick gasping sob from Gaston. The girl sat still +as death, her eyes on him intently. + +"Poor Andree! Poor girl!" he said at last. She sighed pitifully. + +"What shall we do?!" she asked. He scarcely spoke above a whisper: + +"There must be time to think. I will go to London." + +"You will come back?" + +"Yes--in five days, if I live." + +"I believe you," she said quietly. "You never lied to me. When you +return we will know what to do." Her manner was strangely quiet. +"A little trading schooner goes from Douarnenez to England to-morrow +morning," she went on. "There is a notice of it in the market-place. +That would save the journey to Paris.'" + +"Yes, that will do very well. I will start for Douarnenez at once." + +"Will Jacques go too?" + +"No." + +An hour later he passed Delia and her father on the road to Douarnenez. +He did not recognise them, but Delia, seeing him, shrank away in a corner +of the carriage, trembling. + +Jacques had wished to go to London with Gaston, but had been denied. He +was to care for the horses. When he saw his master ride down over the +place, waving a hand back towards him, he came in and said to Andree: + +"Madame, there is trouble--I do not know what. But I once said I would +never leave him, wherever he go or whatever he did. Well, I never will +leave him--or you, madame--no." + +"That is right, that is right," she said earnestly; "you must never leave +him, Jacques. He is a good man." + +When Jacques had gone she shut herself up in her room. She was gathering +all her life into the compass of an hour. She felt but one thing: the +ruin of her happiness and Gaston's. + +"He is a good man," she said over and over to herself. And the other-- +Ian Belward? All the barbarian in her was alive. + +The next morning she started for Paris, saying to Jacques and Annette +that she would return in four days. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +"RETURN, O SHULAMITE!" + +Almost the first person that Gaston recognised in London was Cluny Vosse. +He had been to Victoria Station to see a friend off by the train, and as +he was leaving, Gaston and he recognised each other. The lad's greeting +was a little shy until he saw that Gaston was cool and composed as usual +--in effect, nothing had happened. Cluny was delighted, and opened his +mind: + +"They'd kicked up a deuce of a row in the papers, and there'd been no end +of talk; but he didn't see what all the babble was about, and he'd said +so again and again to Lady Dargan." + +"And Lady Dargan, Cluny?!" asked Gaston quietly. Cluny could not be +dishonest, though he would try hard not to say painful things. + +"Well, she was a bit fierce at first--she's a woman, you know; but +afterwards she went like a baby; cried, and wouldn't stay at Cannes any +longer: so we're back in town. We're going down to the country, though, +to-morrow or next day." + +"Do you think I had better call, Cluny?!" Gaston ventured suggestively. + +"Yes, yes, of course," Cluny replied, with great eagerness, as if to +justify the matter to himself. Gaston smiled, said that he might,-- +he was only in town for a few days, and dropped Cluny in Pall Mall. +Cluny came running back. + +"I say, Belward, things'll come around just as they were before, won't +they? You're going to cut in, and not let 'em walk on you?" + +"Yes, I'm 'going to cut in,' Cluny boy." Cluny brightened. + +"And of course it isn't all over with Delia, is it?" He blushed. + +Gaston reached out and dropped a hand on Cluny's shoulder. + +"I'm afraid it is all over, Cluny." Cluny spoke without thinking. + +"I say, it's rough on her, isn't it?" + +Then he was confused, hurriedly offered Gaston a cigarette, a hasty good- +bye was said, and they parted. Gaston went first to Lord Faramond. He +encountered inquisition, cynical humour, flashes of sympathy, with a +general flavour of reproach. The tradition of the Commons! Ah, one way +only: he must come back alone--alone--and live it down. Fortunately, it +wasn't an intrigue--no matter of divorce--a dompteuse, he believed. It +must end, of course, and he would see what could be done. Such a chance +--such a chance as he had had! Make it up with his grandfather, and +reverse the record--reverse the record: that was the only way. This +meeting must, of course, be strictly between themselves. But he was +really interested for him, for his people, and for the tradition of the +Commons. + +"I am Master of the Hounds too," said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught +the meaning, and smiled grimly. + +Then came Gaston's decision--he would come back--not to live the thing +down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight. + +Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. "Without her?" + +"I cannot say that." + +"With her, I can promise nothing--nothing. You cannot fight it so. +No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of +pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case." + +The Premier's face had gone cold and disdainful. Why should a clever +man like Belward be so infatuated? He rose, Gaston thanked him for the +meeting, and was about to go, when the Prime Minister, tapping his +shoulder kindly, said: + +"Mr. Belward, you are not playing to the rules of the game." He waved +his hand towards the Chamber of the House. "It is the greatest game in +the world. She must go! Do not reply. You will come back without her +--good-bye!" + +Then came Ridley Court. He entered on Sir William and Lady Belward +without announcement. Sir William came to his feet, austere and pale. +Lady Belward's fingers trembled on the lace she held. They looked many +years older. Neither spoke his name, nor did they offer their hands. +Gaston did not wince, he had expected it. He owed these old people +something. They lived according to their lights, they had acted +righteously as by their code, they had used him well--well always. + +"Will you hear the whole story?!" he said. He felt that it would be best +to tell them all. "Can it do any good?!" asked Sir William. He looked +towards his wife. + +"Perhaps it is better to hear it," she murmured. She was clinging to a +vague hope. + +Gaston told the story plainly, briefly, as he had told his earlier +history. Its concision and simplicity were poignant. From the day he +first saw Andree in the justice's room till the hour when she opened Ian +Belward's letter, his tale went. Then he paused. + +"I remember very well," Sir William said, with painful meditation: "a +strange girl, with a remarkable face. You pleaded for her father then. +Ah, yes, an unhappy case!" + +"There is more?!" asked Lady Belward, leaning on her cane. She seemed +very frail. + +Then with a terrible brevity Gaston told them of his uncle, of the letter +to Andree: all, except that Andree was his wife. He had no idea of +sparing Ian Belward now. A groan escaped Lady Belward. + +"And now--now, what will you do?!" asked the baronet. + +"I do not know. I am going back first to Andree." Sir William's face +was ashy. + +"Impossible!" + +"I promised, and I will go back." Lady Belward's voice quivered: + +"Stay, ah, stay, and redeem the past! You can, you can outlive it." + +Always the same: live it down! + +"It is no use," he answered; "I must return." + +Then in a few words he thanked them for all, and bade them good-bye. He +did not offer his hand, nor did they. But at the door he heard Lady +Belward say in a pleading voice: + +"Gaston!" + +He returned. She held out her hand. + +"You must not do as your father did," she said. "Give the woman up, +and come back to us. Am I nothing to you--nothing?" + +"Is there no other way?!" he asked, gravely, sorrowfully. + +She did not reply. He turned to his grandfather. "There is no other +way," said the old man, sternly. Then in a voice almost shrill with pain +and indignation, he cried out as he had never done in his life: "Nothing, +nothing, nothing but disgrace! My God in heaven! a lion-tamer--a gipsy! +An honourable name dragged through the mire! Go back," he said grandly; +"go back to the woman and her lions--savages, savages, savages!" + +"Savages after the manner of our forefathers," Gaston answered quietly. +"The first Gaston showed us the way. His wife was a strolling player's +daughter. Good-bye, sir." + +Lady Belward's face was in her hands. "Good-bye-grandmother," he said at +the door, and then he was gone. + +At the outer door the old housekeeper stepped forward, her gloomy face +most agitated. + +"Oh, sir, oh, sir, you will come back again? Oh, don't go like your +father!" + +He suddenly threw an arm about her shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek. + +"I'll come back--yes I'll come back here--if I can. Good-bye, Hovey." + +In the library Sir William and Lady Belward sat silent for a time. +Presently Sir William rose, and walked up and down. He paused at last, +and said, in a strange, hesitating voice, his hands chafing each other: + +"I forgot myself, my dear. I fear I was violent. I would like to ask +his pardon. Ah, yes, yes!" + +Then he sat down and took her hand, and held it long in the silence. + +"It all feels so empty--so empty," she said at last, as the tower-clock +struck hollow on the air. + +The old man could not reply, but he drew her close to him, and Hovey, +from the door, saw his tears dropping on her white hair. + +Gaston went to Manchester Square. He half dreaded a meeting with Alice, +and yet he wished it. He did not find her. She had gone to Paris with +her uncle, the servant said. He got their address. There was little +left to do but to avoid reporters, two of whom almost forced themselves +in upon him. He was to go back to Douarnenez by the little boat that +brought him, and at seven o'clock in the morning he watched the mists of +England recede. + +He chanced to put his hand into a light overcoat which he had got at his +chambers before he started. He drew out a paper, the one discovered in +the solicitor's office in London. It was an ancient deed of entail of +the property, drawn by Sir Gaston Belward, which, through being lost, +was never put into force. He was not sure that it had value. If it had, +all chance of the estate was gone for him; it would be his uncle's. +Well, what did it matter? Yes, it did matter: Andree! For her? No, not +for her. He would play straight. He would take his future as it came: +he would not drop this paper into the water. + +He smiled bitterly, got an envelope at a publichouse on the quay, wrote a +few words in pencil on the document, and in a few moments it was on its +way to Sir William Belward, who when he received it said: + +"Worthless, quite worthless, but he has an honest mind--an honest mind!" + +Meanwhile, Andree was in Paris. Leaving her bag at the Gare +Montparnasse, she had gone straight to Ian Belward's house. She had +lived years in the last few hours. She had had no sleep on the journey, +and her mind had been strained unbearably. It had, however, a fixed +idea, which shuttled in and out in a hundred shapes, but ever pointing to +one end. She had determined on a painful thing--the only way. + +She reached the house, and was admitted. In answer to questions, she had +an appointment with monsieur. He was not within. Well, she would wait. +She was motioned into the studio. She was outwardly calm. The servant +presently recognised her. He had been to the menagerie, and he had seen +her with Gaston. His manner changed instantly. Could he do anything? +No, nothing. She was left alone. For a long time she sat motionless, +then a sudden restlessness seized her. Her brain seemed a burning +atmosphere, in which every thought, every thing showed with an unbearable +intensity. The terrible clearness of it all--how it made her eyes, her +heart ache! Her blood was beating hard against every pore. She felt +that she would go mad if he did not come. Once she took out the stiletto +she had concealed in the bosom of her cloak, and looked at it. She had +always carried it when among the beasts at the menagerie, but had never +yet used it. + +Time passed. She felt ill; she became blind with pain. Presently the +servant entered with a telegram. His master would not be back until the +next morning. + +Very well, she would return in the morning. She gave him money. He was +not to say that she had called. In the Boulevard Montparnasse she took a +cab. To the menagerie, she said to the driver. How strange it all +looked: the Invalides, Notre Dame, the Tuileries Gardens, the Place de la +Concorde! The innumerable lights were so near and yet so far: it was a +kink of the brain, but she seemed withdrawn from them, not they from her. +A woman passed with a baby in her arms. The light from a kiosk fell on +it as she passed. What a pretty, sweet face it had. Why did it not have +a pretty, delicate Breton cap? As she went on, that kept beating in her +brain--why did not the child wear a dainty Breton cap--a white Breton +cap? The face kept peeping from behind the lights--without the dainty +Breton cap. + +The menagerie at last. She dismissed the cab, went to a little door at +the back of the building, and knocked. She was admitted. The care-taker +exclaimed with pleasure. She wished to visit the animals? He would go +with her; and he picked up a light. No, she would go alone. How were +Hector and Balzac, and Antoinette? She took the keys. How cool and +pleasant they were to the touch! The steel of the lantern too--how +exquisitely soothing! He must lie down again: she would wake him as she +came out. No, no, she would go alone. + +She went to cage after cage. At last to that of the largest lions. +There was a deep answering purr to her soft call. As she entered, she +saw a heap moving in one corner--a lion lately bought. She spoke, and +there was an angry growl. She wheeled to leave the cage, but her cloak +caught the door, and it snapped shut. + +Too late. A blow brought her to the ground. She had made no cry, and +now she lay so still! + +The watchman had fallen asleep again. In the early morning he +remembered. The greyish golden dawn was creeping in, when he found her +with two lions protecting, keeping guard over her, while another crouched +snarling in a corner. There was no mark on her face. + +The point of the stiletto which she had carried in her cloak had pierced +her when she fell. + +In a hotel near the Arc de Triomphe Alice Wingfield read the news. +It was she who tenderly prepared the body for burial, who telegraphed to +Gaston at Audierne, getting a reply from Jacques that he was not yet back +from London. The next day Andree was found a quiet place in the cemetery +at Montmartre. + +In the evening Alice and her relative started for Audierne. + + ......................... + +On board the Fleur d'Orange Gaston struggled with the problem. There was +one thought ever coming. He shut it out at this point, and it crept in +at that. He remembered when two men, old friends, discovered that one, +unknowingly, had been living with the wife of the other. There was one +too many--the situation was impossible. The men played a game of cards +to see which should die. But they did not reckon with the other factor. +It was the woman who died. + +Was not his own situation far worse? With his uncle living--but no, +no, it was out of the question! Yet Ian Belward had been shameless, +a sensualist, who had wrecked the girl's happiness and his. He himself +had done a mad thing in the eyes of the world, but it was more mad than +wicked. Had this happened in the North with another man, how easily +would the problem have been solved! + +Go to his uncle and tell him that he must remove himself for ever from +the situation? Demand it, force it? Impossible--this was Europe. + +They arrived at Douarnenez. The diligence had gone. A fishing-boat was +starting for Audierne. He decided to go by it. Breton fishermen are +usually shy of storm to foolishness, and one or two of the crew urged the +drunken skipper not to start, for there were signs of a south-west wind, +too friendly to the Bay des Trepasses. The skipper was, however, +cheerfully reckless, and growled down objection. + +The boat came on with a sweet wind off the land for a time. Suddenly, +when in the neighbourhood of Point du Raz, the wind drew ahead very +squally, with rain in gusts out of the south-west. The skipper put the +boat on the starboard tack, close-hauled and close-reefed the sails, +keeping as near the wind as possible, with the hope of weathering the +rocky point at the western extremity of the Bay des Trepasses. By that +time there was a heavy sea running; night came on, and the weather grew +very thick. They heard the breakers presently, but they could not make +out the Point. Old sailor as he was, and knowing as well as any man the +perilous ground, the skipper lost his drunken head this time, and +presently lost his way also in the dark and murk of the storm. + +At eight o'clock she struck. She was thrown on her side, a heavy sea +broke over her, and they were all washed off. No one raised a cry. They +were busy fighting Death. + +Gaston was a strong swimmer. It did not occur to him that perhaps this +was the easiest way out of the maze. He had ever been a fighter. The +seas tossed him here and there. He saw faces about him for an instant-- +shaggy wild Breton faces--but they dropped away, he knew not where. The +current kept driving him inshore. As in a dream, he could hear the +breakers--the pumas on their tread-mill of death. How long would it +last? How long before he would be beaten upon that tread-mill--fondled +to death by those mad paws? Presently dreams came-kind, vague, distant +dreams. His brain flew like a drunken dove to far points of the world +and back again. A moment it rested. Andree! He had made no provision +for her, none at all. He must live, he must fight on for her, the +homeless girl, his wife. + +He fought on and on. No longer in the water, as it seemed to him. He +had travelled very far. He heard the clash of sabres, the distant roar +of cannon, the beating of horses' hoofs--the thud-thud, tread-tread of an +army. How reckless and wild it was! He stretched up his arm to strike- +what was it? Something hard that bruised: then his whole body was dashed +against the thing. He was back again, awake. With a last effort he drew +himself up on a huge rock that stands lonely in the wash of the bay. +Then he cried out, "Andree!" and fell senseless--safe. + +The storm went down. The cold, fast-travelling moon came out, saw the +one living thing in that wild bay, and hurried on into the dark again; +but came and went so till morning, playing hide-and-seek with the man and +his Ararat. + +Daylight saw him, wet, haggard, broken, looking out over the waste of +shaken water. Upon the shore glared the stone of the vanished City of Ys +in the warm sun, and the fierce pumas trod their grumbling way. Sea- +gulls flew about the quiet set figure, in whose brooding eyes there were +at once despair and salvation. + +He was standing between two worlds. He had had his great crisis, and his +wounded soul rested for a moment ere he ventured out upon the highways +again. He knew not how it was, but there had passed into him the dignity +of sorrow and the joy of deliverance at the same time. He saw life's +responsibilities clearer, duties swam grandly before him. It was a large +dream, in which, for the time, he was not conscious of those troubles +which, yesterday, had clenched his hands and knotted his forehead. He +had come a step higher in the way of life, and into his spirit had flowed +a new and sobered power. His heart was sore, but his mind was lifted up. +The fatal wrangle of the pumas there below, the sound of it, would be in +his ears for ever, but he had come above it; the searching vigour of the +sun entered into his bones. + +He knew that he was going back to England--to ample work and strong days, +but he did not know that he was going alone. He did not know that Andree +was gone forever; that she had found her true place: in his undying +memory. + +So intent was he, that at first he did not see a boat making into the bay +towards him. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Clever men are trying +He had no instinct for vice in the name of amusement +What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers + + + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR ENTIRE "THE TRESPASSER": + +Clever men are trying +Down in her heart, loves to be mastered +He had no instinct for vice in the name of amusement +He was strong enough to admit ignorance +I don't wish to fit in; things must fit me +Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love +Live and let live is doing good +Not to show surprise at anything +Truth waits long, but whips hard +What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, BY PARKER, ALL *** + +********* This file should be named gp49w10.txt or gp49w10.zip ********** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, gp49w11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gp49w10a.txt + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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