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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6221.txt b/6221.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad78ee7 --- /dev/null +++ b/6221.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3052 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook The Trespasser, by Gilbert Parker, v3 +#48 in our series by Gilbert Parker + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: The Trespasser, Volume 3. + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6221] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 27, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, BY PARKER, V3 *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + +[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the +file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an +entire meal of them. D.W.] + + + + + +THE TRESPASSER + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 3. + + + +XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS +XIII. HE JOURNEYS AFAR +XIV. IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED +XV. WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN +XVI. WHEREIN LOVE SNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN'S +XVII. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE +XVIII. "RETURN, O SHULAMITE!" + + + +CHAPTER XII + +HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS + +The next morning he went down to the family solicitor's office. He had +done so, off and on, for weeks. He spent the time in looking through old +family papers, fishing out ancient documents, partly out of curiosity, +partly from an unaccountable presentiment. He had been there about an +hour this morning when a clerk brought him a small box, which, he said, +had been found inside another box belonging to the Belward-Staplings, a +distant branch of the family. These had asked for certain ancient papers +lately, and a search had been made, with this result. The little box was +not locked, and the key was in it. How the accident occurred was not +difficult to imagine. Generations ago there had probably been a +conference of the two branches of the family, and the clerk had +inadvertently locked the one box within the other. This particular box +of the Belward-Staplings was not needed again. Gaston felt that here was +something. These hours spent among old papers had given him strange +sensations, had, on the one hand, shown him his heritage; but had also +filled him with the spirit of that by-gone time. He had grown further +away from the present. He had played his part as in a drama: his real +life was in the distant past and out in the land of the heathen. + +Now he took out a bundle of papers with broken seals, and wound with a +faded tape. He turned the rich important parchments over in his hands. +He saw his own name on the outside of one: "Sir Gaston Robert Belward." +And there was added: "Bart." He laughed. Well, why not complete the +reproduction? He was an M. P.--why not a, Baronet? He knew how it was +done. There were a hundred ways. Throw himself into the arbitration +question between Canada and the United States: spend ten thousand pounds +of--his grandfather's--money on the Party? His reply to himself was +cynical: the game was not worth the candle. What had he got out of it +all? Money? Yes: and he enjoyed that--the power that it gave-- +thoroughly. The rest? He knew that it did not strike as deep as it +ought: the family tradition, the social scheme--the girl. + +"What a brute I am!" he said. "I'm never wholly of it. I either want +to do as they did when George Villiers had his innings, or play the gipsy +as I did so many years." + +The gipsy! As he held the papers in his hand he thought as he had done +last night, of the gipsy-van on Ridley Common, and of--how well he +remembered her name!--of Andree. + +He suddenly threw his head back, and laughed. "Well, well, but it is +droll! Last night, an English gentleman, an honourable member with the +Treasury Bench in view; this morning an adventurer, a Romany. I itch for +change. And why? Why? I have it all, yet I could pitch it away this +moment for a wild night on the slope, or a nigger hunt on the Rivas. +Chateau-Leoville, Goulet, and Havanas at a bob?--Jove, I thirst for a +swig of raw Bourbon and the bite of a penny Mexican! Games, Gaston, +games! Why the devil did little Joe worry at being made 'move on'? I've +got 'move on' in every pore: I'm the Wandering Jew. Oh, a gentleman born +am I! But the Romany sweats from every inch of you, Gaston Belward! +What was it that sailor on the Cyprian said of the other? 'For every +hair of him was rope-yarn, and every drop of blood Stockholm tar!'" + +He opened a paper. Immediately he was interested. Another; then, +quickly, two more; and at last, getting to his feet with an exclamation, +he held a document to the light, and read it through carefully. He was +alone in the room. He calmly folded it up, put it in his pocket, placed +the rest of the papers back, locked the box, and passing into the next +room, gave it to the clerk. Then he went out, a curious smile on his +face. He stopped presently on the pavement. + +"But it wouldn't hold good, I fancy, after all these years. Yet Law is +a queer business. Anyhow, I've got it." + +An hour later he called on Mrs. Gasgoyne and Delia. Mrs. Gasgoyne was +not at home. After a little while, Gaston, having listened to some +extracts from the newspapers upon his "brilliant, powerful, caustic +speech, infinite in promise of an important career," quietly told her +that he was starting for Paris, and asked when they expected to go abroad +in their yacht. Delia turned pale, and could not answer for a moment. +Then she became very still, and as quietly answered that they expected to +get away by the middle of August. He would join them? Yes, certainly, +at Marseilles, or perhaps, Gibraltar. Her manner, so well-controlled, +though her features seemed to shrink all at once, if it did not deceive +him, gave him the wish to say an affectionate thing. He took her hand +and said it. She thanked him, then suddenly dropped her fingers on his +shoulder, and murmured with infinite gentleness and pride: + +"You will miss me; you ought to!" + +He drew the hand down. + +"I could not forget you, Delia," he said. + +Her eyes came up quickly, and she looked steadily, wonderingly at him. + +"Was it necessary to say that?" + +She was hurt--inexpressibly,--and she shrank. He saw that she +misunderstood him; but he also saw that, on the face of it, the phrase +was not complimentary. His reply was deeply kind, effective. There was +a pause--and the great moment for them both passed. Something ought to +have happened. It did not. If she had had that touch of abandon shown +when she sang "The Waking of the Fire," Gaston might, even at this +moment, have broken his promise to his uncle; but, somehow, he knew +himself slipping away from her. With the tenderness he felt, he still +knew that he was acting; imitating, reproducing other, better, moments +with her. He felt the disrespect to her, but it could not be helped--it +could not be helped. + +He said that he would call and say good-bye to her and Mrs. Gasgoyne at +four o'clock. Then he left. He went to his chambers, gave Jacques +instructions, did some writing, and returned at four. Mrs. Gasgoyne had +not come back. She had telegraphed that she would not be in for lunch. +There was nothing remarkable in Gaston's and Delia's farewell. She +thought he looked worn, and ought to have change, showing in every word +that she trusted him, and was anxious that he should be, as she put it +gaily, "comfy." She was composed. The cleverest men are blind in the +matter of a woman's affections; and Gaston was only a mere man, after +all. He thought that she had gone about as far in the way of feeling as +she could go. + +Nevertheless, in his hansom, he frowned, and said: "I oughtn't to go. +But I'm choking here. I can't play the game an hour longer without a +change. I'll come back all right. I'll meet her in the Mediterranean +after my kick-up, and it'll be all O. K. Jacques and I will ride down +through Spain to Gibraltar, and meet the Kismet there. I shall have got +rid of this restlessness then, and I'll be glad enough to settle down, +pose for throne and constitution, cultivate the olive branch, and have +family prayers." + +At eight o'clock he appeared at Ridley Court, and bade his grandfather +and grandmother good-bye. They were full of pride, and showed their +affection in indirect ways--Sir William most by offering his opinion on +the Bill and quoting Gaston frequently; Lady Belward, by saying that next +year she would certainly go up to town--she had not done so for five +years! They both agreed that a scamper on the Continent would now be +good for him. At nine o'clock he passed the rectory, on his way, strange +to note, to the church. There was one light burning, but it was not in +the study nor in Alice's window. He supposed they had not returned. +He paused and thought. If anything happened, she should know. But what +should happen? He shook his head. He moved on to the church. The doors +were unlocked. He went in, drew out a little pocket-lantern, lit it, and +walked up the aisle. + +"A sentimental business this: I don't know why I do it," he thought. + +He stopped at the tomb of Sir Gaston Belward, put his hand on it, and +stood looking at it. + +"I wonder if there is anything in it?" he said aloud: "if he does +influence me? if we've got anything to do with each other? What he did +I seem to know somehow, more or less. A little dwarf up in my brain +drops the nuts down now and then. Well, Sir Gaston Belward, what is +going to be the end of all this? If we can reach across the centuries, +why, good-night and goodbye to you. Good-bye." + +He turned and went down the aisle. At the door a voice, a whispering +voice, floated to him: "Good-bye." + +He stopped short and listened. All was still. He walked up the aisle, +and listened again.-Nothing! He stood before the tomb, looking at it +curiously. He was pale, but collected. He raised the light above his +head, and looked towards the altar.--Nothing! Then he went to the door +again, and paused.--Nothing! + +Outside he said + +"I'd stake my life I heard it!" + +A few minutes afterwards, a girl rose up from behind the organ in the +chancel, and felt her way outside. It was Alice Wingfield, who had gone +to the church to pray. It was her good-bye which had floated down to +Gaston. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +HE JOURNEYS AFAR + +Politicians gossiped. Where was the new member? His friends could not +tell, further than that he had gone abroad. Lord Faramond did not know, +but fetched out his lower lip knowingly. + +"The fellow has instinct for the game," he said. Sketches, portraits +were in the daily and weekly journals, and one hardy journalist even +gave an interview--which had never occurred. But Gaston remained a +picturesque nine-days' figure, and then Parliament rose for the year. + +Meanwhile he was in Paris, and every morning early he could be seen with +Jacques riding up the Champs Elysee and out to the Bois de Boulogne. +Every afternoon at three he sat for "Monmouth" or the "King of Ys" with +his horse in his uncle's garden. + +Ian Belward might have lived in a fashionable part; he preferred the +Latin Quarter, with incursions into the other at fancy. Gaston lived for +three days in the Boulevard Haussman, and then took apartments, neither +expensive nor fashionable, in a quiet street. He was surrounded by +students and artists, a few great men and a host of small men: +Collarossi's school here and Delacluse's there: models flitting in and +out of the studios in his court-yard, who stared at him as he rode, and +sought to gossip with Jacques--accomplished without great difficulty. + +Jacques was transformed. A cheerful hue grew on his face. He had been +an exile, he was now at home. His French tongue ran, now with words in +the patois of Normandy, now of Brittany; and all with the accent of +French Canada, an accent undisturbed by the changes and growths of +France. He gossiped, but no word escaped him which threw any light on +his master's history. + +Soon, in the Latin Quarter, they were as notable as they had been at +Ridley Court or in London. On the Champs Elysee side people stared at +the two: chiefly because of Gaston's splendid mount and Jacques's strange +broncho. But they felt that they were at home. Gaston's French was not +perfect, but it was enough for his needs. He got a taste of that freedom +which he had handed over to the dungeons of convention two years before. +He breathed. Everything interested him so much that the life he had led +in England seemed very distant. + +He wrote to Delia, of course. His letters were brief, most interesting, +not tenderly intimate, and not daily. From the first they puzzled her a +little, and continued to do so; but because her mother said, "What an +impossible man!" she said, "Perfectly possible! Of course he is not +like other men; he is a genius." + +And the days went on. + +Gaston little loved the purlieus of the Place de l'Opera. One evening at +a club in the Boulevard Malesherbes bored him. It was merely Anglo- +American enjoyment, dashed with French drama. The Bois was more to his +taste, for he could stretch his horse's legs; but every day he could be +found before some simple cafe in Montparnasse, sipping vermouth, and +watching the gay, light life about him. He sat up with delight to see an +artist and his "Madame" returning from a journey in the country, seated +upon sheaves of corn, quite unregarded by the world; doing as they listed +with unabashed simplicity. He dined often at the little Hotel St. Malo +near the Gare Montparnasse, where the excellent landlord played the host, +father, critic, patron, comrade--often benefactor--to his bons enfants. +He drank vin ordinaire, smoked caporal cigarettes, made friends, and was +in all as a savage--or a much-travelled English gentleman. + +His uncle Ian had introduced him here as at other places of the kind, +and, whatever his ulterior object was, had an artist's pleasure at seeing +a layman enjoy the doings of Paris art life. Himself lived more +luxuriously. In an avenue not far from the Luxembourg he had a small +hotel with a fine old-fashioned garden behind it, and here distinguished +artists, musicians, actors, and actresses came at times. + +The evening of Gaston's arrival he took him to a cafe and dined him, and +afterwards to the Boullier--there, merely that he might see; but this +place had nothing more than a passing interest for him. His mind had the +poetry of a free, simple--even wild-life, but he had no instinct for vice +in the name of amusement. But the later hours spent in the garden under +the stars, the cheerful hum of the boulevards coming to them distantly, +stung his veins like good wine. They sat and talked, with no word of +England in it at all, Jacques near, listening. + +Ian Belward was at his best: genial, entertaining, with the art of the +man of no principles, no convictions, and a keen sense of life's sublime +incongruities. Even Jacques, whose sense of humour had grown by long +association with Gaston, enjoyed the piquant conversation. The next +evening the same. About ten o'clock a few men dropped in: a sculptor, +artists, and Meyerbeer, an American newspaper correspondent--who, +however, was not known as such to Gaston. + +This evening Ian determined to make Gaston talk. To deepen a man's love +for a thing, get him to talk of it to the eager listener--he passes from +the narrator to the advocate unconsciously. Gaston was not to talk of +England, but of the North, of Canada, of Mexico, the Lotos Isles. He did +so picturesquely, yet simply too, in imperfect but sufficient French. +But as he told of one striking incident in the Rockies, he heard Jacques +make a quick expression of dissent. He smiled. He had made some mistake +in detail. Now, Jacques had been in his young days in Quebec the village +story-teller; one who, by inheritance or competency, becomes semi- +officially a raconteur for the parish; filling in winter evenings, +nourishing summer afternoons, with tales, weird, childlike, daring. + +Now Gaston turned and said to Jacques: + +"Well, Brillon, I've forgotten, as you see; tell them how it was." + +Two hours later when Jacques retired on some errand, amid ripe applause, +Ian said: + +"You've got an artist there, Cadet: that description of the fight with +the loop garoo was as good as a thing from Victor Hugo. Hugo must have +heard just such yarns, and spun them on the pattern. Upon my soul, it's +excellent stuff. You've lived, you two." + +Another night Ian Belward gave a dinner, at which were present an +actress, a singer of some repute, the American journalist, and others. +Something that was said sent Gaston's mind to the House of Commons. +Presently he saw himself in a ridiculous picture: a buffalo dragging the +Treasury Bench about the Chamber; as one conjures things in an absurd +dream. He laughed outright, at a moment when Mademoiselle Cerise was +telling of a remarkable effect she produced one night in "Fedora," +unpremeditated, inspired; and Mademoiselle Cerise, with smiling lips and +eyes like daggers, called him a bear. This brought him to him self, and +he swam with the enjoyment. He did enjoy it, but not as his uncle wished +and hoped. Gaston did not respond eagerly to the charms of Mademoiselle +Cerise and Madame Juliette. + +Was Delia, then, so strong in the barbarian's mind? He could not think +so, but Gaston had not shown yet, either for model, for daughter of joy, +or for the mademoiselles of the stage any disposition to an amour or a +misalliance; and either would be interesting and sufficient! Models went +in and out of Ian's studio and the studios of others, and Gaston chatted +with them at times; and once he felt the bare arm and bare breast of a +girl as she sat for a nymph, and said in an interested way that her flesh +was as firm and fine as a Tongan's. He even disputed with his uncle on +the tints of her skin, on seeing him paint it in, showing a fine eye for +colour. But there was nothing more; he was impressed, observant, +interested--that was all. His uncle began to wonder if the Englishman +was, after all, deeper in the grain than the savage. He contented +himself with the belief that the most vigorous natures are the most +difficult to rouse. Mademoiselle Cerise sang, with chic and abandon very +fascinating to his own sensuous nature, a song with a charming air and +sentiment. It was after a night at the opera when they had seen her in +"Lucia," and the contrast, as she sang in his garden, softly lighted, +showed her at the most attractive angles. She drifted from a sparkling +chanson to the delicate pathos of a song of De Musset's. + +Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman--no. He had seen a new +life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could +still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had come +to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle +Cerise said to Ian at last: + +"Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no +matter." + +She made another effort to interest him, however. It galled her that he +did not fall at her feet as others had done. Even Ian had come there in +his day, but she knew him too well. She had said to him at the time: +"You, monsieur? No, thank you. A week, a month, and then the brute in +you would out. You make a woman fond, and then--a mat for your feet, and +your wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol +or the Seine. Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing +more. I will sing to you, dance to you, even pray for you--we poor +sinners do that sometimes, and go on sinning; but, again, nothing more." + +Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been +good friends. He had told her of his nephew's coming, had hinted at his +fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him, even +at marriage. She could not read his purpose, but she knew there was +something, and answering him with a yes, had waited. Had Gaston have +come to her feet she would probably have got at the truth somehow, and +have worked in his favour--the joy vice takes to side with virtue, at +times--when it is at no personal sacrifice. But Gaston was superior in a +grand way. He was simple, courteous, interested only. This stung her, +and she would bring him to his knees, if she could. This night she had +rung all the changes, and had done no more than get his frank applause. +She became petulant in an airy, exacting way. She asked him about his +horse. This interested him. She wanted to see it. To-morrow? No, no, +now. Perhaps to-morrow she would not care to; there was no joy in +deliberate pleasure. Now--now--now! He laughed. Well then, now, as she +wished! + +Jacques was called. She said to him: + +"Come here, little comrade." Jacques came. "Look at me," she added. +She fixed her eyes on him, and smiled. She was in the soft flare of the +lights. + +"Well," she said after a moment, "what do you think of me?" + +Jacques was confused. "Madame is beautiful." + +"The eyes?" she urged. + +"I have been to Gaspe, and west to Esquimault, and in England, but I have +never seen such as those," he said. Race and primitive man spoke there. + +She laughed. "Come closer, little man." + +He did so. She suddenly rose, dropped her hands on his shoulders, and +kissed his cheek. + +"Now bring the horse, and I will kiss him too." + +Did she think she could rouse Gaston by kissing his servant? Yet it did +not disgust him. He knew it was a bit of acting, and it was well done. +Besides, Jacques Brillon was not a mere servant, and he, too, had done +well. She sat back and laughed lightly when Jacques was gone. Then she +said: "The honest fellow!" and hummed an air: + + "'The pretty coquette + Well she needs to be wise, + Though she strike to the heart + By a glance of her eyes. + + "'For the daintiest bird + Is the sport of the storm, + And the rose fadeth most + When the bosom is warm.'" + +In twenty minutes the gate of the garden opened, and Jacques appeared +with Saracen. The horse's black skin glistened in the lights, and he +tossed his head and champed his bit. Gaston rose. Mademoiselle Cerise +sprang to her feet and ran forward. Jacques put out his hand to stop +her, and Gaston caught her shoulder. "He's wicked with strangers," +Gaston said. "Chat!" she rejoined, stepped quickly to the horse's head +and, laughing, put out her hand to stroke him. Jacques caught the +beast's nose, and stopped a lunge of the great white teeth. + +"Enough, madame, he will kill you!" + +"Yet I am beautiful--is it not so?" + +"The poor beast is ver' blind." + +"A pretty compliment," she rejoined, yet angry at the beast. + +Gaston came, took the animal's head in his hands, and whispered. Saracen +became tranquil. Gaston beckoned to Mademoiselle Cerise. She came. He +took her hand in his and put it at the horse's lips. The horse whinnied +angrily at first, but permitted a caress from the actress's fingers. + +"He does not make friends easily," said Gaston. "Nor does his master." + +Her eyes lifted to his, the lids drooping suggestively. "But when the +pact is made--!" + +"Till death us do part?" + +"Death or ruin." + +"Death is better." + +"That depends!" + +"Ah! I understand," she said. + +"On--the woman?" + +"Yes." + +Then he became silent. "Mount the horse," she urged. + +Gaston sprang at one bound upon the horse's bare back. Saracen reared +and wheeled. + +"Splendid!" she said; then, presently: "Take me up with you." + +He looked doubting for a moment, then whispered to the horse. + +"Come quickly," he said. + +She came to the side of the horse. He stooped, caught her by the waist, +and lifted her up. Saracen reared, but Gaston had him down in a moment. + +Ian Belward suddenly called out: + +"For God's sake, keep that pose for five minutes--only five!" He caught +up some canvas. "Hold candles near them," he said to the others. They +did so. With great swiftness he sketched in the strange picture. It +looked weird, almost savage: Gaston's large form, his legs loose at the +horse's side, the woman in her white drapery clinging to him. + +In a little time the artist said: + +"There; that will do. Ten such sittings and my 'King of Ys' will have +its day with the world. I'd give two fortunes for the chance of it." + +The woman's heart had beat fast with Gaston's arm around her. He felt +the thrill of the situation. Man, woman, and horse were as of a piece. + +But Cerise knew, when Gaston let her to the ground again, that she had +not conquered. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED + +Next morning Gaston was visited by Meyerbeer the American journalist, of +whose profession he was still ignorant. He saw him only as a man of raw +vigour of opinion, crude manners, and heavy temperament. He had not been +friendly to him at night, and he was surprised at the morning visit. The +hour was such that Gaston must ask him to breakfast. The two were soon +at the table of the Hotel St. Malo. Meyerbeer sniffed the air when he +saw the place. The linen was ordinary, the rooms small; but all--he did +not take this into account--irreproachably clean. The walls were covered +with pictures; some taken for unpaid debts, gifts from students since +risen to fame or gone into the outer darkness,--to young artists' eyes, +the sordid moneymaking world,--and had there been lost; from a great +artist or two who remembered the days of his youth and the good host who +had seen many little colonies of artists come and go. + +They sat down to the table, which was soon filled with students and +artists. Then Meyerbeer began to see, not only an interesting thing, but +"copy." He was, in fact, preparing a certain article which, as he said +to himself, would "make 'em sit up" in London and New York. He had found +out Gaston's history, had read his speech in the Commons, had seen +paragraphs speculating as to where he was; and now he, Salem Meyerbeer, +would tell them what the wild fellow was doing. The Bullier, the cafes +in the Latin Quarter, apartments in a humble street, dining for one- +franc-fifty, supping with actresses, posing for the King of Ys with that +actress in his arms--all excellent in their way. But now there was +needed an entanglement, intrigue, amour, and then America should shriek +at his picture of one of the British aristocracy, and a gentleman of the +Commons, "on the loose," as he put it. + +He would head it: + + "ARISTOCRAT, POLITICIAN, LIBERTINE!" + +Then, under that he would put: + + "CAN THE ETHIOPIAN CHANGE HIS SKIN, OR THE + LEOPARD HIS SPOTS?" Jer. xi. 23. + +The morality of such a thing? Morality only had to do with ruining a +girl's name, or robbery. How did it concern this? + +So Mr. Meyerbeer kept his ears open. Presently one of the students said +to Bagshot, a young artist: "How does the dompteuse come on?" + +"Well, I think it's chic enough. She's magnificent. The colour of her +skin against the lions was splendid to-day: a regular rich gold with a +sweet stain of red like a leaf of maize in September. There's never been +such a Una. I've got my chance; and if I don't pull it off, + + 'Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket, + And say a poor buffer lies low!'" + +"Get the jacket ready," put in a young Frenchman, sneering. + +The Englishman's jaw hardened, but he replied coolly + +"What do you know about it?" + +"I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her." + +"How the devil does that concern my painting her?" There was iron in +Bagshot's voice. + +"Who says you are painting her?" + +The insult was conspicuous. Gaston quickly interposed. His clear strong +voice rang down the table: "Will you let me come and see your canvas some +day soon, Mr. Bagshot? I remember your picture 'A Passion in the +Desert,' at the Academy this year. A fine thing: the leopard was free +and strong. As an Englishman, I am proud to meet you." + +The young Frenchman stared. The quarrel had passed to a new and +unexpected quarter. Gaston's large, solid body, strong face, and +penetrating eyes were not to be sneered out of sight. The Frenchman, +an envious, disappointed artist, had had in his mind a bloodless duel, +to give a fillip to an unacquired fame. He had, however, been drinking. +He flung an insolent glance to meet Gaston's steady look, and said: + +"The cock crows of his dunghill!" + +Gaston looked at the landlord, then got up calmly and walked down the +table. The Frenchman, expecting he knew not what, sprang to his feet, +snatching up a knife; but Gaston was on him like a hawk, pinioning his +arms and lifting him off the ground, binding his legs too, all so tight +that the Frenchman squealed for breath. + +"Monsieur," said Gaston to the landlord, "from the door or the window?" + +The landlord was pale. It was in some respects a quarrel of races. +For, French and English at the tables had got up and were eyeing each +other. As to the immediate outcome of the quarrel, there could be no +doubt. The English and Americans could break the others to pieces; +but neither wished that. The landlord decided the matter: + +"Drop him from this window." + +He pushed a shutter back, and Gaston dropped the fellow on the hard +pavement--a matter of five feet. The Frenchman got up raging, and made +for the door; but this time he was met by the landlord, who gave him his +hat, and bade him come no more. There was applause from both English and +French. The journalist chuckled--another column! + +Gaston had acted with coolness and common-sense; and when he sat down +and began talking of the Englishman's picture again as if nothing had +happened, the others followed, and the meal went on cheerfully. + +Presently another young English painter entered, and listened to the +conversation, which Gaston brought back to Una and the lions. It was his +way to force things to his liking, if possible; and he wanted to hear +about the woman--why, he did not ask himself. The new arrival, Fancourt +by name, kept looking at him quizzically. Gaston presently said that he +would visit the menagerie and see this famous dompteuse that afternoon. + +"She's a brick," said Bagshot. "I was in debt, a year behind with my +Pelletier here, and it took all I got for 'A Passion in the Desert' to +square up. I'd nothing to go on with. I spent my last sou in visiting +the menagerie. There I got an idea. I went to her, told her how I was +fixed, and begged her to give me a chance. By Jingo! she brought the +water to my eyes. Some think she's a bit of a devil; but she can be a +devil of a saint, that's all I've got to say." + +"Zoug-Zoug's responsible for the devil," said Fancourt to Bagshot. + +"Shut up, Fan," rejoined Bagshot, hurriedly, and then whispered to him +quickly. + +Fancourt sent self-conscious glances down the table towards Gaston; and +then a young American, newly come to Paris, said: + +"Who's Zoug-Zoug, and what's Zoug-Zoug?" + +"It's milk for babes, youngster," answered Bagshot quickly, and changed +the conversation. + +Gaston saw something strange in the little incident; but he presently +forgot it for many a day, and then remembered it for many a day, when the +wheel had spun through a wild arc. + +When they rose from the table, Meyerbeer went to Bagshot, and said: + +"Say, who's Zoug-Zoug, anyway?" Bagshot coolly replied: + +"I'm acting for another paper. What price?" + +"Fifty dollars," in a low voice, eagerly. Bagshot meditated. + +"H'm, fifty dollars! Two hundred and fifty francs, or thereabouts. +Beggarly!" + +"A hundred, then." + +Bagshot got to his feet, lighting a cigarette. + +"Want to have a pretty story against a woman, and to smutch a man, do +you? Well, I'm hard up; I don't mind gossip among ourselves; but sell +the stuff to you--I'll see you damned first!" + +This was said sufficiently loud; and after that, Meyerbeer could not ask +Fancourt, so he departed with Gaston, who courteously dismissed him, to +his astonishment and regret, for he had determined to visit the menagerie +with his quarry. + +Gaston went to his apartments, and cheerily summoned Jacques. + +"Now, little man, for a holiday! The menagerie: lions, leopards, and a +grand dompteuse; and afterwards dinner with me at the Cafe Blanche. I +want a blow-out of lions and that sort. I'd like to be a lion-tamer +myself for a month, or as long as might be." + +He caught Jacques by the shoulders--he had not done so since that +memorable day at Ridley Court. "See, Jacques, we'll do this every year. +Six months in England, and three months on the Continent,--in your +France, if you like,--and three months in the out-of-the-wayest place, +where there'll be big game. Hidalgos for six months, Goths for the +rest." + +A half-hour later they were in the menagerie. They sat near the +doors where the performers entered. For a long time they watched the +performance with delight, clapping and calling bravo like boys. +Presently the famous dompteuse entered,--Mademoiselle Victorine,--passing +just below Gaston. He looked down, interested, at the supple, lithe +creature making for the cages of lions in the amphitheatre. The figure +struck him as familiar. Presently the girl turned, throwing a glance +round the theatre. He caught the dash of the dark, piercing eyes, the +luminous look, the face unpainted--in its own natural colour: neither hot +health nor paleness, but a thing to bear the light of day. "Andree the +gipsy!" he exclaimed in a low tone. + +In less than two years this! Here was fame. A wanderer, an Ishmael +then, her handful of household goods and her father in the grasp of the +Law: to-day, Mademoiselle Victorine, queen of animal-tamers! And her +name associated with the Comte Ploare! + +With the Comte Ploare? Had it come to that? He remembered the look in +her face when he bade her good-bye. Impossible! Then, immediately he +laughed. + +Why impossible? And why should he bother his head about it? People of +this sort: Mademoiselle Cerise, Madame Juliette, Mademoiselle Victorine-- +what were they to him, or to themselves? + +There flashed through his brain three pictures: when he stood by the +bedside of the old dying Esquimaux in Labrador, and took a girl's hand in +his; when among the flowers at Peppingham he heard Delia say: "Oh, +Gaston! Gaston!" and Alice's face at midnight in the moonlit window at +Ridley Court. + +How strange this figure--spangled, gaudy, standing among her lions-- +seemed by these. To think of her, his veins thumping thus, was an insult +to all three: to Delia, one unpardonable. And yet he could not take his +eyes off her. Her performance was splendid. He was interested, +speculative. She certainly had flown high; for, again, why should not a +dompteuse be a decent woman? And here were money, fame of a kind, and an +occupation that sent his blood bounding. A dompteur! He had tamed +moose, and young mountain lions, and a catamount, and had had mad hours +with pumas and arctic bears; and he could understand how even he might +easily pass from M.P. to dompteur. It was not intellectual, but it was +power of a kind; and it was decent, and healthy, and infinitely better +than playing the Jew in business, or keeping a tavern, or "shaving" +notes, and all that. Truly, the woman was to be admired, for she was +earning an honest living; and no doubt they lied when they named her with +Count Ploare. He kept coming back to that--Count Ploare! Why could they +not leave these women alone? Did they think none of them virtuous? He +would stake his life that Andree--he would call her that--was as straight +as the sun. + +"What do you think of her, Jacques?" he said suddenly. + +"It is grand. Mon Dieu, she is wonderful--and a face all fire!" + +Presently she came out of the cage, followed by two great lions. She +walked round the ring, a hand on the head of each: one growling, the +other purring against her, with a ponderous kind of affection. She +talked to them as they went, giving occasionally a deep purring sound +like their own. Her talk never ceased. She looked at the audience, but +only as in a dream. Her mind was all with the animals. There was +something splendid in it: she, herself, was a noble animal; and she +seemed entirely in place where she was. The lions were fond of her, and +she of them; but the first part of her performance had shown that they +could be capricious. A lion's love is but a lion's love after all--and +hers likewise, no doubt! The three seemed as one in their beauty, the +woman superbly superior. Meyerbeer, in a far corner, was still on the +trail of his sensation. He thought that he might get an article out of +it--with the help of Count Ploare and Zoug-Zoug. Who was Zoug-Zoug? +He exulted in her picturesqueness, and he determined to lie in wait. He +thought it a pity that Comte Ploare was not an Englishman or an American; +but it couldn't be helped. Yes, she was, as he said to himself, "a +stunner." Meanwhile he watched Gaston, noted his intense interest. + +Presently the girl stopped beside the cage. A chariot was brought out, +and the two lions were harnessed to it. Then she called out another +larger lion, which came unwillingly at first. She spoke sharply, and +then struck him. He growled, but came on. Then she spoke softly to him, +and made that peculiar purr, soft and rich. Now he responded, walked +round her, coming closer, till his body made a half-circle about her, and +his head was at her knees. She dropped her hand on it. Great applause +rang through the building. This play had been quite accidental. But +there lay one secret of the girl's success. She was original; she +depended greatly on the power of the moment for her best effects, and +they came at unexpected times. + +It was at this instant that, glancing round the theatre in acknowledgment +of the applause, her eyes rested mechanically on Gaston's box. There was +generally some one important in that box: from a foreign prince to a +young gentleman whose proudest moment was to take off his hat in the Bois +to the queen of a lawless court. She had tired of being introduced to +princes. What could it mean to her? And for the young bloods, whose +greatest regret was that they could not send forth a daughter of joy into +the Champs Elysee in her carriage, she had ever sent them about their +business. She had no corner of pardon for them. She kissed her lions, +she hugged the lion's cub that rode back and forth with her to the +menagerie day by day--her companion in her modest apartments; but sell +one of these kisses to a young gentleman of Paris, whose ambition was to +master all the vices, and then let the vices master him!--she had not +come to that, though, as she said in some bitter moments, she had come +far. + +Count Ploare--there was nothing in that. A blase man of the world, who +had found it all not worth the bothering about, neither code nor people-- +he saw in this rich impetuous nature a new range of emotions, a brief +return to the time when he tasted an open strong life in Algiers, in +Tahiti. And he would laugh at the world by marrying her--yes, actually +marrying her, the dompteuse! Accident had let him render her a service, +not unimportant, once at Versailles, and he had been so courteous and +considerate afterwards, that she had let him see her occasionally, but +never yet alone. He soon saw that an amour was impossible. At last he +spoke of marriage. She shook her head. She ought to have been grateful, +but she was not. Why should she be? She did not know why he wished to +marry her; but, whatever the reason, he was selfish. Well, she would be +selfish. She did not care for him. If she married him, it would be +because she was selfish: because of position, ease; for protection in +this shameless Paris; and for a home, she who had been a wanderer since +her birth. + +It was mere bargaining. But at last her free, independent nature +revolted. No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of +man, for three months that were burned into her brain--no more! If ever +she loved--all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the +affection she gave her lions freely. + +The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered a +price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as +such a man could be. She even visited his wife occasionally, and gave +gifts to his children; and the mother trusted her and told her her +trials. And so the thing went on, and the people talked. + +As we said, she turned her eyes to Gaston's box. Instantly they became +riveted, and then a deep flush swept slowly up her face and burned into +her splendid hair. Meyerbeer was watching through his opera-glasses. +He gave an exclamation of delight: + +"By the holy smoke, here's something!" he said aloud. + +For an instant Gaston and the girl looked at each other intently. He +made a slight sign of recognition with his hand, and then she turned +away, gone a little pale now. She stood looking at her lions, as if +trying to recollect herself. The lion at her feet helped her. He had +a change of temper, and, possibly fretting under inaction, growled. At +once she summoned him to get into the chariot. He hesitated, but did so. +She put the reins in his paws and took her place behind. Then a robe of +purple and ermine was thrown over her shoulders by an attendant; she gave +a sharp command, and the lions came round the ring, to wild applause. +Even a Parisian audience had never seen anything like this. It was +amusing too; for the coachman-lion was evidently disgusted with his task, +and growled in a helpless kind of way. + +As they passed Gaston's box, they were very near. The girl threw one +swift glance; but her face was well controlled now. She heard, however, +a whispered word come to her: + +"Andree!" + +A few moments afterwards she retired, and the performance was in other +and less remarkable hands. Presently the manager himself came, and said +that Mademoiselle Victorine would be glad to see Monsieur Belward if he +so wished. Gaston left Jacques, and went. + +Meyerbeer noticed the move, and determined to see the meeting if +possible. There was something in it, he was sure. He would invent an +excuse, and make his way behind. + +Gaston and the manager were in the latter's rooms waiting for Victorine. +Presently a messenger came, saying that Monsieur Belward would find +Mademoiselle in her dressing-room. Thither Gaston went, accompanied by +the manager, who, however, left him at the door, nodding good-naturedly +to Victorine, and inwardly praying that here was no danger to his +business, for Victorine was a source of great profit. Yet he had failed +himself, and all others had failed in winning her--why should this man +succeed, if that was his purpose? + +There was present an elderly, dark-featured Frenchwoman, who was always +with Victorine, vigilant, protective, loving her as her own daughter. + +"Monsieur!" said Andree, a warm colour in her cheek. Gaston shook her +hand cordially, and laughed. "Mademoiselle--Andree?" + +He looked inquiringly. "Yes, to you," she said. + +"You have it all your own way now--isn't it so?" "With the lions, yes. +Please sit down. This is my dear keeper," she said, touching the woman's +shoulder. Then, to the woman: "Annette, you have heard me speak of this +gentleman?" + +The woman nodded, and modestly touched Gaston's outstretched hand. + +"Monsieur was kind once to my dear Mademoiselle," she said. + +Gaston cheerily smiled: + +"Nothing, nothing, upon my word!" Presently he continued: + +"Your father, what of him?" She sighed and shivered a little. + +"He died in Auvergne three months after you saw him." + +"And you?" He waved a hand towards the menagerie. + +"It is a long story," she answered, not meeting his eyes. "I hated the +Romany life. I became an artist's model; sickened of that,"--her voice +went quickly here, "joined a travelling menagerie, and became what I am. +That in brief." + +"You have done well," he said admiringly, his face glowing. + +"I am a successful dompteuse," she replied. + +She then asked him who was his companion in the box. He told her. +She insisted on sending for Jacques. Meanwhile they talked of her +profession, of the animals. She grew eloquent. Jacques arrived, and +suddenly remembered Andree--stammered, was put at his ease, and dropped +into talk with Annette. Gaston fell into reminiscences of wild game, and +talked intelligently, acutely of her work. He must wait, she said, until +the performance closed, and then she would show him the animals as a +happy family. Thus a half-hour went by. + +Meanwhile, Meyerbeer had asked the manager to take him to Mademoiselle; +but was told that Victorine never gave information to journalists, and +would not be interviewed. Besides, she had a visitor. Yes, Meyerbeer +knew it--Mr. Gaston Belward; but that did not matter. The manager +thought it did matter. Then, with an idea of the future, Meyerbeer asked +to be shown the menagerie thoroughly--he would write it up for England +and America. + +And so it happened that there were two sets of people inspecting the +menagerie after the performance. Andree let a dozen of the animals out-- +lions, leopards, a tiger, and a bear,--and they gambolled round her +playfully, sometimes quarrelling with each other, but brought up smartly +by her voice and a little whip, which she always carried--the only sign +of professional life about her, though there was ever a dagger hid in her +dress. For the rest, she looked a splendid gipsy. + +Gaston suddenly asked if he might visit her. At the moment she was +playing with the young tiger. She paused, was silent, preoccupied. The +tiger, feeling neglected, caught her hand with its paw, tearing the skin. +Gaston whipped out his handkerchief, and stanched the blood. She wrapped +the handkerchief quickly round her hand, and then, recovering herself, +ordered the animals back into their cages. They trotted away, and the +attendant locked them up. Meanwhile Jacques had picked up and handed to +Gaston a letter, dropped when he drew out his handkerchief. It was one +received two days before from Delia Gasgoyne. He had a pang of +confusion, and hastily put it into his pocket. + +Up to this time there had been no confusion in his mind. He was going +back to do his duty; to marry the girl, union with whom would be an +honour; to take his place in his kingdom. He had had no minute's doubt +of that. It was necessary, and it should be done. The girl? Did he not +admire her, honour her, care for her? Why, then, this confusion? + +Andree said to him that he might come the next morning for breakfast. +She said it just as the manager and Meyerbeer passed her. Meyerbeer +heard it, and saw the look in the faces of both: in hers, bewildered, +warm, penetrating; in Gaston's, eager, glowing, bold, with a distant kind +of trouble. + +Here was a thickening plot for Paul Pry. He hugged himself. But who was +Zoug-Zoug? If he could but get at that! He asked the manager, who said +he did not know. He asked a dozen men that evening, but none knew. He +would ask Ian Belward. What a fool not to have thought of him at first. +He knew all the gossip of Paris, and was always communicative--but was +he, after all? He remembered now that the painter had a way of talking +at discretion: he had never got any really good material from him. But +he would try him in this. + +So, as Gaston and Jacques travelled down the Boulevard Montparnasse, +Meyerbeer was not far behind. The journalist found Ian Belward at home, +in a cynical indolent mood. + +"Wherefore Meyerbeer?" he said, as he motioned the other to a chair, and +pushed over vermouth and cigarettes. + +"To ask a question." + +"One question? Come, that's penance. Aren't you lying as usual?" + +"No; one only. I've got the rest of it." + +"Got the rest of it, eh? Nasty mess you've got, whatever it is, I'll be +bound. What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers!" + +"That's all right. This vermouth is good enough. Well, will you answer +my question?" + +"Possibly, if it's not personal. But Lord knows where your insolence may +run! You may ask if I'll introduce you to a decent London club!" + +Meyerbeer flushed at last. + +"You're rubbing it in," he said angrily. + +He did wish to be introduced to a good London club. "The question isn't +personal, I guess. It's this: Who's Zoug-Zoug?" + +Smoke had come trailing out of Belward's nose, his head thrown back, his +eyes on the ceiling. It stopped, and came out of his mouth on one long, +straight whiff. Then the painter brought his head to a natural position +slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said: + +"Who is what?" + +"Who's Zoug-Zoug?" + +"That is your one solitary question, is it?" + +"That's it." + +"Very well. Now, I'll be scavenger. What is the story? Who is the +woman--for you've got a woman in it, that's certain?" + +"Will you tell me, then, whether you know Zoug-Zoug?" + +"Yes." + +"The woman is Mademoiselle Victorine, the dompteuse." + +"Ah, I've not seen her yet. She burst upon Paris while I was away. Now, +straight: no lies: who are the others?" + +Meyerbeer hesitated; for, of course, he did not wish to speak of Gaston +at this stage in the game. But he said: + +"Count Ploare--and Zoug-Zoug." + +"Why don't you tell me the truth?" + +"I do. Now, who is Zoug-Zoug?" + +"Find out." + +"You said you'd tell me." + +"No. I said I'd tell you if I knew Zoug-Zoug. I do." + +"That's all you'll tell me?" + +"That's all. And see, scavenger, take my advice and let Zoug-Zoug alone. +He's a man of influence; and he's possessed of a devil. He'll make you +sorry, if you meddle with him!" + +He rose, and Meyerbeer did the same, saying: "You'd better tell me." + +"Now, don't bother me. Drink your vermouth, take that bundle of +cigarettes, and hunt Zoug-Zoug else where. If you find him, let me know. +Good-bye." + +Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic. + +"I'll give a sweet savour to your family name," he said with an oath, as +he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at +the ceiling reflectively. + +"H'm!" he said at last. "What the devil does this mean? Not Andree, +surely not Andree! Yet I wasn't called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was +Bagshot's insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!" + +He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, put +them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half +quizzically. + +"It was rough on you, Andree; but you were hard to please, and I am +constant to but one. Yet, begad, you had solid virtues; and I wish, for +your sake, I had been a different kind of fellow. Well, well, we'll meet +again some time, and then we'll be good friends, no doubt." + +He turned away from the sketches and picked up some illustrated +newspapers. In one was a portrait. He looked at it, then at the +sketches again and again. + +"There's a resemblance," he said. "But no, it's not possible. Andree- +Mademoiselle Victorine! That would be amusing. I'd go to-morrow and +see, if I weren't off to Fontainebleau. But there's no hurry: when I +come back will do." + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +WHEREIN IS SEEN THE OLD ADAM AND THE GARDEN + +At Ridley Court and Peppingham all was serene to the eye. Letters had +come to the Court at least once every two weeks from Gaston, and the +minds of the Baronet and his wife were at ease. They even went so far as +to hope that he would influence his uncle; for it was clear to them both +that whatever Gaston's faults were, they were agreeably different from +Ian's. His fame and promise were sweet to their nostrils. Indeed, the +young man had brought the wife and husband nearer than they had been +since Robert vanished over-sea. Each had blamed the other in an +indefinite, secret way; but here was Robert's son, on whom they could +lavish--as they did--their affection, long since forfeited by Ian. +Finally, one day, after a little burst of thanksgiving, on getting an +excellent letter from Gaston, telling of his simple, amusing life in +Paris, Sir William sent him one thousand pounds, begging him to buy a +small yacht, or to do what he pleased with it. + +"A very remarkable man, my dear," Sir William said, as he enclosed the +cheque. "Excellent wisdom--excellent!" + +"Who could have guessed that he knew so much about the poor and the East +End, and all those social facts and figures?" Lady Belward answered +complacently. + +"An unusual mind, with a singular taste for history, and yet a deep +observation of the present. I don't know when and how he does it. I +really do not know." + +"It is nice to think that Lord Faramond approves of him." + +"Most noticeable. And we have not been a Parliamentary family since +the first Charles's time. And then it was a Gaston. Singular--quite +singular! Coincidences of looks and character. Nature plays strange +games. Reproduction--reproduction!" + +"The Pall Mall Gazette says that he may soon reach the Treasury Bench." + +Sir William was abstracted. He was thinking of that afternoon in +Gaston's bedroom, when his grandson had acted, before Lady Dargan and +Cluny Vosse, Sir Gaston's scene with Buckingham. + +"Really, most mysterious, most unaccountable. But it's one of the +virtues of having a descent. When it is most needed, it counts, it +counts." + +"Against the half-breed mother!" Lady Belward added. + +"Quite so, against the--was it Cree or Blackfoot? I've heard him speak +of both, but which is in him I do not remember." + +"It is very painful; but, poor fellow, it is not his fault, and we ought +to be content." + +"Indeed, it gives him great originality. Our old families need +refreshing now and then." + +"Ah, yes, I said so to Mrs. Gasgoyne the other day, and she replied that +the refreshment might prove intoxicating. Reine was always rude." + +Truth is, Mrs. Gasgoyne was not quite satisfied. That very day she said +to her husband: + +"You men always stand by each other; but I know you, and you know that I +know." + +"'Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts'; well, then, you know how we +love you. So, be merciful." + +"Nonsense, Warren! I tell you he oughtn't to have gone when he did. He +has the wild man in him, and I am not satisfied." + +"What do you want--me to play the spy?" + +"Warren, you're a fool! What do I want? I want the first of September +to come quickly, that we may have him with us. With Delia he must go +straight. She influences him, he admires her--which is better than mere +love. Away from her just now, who can tell what mad adventure--! You +see, he has had the curb so long!" + +But in a day or two there came a letter-unusually long for Gaston-- +to Mrs. Gasgoyne herself. It was simple, descriptive, with a dash of +epigram. It acknowledged that he had felt the curb, and wanted a touch +of the unconventional. It spoke of Ian Belward in a dry phrase, and it +asked for the date of the yacht's arrival at Gibraltar. + +"Warren, the man is still sensible," she said. "This letter is honest. +He is much a heathen at heart, but I believe he hasn't given Delia cause +to blush--and that's a good deal! Dear me, I am fond of the fellow-- +he is so clever. But clever men are trying." + +As for Delia, like every sensible English girl, she enjoyed herself +in the time of youth, drinking in delightedly the interest attaching +to Gaston's betrothed. His letters had been regular, kind yet not +emotionally affectionate, interesting, uncommon. He had a knack of +saying as much in one page as most people did in five. Her imagination +was not great, but he stimulated it. If he wrote a pungent line on +Daudet or Whistler, on Montaigne or Fielding, she was stimulated to know +them. One day he sent her Whitman's Leaves of Grass, which he had picked +up in New York on his way to England. This startled her. She had +never heard of Whitman. To her he seemed coarse, incomprehensible, +ungentlemanly. She could not understand how Gaston could say beautiful +things about Montaigne and about Whitman too. She had no conception how +he had in him the strain of that first Sir Gaston Belward, and was also +the son of a half-heathen. + +He interested her all the more. Her letters were hardly so fascinating +to him. She was beautifully correct, but she could not make a sentence +breathe. He was grateful, but nothing stirred in him. He could live +without her--that he knew regretfully. But he did his part with sincere +intention. + +That was up to the day when he saw Andree as Mademoiselle Victorine. +Then came a swift change. Day after day he visited her, always in the +presence of Annette. Soon they dined often together, still in Annette's +presence, and the severity of that rule was never relaxed. + +Count Ploare came no more; he had received his dismissal. Occasionally +Gaston visited the menagerie, but generally after the performance, when +Victorine had a half-hour's or an hour's romp with her animals. This was +a pleasant time to Gaston. The wild life in him responded. + +These were hours when the girl was quite naive and natural, when she +spent herself in ripe enjoyment--almost child-like, healthy. At other +times there was an indefinable something which Gaston had not noticed in +England. But then he had only seen her once. She, too, saw something in +him unnoticed before. It was on his tongue a hundred times to tell her +that that something was Delia Gasgoyne. He did not. Perhaps because it +seemed so grotesque, perhaps because it was easier to drift. Besides, as +he said to himself, he would soon go to join the yacht at Gibraltar, and +all this would be over-over. All this? All what? A gipsy, a dompteuse +--what was she to him? She interested him, he liked her, and she liked +him, but there had been nothing more between them. Near as he was to her +now, he very often saw her in his mind's eye as she passed over Ridley +Common, looking towards him, her eyes shaded by her hand. + +She, too, had continually said to herself that this man could be nothing +to her--nothing, never! Yet, why not? Count Ploare had offered her his +hand. But she knew what had been in Count Ploare's mind. Gaston Belward +was different--he had befriended her father. She had not singular +scruples regarding men, for she despised most of them. She was not a +Mademoiselle Cerise, nor a Madame Juliette, though they were higher on +the plane of art than she; or so the world put it. She had not known a +man who had not, one time or another, shown himself common or insulting. +But since the first moment she had seen Gaston, he had treated her as a +lady. + +A lady? She had seen enough to smile at that. She knew that she hadn't +it in her veins, that she was very much an actress, except in this man's +company, when she was mostly natural--as natural as one can be who +has a painful secret. They had talked together--for how many hours? +She knew exactly. And he had never descended to that which--she felt +instinctively--he would not have shown to the ladies of his English +world. She knew what ladies were. In her first few weeks in Paris, +her fame mounting, she had lunched with some distinguished people, who +entertained her as they would have done one of her lions, if that were +possible. She understood. She had a proud, passionate nature; she +rebelled at this. Invitations were declined at first on pink note-paper +with gaudy flowers in a corner, afterwards on cream-laid vellum, when she +saw what the great folk did. + +And so the days went on, he telling her of his life from his boyhood up +--all but the one thing! But that one thing she came to know, partly by +instinct, partly by something he accidentally dropped, partly from +something Jacques once said to him. Well, what did it matter to her? +He would go back; she would remain. It didn't matter.--Yet, why should +she lie to herself? It did matter. And why should she care about that +girl in England? She was not supposed to know. The other had everything +in her favour; what had Andree the gipsy girl, or Mademoiselle Victorine, +the dompteuse? + +One Sunday evening, after dining together, she asked him to take her to +see Saracen. It was a long-standing promise. She had never seen him +riding; for their hours did not coincide until the late afternoon or +evening. Taking Annette, they went to his new apartments. He had +furnished a large studio as a sitting-room, not luxuriantly but +pleasantly. It opened into a pretty little garden, with a few plants +and trees. They sat there while Jacques went for the horse. Next door +a number of students were singing a song of the boulevards. It was +followed by one in a woman's voice, sweet and clear and passionate, +pitifully reckless. It was, as if in pure contradiction, the opposite +of the other--simple, pathetic. At first there were laughing +interruptions from the students; but the girl kept on, and soon silence +prevailed, save for the voice: + + "And when the wine is dry upon the lip, + And when the flower is broken by the hand, + And when I see the white sails of thy ship + Fly on, and leave me there upon the sand: + Think you that I shall weep? Nay, I shall smile: + The wine is drunk, the flower it is gone, + One weeps not when the days no more beguile, + How shall the tear-drops gather in a stone?" + +When it was ended, Andree, who had listened intently, drew herself up +with a little shudder. She sat long, looking into the garden, the cub +playing at her feet. Gaston did not disturb her. He got refreshments +and put them on the table, rolled a cigarette, and regarded the scene. +Her knee was drawn up slightly in her hands, her hat was off, her rich +brown hair fell loosely about her head, framing it, her dark eyes glowed +under her bent brows. The lion's cub crawled up on the divan, and thrust +its nose under an arm. Its head clung to her waist. Who was she? +thought Gaston. Delilah, Cleopatra--who? She was lost in thought. She +remained so until the garden door opened, and Jacques entered with +Saracen. + +She looked. Suddenly she came to her feet with a cry of delight, and ran +out towards the horse. There was something essentially child-like in +her, something also painfully wild-an animal, and a philosopher, and +twenty-three. + +Jacques put out his hand as he had done with Mademoiselle Cerise. + +"No, no; he is savage." + +"Nonsense!" she rejoined, and came closer. + +Gaston watched, interested. He guessed what she would do. + +"A horse!" she added. "Why, you have seen my lions! Leave him free: +stand away from him." + +Her words were peremptory, and Jacques obeyed. The horse stood alone, +a hoof pawing the ground. Presently it sprang away, then half-turned +towards the girl, and stood still. She kept talking to him and calling +softly, making a coaxing, animal-like sound, as she always did with her +lions. + +She stepped forward a little and paused. The horse suddenly turned +straight towards her, came over slowly, and, with arched neck, dropped +his head on her shoulder. She felt the folds of his neck and kissed him. +He followed her about the garden like a dog. She brought him to Gaston, +locked up, and said with a teasing look, "I have conquered him: he is +mine!" + +Gaston looked her in her eyes. "He is yours." + +"And you?" + +"He is mine." His look burned into her soul-how deep, how joyful! + +She turned away, her face going suddenly pale. She kept the horse for +some time, but at last gave him up again to Jacques. Gaston stepped from +the doorway into the garden and met her. It was now dusk. Annette was +inside. They walked together in silence for a time. Presently she drew +close to him. He felt his veins bounding. Her hand slid into his arm, +and, dark as it was, he could see her eyes lifting to his, shining, +profound. They had reached the end of the garden, and now turned to come +back again. + +Suddenly he said, his eyes holding hers: "The horse is yours--and mine." + +She stood still; but he could see her bosom heaving hard. She threw up +her head with a sound half sob, half laugh. . . . + +"You are mad!" she said a moment afterwards, as she lifted her head from +his breast. + +He laughed softly, catching her cheek to his. "Why be sane? It was to +be." + +"The gipsy and the gentleman?" + +"Gipsies all!" + +"And the end of it?" + +"Do you not love me, Andree?" She caught her hands over her eyes. + +"I do not know what it is--only that it is madness! I see, oh, I see a +hundred things." + +Her hot eyes were on space. "What do you see?" he urged. She gave a +sudden cry: + +"I see you at my feet--dead." + +"Better than you at mine, Andree." + +"Let us go," she said hurriedly. + +"Wait," he whispered. + +They talked for a little time. Then they entered the studio. Annette +was asleep in her chair. Andree waked her, and they bade Gaston good- +night. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +WHEREIN LOVE KNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN'S WILL + +In another week it was announced that Mademoiselle Victorine would take a +month's holiday; to the sorrow of her chief, and to the delight of Mr. +Meyerbeer, who had not yet discovered his man, though he had a pretty +scandal well-nigh brewed. + +Count Ploare was no more, Gaston Belward was. Zoug-Zoug was in the +country at Fontainebleau, working at his picture. He had left on the +morning after Gaston discovered Andree. He had written, asking his +nephew to come for some final sittings. Possibly, he said, Mademoiselle +Cerise and others would be down for a Sunday. Gaston had not gone, had +briefly declined. His uncle shrugged his shoulders, and went on with +other work. It would end in his having to go to Paris and finish the +picture there, he said. Perhaps the youth was getting into mischief? +So much the better. He took no newspapers.--What did an artist need of +them? He did not even read the notices sent by a press-cutting agency. +He had a model with him. She amused him for the time, but it was +unsatisfactory working on "The King of Ys" from photographs. He loathed +it, and gave it up. + +One evening Gaston and Andree met at the Gare Montparnasse. Jacques +was gone on, but Annette was there. Meyerbeer was there also, at a safe +distance. He saw Gaston purchase tickets, arrange his baggage, and enter +the train. He passed the compartment, looking in. Besides the three, +there was a priest and a young soldier. + +Gaston saw him, and guessed what brought him there. He had an impulse to +get out and shake him as would Andree's cub a puppy. But the train moved +off. Meyerbeer found Gaston's porter. A franc did the business. + +"Douarnenez, for Audierne, Brittany," was the legend written in +Meyerbeer's note-book. And after that: "Journey twenty hours--change at +Rennes, Redon, and Quimpere." + +"Too far. I've enough for now," said Meyerbeer, chuckling, as he walked +away. "But I'd give five hundred dollars to know who Zoug-Zoug is. I'll +make another try." + +So he held his sensation back for a while yet. Of the colony at the +Hotel St. Malo, not one of the three who knew would tell him. Bagshot +had sworn the others to secrecy. + +Jacques had gone on with the horses. He was to rent a house, or get +rooms at a hotel. He did very well. The horses were stalled at the +Hotel de France. He had rented an old chateau perched upon a hill, with +steps approaching, steps flanking; near it strange narrow alleys, leading +where one cared not to search; a garden of pears and figs, and grapes, +and innumerable flowers and an arbour; a pavilion, all windows, over an +entranceway, with a shrine in it--a be-starred shrine below it; bare +floors, simple furniture, primitiveness at every turn. + +Gaston and Andree came, of choice, with a courier in a racketing old +diligence from Douarnenez, and they laughed with delight, tired as they +were, at the new quarters. It must be a gipsy kind of existence at the +most. + +There were rooms for Jacques and Annette, who at once set to work with +the help of a little Breton maid. Jacques had not ordered a dinner at +the hotel, but had got in fresh fish, lobsters, chickens, eggs, and other +necessaries; and all was ready for a meal which could be got in an hour. + +Jacques had now his hour of happiness. He knew not of these morals-- +they were beyond him; but after a cheerful dinner in the pavilion, with +an omelette made by Andree herself, Annette went to her room and cried +herself to sleep. She was civilised, poor soul, and here they were a +stone's throw from the cure and the church! Gaston and Andree, +refreshed, travelled down the long steps to the village, over the place, +along the quay, to the lighthouse and the beach, through crowds of +sardine fishers and simple hard-tongued Bretons. Cheerful, buoyant at +dinner, there now came upon the girl an intense quiet and fatigue. She +stood and looked long at the sea. Gaston tried to rouse her. + +"This is your native Brittany, Andree," he said. She pointed far over +the sea: + +"Near that light at Penmark I was born." + +"Can you speak the Breton language?" + +"Far worse than you speak Parisian French." + +He laughed. "You are so little like these people!" + +She had vanity. That had been part of her life. Her beauty had brought +trade when she was a gipsy; she had been the admired of Paris: she was +only twenty three. Presently she became restless, and shrank from him. +Her eyes had a flitting hunted look. Once they met his with a wild sort +of pleading or revolt, he could not tell which, and then were continually +turned away. + +If either could have known how hard the little dwarf of sense and memory +was trying to tell her something. + +This new phase stunned him. What did it mean? He touched her hand. +It was hot, and withdrew from his. He put his arm around her, and she +shivered, cringed. But then she was a woman, he thought. He had met +one unlike any he had ever known. He would wait. He would be patient. +Would she come--home? She turned passively and took his arm. He talked, +but he knew he was talking poorly, and at last he became silent also. +But when they came to the steep steps leading to the chateau, he lifted +her in his arms, carried her to the house, and left her at their chamber- +door. + +Then he went to the pavilion to smoke. He had no wish to think-- +at least of anything but the girl. It was not a time for retrospect, +but to accept a situation. The die had been cast. He had followed what +--his nature, his instincts? The consequence? + +He heard Andree's voice. He went to her. + +The next morning they were in the garden walking about. They had been +speaking, but now both were silent. At last he turned again to her. + +"Andree, who was the other man?" he asked quietly, but with a strange +troubled look in his eyes. + +She shrank away confused, a kind of sickness in her eyes. + +"What does it matter?" she said. + +"Of course, of course," he returned in a low, nerveless tone. + +They were silent for a long time. Meanwhile, she seemed to beat up +a feverish cheerfulness. At last she said: + +"Where do we go this afternoon, Gaston?" + +"We will see," he replied. + +The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was +impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned, +entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion +to redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much. + +They rode, they took excursions in fishing-boats and little sail-boats. +Andree entered into these with zest: talked to the sailors, to Jacques, +caressed children, and was not indifferent to the notice she attracted in +the village; but was obviously distrait. Gaston was patient--and +unhappy. So, this was the merchandise for which he had bartered all! +But he had a will, he was determined; he had sowed, he would reap his +harvest to the useless stubble. + +"Do you wish to go back to your work?" he said quietly, once. + +"I have no work," she answered apathetically. He said no more just then. + +The days and weeks went by. The situation was impossible, not to be +understood. Gaston made his final move. He hoped that perhaps a forced +crisis might bring about a change. If it failed--he knew not what! +She was sitting in the garden below--he alone in the window, smoking. +A bundle of letters and papers, brought by the postman that evening, were +beside him. He would not open them yet. He felt that there was trouble +in them--he saw phrases, sentences flitting past him. But he would play +this other bitter game out first. He let them lie. He heard the bells +in the church ringing the village commerce done--it was nine o'clock. +The picture of that other garden in Paris came to him: that night when +he had first taken this girl into his arms. She sat below talking to +Annette and singing a little Breton chanson: + + "Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la lire! + Parvondt varbondt anan oun, + Et die don la, la!" + +He called down to her presently. "Andree!" + +"Yes." + +"Will you come up for a moment, please?" + +"Surely." + +She came up, leaving the room door open, and bringing the cub with her. + +He called Jacques. + +"Take the cub to its quarters, Jacques," he said, quietly. + +She seemed about to protest, but sat back and watched him. He shut the +door--locked it. Then he came and sat down before her. + +"Andree," he said, "this is all impossible." + +"What is impossible?" + +"You know well. I am not a mere brute. The only thing that can redeem +this life is love." + +"That is true," she said, coldly. "What then?" + +"You do not redeem it. We must part." + +She laughed fitfully. "We must--?" + +She leaned towards him. + +"To-morrow evening you will go back to Paris. To-night we part, however: +that is, our relations cease." + +"I shall go from here when it pleases me, Gaston!" + +His voice came low and stern, but courteous: + +"You must go when I tell you. Do you think I am the weaker?" + +He could see her colour flying, her fingers lacing and interlacing. + +"Aren't you afraid to tell me that?" she asked. + +"Afraid? Of my life--you mean that? That you will be as common as that? +No: you will do as I tell you." + +He fixed his eyes on hers, and held them. She sat, looking. Presently +she tried to take her eyes away. She could not. She shuddered and +shrank. + +He withdrew his eyes for a moment. "You will go?" he asked. + +"It makes no difference," she answered; then added sharply: "Who are you, +to look at me like that, to--!" + +She paused. + +"I am your friend and your master!" + +He rose. "Good-night," he said, at the door, and went out. + +He heard the key turn in the lock. He had forgotten his papers and +letters. It did not matter. He would read them when she was gone--if +she did go. He was far from sure that he had succeeded. He went to bed +in another room, and was soon asleep. + +He was waked in the very early morning by feeling a face against his, +wet, trembling. + +"What is it, Andree?" he asked. Her arms ran round his neck. + +"Oh, mon amour! Mon adore! Je t'aime! Je t'aime!" + +In the evening of this day she said she knew not how it was, but on that +first evening in Audierne there suddenly came to her a strange terrible +feeling, which seemed to dry up all the springs of her desire for him. +She could not help it. She had fought against it, but it was no use; yet +she knew that she could not leave him. After he had told her to go, she +had had a bitter struggle: now tears, now anger, and a wish to hate. At +last she fell asleep. When she awoke she had changed, she was her old +self, as in Paris, when she had first confessed her love. She felt that +she must die if she did not go to him. All the first passion returned, +the passion that began on the common at Ridley Court. "And now--now," +she said, "I know that I cannot live without you." + +It seemed so. Her nature was emptying itself. Gaston had got the +merchandise for which he had given a price yet to be known. + +"You asked me of the other man," she said. "I will tell you." + +"Not now," he said. "You loved him?" + +"No--ah God, no!" she answered. + +An hour after, when she was in her room, he opened the little bundle of +correspondence.--A memorandum with money from his bankers. A letter from +Delia, and also one from Mrs. Gasgoyne, saying that they expected to meet +him at Gibraltar on a certain day, and asking why he had not written; +Delia with sorrowful reserve, Mrs. Gasgoyne with impatience. His letters +had missed them--he had written on leaving Paris, saying that his plans +were indefinite, but he would write them definitely soon. After he came +to Audierne it seemed impossible to write. How could he? No, let the +American journalist do it. Better so. Better himself in the worst +light, with the full penalty, than his own confession--in itself an +insult. So it had gone on. He slowly tore up the letters. The next +were from his grandfather and grandmother--they did not know yet. He +could not read them. A few loving sentences, and then he said: + +"What's the good! Better not." He tore them up also. Another--from his +uncle. It was brief: + + You've made a sweet mess of it, Cadet. It's in all the papers to- + day. Meyerbeer telegraphed it to New York and London. I'll + probably come down to see you. I want to finish my picture on the + site of the old City of Ys, there at Point du Raz. Your girl can + pose with you. I'll do all I can to clear the thing up. But a + British M.P.--that's a tough pill for Clapham! + +Gaston's foot tapped the floor angrily. He scattered the pieces of the +letter at his feet. Now for the newspapers. He opened Le Petit Journal, +Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it was +there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation. +Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all +unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand: + +There was a previous friend of the lady, unknown to the public, called +Zoug-Zoug. + +He remembered that day at the Hotel St. Malo! Well, the bolt was shot: +the worst was over. Quid refert? Justify himself? + +Certainly, to all but Delia Gasgoyne. + +Thousands of men did the same--did it in cold blood, without one honest +feeling. He did it, at least under a powerful influence. He could not +help but smile now at the thought of how he had filled both sides of the +equation. On his father's side, bringing down the mad record from +Naseby; on his mother's, true to the heathen, by following his impulses +--sacred to primitive man, justified by spear, arrow, and a strong arm. +Why sheet home this as a scandal? How did they--the libellers--know but +that he had married the girl? Exactly. He would see to that. He would +play his game with open sincerity now. He could have wished secrecy for +Delia Gasgoyne, and for his grandfather and grandmother,--he was not +wilfully brutal,--but otherwise he had no shame at all; he would stand +openly for his right. Better one honest passion than a life of deception +and miserable compromise. A British M.P.?--He had thrown away his +reputation, said the papers. By this? The girl was no man's wife, he +was no woman's husband! + +Marry her? Yes, he would marry her; she should be his wife. His people? +It was a pity. Poor old people--they would fret and worry. He had been +selfish, had not thought of them? Well, who could foresee this outrage +of journalism? The luck had been dead against him. Did he not know +plenty of men in London--he was going to say the Commons, but he was +fairer to the Commons than it, as a body, would be to him--who did much +worse? These had escaped: the hunters had been after him. What would he +do? Take the whip? He got to his feet with an oath. Take the whip? +Never--never! He would fight this thing tooth and nail. Had he come to +England to let them use him for a sensation only--a sequence of +surprises, to end in a tragedy, all for the furtive pleasure of the +British breakfast-table? No, by the Eternal! What had the first Gaston +done? He had fought--fought Villiers and others, and had held up his +head beside his King and Rupert till the hour of Naseby. + +When the summer was over he would return to Paris, to London. The +journalist--punish him? No; too little--a product of his time. But +the British people he would fight, and he would not give up Ridley Court. +He could throw the game over when it was all his, but never when it was +going dead against him. + +That speech in the Commons? He remembered gladly that he had contended +for conceptions of social miseries according to surrounding influences of +growth and situation. He had not played the hypocrite. + +No, not even with Delia. He had acted honestly at the beginning, +and afterwards he had done what he could so long as he could. It was +inevitable that she must be hurt, even if he had married, not giving her +what he had given this dompteuse. After all, was it so terrible? It +could not affect her much in the eyes of the world. And her heart? He +did not flatter himself. Yet he knew that it would be the thing--the +fallen idol--that would grieve her more than thought of the man. He +wished that he could have spared her in the circumstances. But it had +all come too suddenly: it was impossible. He had spared, he could spare, +nobody. There was the whole situation. What now to do?--To remain here +while it pleased them, then Paris, then London for his fight. + +Three days went round. There were idle hours by the sea, little +excursions in a sail-boat to Penmark, and at last to Point du Raz. It +was a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze, and the point was glorified. +The boat ran in lightly between the steep dark shore and the comb of reef +that looked like a host of stealthy pumas crumbling the water. They +anchored in the Bay des Trepasses. An hour on shore exploring the caves, +and lunching, and then they went back to the boat, accompanied by a +Breton sailor, who had acted as guide. + +Gaston lay reading,--they were in the shade of the cliff,--while Andree +listened to the Breton tell the legends of the coast. At length Gaston's +attention was attracted. The old sailor was pointing to the shore, and +speaking in bad French. + +"Voila, madame, where the City of Ys stood long before the Bretons came. +It was a foolish ride." + +"I do not know the story. Tell me." + +"There are two or three, but mine is the oldest. A flood came--sent by +the gods, for the woman was impious. The king must ride with her into +the sea and leave her there, himself to come back, and so save the city." + +The sailor paused to scan the sea--something had struck him. He shook +his head. Gaston was watching Andree from behind his book. + +"Well, well," she said, impatiently, "what then? What did he do?" + +"The king took up the woman, and rode into the water as far as where you +see the great white stone--it has been there ever since. There he had a +fight--not with the woman, but in his heart. He turned to the people, +and cried: 'Dry be your streets, and as ashes your eyes for your king!' +And then he rode on with the woman till they saw him no more--never!" +Andree said instantly: + +"That was long ago. Now the king would ride back alone." + +She did not look at Gaston, but she knew that his eyes were on her. +He closed the book, got up, came forward to the sailor, who was again +looking out to sea, and said carelessly over his shoulder: + +"Men who lived centuries ago would act the same now, if they were here." + +Her response seemed quite as careless as his: "How do you know?" + +"Perhaps I had an innings then," he answered, smiling whimsically. + +She was about to speak again, but the guide suddenly said: + +"You must get away. There'll be a change of wind and a bad cross-current +soon." + +In a few minutes the two were bearing out--none too soon, for those pumas +crowded up once or twice within a fathom of their deck, devilish and +devouring. But they wore away with a capricious current, and down a +tossing sea made for Audierne. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE + +In a couple of hours they rounded Point de Leroily, and ran for the +harbour. By hugging the quay in the channel to the left of the bar, they +were sure of getting in, though the tide was low. The boat was docile to +the lug-sail and the helm. As they were beating in they saw a large +yacht running straight across a corner of the bar for the channel. It +was Warren Gasgoyne's Kismet. + +The Kismet had put into Audierne rather than try to pass Point du Raz +at night. At Gibraltar a telegram had come telling of the painful +sensation, and the yacht was instantly headed for England; Mrs. Gasgoyne +crossing the Continent, Delia preferring to go back with her father--his +sympathy was more tender. They had seen no newspapers, and they did not +know that Gaston was at Audierne. Gasgoyne knowing, as all the world +knew, that there was a bar at the mouth of the harbour, allowed himself, +as he thought, sufficient room, but the wind had suddenly drawn ahead, +and he was obliged to keep away. Presently the yacht took the ground +with great force. + +Gasgoyne put the helm hard down, but she would not obey. He tried at +once to get in his sails, but the surf was running very strong, and +presently a heavy sea broke clean over her. Then came confusion and +dismay: the flapping of the wet, half-lowered sails, and the whipping of +the slack ropes, making all effort useless. There was no chance of her- +holding. Foot by foot she was being driven towards the rocks. Sailors +stood motionless on the shore. The lifeboat would be of little use: +besides, it could not arrive for some time. + +Gaston had recognised the Kismet. He turned to Andree. + +"There's danger, but perhaps we can do it. Will you go?" + +She flushed. + +"Have I ever been a coward, Gaston? Tell me what to do." + +"Keep the helm firm, and act instantly on my orders." + +Instead of coming round into the channel, he kept straight on past the +lighthouse towards the yacht, until he was something to seaward of her. +Then, luffing quickly, he dropped sail, let go the anchor, and unshipped +the mast, while Andree got the oars into the rowlocks. It was his idea +to dip under the yacht's stern, but he found himself drifting alongside, +and in danger of dashing broadside on her. He got an oar and backed with +all his strength towards the stern, the anchor holding well. Then he +called to those on board to be ready to jump. Once in line with the +Kismet's counter, he eased off the painter rapidly, and now dropped +towards the stern of the wreck. + +Gaston was quite cool. He did not now think of the dramatic nature of +this meeting, apart from the physical danger. Delia also had recognised +him, and guessed who the girl was. Not to respond to Gaston's call was +her first instinct. But then, life was sweet. Besides, she had to think +of others. Her father, too, was chiefly concerned for her safety and for +his yacht. He had almost determined to get Delia on Gaston's boat, and +himself take the chances with the Kismet; but his sailors dissuaded him, +declaring that the chances were against succour. + +The only greetings were words of warning and direction from Gaston. +Presently there was an opportunity. Gaston called sharply to Delia, +and she, standing ready, jumped. He caught her in his arms as she +came. The boat swayed as the others leaped, and he held her close +meanwhile. Her eyes closed, she shuddered and went white. When he put +her down, she covered her face with her hands, trembling. Then, suddenly +she came huddling in a heap, and burst into tears. + +They slipped the painter, a sailor took Andree's place at the helm, the +oars were got out, and they made over to the channel, grazing the bar +once or twice, by reason of the now heavy load. + +Warren Gasgoyne and Gaston had not yet spoken in the way of greeting. +The former went to Delia now and said a few cheery words, but, from +behind her handkerchief, she begged him to leave her alone for a moment. + +"Nerves, all nerves, Mr. Belward," he said, turning towards Gaston. +"But, then, it was ticklish-ticklish." + +They did not shake hands. Gaston was looking at Delia, and he did not +reply. + +Mr. Gasgoyne continued: + +"Nasty sea coming on--afraid to try Point du Raz. Of course we didn't +know you were here." + +He looked at Andree curiously. He was struck by the girl's beauty and +force. But how different from Delia! + +He suddenly turned, and said bluntly, in a low voice: "Belward, what a +fool--what a fool! You had it all at your feet: the best--the very +best." + +Gaston answered quietly: + +"It's an awkward time for talking. The rocks will have your yacht in +half an hour." + +Gasgoyne turned towards it. + +"Yes, she'll get a raking fore and aft." Then, he added, suddenly: "Of +course you know how we feel about our rescue. It was plucky of you." + +"Pluckier in the girl," was the reply. "Brave enough," the honest +rejoinder. + +Gaston had an impulse to say, "Shall I thank her for you?" but he was +conscious how little right he had to be ironical with Warren Gasgoyne, +and he held his peace. + +While the two were now turned away towards the Kismet, Andree came to +Delia. She did not quite know how to comfort her, but she was a woman, +and perhaps a supporting arm would do something. + +"There, there," she said, passing a hand round her shoulder, "you are all +right now. Don't cry!" + +With a gasp of horror, Delia got to her feet, but swayed, and fell +fainting--into Andree's arms. + +She awoke near the landing-place, her father beside her. Meanwhile +Andree had read the riddle. As Mr. Gasgoyne bathed Delia's face, and +Gaston her wrists, and gave her brandy, she sat still and intent, +watching. Tears and fainting! Would she--Andree-have given way like +that in the same circumstances? No. But this girl--Delia--was of a +different order: was that it? All nerves and sentiment! At one of those +lunches in the grand world she had seen a lady burst into tears suddenly +at some one's reference to Senegal. She herself had only cried four +times, that she remembered; when her mother died; when her father was +called a thief; when, one day, she suffered the first great shame of her +life in the mountains of Auvergne; and the night when she waked a second +time to her love for Gaston. She dared to call it love, though good +Annette had called it a mortal sin. + +What was to be done? The other woman must suffer. + +The man was hers--hers for ever. He had said it: for ever. Yet her +heart had a wild hunger for that something which this girl had and she +had not. But the man was hers; she had won him away from this other. + +Delia came upon the quay bravely, passing through the crowd of staring +fishermen, who presently gave Gaston a guttural cheer. Three of them, +indeed, had been drinking his health. They embraced him and kissed him, +begging him to come with them for absinthe. He arranged the matter with +a couple of francs. + +Then he wondered what now was to be done. He could not insult the +Gasgoynes by asking them to come to the chateau. He proposed the Hotel +de France to Mr. Gasgoyne, who assented. It was difficult to separate +here on the quay: they must all walk together to the hotel. Gaston +turned to speak to Andree, but she was gone. She had saved the +situation. + +The three spoke little, and then but formally, as they walked to the +hotel. Mr. Gasgoyne said that they would leave by train for Paris the +next day, going to Douarnenez that evening. They had saved nothing from +the yacht. + +Delia did not speak. She was pale, composed now. In the hotel Mr. +Gasgoyne arranged for rooms, while Gaston got some sailors together, and, +in Mr. Gasgoyne's name, offered a price for the recovery of the yacht or +of certain things in her. Then he went into the hotel to see if he could +do anything further. The door of the sitting-room was open, and no +answer coming to his knock, he entered. + +Delia was standing in the window. Against her will her father had gone +to find a doctor. Gaston would have drawn back if she had not turned +round wearily to him. + +Perhaps it were well to get it over now. He came forward. She made no +motion. + +"I hope you feel better?" he said. "It was a bad accident." + +"I am tired and shaken, of course," she responded. "It was very brave of +you." + +He hesitated, then said: + +"We were more fortunate than brave." + +He was determined to have Andree included. She deserved that; the wrong +to Delia was not hers. + +But she answered after the manner of a woman: "The girl--ah, yes, please +thank her for us. What is her name?" + +"She is known in Audierne as Madame Belward." The girl started. Her +face had a cold, scornful pride. "The Bretons, then, have a taste for +fiction?" + +"No, they speak as they are taught." + +"They understand, then, as little as I." + +How proud, how ineffaceably superior she was! + +"Be ignorant for ever," he answered quietly. + +"I do not need the counsel, believe me." + +Her hand trembled, though it rested against the window-trembled with +indignation: the insult of his elopement kept beating up her throat in +spite of her. + +At that moment a servant knocked, entered, and said that a parcel had +been brought for mademoiselle. It was laid upon the table. Delia, +wondering, ordered it to be opened. A bundle of clothes was disclosed-- +Andree's! Gaston recognised them, and caught his breath with wonder and +confusion. + +"Who has sent them?" Delia said to the servant. "They come from the +Chateau Ronan, mademoiselle." + +Delia dismissed the servant. + +"The Chateau Ronan?" she asked of Gaston. "Where I am living." + +"It is not necessary to speak of this?" She flushed. + +"Not at all. I will have them sent back. There is a little shop near by +where you can get what you may need." + +Andree had acted according to her lights. It was not an olive-branch, +but a touch of primitive hospitality. She was Delia's enemy at sight, +but a woman must have linen. + +Mr. Gasgoyne entered. Gaston prepared to go. "Is there anything more +that I can do?" he said, as it were, to both. + +The girl replied. "Nothing at all, thank you." They did not shake +hands. + +Mr. Gasgoyne could not think that all had necessarily ended. The thing +might be patched up one day yet. This affair with the dompteuse was mad +sailing, but the man might round-to suddenly and be no worse for the +escapade. + +"We are going early in the morning," he said. "We can get along all +right. Good-bye. When do you come to England?" + +The reply was prompt. "In a few weeks." + +He looked at both. The girl, seeing that he was going to speak further, +bowed and left the room. + +His eyes followed her. After a moment, he said firmly + +"Mr. Gasgoyne, I am going to face all." + +"To live it down, Belward?" + +"I am going to fight it down." + +"Well, there's a difference. You have made a mess of things, and shocked +us all. I needn't say what more. It's done, and now you know what such +things mean to a good woman--and, I hope also, to the father of a good +woman." + +The man's voice broke a little. He added: + +"They used to come to swords or pistols on such points. We can't settle +it in that way. Anyhow, you have handicapped us to-day." Then, with a +burst of reproach, indignation, and trouble: "Great God, as if you hadn't +been the luckiest man on earth! Delia, the estate, the Commons--all for +a dompteuse!" + +"Let us say nothing more," said Gaston, choking down wrath at the +reference to Andree, but sorrowful, and pitying Mr. Gasgoyne. Besides, +the man had a right to rail. + +Soon after they parted courteously. + +Gaston went to the chateau. As he came up the stone steps he met a +procession--it was the feast-day of the Virgin--of priests and people +and little children, filing up from the village and the sea, singing as +they came. He drew up to the wall, stood upon the stone seat, and took +off his hat while the procession passed. He had met the cure, first +accidentally on the shore, and afterwards in the cure's house, finding +much in common--he had known many priests in the North, known much good +of them. The cure glanced up at him now as they passed, and a half-sad +smile crossed his face. Gaston caught it as it passed. The cure read +his case truly enough and gently enough too. In some wise hour he would +plead with Gaston for the woman's soul and his own. + +Gaston did not find Andree at the chateau. She had gone out alone +towards the sea, Annette said, by a route at the rear of the village. +He went also, but did not find her. As he came again to the quay he saw +the Kismet beating upon the rocks--the sailors had given up any idea of +saving her. He stood and watched the sea breaking over her, and the +whole scene flashed back on him. He thought how easily he could be +sentimental over the thing. But that was not his nature. He had made +his bed, but he would not lie in it--he would carry it on his back. +They all said that he had gone on the rocks. He laughed. + +"I can turn that tide: I can make things come my way," he said. "All +they want is sensation, it isn't morals that concerns them. Well, IT +give them sensation. They expect me to hide, and drop out of the game. +Never--so help me Heaven! I'll play it so they'll forget this!" + +He rolled and lighted a cigarette, and went again to the chateau. Dinner +was ready--had been ready for some time. He sat down, and presently +Andree came. There was a look in her face that he could not understand. +They ate their dinner quietly, not mentioning the events of the +afternoon. + +Presently a telegram was brought to him. It read: "Come. My office, +Downing Street, Friday. Expect you." It was signed "Faramond." At the +same time came letters: from his grandfather, from Captain Maudsley. The +first was stern, imperious, reproachful.--Shame for those that took him +in and made him, a ruined reputation, a spoiled tradition: he had been +but a heathen after all! There was only left to bid him farewell, +and to enclose a cheque for two thousand pounds. + +Captain Maudsley called him a fool, and asked him what he meant to do +--hoped he would give up the woman at once, and come back. He owed +something to his position as Master of the Hounds--a tradition that +oughtn't to be messed about. + +There it all was: not a word about radical morality or immorality; but +the tradition of Family, the Commons, Master of the Hounds! + +But there was another letter. He did not recognise the handwriting, and +the envelope had a black edge. He turned it over and over, forgetting +that Andree was watching him. Looking up, he caught her eyes, with their +strange, sad look. She guessed what was in these letters. She knew +English well enough to under stand them. He interpreted her look, and +pushed them over. + +"You may read them, if you wish; but I wouldn't, if I were you." + +She read the telegram first, and asked who "Faramond" was. Then she read +Sir William Belward's letter, and afterwards Captain Maudsley's. + +"It has all come at once," she said: "the girl and these! What will you +do? Give 'the woman' up for the honour of the Master of the Hounds?" + +The tone was bitter, exasperating. Gaston was patient. + +"What do you think, Andree?" + +"It has only begun," she said. "Wait, King of Ys. Read that other +letter." + +Her eyes were fascinated by the black border. He opened it with a +strange slowness. It began without any form of address, it had the +superscription of a street in Manchester Square: + + If you were not in deep trouble I would not write. But because I + know that more hard things than kind will be said by others, I want + to say what is in my heart, which is quick to feel for you. I know + that you have sinned, but I pray for you every day, and I cannot + believe that God will not answer. Oh! think of the wrong that you + have done: of the wrong to the girl, to her soul's good. Think of + that, and right the wrong in so far as you can. Oh, Gaston, my + brother, I need not explain why I write thus. My grandfather, + before he died, three weeks ago, told me that you know!--and I also + have known ever since the day you saved the boy. Ah, think of one + who would give years of her life to see you good and noble and + happy. . . . + +Then followed a deep, sincere appeal to his manhood, and afterwards a +wish that their real relations should be made known to the world if he +needed her, or if disaster came; that she might share and comfort his +life, whatever it might be. Then again: + + If you love her, and she loves you, and is sorry for what she has + done, marry her and save her from everlasting shame. I am staying + with my grandfather's cousin, the Dean of Dighbury, the father of + the boy you saved. He is very kind, and he knows all. May God + guide you aright, and may you believe that no one speaks more + truthfully to you than your sorrowful and affectionate sister, + + ALICE WINGFIELD. + +He put the letter down beside him, made a cigarette, and poured out some +coffee for them both. He was holding himself with a tight hand. This +letter had touched him as nothing in his life had done since his father's +death. It had nothing of noblesse oblige, but straight statement of +wrong, as she saw it. And a sister without an open right to the title: +the mere fidelity of blood! His father had brought this sorrowful life +into the world and he had made it more sorrowful--poor little thing--poor +girl! + +"What are you going to do?" asked Andree. "Do you go back--with Delia?" + +He winced. Yet why should he expect of her too great refinement? She +had not had a chance, she had not the stuff for it in her veins; she had +never been taught. But behind it all was her passion--her love--for him. + +"You know that's altogether impossible!" he answered. + +"She would not take you back." + +"Probably not. She has pride." + +"Pride-chat! She'd jump at the chance!" + +"That sounds rude, Andree; and it is contradictory." + +"Rude! Well, I'm only a gipsy and a dompteuse!" + +"Is that all, my girl?" + +"That's all, now." Then, with a sudden change and a quick sob: "But I +may be-- Oh, I can't say it, Gaston!" She hid her face for a moment on +his shoulder. "My God!" + +He got to his feet. He had not thought of that--of another besides +themselves. He had drifted. A hundred ideas ran back and forth. He +went to the window and stood looking out. Alice's letter was still in +his fingers. + +She came and touched his shoulder. + +"Are you going to leave me, Gaston? What does that letter say?" + +He looked at her kindly, with a protective tenderness. + +"Read the letter, Andree," he said. + +She did so, at first slowly, then quickly, then over and over again. +He stood motionless in the window. She pushed the letter between his +fingers. He did not turn. "I cannot understand everything, but what she +says she means. Oh, Gaston, what a fool, what a fool you've been!" + +After a moment, however, she threw her arms about him with animal-like +fierceness. + +"But I can't give you up--I can't." Then, with another of those sudden +changes, she added, with a wild little laugh: "I can't, I can't, O Master +of the Hounds!" + +There came a knock at the door. Annette entered with a letter. The +postman had not delivered it on his rounds, because the address was not +correct. It was for madame. Andree took it, started at the handwriting, +tore open the envelope, and read: + + Zoug-Zoug congratulates you on the conquest of his nephew. Zoug- + Zoug's name is not George Maur, as you knew him. Allah's blessing, + with Zoug-Zoug's! + + What fame you've got now--dompteuse, and the sweet scandal! + +The journalist had found out Zoug-Zoug at last, and Ian Belward had +talked with the manager of the menagerie. + +Andree shuddered and put the letter in her pocket. Now she understood +why she had shrunk from Gaston that first night and those first days in +Audierne: that strange sixth sense, divination--vague, helpless +prescience. And here, suddenly, she shrank again, but with a different +thought. She hurriedly left the room and went to her chamber. + +In a few moments he came to her. She was sitting upright in a chair, +looking straight before her. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes were +burning. He came and took her hands. + +"What is it, Andree?" he said. "That letter, what is it?" + +She looked at him steadily. "You'll be sorry if you read it." But she +gave it to him. He lighted a candle, put it on a little table, sat down, +and read. The shock went deep; so deep that it made no violent sign on +the surface. He spread the letter out before him. The candle showed his +face gone grey and knotted with misery. He could bear all the rest: +fight, do all that was right to the coming mother of his child; but this +made him sick and dizzy. He felt as he did when he waked up in Labrador, +with his wife's dead lips pressed to his neck. It was strange too that +Andree was as quiet as he: no storm-misery had gone deep with her also. + +"Do you care to tell me about it?" he asked. + +She sat back in her chair, her hands over her eyes. Presently, still +sitting so, she spoke. + +Ian Belward had painted them and their van in the hills of Auvergne, and +had persuaded her to sit for a picture. He had treated her courteously +at first. Her father was taken ill suddenly, and died. She was alone +for a few days afterwards. Ian Belward came to her. Of that miserable, +heart-rending, cruel time,--the life-sorrow of a defenceless girl,-- +Gaston heard with a hard sort of coldness. The promised marriage was +a matter for the man's mirth a week later. They came across three young +artists from Paris--Bagshot, Fancourt, and another--who camped one night +beside them. It was then she fully realised the deep shame of her +position. The next night she ran away and joined a travelling menagerie. +The rest he knew. When she had ended there was silence for a time, +broken only by one quick gasping sob from Gaston. The girl sat still +as death, her eyes on him intently. + +"Poor Andree! Poor girl!" he said at last. She sighed pitifully. + +"What shall we do?" she asked. He scarcely spoke above a whisper: + +"There must be time to think. I will go to London." + +"You will come back?" + +"Yes--in five days, if I live." + +"I believe you," she said quietly. "You never lied to me. When you +return we will know what to do." Her manner was strangely quiet. +"A little trading schooner goes from Douarnenez to England to-morrow +morning," she went on. "There is a notice of it in the market-place. +That would save the journey to Paris.'" + +"Yes, that will do very well. I will start for Douarnenez at once." + +"Will Jacques go too?" + +"No." + +An hour later he passed Delia and her father on the road to Douarnenez. +He did not recognise them, but Delia, seeing him, shrank away in a corner +of the carriage, trembling. + +Jacques had wished to go to London with Gaston, but had been denied. He +was to care for the horses. When he saw his master ride down over the +place, waving a hand back towards him, he came in and said to Andree: + +"Madame, there is trouble--I do not know what. But I once said I would +never leave him, wherever he go or whatever he did. Well, I never will +leave him--or you, madame--no." + +"That is right, that is right," she said earnestly; "you must never leave +him, Jacques. He is a good man." + +When Jacques had gone she shut herself up in her room. She was gathering +all her life into the compass of an hour. She felt but one thing: the +ruin of her happiness and Gaston's. + +"He is a good man," she said over and over to herself. And the other-- +Ian Belward? All the barbarian in her was alive. + +The next morning she started for Paris, saying to Jacques and Annette +that she would return in four days. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +"RETURN, O SHULAMITE!" + +Almost the first person that Gaston recognised in London was Cluny Vosse. +He had been to Victoria Station to see a friend off by the train, and as +he was leaving, Gaston and he recognised each other. The lad's greeting +was a little shy until he saw that Gaston was cool and composed as usual +--in effect, nothing had happened. Cluny was delighted, and opened his +mind: + +"They'd kicked up a deuce of a row in the papers, and there'd been no end +of talk; but he didn't see what all the babble was about, and he'd said +so again and again to Lady Dargan." + +"And Lady Dargan, Cluny?" asked Gaston quietly. Cluny could not be +dishonest, though he would try hard not to say painful things. + +"Well, she was a bit fierce at first--she's a woman, you know; but +afterwards she went like a baby; cried, and wouldn't stay at Cannes any +longer: so we're back in town. We're going down to the country, though, +to-morrow or next day." + +"Do you think I had better call, Cluny?" Gaston ventured suggestively. + +"Yes, yes, of course," Cluny replied, with great eagerness, as if to +justify the matter to himself. Gaston smiled, said that he might,-- +he was only in town for a few days, and dropped Cluny in Pall Mall. +Cluny came running back. + +"I say, Belward, things'll come around just as they were before, won't +they? You're going to cut in, and not let 'em walk on you?" + +"Yes, I'm 'going to cut in,' Cluny boy." Cluny brightened. + +"And of course it isn't all over with Delia, is it?" He blushed. + +Gaston reached out and dropped a hand on Cluny's shoulder. + +"I'm afraid it is all over, Cluny." Cluny spoke without thinking. + +"I say, it's rough on her, isn't it?" + +Then he was confused, hurriedly offered Gaston a cigarette, a hasty good- +bye was said, and they parted. Gaston went first to Lord Faramond. He +encountered inquisition, cynical humour, flashes of sympathy, with a +general flavour of reproach. The tradition of the Commons! Ah, one way +only: he must come back alone--alone--and live it down. Fortunately, it +wasn't an intrigue--no matter of divorce--a dompteuse, he believed. It +must end, of course, and he would see what could be done. Such a chance +--such a chance as he had had! Make it up with his grandfather, and +reverse the record--reverse the record: that was the only way. This +meeting must, of course, be strictly between themselves. But he was +really interested for him, for his people, and for the tradition of the +Commons. + +"I am Master of the Hounds too," said Gaston dryly. Lord Faramond caught +the meaning, and smiled grimly. + +Then came Gaston's decision--he would come back--not to live the thing +down, but to hold his place as long as he could: to fight. + +Lord Faramond shrugged a shoulder. "Without her?" + +"I cannot say that." + +"With her, I can promise nothing--nothing. You cannot fight it so. +No one man is stronger than massed opinion. It is merely a matter of +pressure. No, no; I can promise nothing in that case." + +The Premier's face had gone cold and disdainful. Why should a clever +man like Belward be so infatuated? He rose, Gaston thanked him for the +meeting, and was about to go, when the Prime Minister, tapping his +shoulder kindly, said: + +"Mr. Belward, you are not playing to the rules of the game." He waved +his hand towards the Chamber of the House. "It is the greatest game in +the world. She must go! Do not reply. You will come back without her +--good-bye!" + +Then came Ridley Court. He entered on Sir William and Lady Belward +without announcement. Sir William came to his feet, austere and pale. +Lady Belward's fingers trembled on the lace she held. They looked many +years older. Neither spoke his name, nor did they offer their hands. +Gaston did not wince, he had expected it. He owed these old people +something. They lived according to their lights, they had acted +righteously as by their code, they had used him well--well always. + +"Will you hear the whole story?" he said. He felt that it would be best +to tell them all. "Can it do any good?" asked Sir William. He looked +towards his wife. + +"Perhaps it is better to hear it," she murmured. She was clinging to a +vague hope. + +Gaston told the story plainly, briefly, as he had told his earlier +history. Its concision and simplicity were poignant. From the day he +first saw Andree in the justice's room till the hour when she opened Ian +Belward's letter, his tale went. Then he paused. + +"I remember very well," Sir William said, with painful meditation: "a +strange girl, with a remarkable face. You pleaded for her father then. +Ah, yes, an unhappy case!" + +"There is more?" asked Lady Belward, leaning on her cane. She seemed +very frail. + +Then with a terrible brevity Gaston told them of his uncle, of the letter +to Andree: all, except that Andree was his wife. He had no idea of +sparing Ian Belward now. A groan escaped Lady Belward. + +"And now--now, what will you do?" asked the baronet. + +"I do not know. I am going back first to Andree." Sir William's face +was ashy. + +"Impossible!" + +"I promised, and I will go back." Lady Belward's voice quivered: + +"Stay, ah, stay, and redeem the past! You can, you can outlive it." + +Always the same: live it down! + +"It is no use," he answered; "I must return." + +Then in a few words he thanked them for all, and bade them good-bye. He +did not offer his hand, nor did they. But at the door he heard Lady +Belward say in a pleading voice: + +"Gaston!" + +He returned. She held out her hand. + +"You must not do as your father did," she said. "Give the woman up, +and come back to us. Am I nothing to you--nothing?" + +"Is there no other way?" he asked, gravely, sorrowfully. + +She did not reply. He turned to his grandfather. "There is no other +way," said the old man, sternly. Then in a voice almost shrill with pain +and indignation, he cried out as he had never done in his life: "Nothing, +nothing, nothing but disgrace! My God in heaven! a lion-tamer--a gipsy! +An honourable name dragged through the mire! Go back," he said grandly; +"go back to the woman and her lions--savages, savages, savages!" + +"Savages after the manner of our forefathers," Gaston answered quietly. +"The first Gaston showed us the way. His wife was a strolling player's +daughter. Good-bye, sir." + +Lady Belward's face was in her hands. "Good-bye-grandmother," he said at +the door, and then he was gone. + +At the outer door the old housekeeper stepped forward, her gloomy face +most agitated. + +"Oh, sir, oh, sir, you will come back again? Oh, don't go like your +father!" + +He suddenly threw an arm about her shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek. + +"I'll come back--yes I'll come back here--if I can. Good-bye, Hovey." + +In the library Sir William and Lady Belward sat silent for a time. +Presently Sir William rose, and walked up and down. He paused at last, +and said, in a strange, hesitating voice, his hands chafing each other: + +"I forgot myself, my dear. I fear I was violent. I would like to ask +his pardon. Ah, yes, yes!" + +Then he sat down and took her hand, and held it long in the silence. + +"It all feels so empty--so empty," she said at last, as the tower-clock +struck hollow on the air. + +The old man could not reply, but he drew her close to him, and Hovey, +from the door, saw his tears dropping on her white hair. + +Gaston went to Manchester Square. He half dreaded a meeting with Alice, +and yet he wished it. He did not find her. She had gone to Paris with +her uncle, the servant said. He got their address. There was little +left to do but to avoid reporters, two of whom almost forced themselves +in upon him. He was to go back to Douarnenez by the little boat that +brought him, and at seven o'clock in the morning he watched the mists of +England recede. + +He chanced to put his hand into a light overcoat which he had got at his +chambers before he started. He drew out a paper, the one discovered in +the solicitor's office in London. It was an ancient deed of entail of +the property, drawn by Sir Gaston Belward, which, through being lost, +was never put into force. He was not sure that it had value. If it had, +all chance of the estate was gone for him; it would be his uncle's. +Well, what did it matter? Yes, it did matter: Andree! For her? No, not +for her. He would play straight. He would take his future as it came: +he would not drop this paper into the water. + +He smiled bitterly, got an envelope at a publichouse on the quay, wrote a +few words in pencil on the document, and in a few moments it was on its +way to Sir William Belward, who when he received it said: + +"Worthless, quite worthless, but he has an honest mind--an honest mind!" + +Meanwhile, Andree was in Paris. Leaving her bag at the Gare +Montparnasse, she had gone straight to Ian Belward's house. She had +lived years in the last few hours. She had had no sleep on the journey, +and her mind had been strained unbearably. It had, however, a fixed +idea, which shuttled in and out in a hundred shapes, but ever pointing to +one end. She had determined on a painful thing--the only way. + +She reached the house, and was admitted. In answer to questions, she had +an appointment with monsieur. He was not within. Well, she would wait. +She was motioned into the studio. She was outwardly calm. The servant +presently recognised her. He had been to the menagerie, and he had seen +her with Gaston. His manner changed instantly. Could he do anything? +No, nothing. She was left alone. For a long time she sat motionless, +then a sudden restlessness seized her. Her brain seemed a burning +atmosphere, in which every thought, every thing showed with an unbearable +intensity. The terrible clearness of it all--how it made her eyes, her +heart ache! Her blood was beating hard against every pore. She felt +that she would go mad if he did not come. Once she took out the stiletto +she had concealed in the bosom of her cloak, and looked at it. She had +always carried it when among the beasts at the menagerie, but had never +yet used it. + +Time passed. She felt ill; she became blind with pain. Presently the +servant entered with a telegram. His master would not be back until the +next morning. + +Very well, she would return in the morning. She gave him money. He was +not to say that she had called. In the Boulevard Montparnasse she took a +cab. To the menagerie, she said to the driver. How strange it all +looked: the Invalides, Notre Dame, the Tuileries Gardens, the Place de la +Concorde! The innumerable lights were so near and yet so far: it was a +kink of the brain, but she seemed withdrawn from them, not they from her. +A woman passed with a baby in her arms. The light from a kiosk fell on +it as she passed. What a pretty, sweet face it had. Why did it not have +a pretty, delicate Breton cap? As she went on, that kept beating in her +brain--why did not the child wear a dainty Breton cap--a white Breton +cap? The face kept peeping from behind the lights--without the dainty +Breton cap. + +The menagerie at last. She dismissed the cab, went to a little door at +the back of the building, and knocked. She was admitted. The care-taker +exclaimed with pleasure. She wished to visit the animals? He would go +with her; and he picked up a light. No, she would go alone. How were +Hector and Balzac, and Antoinette? She took the keys. How cool and +pleasant they were to the touch! The steel of the lantern too--how +exquisitely soothing! He must lie down again: she would wake him as she +came out. No, no, she would go alone. + +She went to cage after cage. At last to that of the largest lions. +There was a deep answering purr to her soft call. As she entered, she +saw a heap moving in one corner--a lion lately bought. She spoke, and +there was an angry growl. She wheeled to leave the cage, but her cloak +caught the door, and it snapped shut. + +Too late. A blow brought her to the ground. She had made no cry, and +now she lay so still! + +The watchman had fallen asleep again. In the early morning he +remembered. The greyish golden dawn was creeping in, when he found her +with two lions protecting, keeping guard over her, while another crouched +snarling in a corner. There was no mark on her face. + +The point of the stiletto which she had carried in her cloak had pierced +her when she fell. + +In a hotel near the Arc de Triomphe Alice Wingfield read the news. +It was she who tenderly prepared the body for burial, who telegraphed to +Gaston at Audierne, getting a reply from Jacques that he was not yet back +from London. The next day Andree was found a quiet place in the cemetery +at Montmartre. + +In the evening Alice and her relative started for Audierne. + + ......................... + +On board the Fleur d'Orange Gaston struggled with the problem. There was +one thought ever coming. He shut it out at this point, and it crept in +at that. He remembered when two men, old friends, discovered that one, +unknowingly, had been living with the wife of the other. There was one +too many--the situation was impossible. The men played a game of cards +to see which should die. But they did not reckon with the other factor. +It was the woman who died. + +Was not his own situation far worse? With his uncle living--but no, +no, it was out of the question! Yet Ian Belward had been shameless, +a sensualist, who had wrecked the girl's happiness and his. He himself +had done a mad thing in the eyes of the world, but it was more mad than +wicked. Had this happened in the North with another man, how easily +would the problem have been solved! + +Go to his uncle and tell him that he must remove himself for ever from +the situation? Demand it, force it? Impossible--this was Europe. + +They arrived at Douarnenez. The diligence had gone. A fishing-boat was +starting for Audierne. He decided to go by it. Breton fishermen are +usually shy of storm to foolishness, and one or two of the crew urged the +drunken skipper not to start, for there were signs of a south-west wind, +too friendly to the Bay des Trepasses. The skipper was, however, +cheerfully reckless, and growled down objection. + +The boat came on with a sweet wind off the land for a time. Suddenly, +when in the neighbourhood of Point du Raz, the wind drew ahead very +squally, with rain in gusts out of the south-west. The skipper put the +boat on the starboard tack, close-hauled and close-reefed the sails, +keeping as near the wind as possible, with the hope of weathering the +rocky point at the western extremity of the Bay des Trepasses. By that +time there was a heavy sea running; night came on, and the weather grew +very thick. They heard the breakers presently, but they could not make +out the Point. Old sailor as he was, and knowing as well as any man the +perilous ground, the skipper lost his drunken head this time, and +presently lost his way also in the dark and murk of the storm. + +At eight o'clock she struck. She was thrown on her side, a heavy sea +broke over her, and they were all washed off. No one raised a cry. They +were busy fighting Death. + +Gaston was a strong swimmer. It did not occur to him that perhaps this +was the easiest way out of the maze. He had ever been a fighter. The +seas tossed him here and there. He saw faces about him for an instant-- +shaggy wild Breton faces--but they dropped away, he knew not where. The +current kept driving him inshore. As in a dream, he could hear the +breakers--the pumas on their tread-mill of death. How long would it +last? How long before he would be beaten upon that tread-mill--fondled +to death by those mad paws? Presently dreams came-kind, vague, distant +dreams. His brain flew like a drunken dove to far points of the world +and back again. A moment it rested. Andree! He had made no provision +for her, none at all. He must live, he must fight on for her, the +homeless girl, his wife. + +He fought on and on. No longer in the water, as it seemed to him. He +had travelled very far. He heard the clash of sabres, the distant roar +of cannon, the beating of horses' hoofs--the thud-thud, tread-tread of an +army. How reckless and wild it was! He stretched up his arm to strike- +what was it? Something hard that bruised: then his whole body was dashed +against the thing. He was back again, awake. With a last effort he drew +himself up on a huge rock that stands lonely in the wash of the bay. +Then he cried out, "Andree!" and fell senseless--safe. + +The storm went down. The cold, fast-travelling moon came out, saw the +one living thing in that wild bay, and hurried on into the dark again; +but came and went so till morning, playing hide-and-seek with the man and +his Ararat. + +Daylight saw him, wet, haggard, broken, looking out over the waste of +shaken water. Upon the shore glared the stone of the vanished City of Ys +in the warm sun, and the fierce pumas trod their grumbling way. Sea- +gulls flew about the quiet set figure, in whose brooding eyes there were +at once despair and salvation. + +He was standing between two worlds. He had had his great crisis, and his +wounded soul rested for a moment ere he ventured out upon the highways +again. He knew not how it was, but there had passed into him the dignity +of sorrow and the joy of deliverance at the same time. He saw life's +responsibilities clearer, duties swam grandly before him. It was a large +dream, in which, for the time, he was not conscious of those troubles +which, yesterday, had clenched his hands and knotted his forehead. He +had come a step higher in the way of life, and into his spirit had flowed +a new and sobered power. His heart was sore, but his mind was lifted up. +The fatal wrangle of the pumas there below, the sound of it, would be in +his ears for ever, but he had come above it; the searching vigour of the +sun entered into his bones. + +He knew that he was going back to England--to ample work and strong days, +but he did not know that he was going alone. He did not know that Andree +was gone forever; that she had found her true place: in his undying +memory. + +So intent was he, that at first he did not see a boat making into the bay +towards him. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Clever men are trying +He had no instinct for vice in the name of amusement +What a nice mob you press fellows are--wholesale scavengers + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRESPASSER, BY PARKER, V3 *** + +******** This file should be named 6221.txt or 6221.zip ********** + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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