diff options
Diffstat (limited to '6222.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 6222.txt | 7820 |
1 files changed, 7820 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/6222.txt b/6222.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c4fb61 --- /dev/null +++ b/6222.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 + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |