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diff --git a/77836-0.txt b/77836-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..43d89d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/77836-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9733 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77836 *** + + + + +THE MYSTERY ROAD + + + + +[Illustration: Gerald looked him over for a moment, unmoved but +intensely curious. FRONTISPIECE. _See page 82._] + + + + + THE MYSTERY ROAD + + By + E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM + + WITH FRONTISPIECE BY + F. VAUX WILSON + + [Illustration] + + BOSTON + LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY + 1923 + + + + + _Copyright, 1923_, + BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. + + _All rights reserved_ + + Published May, 1923 + + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + _To + the memory of_ + + _WINIFRED TOLTON_ + + _the most wonderful secretary and + dearest friend of my life I dedicate + this story which I dictated to her + and which she loved_ + + + + +BOOK ONE + + + + +THE MYSTERY ROAD + + + + +BOOK ONE + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Myrtile stood upon the crazy verandah, her eyes shaded by her hand, +gazing down the straight, narrow footpath, a sundering line across the +freshly ploughed field, which led to the village in the hollow below. +The mouldering white stone cottage from which she had issued was set +in a cleft of the pine-covered hills; it seemed to struggle against +its inborn ugliness and to succeed only because of the beauty of its +setting,--in the foreground the brown earth, with its neatly trained +vines and its quarter of an acre of fragrant violets; the orchard, pink +and white with masses of cherry blossom; beyond, a level stretch of +freshly turned brown earth, soon to become a delicate carpet of tender +green, and, by the time the vines should sprout, a sea of deep gold. +It was the typical homestead of the small French peasant proprietor. +Even the goat was not absent, the goat which came at that moment with +clanking chain to rub his nose against the girl’s knee. + +Myrtile’s hand dropped to her side. The three figures were plainly +visible now. She remained quiescent, watching them with a mute tragedy +in her face which, to any one ignorant of the inner significance of +this approaching procession, must have seemed a little puzzling. For +there was nothing tragic about Jean Sargot--middle-aged, a typical +peasant of the district, with coarsened face and weather-beaten +skin--or about the companion who hung on his arm,--a plump, dark woman, +with black hair and eyes, vociferous and fluent of gesture, with a +high-pitched voice and apparently much to say. The third person, who +walked in the rear, seemed even less likely to incite apprehension. He +was more corpulent than his neighbour Jean Sargot, and he wore clothes +of a holiday type, ill suited to this quiet country promenade. His +coat was black and long, a garment, it appeared, of earlier years, +for it left a very broad gap to display a fancy waistcoat adorned by +a heavy gold chain. He wore a silk hat which had done duty at every +christening, marriage and funeral in the neighbourhood for the last +twenty years, and his whole appearance was one of discomfort. Yet the +girl’s eyes, as they rested upon him, were filled with terror. + +They were near enough now for speech, and her stepfather, waving his +hand, called out to her: + +“It is the Widow Dumay, little one, and our friend and neighbour, +Pierre Leschamps, who come to drink a glass of wine with us. Hurry with +the table and some chairs, and bring one--two bottles of last year’s +vintage. It is not so bad, that wine, neighbour Pierre, I can promise +you.” + +“Any wine will be good after such a walk,” the widow declared, panting. +“Either the village lies too low, friend Jean, or your house too high. +It will be good to rest.” + +They sank into the chairs which Myrtile had already placed upon the +verandah, Pierre Leschamps laying his hat upon a handkerchief in a safe +corner. There were beads of perspiration upon his forehead, for, unlike +his friend and host, he was unused to exercise. He kept the little +café in the village, and the strip of land which went with it he let +to others. His pale cheeks and flabby limbs told their own story. Jean +Sargot looked about him with the pride of the proprietor. + +“Not so bad, this little dwelling, eh?” he exclaimed. “Four rooms, all +well-furnished, a bed such as one seldom sees, and a wardrobe made by +my own grandfather, Jacques Sargot, the carpenter. It pleases thee, +Marie?” + +The widow looked around her with a little sniff. + +“It might be worse,” she conceded, “but there are the children.” + +“Three only,” Sargot replied, “and in a year or so they will all be in +the fields. Think what that may mean. We can sell the timber from the +strip behind and plant more vines. Children are not so bad when they +are strong.” + +“The little ones are well enough,” Madame Dumay admitted, “but thy +eldest--Myrtile--she has not the air of health.” + +They all looked up at the girl, who was approaching them at this +moment with wine and glasses. She was of medium height and slim. Her +complexion was creamily pale; even the skin about her neck and arms +had little of the peasant’s brown. Her neatly braided hair was of the +darkest shade of brown, with here and there some glints of a lighter +colour. Her eyes, silkily fringed, were of a wonderful shade of deep +blue, her mouth tremulous and beautiful. There was something a little +exotic about her appearance, although no actual indication of ill +health. The widow looked at her critically; Pierre, the innkeeper, with +unpleasant things in his black, beady eyes. + +“Pooh! she is well enough,” her stepfather declared. “Never a doctor +has crossed this threshold since her mother died many years ago.” + +Myrtile welcomed her father’s guests pleasantly but timidly. Then, +after she had filled the glasses, she would have slipped back into the +house but Jean Sargot grasped her by the arm. + +“To-night, my child,” he insisted, “you must leave your books alone. +You must drink a glass of wine with us. It is an occasion, this.” + +Myrtile looked from one to the other of the two visitors. She had for a +moment the air of a trapped animal. Madame Dumay made a little grimace, +but Pierre only laughed. She was a flower, this Myrtile, not like other +girls. Even the young men complained of her aloofness. He knew well how +to deal with such modesty. + +“Behold,” her stepfather continued, “our two best friends! Here is good +Madame Dumay. A nice little income she makes at the shop, and a tidy +sum in her stocking.” + +“Oh, là, là!” the widow interrupted. “What has that to do with thee, my +friend?” + +“And also,” Jean Sargot went on, without taking heed of the +interruption, “the brave Pierre Leschamps. Oh, a gay dog, that +Leschamps! A man of property, mark you, child. And listen! Why do you +think these friends of mine are here?” + +“I cannot tell,” Myrtile faltered. + +“Madame Dumay will become my wife. It is what we need here. And Pierre +Leschamps--hear this, little one--he seeks a wife. He has chosen you. +I have given my consent.” + +Leschamps had risen to his feet. Myrtile shrank back against the wall. +The terror had leaped now into life. + +“I will not marry Monsieur Leschamps,” she declared. “The other--is +your affair. But as for me, I will not marry!” + +Jean Sargot leaned back in his chair and drank his wine. His two guests +followed his example. + +“Ho, ho!” he laughed. “Come, that is good! You were always a shy child, +Myrtile. Pierre shall woo you into a different humour.” + +“Ay, indeed!” the innkeeper assented, leering across at the girl with +covetous eyes. “We shall understand one another presently, little one. +You need have no fear. Marriage is a pleasant thing. You will find it +so like all the others.” + +“It is an institution to be toasted,” Jean Sargot declared, filling the +glasses and glancing amorously towards the widow. “Trouble not about +Myrtile, my friend Pierre. She is thine. We shall drink this glass of +wine to Marriage. It will be a festival, that, eh, Marie?” + +Myrtile slipped through the open doorway. Her prospective husband +looked after her for a moment and half rose. Then he looked back at the +wine, flowing into his glass. Myrtile would keep,--wine by the side of +Jean Sargot, never! He resumed his seat. In a minute or two he would +follow her,--as soon as the second bottle was empty. + +Across the stone-flagged floor, out through the little garden and +along the cypress avenue to the road, Myrtile fled. She was like a +terrified young fawn in the half-light, her hair flying behind her, +her large eyes filled with fear. Her feet seemed scarcely to touch the +grass-grown track. She fled as one who leaves behind evil things. Only +once she looked over her shoulder. No one was stirring, no one seemed +to have thought of pursuit. She reached the gate which led out on to +the road and clung to it for a moment, as though for protection. On the +other side was freedom. Her eyes filled with passionate desire. If only +she knew how to gain it! + +They were singing now down at the cottage. She heard Jean Sargot’s +strident voice in some country song of harvest and vintage and what +they called love. As she stood there in the quiet of the evening, there +seemed suddenly to leap into life a very furnace of revolt. She was +weary of her monotonous tasks,--the abuse of her stepfather, generally +at night the worse for sour wine and fiery brandy; the care of those +motherless children, not of her own stock yet dependent upon her; the +grey tedium of a life unbeautiful and hopeless. And now this fresh +terror! Her fingers tore at the rough splinters of the gate. Her eyes +travelled hungrily along that great stretch of road, passing here and +there through the forests, rising in the far distance to the top of the +brown hillside, and disappearing in mystery. At the other end of the +road one might find happiness! + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +The two young men adopted characteristic attitudes when confronted +with the slight misadventure of a burst tyre and a delay of half an +hour. Christopher Bent deliberately filled and lit a pipe, and, seating +himself on the top of a low, grey, stone wall, gave himself up to the +joy of a wonderful view and the pleasure of unusual surroundings. His +companion, Gerald Dombey, stood peevishly in the middle of the road, +with his hands in his pockets, cursing the flint-strewn road, the +rottenness of all motor tyres, and the evil chance which led to this +mishap in the last lap of their journey. + +“We’ll be on the road again in twenty minutes, your lordship,” the +chauffeur promised, as he paused for a moment to wipe the perspiration +from his forehead. “It’s been cruel going all the way from Brignolles, +and you’ve kept her at well past the forty, all the time.” + +His master nodded with some signs of returning equanimity. + +“Don’t distress yourself, John,” he said. “There’s no real hurry so +long as we get into Monte Carlo before dark. Come on, Christopher,” he +added, turning to his companion. “Get off that wall and let us explore.” + +The two young men strolled off together. On their right was a +thickly planted forest of pine trees, fragrantly aromatic after the +warm sunshine of the April day. On their left was a stretch of very +wonderful country, a country of vineyards and pastures, of wooded +knolls and fruitful valleys. And in the background, the sombre outline +of the mountains. Gerald paused to point to the little, discoloured +house of Jean Sargot. + +“Are they real people who live in these quaint cottages?” he +speculated. “That place, for instance, looks like a toy farm, with its +patch of violets, its tiny vineyard, its belt of ploughed land and this +little grove of cypresses. It is just as though some child had taken +them all from his play box and laid them out there.” + +Christopher withdrew the pipe from his mouth for a moment. He was +looking at the opening in the little grove of cypresses. + +“And there,” he murmured, “must be the child to whom they all belong. I +think you are right, Gerald. There is something unreal about the place.” + +Gerald, too, was suddenly conscious of the girl who stood clutching +the top of the wooden gate, her face turned a little away from them, +absorbed in the contemplation of that distant spot where the road +vanished in a faint haze of blue mist. + +“We will talk to her,” he declared. “You shall practise your French +upon this little rustic, Chris. She probably won’t be able to +understand a word you say.” + +At the sound of their voices, Myrtile turned her head, and, at the +things which they saw in her face, there was no longer any thought of +frivolous conversation on the part of the two young men. They stood for +a moment indeed, speechless, Christopher spellbound, Gerald, of quicker +sensibility, carried for a moment into the world from which she seemed +to have fallen. Then his old habits asserted themselves. She was as +beautiful as an angel, but her feet were on the ground, and she was +obviously in distress. + +“Are you alive, mademoiselle?” he asked, raising his cap. + +“But certainly, monsieur,” she answered gravely. “I am alive but very +unhappy.” + +“You can tell us, perhaps, the way to Cannes?” Christopher enquired. + +She pointed to where the thin ribbon of road in the distance seemed to +melt into the bosom of the clouds. + +“Cannes is over there, monsieur,” she said, “and there is no other road +save this one.” + +“You go there often, perhaps?” Christopher ventured. + +“I have never been there, monsieur,” she answered, with her eyes fixed +upon Gerald. “Night after night, when my work is done, I come here and +I watch the road just where it fades away, but I have never travelled +along it. I have never been further than the first village, down in the +hollow.” + +Gerald came a step nearer to her. He leaned against the gate post. His +tone and manner became unconsciously caressing. It was generally so +when he spoke with women. + +“You are in trouble, mademoiselle,” he said. “Sometimes even a stranger +may help.” + +She looked down the road towards where the automobile was jacked up. + +“Yes,” she admitted, “I am in great trouble. No one but a stranger +could help me because I have no friends.” + +“Be brave, then, and speak on,” Gerald enjoined. + +There had been no previous time in her life when Myrtile had been +required to marshal her thoughts and speak unaccustomed words, yet, at +that moment, clearly and unfalteringly she told her story. She pointed +to the weather-stained cottage behind. + +“I live there,” she said, “with three half-brothers and sisters and a +stepfather. My mother was the village schoolmistress. She married for +the second time a bad man, and she died. I have taken care of those +children. I have kept the house clean and tidy. I have done what the +curé told me was my duty, and all the time I have hated it.” + +“Why?” Christopher asked simply. + +She looked across as though surprised at his intervention. + +“Because the children are coarse and greedy and ill-mannered,” she +explained. “I wear myself out trying to make them different, but it is +useless. It is in their blood, because my stepfather--is worse. Often +he drinks too much brandy, he is quarrelsome, he is never kind. There +is not one little joy in life, only when I escape for a little time and +come here, and look down the road which leads to liberty, and wonder +what may lie at the other side of the hills there. You see, I have read +books--many books. My mother and father were both well-educated. I know +and feel that the life I am leading is terrible.” + +“There is something beyond all this,” Gerald said. “There is something +of instant trouble in your face.” + +Again for a moment she was voiceless, a white, dumb thing stricken +nerveless with horror. It was that look which had surprised the two +men. Her breath, as she spoke, seemed choked with unuttered sobs. + +“My stepfather brought home from the village to-night--the Widow Dumay. +He is to marry her--to bring her to the farm. He brought, too, Pierre +Leschamps, the keeper of the Café.--Horrible!--horrible!” + +“Pierre Leschamps,” Gerald murmured softly. “Go on.” + +The girl opened her lips but the words seemed to stick in her throat. + +“They propose, perhaps, to betroth you?” he asked, with quick +understanding. + +Her assent was mirrored in the agony of her eyes. + +“He is fat and old and he drinks,” she cried. “I would sooner die than +have him come near me!” + +The two young men turned their heads and looked down at the little +farmhouse. The very abode of peace, it seemed, with its thin thread +of smoke curling up to the sky, its thatched roof, its reposeful +atmosphere. Just then, however, they caught the murmur of discordant +voices, a shrill shriek of laughter. The men were singing. + +“Look upon us as two friends,” Gerald begged. “What would you have us +do?” + +The girl pointed once more to where the road disappeared amongst the +hills. + +“If you leave me here,” she declared, “I shall walk and run and crawl +until I pass out of sight there, and perhaps they may borrow the +widow’s cart and catch me, and then I shall kill myself. Take me with +you as far as you are going--somewhere where I can hide.” + +The car glided slowly up to where they were standing. Gerald did not +hesitate for a moment. He stepped into his place at the driving wheel +and motioned to the seat by his side. + +“Agreed,” he said. “We will start you, little one--tell me, how are you +called?” + +“Myrtile,” she murmured. + +“We will start you off on the great adventure of life. It seems to me +that there can be nothing worse in store for you than what you leave +behind.” + +The girl pushed open the gate and sprang into the car like a frightened +thing. Gerald turned his head. Around the corner of the farm three +unsteady figures showed themselves; three voices--two raucous and one +shrill--called for Myrtile. There were threats, gesticulations. The +girl cowered by Gerald’s side. + +“Start!” she implored. “Start, please!” + +Christopher, however, still hesitated. + +“I think,” he said, “we should first hear what these people have to +say. They have, after all, some claim upon the girl. It might be +possible to aid her without bringing her away from home.” + +Myrtile clung to Gerald. Her eyes were swimming pools of passionate +entreaty. + +“Start, monsieur,” she pleaded. “There is nothing for me but escape. +Why does the other gentleman mind?” + +“Get in, there’s a good fellow,” Gerald begged impatiently. “We don’t +want to have a row with these yokels.” + +The chauffeur was already in the dickey behind. Myrtile’s eyes implored +Christopher to take the place by her side. With his feet still on the +road, however, he leaned across her to Gerald. + +“Gerald,” he said, “this is a more serious affair than you seem to +think. Who is going to look after the child when we get to Monte Carlo?” + +“You can, if you like,” was the careless reply. “I’m not thinking of +playing the Lothario, if that is what you mean.” + +“Word of honour?” + +“Word of honour. Don’t be an ass, old chap. It’s up to us to give the +girl a chance.” + +Christopher stripped off his coat and wrapped it around Myrtile. Then +he took the place by her side. Gerald slipped in the clutch and they +glided off. + +The twilight overtook them swiftly. The lights of Monte Carlo, as +they commenced the long descent, were like pin pricks of fire thrust +through a deep blue carpet. Out in the bay, the yacht of an American +millionaire was illuminated from bow to stern. From the back of the +twin range of hills on their left, the golden horn of the moon was +beginning to show itself. Myrtile, whose eyes had been fixed upon the +flying milestones, leaned forward now with a little exclamation of +wonder. + +“It is fairyland!” she cried. + +Gerald looked down at her indulgently. + +“You live so near and you have never been even as far as this?” he +asked. + +“It is as I have told you,” she answered. “I have never travelled ten +kilometres from the farm in my life.” + +Christopher was almost incredulous. Gerald, however, nodded +sympathetically. Both young men had taken it for granted from the first +that their charge understood no English. + +“In France they are like that,” Gerald remarked. “It is the sous that +count. But this child--isn’t she amazing, Christopher? Except for her +clothes, there isn’t a thing about her that suggests the peasant. She +is like a child Madonna--an angel--who has stolen into the clothes of a +girl gone for her first communion.” + +“I should still like to know what you are going to do with her when we +arrive?” Christopher asked bluntly. “Are you going to take her to the +Villa?” + +“Later on, perhaps,” was the careless reply. “Certainly not this +evening.” + +“Why not?” Christopher persisted. “Your sister is very kind-hearted. It +seems to me, as long as we have the girl on our hands, that she is the +proper person to look after her.” + +Gerald smiled slightly. + +“My dear Chris,” he said, “you and Mary are pals, I know, but I am not +sure that you altogether understand her. She doesn’t like surprises. We +must pave the way a little before we ask for her help.” + +“And in the meantime?” + +Gerald yawned. + +“What a persistent fellow you are!” he observed. + +“You can’t imagine that they will take her in at the hotel, without any +luggage and in our company?” + +Myrtile had been looking from one to the other of her two companions +with a sense of growing trouble in her eyes. + +“Messieurs,” she interrupted, “it was wrong of me not to tell you +before. I speak a little English. I understand very well.” + +“You are a most amazing child!” Gerald exclaimed, looking down at her +in genuine astonishment. “You have never been ten kilometres from your +homestead, and you speak a foreign language! That comes of having a +schoolmistress for a mother, I suppose. However, have no fear. We shall +dispose of you pleasantly.” + +“To-morrow,” she said timidly, “I can find work.” + +“To-morrow be hanged!” Gerald replied. “Look about you, little one. We +are entering the town. If your story is true--and we know that it is,” +he added hastily, “you see for the first time shops, villas, hotels. +The building in front of us is the Casino. Now you see the lights that +fringe the bay.” + +“It is amazing,” Myrtile murmured. + +They drew up at the side door of the hotel where the two young men were +to stay. Gerald descended. + +“Take care of the child for a few minutes, Chris,” he begged. “I am +going to interview one of the housekeepers.” + +He disappeared into the hotel. Myrtile watched his tall, slim figure +until he was lost to sight. Then the fear seemed to return. She +shivered. + +“I am a trouble to him,” she faltered. “He will hate me for it. I only +meant that you should drive me somewhere where I could lose myself. +Perhaps I had better go, monsieur. Can I not slip away before he +returns?” + +“He would be very angry if you did,” Christopher assured her. “He has +gone to arrange for some one to look after you for the night. To-morrow +I think you will do well if you try to find some work. If you wish it, +I will help you.” + +Her eyes still devoured the door through which Gerald had passed. + +“Tell me his name?” she begged. + +“His name,” Christopher replied, “is Gerald Annesley Dombey.” + +She repeated it after him, a little hesitatingly. + +“I shall always think of him as Gerald,” she said. “It is a very pretty +name. Tell me, why did the chauffeur say ‘your lordship’?” + +“Because he is the eldest son of an earl and he is entitled to be +called Lord Dombey.” + +“He is noble, then? I am not surprised. He seemed like that to +me.--And you, monsieur? May I know your name?” + +“My name is Christopher Bent,” he replied, “plain Christopher Bent.” + +“‘Christopher’ is a very nice name,” she said, with a trifle of +unconscious condescension, “but of course it is not like ‘Gerald.’” + +She looked longingly back towards the crowded doorway, and the young +man who stood by her side was aware of a curious and altogether +inexplicable sensation. He suddenly found himself envying Gerald’s +careless but fascinating manners, his good looks, his light, debonair +manner of speech. Even this little waif picked up at the roadside was +already under his spell. Then Christopher remembered other things about +his friend, and his face grew stern. + +Gerald returned presently with a neatly dressed young woman. He held +out his hands to Myrtile and assisted her to alight. + +“It is all arranged, child,” he announced. “Annette is a chambermaid +here, and the niece of one of the housekeepers, whom I know well. She +will take you to some rooms close at hand, where you will be made +comfortable. To-morrow morning early, Christopher and I will come and +see you.” + +“Mademoiselle will be entirely well suited,” the young woman declared. +“It is but a few yards away.” + +Myrtile, still wrapped in Christopher’s coat, looked a little pathetic +as she stood upon the pavement by Annette’s side. + +“I shall not see you again to-night, then, Monsieur Lord Dombey?” she +asked shyly. + +“Not to-night,” he laughed. “And ‘Monsieur Gerald’ is quite enough from +you, petite. To-morrow we will have a long talk. Have no fear--you +shall not return to the farm unless it is your wish.” + +Myrtile stooped and with a sudden, passionate gesture raised his hand +to her lips. Then she dragged Annette off, without looking behind. +Gerald laughed a little consciously. + +“Our village maiden is somewhat demonstrative,” he remarked lightly. +“Come on, Chris. A cocktail whilst they unpack our clothes. I’ve +telephoned to the Villa. We must do a duty dinner there first, but +afterwards I will show you the land where the pleasure-seekers of the +world have built their Temple.” + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Lady Mary Dombey was a young woman of very pleasing appearance, but +there were occasions upon which she could look stern. This was one of +them. + +“I am never surprised at anything that Gerald does,” she told +Christopher, who was seated next her at the dinner table, “but I must +say that I should never have expected you to have been mixed up in one +of his escapades. What are you going to do with the girl?” + +“We rather hoped for some advice from you,” was the somewhat rueful +reply. + +“You are welcome to it. Send her home.” + +“You wouldn’t talk like that if you’d seen the state of terror she was +in when we found her, Mary,” Gerald remarked from the other side of the +table. + +“Is she very beautiful?” his sister enquired. + +“Wonderfully,” Christopher pronounced. + +Gerald shrugged his shoulders. + +“She is of an age when all girls are beautiful,” he observed. +“Perfectly filthy time she seems to have been having, though.” + +“We hoped,” Christopher ventured, a little doubtfully, “that you might +be able to make use of her as a kind of under sewing maid, or something +of that sort.” + +“Thank you,” Lady Mary replied, without enthusiasm, “I am perfectly +satisfied with the services of my own maid. Besides, the servants’ +quarters here are ridiculously cramped. They are all complaining, as it +is.” + +Lord Hinterleys, who had taken only a languid interest in the +conversation, intervened for the first time. + +“Where is the young person now?” he enquired. + +“In some rooms one of the housekeepers at the hotel found for me, sir,” +Gerald replied. + +“Perhaps the housekeeper can find her some employment,” his father +suggested. + +“We’ll dispose of her all right,” Gerald declared confidently. “She may +wake up in the morning and feel homesick, and, if so, we’ll send her +back.” + +“You know very well that she won’t do anything of the sort,” +Christopher protested. + +Lady Mary rose to her feet. + +“I can’t quite decide,” she said, “which of you two has lost his heart +to this paragon of village loveliness. However, I feel sure that my +advice is the best. Send her back to her people.” + +Gerald strolled to the door with his sister and returned to his place, +fingering his cigarette case irritably. + +“I have always thought,” he remarked, with mild sarcasm, “that a +barrister should be a person of infinite tact and perceptions. It +appears that I was wrong. I never dreamed that any one could be such a +blithering ass as you, Chris.” + +“Thank you, Gerald,” his friend replied, helping himself from the +decanter which Lord Hinterleys had passed around. “In what respect have +I merited this severe criticism?” + +“Why, by talking about the girl as though she were something unusual! +Mary’s a good sort, and all that, but no girl likes the man who is +sitting next her at dinner time to rave about his latest discovery of +violet eyes. You’d probably have had those violet eyes to look at +every time you came down to stay at Hinterleys, if you hadn’t made such +an ass of yourself.” + +Lord Hinterleys sipped his wine thoughtfully. Gerald, who was longing +to smoke, watched its leisurely disappearance with impatience. + +“I am not suggesting for a single moment,” the former observed, “that +your attitude towards this young woman is not and will not always be +entirely irreproachable, but at the same time you must remember that we +are in a country where such adventures are likely to be misunderstood. +I feel inclined, therefore, to endorse your sister’s advice. It is very +possible that the young woman, at the time you discovered her, was +indulging in a passing fit of petulance. I should do all that I could +to encourage her to return to her people.” + +“We’ll talk to her in the morning, sir,” Gerald promised. “Wonderfully +this port has travelled.” + +“We brought it out six years ago,” his father remarked. “Martin laid +it down himself, and it has not been disturbed since.--There, I have +finished my two glasses. I shall retire to the drawing-room and +persuade Mary to sing to me, and you two young fellows can smoke to +your hearts’ content. Give me your arm, Gerald.” + +“Don’t think we shall stop long, if you’ll excuse us, sir,” Gerald +confided, as he rose to his feet. “It’s Christopher’s first night in +Monte Carlo and I want to show him the ropes. Come along, old chap, and +make your adieux,” he added, turning to his friend. + +Lord Hinterleys nodded as he leaned on his ivory-topped stick. + +“You young men choose weird games at which to lose your money, +nowadays,” he observed. “Filthy places, all Casinos--no ventilation, +foul atmosphere, reeking of scent and tobacco, and, to say the least +of it, a very dubious company. Still, if I were your age I suppose I +shouldn’t notice these things.--Did you do any good with those two +hunters you bought from Loxley, Gerald? One of them I thought was good +enough for some of these country steeplechases.” + +Father and son became temporarily absorbed in a subject of common +interest. Lady Mary made room for Christopher by her side. She was +scarcely possessed of her brother’s good looks, but her complexion +was good, her features unexceptionable, her eyes clear and as a rule +sympathetic, her tone and manner attractive. Her figure, especially +in a riding habit, was undeniable, her skill at golf and tennis far +above the ordinary amateur. It was not for lack of offers that, at +twenty-four years of age, she was still unmarried. + +“Must you rush off so soon on your first evening?” she asked +reproachfully. + +“Not so far as I am concerned,” he assured her. “I would rather stay +here and listen to you sing. It’s Gerald who is dying to lose his +money.” + +She made a little grimace. + +“Every one goes to the Casino or the Sporting Club at night,” she said, +“and for the first few times it is amusing enough. I hope you won’t +spend all your time there. When shall we play golf?” + +“To-morrow afternoon?” he asked. + +She nodded. + +“I’m taking father out to lunch at the Club,” she said. “We’ll play +directly afterwards, if that suits you. Tell me, have you had any +interesting cases lately? I saw that you won the libel suit you were +telling me about.” + +They talked for some time with interest. Lady Mary’s wit was keen +and her insight unusual. During a pause in their conversation, Lord +Hinterleys looked across the room through his horn-rimmed eyeglass. + +“Your friend seems to get on very well with Mary,” he remarked. + +“They’ve always been pals,” Gerald acquiesced. + +“Doing pretty well at the Bar, isn’t he?” + +“Thundering well. They say he’s certain to be one of our youngest K. +C’s.” + +“I knew his father,” Lord Hinterleys reflected. “He was at Eton with +me. Very good stock, though not remarkably prosperous.” + +“Christopher isn’t well off,” Gerald admitted. “You don’t make a lot of +money at the Bar your first few years.” + +Lord Hinterleys said nothing for several moments. + +“Mary has her aunt’s hundred thousand pounds,” he said at length. “She +is a difficult young person to marry. Knows her own mind, though. I +should never interfere.” + +“Chris is a good fellow, but I don’t fancy he has any thought of +marrying just yet,” Gerald remarked. “You won’t mind if I take him off +now, sir? We shall meet for lunch at the Golf Club to-morrow.” + +Christopher obeyed his friend’s summons without enthusiasm. Gerald, +however, was both insistent and impatient, and the two young men took +their leave a few minutes later. + +Christopher, quickly impressed with the charm of the place, would have +willingly spent the remainder of the evening seated outside the Café de +Paris, watching the passers-by, listening to the music, and marvelling +at the amphitheatre of lights which fringed the bay and dotted the +whole background of hills with little specks of yellow fire. Gerald, +however, was too anxious to do the whole honours of the place. He +dragged his friend into the bureau of the Casino, where they obtained +their tickets for the Cercle Privé, and afterwards on to the Sporting +Club, the Mecca of Gerald’s desires for the evening, at any rate. +Christopher breathed a little more freely here than in the Casino; the +atmosphere was less pernicious, the crowd by which he was surrounded +far more attractive. After Gerald had taken a seat at the baccarat +table, he wandered around for some time, fascinated by this strange, +cosmopolitan gathering, their diversity in class, manners and dress. +Presently he found a seat in the little bar, ordered a whisky and soda +and leaned back to watch the never-ceasing stream of pleasure-seeking +loiterers. Suddenly, without any warning, his thoughts played him a +queer trick. The walls of the thronged room fell away; its murmur of +silvery voices, its tangle of exotic perfumes, were nonexistent. He +was back on the cool, sunlit hillside, with the odour of the violets +and the pines in his nostrils, and the girl looking over the gate. She +turned her head and he saw her face,--her beautiful eyes, with their +passionate, terrified appeal; her quivering lips, her child’s figure; +the tender appeal of her, the soul and sweetness of her innocent youth +clinging like some fresh, sweet perfume to her trembling body. + +Gerald stood suddenly before him, his face aflame, his eyes brilliant. +His voice quivered with excitement. + +“Christopher, you moonstruck old dodderer,” he cried, “wake up! I have +seen the most wonderful creature on earth. I won’t leave this place +until I find out who she is.” + +“What, another adventure?” Christopher exclaimed. “Sit down and have a +whisky and soda.” + +“Don’t talk to me about whiskies and sodas,” Gerald replied, sinking +into the vacant chair, however, and calling a waiter. “I tell you she’s +the most amazing person I ever saw--a revelation!” + +“You’re not thinking about Myrtile?” + +“That child? No!” was the impatient rejoinder. “I tell you it’s some +one here to-night. She’s either French or Russian or Italian--I can’t +make up my mind which. She is with an older woman, who seems to be a +sort of attendant. Every one’s talking about her, but no one seems to +know who she is.” + +“This place is full of that sort of people, isn’t it?” Christopher +asked, not greatly impressed. + +“That sort of people!” Gerald repeated contemptuously. “Wait till you +see her! I’m not easily led away. I’ve seen the most beautiful women in +most of the capitals of the world. I was at Vienna and Rome before the +war, you know, but I never---- Don’t move, Chris. Don’t look as though +I’ve been talking about them. Here they come!” + +Christopher watched the approach of the two women with an interest +casual at first but real enough as they drew nearer. The younger of the +two walked slightly in advance. She was rather over the medium height, +and her carriage, although she was not in the least assertive, was +full of the simple dignity of one who has been accustomed to command +respect. She was slim, yet the outlines of her figure were so soft as +to become almost voluptuous. She wore a dress of perfectly plain black +lace, against which the skin of her neck and shoulders seemed of almost +alabaster whiteness. Her only ornament was a long, double string of +pearls of unusual size. Her hair, glossy and absolutely jet black, +was brushed from her forehead and around her ears so that it seemed +almost like a sheath. Her complexion was absolutely pallid, her lips a +natural scarlet. Her eyes were of a deep shade of brown, inclined to be +half-closed, as though she were short-sighted. Her eyelashes were long +and silky; her eyebrows looked as though they had been pencilled, and +yet left a conviction of entire naturalness. Such details as remained +of her toilette were unique yet simple. The woman who followed her +possessed also an air of distinction, but she was middle-aged, with +grey hair and somewhat unwieldy figure. She carried herself with an air +of deference towards her companion. + +“Well?” Gerald whispered excitedly. + +“She is very beautiful and very unusual,” Christopher admitted. “Have +you no idea who she is?” + +“If I had found any one who knew who they were, I should have been +introduced before now,” was the blunt reply. “Freddie Carruthers has +gone down to ask the Superintendent.” + +The two women subsided on to a couch. The elder one gave an order +to a waiter, the younger one glanced indifferently around. Her eyes +rested for a moment upon Gerald. There was nothing personal in their +regard--her manner was, indeed, if anything, austere--but Christopher +was conscious of a sudden indrawn breath, almost a sob, which escaped +from his companion’s lips. + +“I wish Carruthers would come,” the latter muttered impatiently. “I +didn’t exaggerate, did I, Chris?” + +“No,” the latter admitted, “I can’t say that you did. She is very +wonderful and very interesting. It is quite your day for adventures.” + +Gerald laughed scornfully. + +“You’re not comparing our little protégée from the hills with--with +her, are you?” he demanded. + +“Each has her charm,” Christopher replied. + +Gerald leaned back in his chair and laughed long and heartily. + +“Our little wild rose,” he said, “is like a thousand others--a pretty +face, a fascinating age, confiding manners. In twenty-four hours she +would have taught you all that she could know of love and life. She is +as much a yokel intellectually as this girl is a mystery. Are there any +queens or royal princesses wandering about the world nowadays, Chris? +I swear that she looks as though she had stepped down from a throne. +Thank heavens, here comes Carruthers!” + +A young man who had been staring in at the doorway recognised Gerald +and came across to them. + +“No go, old thing,” he confided, leaning down. “They are registered +here as Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière--aunt and niece. The old +buffer downstairs, however, admitted that he believed that to be an +assumed name.” + +“Couldn’t you bribe him, or something?” Gerald asked eagerly. + +“Old Johnny fairly cornered me,” Carruthers explained. “The two ladies, +he told me, had declared their desire to remain incognito. It was not, +therefore, the business of a gentleman to be inquisitive. Whereupon I +came away with my tail between my legs. All the same, I don’t believe +he has the least idea who they are.” + +“They can’t possibly escape for more than a few days, in a place like +this, without being recognised,” Gerald declared. + +Carruthers stroked an incipient moustache. + +“One gets nasty knocks sometimes,” he observed. “There was a milliner +and her head mannequin who fairly knocked them all silly at Biarritz +last season.” + +“Don’t be a blatant ass, Freddy!” Gerald exclaimed contemptuously. +“Mannequins can learn to strut but not to walk. That habit of walking +into a crowded room as though you were the only person in it isn’t +picked up in Bond Street or the Rue de la Paix. I----” + +Gerald was suddenly on his feet. The younger of the two women, in +turning towards her companion, had swept a small lace handkerchief, +which she had laid upon the table in front of them, to the floor. She +made no effort herself to regain possession of it, but glanced towards +the waiter. Gerald, however, already held it in his fingers. + +“I believe this is your handkerchief, mademoiselle,” he ventured. + +She accepted it with a very slight but sufficiently gracious smile. + +“I thank you very much, sir,” she said, speaking in English, with a +slight foreign accent. + +Some casual remark was already framing itself upon Gerald’s lips, but +it remained unuttered. The girl had turned and resumed her conversation +with her companion. She had the air of not realising that there was +another person in the room. The young man, with a little bow, returned +to his place. He hid his feelings perfectly, but his two companions +could guess at his discomfiture. + +“It’s no good, old chap,” Carruthers assured him confidentially. +“They simply aren’t taking any. That Italian Prince with the swivel +eye, whom all the women are raving about, tried his best to get into +conversation. Managed to get one of his pals to address him by name, +so that they knew who he was, but there was nothing doing. Dicky Gordon +tried to get a word in edgeways at the roulette table, but it didn’t +come off. One of the croupiers, whom he knew, went out of his way to +whisper to him that the ladies did not desire acquaintances.” + +Gerald sighed. + +“I shall know her sooner or later,” he muttered, “but it’s such a waste +of precious time.” + +The woman and the girl rose presently to their feet and turned towards +the door. Gerald, for the first time in his life, felt himself guilty +of an impertinence. He watched them descend the stairs, watched a +bowing servant run and fetch a waiting automobile. He even, from his +position at the top of the steps, leaned forward to hear if any word of +address was spoken. He was unrewarded. A footman opened the door of the +car, closed it and mounted to the side of the chauffeur. The car drove +rapidly away in the direction of Nice. Gerald waited for the porter to +remount the steps and slipped a ten franc note in his hand. + +“Do you know who those two ladies were?” he asked. + +“They call themselves Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière,” the man +replied, after a moment’s hesitation. + +“Call themselves?” Gerald repeated. “What do you mean by that?” + +The man shrugged his shoulders. + +“There are many who come here who do not desire their presence to be +known, monsieur,” he said cautiously. + +“Criminals, perhaps,--or royalty?” Gerald ventured. + +The man looked imperturbably through the revolving doors. + +“Many of all sorts, monsieur,” he assented. “Monsieur will excuse.” + +He hastened off on some excuse connected with a waiting automobile. +Gerald had no alternative but to rejoin Carruthers and Christopher, +whom he found watching the play at one of the roulette tables. + +“Any luck?” the former asked eagerly. + +“Not an iota,” Gerald confessed. “I tipped the man who saw them off, +but he either knew nothing or would tell me nothing.--I shall have a +plunge at baccarat,” he added. “I feel like gambling this evening.” + +“You won’t forget that we promised to go and see Myrtile early?” +Christopher reminded him. + +Gerald stared at his friend. + +“Myrtile? Who the devil---- Why, the child from the violet farm, of +course! I’d forgotten all about her.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Myrtile came flying to the door. Christopher saw her eyes travel over +his shoulder, he saw the sudden cloud upon her face. A queer little +stab of pain startled him by its very poignancy. + +“Monsieur Gerald, he is not with you?” she asked disconsolately. + +Christopher shook his head. + +“He was up late last night,” he explained. “I went to his room but he +was fast asleep. I dare say he will come on presently.” + +The girl looked at the clock--a brazen, loudly ticking of bright gilt. + +“He promised to be here early,” she said. “Has he spoken of me? Has he +said anything about sending me back?” + +“Nothing,” Christopher assured her. “Do you still feel that you don’t +want to go back?” + +She stood quite still in the middle of the little apartment and looked +at him. Something about her was altered. It seemed almost as though she +had passed from girlhood to womanhood in the night. + +“I will not go back,” she declared fiercely. “It is not that I mind +poverty or hard work. It is Pierre Leschamps. I could not bear him +near me. He shall never come near me, otherwise I shall die. Even you, +Monsieur Christopher, you do not wish me to die.” + +Her eyes were swimming with tears. She leaned a little towards him and +Christopher patted her encouragingly. Her lips were very close to his, +fresh and sweet and quivering. Christopher, conscious of a rare and +almost overmastering temptation, turned away brusquely. + +“Come outside,” he invited. “I will take you on the Terrace, and we +will sit in the sunshine.” + +She clapped her hands, herself again almost immediately. + +“Oh, I am so anxious to go down to the edge of the sea!” she cried. “It +is so wonderful. You will not mind, monsieur, that I have no hat and +that my clothes are very poor? If you should meet your friends, they +will wonder what place I have with you.” + +“I have no friends here,” Christopher assured her, “and if I had, it +would not matter. Presently I will try to find Gerald again, and we +will make up our minds what to do with you.” + +“Monsieur Gerald will arrange everything,” Myrtile said confidently, +as they walked out into the sunshine. “He will find me some work--I am +sure of that--only I hope that it will not take me far away. I should +like to be near him.” + +They wandered down from the fashionable part of the promenade to the +pebbly beach and along the sands. Myrtile was never tired of the wonder +of it all. Often, however, she cast an anxious look backwards. + +“You do not think Monsieur Gerald will be searching for us?” she asked +timidly. + +Christopher was conscious of a curious sense of annoyance which he +could not altogether explain. He led the way up the steps and on to the +Terrace. + +“We will take a seat here,” he suggested. “We can see the hotel and the +turning to your lodgings, and you can watch for him.” + +She acquiesced willingly, and for the next half-hour she divided her +attention between the entrance to the hotel and the passers-by. At the +end of that time she became a little self-conscious. + +“It is not right, Monsieur Christopher,” she said, “that I sit here +with you in these clothes and without a hat. People look at us so +strangely.” + +“You look very nice,” Christopher assured her, “and besides, it is no +one else’s business but our own.” + +“Then why do they look at me so strangely?” she persisted. “It must +be because I have no toilette, no hat, my shoes are ugly. Indeed, +monsieur, it is no place for me. Here are friends of yours coming, I am +sure--the beautifully dressed young lady who looks at me so curiously.” + +“It is Gerald’s father and sister,” he whispered. + +She was suddenly very white and frightened. Christopher rose to his +feet. Lady Mary nodded a little coldly, Lord Hinterleys acknowledged +his greeting with some surprise. + +“Where is Gerald this morning?” his sister asked. + +“A little lazy, I am afraid,” Christopher replied. “When he got your +message that there was to be no golf to-day, he went to sleep again.” + +“And this is your little protégée, I suppose?” Mary remarked, looking +at Myrtile. + +“This is Myrtile,” Christopher assented. “We are waiting for Gerald now +to decide what to do with her.” + +“You wish to leave home, I understand?” Mary asked, turning to the +girl, who had risen to her feet. + +“I will never return there,” Myrtile replied,--“no, not even if +Monsieur Gerald himself commanded me to. I would sooner throw myself +into the sea.” + +“Isn’t that a little extreme?” her questioner rejoined coldly. + +“The misery I should have to face if I returned would also be extreme,” +Myrtile declared. “I am hoping to find some work here.” + +“That should not be difficult,” Mary observed. “Give Gerald our love, +Christopher. I was sorry to have to put off the golf, but dad didn’t +feel equal to Mont Agel this morning.” + +“Nothing serious, I hope, sir?” Christopher enquired. + +“Nothing at all,” Lord Hinterleys replied. “I was a little tired, and I +always feel the air up there rather strong. Tell Gerald I hope we shall +see him some time during the day.” + +He raised his hat and they passed on, Mary with a nod to Christopher +which lacked much of its usual cordiality. Myrtile looked after them +and there was trouble in her face. + +“They do not like me,” she said. “They do not think that I ought to be +here with you. They are right, of course. I am just a little peasant +girl in peasant girl’s clothes. Let us go.” + +Christopher’s remonstrances were in vain. She turned and walked away, +and he was obliged to follow. Just as they were leaving the promenade, +however, they came face to face with Gerald, issuing from the hotel. +He gave a little start as he recognised Myrtile. Except for a careless +thought when he had first awakened, he had forgotten all about her. +It was characteristic of him, however, to behave during the next few +minutes as though he had been thinking of no one else. + +“So Christopher has been stealing a march on me!” he exclaimed. “Has he +shown you all the sights, Myrtile?” + +“I waited a long time for you,” she replied. “We have been sitting on +the Terrace. Monsieur Christopher thought that you would come there.” + +“And Myrtile has been a little troublesome,” Christopher said. “She is +going back to her rooms to hide because of her clothes.” + +“Clothes?” Gerald repeated. “Why, of course she must have clothes. We +ought to have thought of that when we brought her away.” + +“But, monsieur,” she began timidly, “even the clothes which I have at +home--my communion gown----” + +Gerald waved his arm. + +“Come along,” he invited. “We will transform you. What a joke!” + +“Oh, monsieur!” Myrtile cried, with glistening eyes. + +“I suggest,” Christopher intervened, “that if we are going to buy her a +frock we go to one of those shops higher up in the town.” + +Gerald waved aside the suggestion. + +“We will go to Lénore’s,” he said. “Madame Lénore is a great pal of +mine. Myrtile, you shall have clothes fit for a duchess.” + +“Then they would not be fit for me,” Myrtile objected doubtfully. + +“Nor, I should think,” Christopher added, “would they help her to +obtain a situation.” + +Gerald, however, would listen to no remonstrances. He ushered them +into a quiet but sumptuous-looking little establishment, only a few +doors from the Hôtel de Paris. A Frenchwoman, dark and attractive, +came forward to welcome them. As soon as she recognised Gerald, the +conventional smile became one of real welcome. + +“Ah, monsieur--milord!” she exclaimed. “It is good to see you again! +Her ladyship was here only three days ago. I ventured to ask if you +were to be expected. Milord does me a great honour by this visit. Will +you please to sit down?” + +“Madame,” Gerald declared, “I am here on business. We have with us a +princess--the Princess Myrtile.” + +“A princess?” Madame repeated, with a wondering glance at the girl. + +“A princess in everything but clothes,” Gerald explained. “That is your +part. We hand her over to you. Dress her, Madame. We will return in an +hour.” + +Madame’s eyes sparkled. To the real Frenchwoman, every feeling gives +way when it becomes a question of profit. She looked at Myrtile +appraisingly. + +“Mademoiselle will be worth dressing,” she assured them joyfully. +“Return, as you say, in an hour, milord, and I can promise that +mademoiselle shall be all that you would desire.” + +Christopher for the first time intervened. + +“Look here, Gerald,” he said, “I don’t think that you are giving Madame +quite the right idea.” + +“In what respect?” + +“Mademoiselle is the daughter of working folk,” Christopher explained. +“She requires clothes of good quality, if you will, but clothes in +which she can seek a situation. That is so, is it not, Myrtile?” + +The girl’s eyes were fixed anxiously upon Gerald. + +“I should like to have what Monsieur Gerald would wish me to have,” she +replied. + +“Mademoiselle has a figure so fashionable,” Madame Lénore murmured, “so +slim yet so elegant, and an expression altogether spirituelle. I have +some frocks only this morning arrived from Paris, in which she would +seem a dream.” + +“We do not desire mademoiselle to become a dream,” Christopher said +stoutly. “We have the charge of her for a short time only, and the sort +of toilette which you have in your mind, I think, Madame Lénore, would +be highly unsuitable. Am I not right, Gerald?” + +“Oh, I suppose so,” the young man agreed. “I’d rather like to see her +in one of Madame Lénore’s creations, though.” + +“Milord and monsieur,” Madame said, “leave it to me. Return in an hour. +There shall be two costumes ready. You shall take your choice. If +mademoiselle will have the goodness to step this way----” + +The two young men wandered out. They made their way back to the +Terrace, where Lord Hinterleys walked for a time, leaning on Gerald’s +arm. Mary drew Christopher on one side. + +“So that is your little protégée,” she remarked. + +“That is she,” Christopher admitted. + +“I do not wish to seem a prude,” Mary continued, “or anything else +disagreeable, but do you really think that you are doing the right +thing, Christopher, in sitting about on the Terrace with a peasant girl +dressed--er--according to her position? The whole escapade, I think, is +ridiculous. I am not so surprised at Gerald but I am surprised at you.” + +Christopher was conscious of some irritation. He liked and admired Lady +Mary, but it seemed to him that her attitude was a little unsympathetic. + +“I can quite understand the whole incident seeming ill-advised,” he +admitted, “but, looking back at it, I honestly cannot see what else we +could have done.” + +“You could have left the girl where she was,” Mary insisted. + +Christopher shook his head. + +“You didn’t see her,” he replied. “No one could have left her. When I +think of what we saw in her face, even now I am inclined to shiver.” + +“Is she different, then, from other girls faced with an uncomfortable +home situation?” + +“I think that what I am going to say may sound absurd,” Christopher +admitted, “but she is different. She may be only a peasant by birth, +but she has a soul.” + +“Really!” his companion murmured. + +“No actress could have simulated the horror we saw shining out of her +face,” he persisted. “I don’t think that I should ever have thought of +bringing her away--it was Gerald who did that--but I think that he was +right, and I should never consent to sending her back unless she were +willing to go.” + +“And exactly what do you two young men propose to do with her, then?” +Mary enquired. “The girl is very attractive. You are aware, I suppose, +that the situation lends itself to misconstruction?” + +He looked at her reproachfully. + +“I suppose there are very few of our actions which might not be +misinterpreted in one way or another,” he replied. + +She accepted the challenge of his eyes, looking him squarely in the +face. + +“It is not you I am so much afraid of,” she said. “It is Gerald.” + +“But you don’t believe----” he began. + +“I believe that Gerald’s intentions are always good,” she interrupted; +“he is capable, even, of idealism. On the other hand, he is fatally +weak, especially where women are concerned. I fancy,” she went on, “you +will find that you have assumed a dual responsibility, and I fancy, +too, that some day you will be sorry for it.” + +They slackened their pace. Just ahead, Gerald and his father had met +two women, old friends, with whom they were exchanging greetings. Lord +Hinterleys was talking with the elder; Gerald to her daughter. The +slight air of boredom, which the latter so often wore, had completely +disappeared. He was leaning towards the girl tenderly, almost +affectionately. His eyes were holding hers, he was talking earnestly +and apparently with conviction. Lady Mary touched her companion’s arm. + +“That is the Gerald whom you have to fear,” she said. “You might trust +him in any other walk of life, but, although he is my own brother, +I don’t believe that he has a grain of conscience where women are +concerned. He doesn’t care about that girl, she is not the sort of +person he ever would care for, yet she will go back to lunch to-day +convinced that she has made a conquest, thinking of what he has said to +her, and finding every one else’s manner and words ordinary. Gerald has +the spirit of the philanderer in his blood. If the girl attracts him +sufficiently, you, at any rate--and probably he--will be sorry you did +not leave her to her village lover.” + +“You have described Gerald correctly when you called him a +philanderer,” Christopher admitted. “I put myself in court, and on his +behalf I plead guilty to the charge. On the other hand, I have greater +faith in his kindness of heart and his sense of honour than you seem to +have. This child is helpless and innocent. For that reason I believe +that she will be as safe with Gerald as with me.” + +Lady Mary sighed. The look of trouble still lingered in her eyes. + +“I hope that you may be right,” she said. “I am not a superstitious +person, but I have some sort of foreboding about that child. I feel +that she is going to bring trouble, somehow or other.--In any case, let +us change the subject. The Rushmores have arrived and want some tennis. +Shall we play--say--Wednesday afternoon?” + +“Delighted!” Christopher assented, already pleasantly conscious of a +changing atmosphere. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +It is a fact that when the two young men reëntered the establishment +of Madame Lénore, they both failed utterly to recognise the girl who +was standing in a distant corner, talking to the proprietress. It was +not until she detached herself and came hesitatingly up to them that +they realised, with varying sensations, who she was. Gerald laughed +with pleasure and held out both his hands. Christopher’s admiration was +tempered with a certain amount of distinct disapprobation. + +“Well, what does milord think?” Madame demanded. + +“My congratulations!” Gerald replied enthusiastically. “My dear +Myrtile, I wonder if you realise how charming you are?” + +The girl looked shyly up at Gerald, her face soft and eloquent with +pleasure. + +“Mademoiselle, like that, can go anywhere,” Madame continued. “She +can lunch, if you will, with a prince at the Hôtel de Paris, spend +the afternoon at the Sporting Club, or attend the reception which the +Spanish Ambassador is giving this afternoon. She is absolutely correct +and in the latest môde.” + +The two young men still contemplated their charge. She was clad in +a fine white serge costume, trimmed with silver braid. Her lace +blouse was delicately filmy and transparent, the cut of her skirt +as scanty as the last word from Paris had decreed; her white silk +stockings and suède shoes, procured from a neighbouring establishment, +irreproachable; her large hat, a gossamer-like confection of tulle +and lace. Of the charm of her appearance there could be no possible +question, but, in exact proportion with Gerald’s satisfaction, +Christopher’s disapproval seemed to grow. + +“I do not criticise your clothes, Madame, or your taste,” he said, +“but we have given you the wrong idea. Mademoiselle is in search of a +situation. She is a working girl for whose future as a working girl +my friend and I are anxious to provide. Those clothes are entirely +unsuitable.” + +Christopher’s words fell like a bombshell in the little establishment. +Myrtile’s eyes slowly filled with tears. Gerald was frankly angry. +Madame shrugged her shoulders. + +“I did not understand that the position of mademoiselle debarred her +from being dressed becomingly,” she said, a little drily. “In any case, +it is a great waste not to give mademoiselle the advantage of charming +clothes. Her figure--why, it is adorable; of her complexion and +carriage you can judge for yourselves. Mademoiselle, dressed as she is +now, and with one or two evening gowns which I have in my mind, would +make the sensation of the season in Monte Carlo.” + +“And what good would that be to her?” Christopher demanded. +“Mademoiselle has need to earn her living, and to earn it honourably.” + +“Look here, Chris,” Gerald interrupted, “you’re taking this thing too +seriously. We know very well that Myrtile must be found something to do +later on, but in the meantime she may as well have a little fun. Can’t +you see for yourself how wonderful she is? She will puzzle the whole of +Monte Carlo for a week.” + +“And after then?” Christopher asked. + +Gerald turned impatiently away. Madame held up a wonderful confection +of white lace and silk. + +“This is what I figure to myself for mademoiselle’s first evening +frock,” she said,--“this and a hat of black lace, with a string of +pearls which I could perhaps borrow. I promise you that she would make +a sensation you do not dream of.” + +“It is not our wish that she make a sensation of this sort,” +Christopher persisted harshly. “It appears to me that you both wish to +provide the child----” + +He stopped short. Gerald’s eyes were filled with sudden fire; the girl +was trembling. + +“You’re talking like an ass, Christopher,” Gerald declared. “This is my +affair.” + +“It is nothing of the sort,” Christopher rejoined stubbornly. “It is +our affair. I claim an equal right in disposing of Myrtile, and I will +not have her decked out in these clothes. What we need for her is a +plain blue serge suit and a small hat. She will always look charming, +she will always be attractive, but nothing in her future walk of life +justifies our arraying her in clothes like these.” + +Madame shrugged her shoulders more disparagingly than ever. + +“It is as milord and monsieur desire, of course,” she said. “I can +provide such garments as monsieur describes.” + +Gerald looked at Myrtile once more. The admiration in his eyes this +time, at any rate, was absolutely genuine. + +“I can’t see the harm in having the child properly turned out for, say, +one week,” he protested, turning to Christopher. + +“And at the end of that week, what?” + +There was a deadly directness about Christopher’s gaze. Gerald, +although there was no definitely formed thought of evil in his mind, +avoided it. + +“If you are proposing to marry Myrtile,” Christopher continued, “then +the clothes you have selected are suitable. Unless you have made +up your mind to do that, I beg that Madame will show us something +different.” + +There was a somewhat hectic silence for several moments. Frenchwoman +though she was, and full of tact, Madame Lénore could scarcely conceal +her contempt for the crudeness of this puritanical Englishman. Myrtile +herself felt as though a dream of Paradise were fading away. Gerald, +because he was good fellow enough at heart, felt further insistence +impossible. He was quite content to drift into danger; he was not +casuist enough to evade a plain warning. + +“Well, I suppose we shall have to let this disagreeable fellow have his +way,” he declared. “Take her along, Madame, and see what you can do. +You hear my friend’s idea--plain blue serge buttoned up to the throat, +cashmere stockings and square-toed shoes.” + +“There will be a compromise,” Madame declared firmly.--“And for the +rest, little one, do not trouble too much,” she whispered, as she led +Myrtile away. “I shall keep these clothes just as they are, until the +other gentleman has made up his mind to meddle no longer. Come to me +when you are ready. I can make you look so that milord will take notice +of no other woman.” + +Myrtile’s eyes were swimming with tears. + +“It was just for him that I wanted to keep these clothes,” she said. “I +wanted him to take me out and to feel that I looked like other girls. +As for Monsieur Christopher, I detest him!” + +“Mademoiselle has reason,” the woman murmured. “He has not the chic of +milord. It is a pity that he should interfere. Perhaps later on milord +will bring you here without him.” + +Myrtile’s eyes shone. Reluctantly she stretched out her arms and felt +the dress slip away from her. + +In the showroom outside, neither of the two young men was particularly +disposed for conversation. Christopher felt a distinct return of his +first apprehension concerning Gerald’s attitude towards Myrtile, +whilst Gerald himself was conscious of a vague sense of resentment +at his friend’s interference, the more poignant, perhaps, because +of its wisdom. Anything in the nature of an explanation between the +two was rendered impossible by the smallness of the room and the +presence of the shop assistants. So Gerald contented himself with +lighting a cigarette, while Christopher studied a book of fashions. +Suddenly an event happened which created a new atmosphere in the little +place. Gerald relinquished his cigarette, Christopher laid down his +volume of fashions, the shop assistants and mannequins, figuratively +speaking, stood to attention. The manageress came hastening forward. +An automobile had stopped outside, a footman had thrown open the door, +Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière entered. The latter was simply +enough, though richly dressed, and she entered the shop with the air of +one conferring a peculiar honour upon the establishment. She carried +a little Pekinese dog under her arm; the footman remained standing +outside as though on guard. The greeting of the manageress was almost +reverential. + +“Mademoiselle desires to see our new models?” + +The newcomer glanced half unconsciously towards the two young men, +who had risen to their feet. Then she passed on, followed by the older +woman, to the most distant corner of the room. It appeared that she +wished to look at hats, and the whole establishment seemed at once +infected with an eager desire to serve her. Hats were produced on +every side, and passed from hand to hand with an air of deep anxiety. +Mademoiselle, however, it transpired was not easy to please. She +sat watching the various confections which were produced for her +inspection, with an air of tolerant indifference. Gerald moved to the +side of the bookkeeper, who alone remained at her place behind the +little desk. + +“Tell me,” he whispered, “who is that young lady?” + +“She appears in our books, milord, under the name of Mademoiselle de +Ponière,” was the discreet reply. + +“But what is her real name?” Gerald persisted. “Who are her friends? Is +it possible to make her acquaintance?” + +The woman looked at him with a slight smile. She had a tired and rather +faded face, and her hair was lined with grey. + +“One hears only rumours as to whom she may be,” she answered. “For the +rest, milord should apply to Madame herself.” + +Gerald waited for Madame’s reappearance with a new impatience. +Presently Myrtile came out to them once more. The transformation was +still amazing, but the blue serge costume was absolutely plain except +for its thick edging of braid, and the little toque, with its dark +blue quill, absolutely free from ornamentation. Yet it seemed almost +incredible that this graceful girl who came towards them a little shyly +but with perfect self-possession should indeed be the peasant child who +had been under their care for rather less than twenty-four hours. + +“Mademoiselle is transformed,” Madame Lénore declared. “She has natural +elegance. In the simplest clothes I could give her, she would still +create an impression. I have done my best, milord and monsieur. I trust +that you are satisfied?” + +“Entirely,” Gerald assented. “But, Madame Lénore, I want a word with +you.” + +“If milord would excuse me for one moment,” Madame begged, with a +glance towards the further end of the shop. “One of my most valued +clients has arrived.” + +Gerald drew her on one side. Myrtile glanced a little anxiously into +Christopher’s face. + +“Monsieur Gerald does not seem satisfied,” she complained. “He has no +longer any pleasure in looking at me. He does not like me in these +clothes.” + +“Nonsense!” Christopher replied. “Believe me, they are far more +suitable than the others.” + +Myrtile was still not altogether satisfied. + +“They are very wonderful,” she acknowledged, looking at herself in the +glass, “and I am very, very grateful, but when I came before, his whole +face seemed alight with pleasure, and this time he scarcely took any +notice of me at all.” + +“There is something else on his mind,” Christopher assured her. “I am +certain that he is satisfied.” + +Gerald found Madame Lénore quite obdurate. + +“It is impossible, milord,” she declared firmly. “With many of my +clients, yes. There would be no cause for hesitation. But to present +you to mademoiselle would be impossible. She would not respond. She +would never pardon the liberty.” + +“Then will you tell me who her friends are?” he persisted. “Let me +know, at least, where I should be likely to meet her?” + +Madame’s manner had lost much of its amiability. She seemed genuinely +worried. + +“Milord,” she said, “none of these things are possible.” + +“But who is she, then?” + +Madame Lénore turned away. + +“No one knows,” she answered under her breath. “It is not for us to +know. Milord will excuse me.” + +Gerald rejoined his companions with a cloud upon his handsome face. +Myrtile watched him timidly. + +“You do not approve of these clothes?” she ventured. + +“I approve of them so much,” Gerald announced, pulling himself together +with an effort, “that I am going to take you to Ciro’s to lunch. Come +along, Christopher. Madame Lénore is a disobliging old cat.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +The two women sat on the terrace of their wistaria-covered +villa,--Madame de Ponière hunched up in her chair, smoking a cigarette +through a long tube; Pauline, her reputed niece, her coffee and +cigarette alike neglected, gazing fixedly seawards. Their immediate +environment suggested at once a taste for luxury and the means to +gratify it. The linen and silver on the little table at which they +had just lunched was of the finest possible quality,--the former +lace-bordered and adorned with a coronet. A bowl of pink roses occupied +the centre of the table. The coffee had been served in little cups +of the finest Sèvres china. In the background, a single servant was +standing, dressed in plain black livery, a man grey-haired and with +lined face, but tall and of powerful build. He possessed to the full +the immobility of feature of the trained English servant, but there was +something entirely foreign in his sphinx-like attitude and expression. +He had the air of one who neither saw nor heard save at his mistress’s +orders. + +“I am weary of everything here except the sun,” Pauline declared +deliberately. + +The woman opposite knocked the ash from her cigarette. Hers was an aged +and withered face, but her black eyes were still full of life and fire. +Her long, thin hand, on which flashed several strangely set rings, was +suddenly extended towards the waiting servant. Without a word he bowed +and disappeared. + +“One must wait,” Madame de Ponière declared. + +“For what?” the girl asked lazily. + +The older woman’s eyes glittered for a moment. + +“For what will surely come,” she declared. “The portents are all there. +The writing is no longer upon the wall--it blazes to the sky.” + +“And meanwhile,” Pauline murmured, “the sun shines, my heart beats in +tune to it, and I feel all the time the weariness of the days.” + +“It is the insurgence of youth,” the older woman conceded indulgently. +“I suppose the greatest must feel it some day.” + +“There was a girl in the dressmaker’s shop,” Pauline went on. “The good +Madame Lénore amused me by speaking of her. She is a peasant, it seems, +picked up on the road by two young Englishmen and brought here for the +first time in her life only yesterday. These young men have amused +themselves by decking her out in the clothes of another class. The girl +is beautiful, and she sees fairyland everywhere. She is in love with +one of the young men, of course. One could see that in her face.” + +“A very ordinary affair,” the older woman observed. “What of it?” + +“Nothing except that I rather envy the girl.” + +Madame de Ponière’s black eyes glistened dangerously. + +“It would be easy to change places with her,” she said coldly. “You are +probably as beautiful, and the trifle of breeding you possess might be +considered an asset.” + +Pauline smiled, and her face was at once more attractive than ever. +There were little creases about her soft brown eyes, her mouth lost its +discontented curve and became at once tremulous and gentle. + +“It is an encouraging thought,” she murmured, “especially as the young +man whom the girl appears to fancy has already endeavoured to make my +acquaintance.” + +“It is the worst of this place,” Madame de Ponière declared, a little +viciously. “The men are all _boulevardiers_. _Canaille!_” + +“The young man in question happens to be an aristocrat,” Pauline +observed, her eyes fixed upon the adjoining villa. + +“The more reason for care,” the woman muttered. + +Pauline sighed. + +“I might perhaps save him from the peasant girl. They tell me +that these young Englishmen often regard an intrigue of this sort +differently from our own people. He might even be led to marry her. He +looks like a man of weak character.” + +The older woman thrust another cigarette into her tube and lit it. She +inhaled with the long, regular breaths of the confirmed smoker. Her +delicately shaped but talon-like fingers were stained with nicotine. + +“Zubin arrives this week,” she announced. + +Pauline yawned. + +“More mysteries,” she murmured, “more false hopes, more exaggerated +stories. Nothing good will come of Zubin’s visit but the money he +brings, unless by any chance he has news of Stepan.--Meanwhile, dear +Madame, I bore myself. I rather wish that I had been born an American.” + +The woman showed no sign of anger, yet somehow or other she seemed to +diffuse an atmosphere of contempt. + +“It is perhaps a pity,” she admitted, “that you are descended from one +of the greatest rulers the world has ever known. It is perhaps a pity.” + +“Give me something to rule over,” the girl declared, “and I will be +repentant--the souls and liberties of a few million people, or the +hearts of a few men. I am twenty-three years old and the sun is warm. +And then there is the music, our one resource when there is no money +to gamble with. What is the use of music, Madame, to one who lives +behind the bars? It simply makes one pull at them a little harder. I am +as badly off as Stepan himself, who loves me from behind the fortress +walls. Sometimes I wish that I were there with him.” + +Madame de Ponière reached for an ivory-topped stick and rose to her +feet. Almost as though by magic, from somewhere within the dim, cool +recesses of the room beyond, the grey-haired manservant was by her +side. She leaned upon his arm. + +“We drive at four o’clock, Pauline,” she said. “Afterwards, we will +watch the play at the Sporting Club.” + +Pauline shrugged her shoulders. It was the same yesterday afternoon, +and every day behind. It would probably be the same to-morrow,--the +same for her, but not for that peasant girl. For her there was no +stereotyped routine. She looked intently across the narrow gorge +towards that other villa. A two-seated car had turned in from the road +and was crawling up the winding avenue. She stretched out her hand for +the field glasses which lay on the table by her side. The young man at +the wheel was the young man at whom the peasant girl had looked. + +Pauline rose to her feet. Almost as mysteriously as the manservant had +appeared a few moments before, a black-robed maid hastened towards her. +Pauline shook her head. + +“This afternoon I do not wish to rest,” she decided. “I shall walk in +the gardens.” + +“Mademoiselle desires that I shall attend her?” the maid asked. + +Her mistress hesitated. + +“I desire to be alone,” she announced. + +Pauline descended the stone steps, crossed the drive, and plunged into +a narrow footpath which wound its way through a plantation of stunted +but sweet-smelling pine trees, downwards towards the sea. The path was +not an easy one, and Pauline’s shoes were scarcely designed for such +an adventure. Nevertheless, she persevered. She had almost to push her +way through a grove of oleanders, and to wrap her skirts carefully +around her as she passed between some spiky cactus trees. As last, +however, she gained her end. She stood upon the little strip of sand, +besprinkled with rocks, which bordered the sea. Only a few yards away +the shimmering blue water rocked towards the land in little wavelets. +She turned and looked back. The villa from which she had come seemed +like a doll’s house shining out of its sheltering clump of cypresses. +More directly above her now was the far more extensive residence of +Lord Hinterleys. She looked towards it searchingly. There were several +people upon the broad verandah, amongst them the slim figure of a young +man at its farther edge, gazing intently in her direction. She smiled +a little as she picked her steps across the yellow sand to the edge +of the sea and clambered on to a rock. There was a breeze here which +she had scarcely anticipated. For the first time she realised that she +was bareheaded, ungloved,--she to whom usualness in all things was +almost an instilled religion. A queer fit of heedlessness, however, +was upon her. She stood upon the top of the slippery rock, finding a +strange pleasure in the salt-laden air and the wind which brought a +thousand ripples of light to the trembling blue sea, which blew her +skirts about, and even brought disarrangement to her smoothly bound +hair. This tempering of the sunshine brought a new joy to its warmth. +She stood there basking in a purely sensuous pleasure, forgetful for a +moment of the depression of the morning. The sound of tumbling stones +in the little gorge behind scarcely disturbed her. It was not until +she heard footsteps upon the strip of beach that she turned her head. +Coming towards her, already only a few yards away, was a young man of +personable appearance and unwontedly determined expression. For once in +his life, Gerald had made up his mind. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +Gerald, although he was in reality brimful of confidence in all +his relations with the other sex, had sometimes a not altogether +unattractive appearance of shyness. He stood bareheaded for a moment, +looking up at Pauline. + +“I am so sorry if I startled you,” he said. “I was looking for my +sister. I know this is a favourite place of hers, and when I saw you +standing there I rather jumped to the conclusion that you must be she.” + +“Really?” Pauline replied. “Are we so much alike, then?” + +“Not in the least,” he declared frankly. + +“That seems to make your explanation a little insufficient, does it +not?” Pauline remarked. + +Gerald settled down to business. + +“I know that I ought to have turned back,” he said, “but, after all, +wasn’t it much more natural of me to come on? I have been trying, ever +since I first saw you, to get some one to introduce me--we are, after +all, as I have just discovered, to my great delight, neighbours--and +this is the Riviera, not Berkeley Square. May I tell you that my name +is Gerald Dombey, that my father and sister have the villa up there, +and that, from the moment I saw you, I have been anxious to make your +acquaintance?” + +She looked at him in silence for a moment, half critically, half +thoughtfully. There was nothing absolutely discouraging in her +attitude, and yet Gerald somehow conceived the idea that this might +not, after all, be so easy an affair as he had hoped. + +“Are you used to enlarging your acquaintance in this manner?” she asked. + +“I very seldom feel the desire to do so,” he assured her. “Don’t be +annoyed, please. I am really quite a respectable person. I will call +upon your aunt, if she will give me permission.” + +For the first time Pauline smiled. It was rather a cold smile, but the +fact that it was a smile at all was encouraging. + +“I fancy that you had better dismiss that suggestion from your mind +altogether,” she said. “My aunt does not receive here, and she +certainly would not welcome you as a caller.” + +“Why not?” Gerald enquired, a little perturbed. + +“Because you are a young man,” Pauline replied. “There are two things +which my aunt dreads more than anything else in life,--a bad throat for +herself, and young men for me.” + +“I don’t see how she can hope to keep young men away from you +altogether,” Gerald declared. “You don’t mind my saying, do you, that +you are the sort of girl whom young men would want to know?” + +Her smile returned. She even laughed slightly, showing some very +wonderful teeth. + +“Really, you are a most singular person,” she observed. “Do all young +Englishmen talk to casual acquaintances in this unrestrained fashion?” + +Gerald was puzzled. Pauline was not altogether falling into line with +the conclusions he had arrived at concerning her. + +“I don’t know that I am very different from the others,” he said. “Tell +me, what is your nationality?” + +“Why should I tell you anything about myself?” she asked, a little +coldly. + +“It appeared to me that it might--er--help our acquaintance.” + +“Have I acknowledged the acquaintance?” + +“Well, you are talking to me, anyhow,” he pointed out, with a slight +twinkle in his eyes. + +“I scarcely see how I could help it,” she replied. “If you are really +curious about my nationality, I will tell you that I have some French +blood in my veins. France, however, is not my native country.” + +“And you live--where?” + +“Nowhere,” she answered, a little sadly. “At present we are +wanderers--what you call in England adventurers.” + +Gerald raised his eyebrows. + +“That is scarcely the word,” he murmured. + +“My aunt has a curious objection to meeting people upon our travels,” +Pauline continued. “I myself find her aloofness sometimes a little +tedious. That is why I am misbehaving to the extent of letting you talk +to me.” + +“Your aunt seems a very difficult person,” Gerald sighed. “I don’t see +why I can’t make her acquaintance and ask you both out to dine.” + +“Do not think of such things!” the girl enjoined hastily. “Before I say +another word to you, promise me that you do not present yourself at the +Villa or give any indication of knowing me, if we should meet at the +Club or anywhere.” + +“But why on earth not?” Gerald demanded. “If your aunt is such a +stickler for propriety, surely I can find some one to present me?” + +“If you do not promise me what I ask,” she threatened, holding her +skirts in one hand and looking as though prepared to jump down from the +rock, “I shall leave you at once.” + +“I promise, of course,” he assented. “Meanwhile, may I be allowed to +ask, as between us two,--do I know you or do I not?” + +“We are complete strangers,” she declared. + +“Accept my profound apologies for addressing you,” Gerald begged, with +a low bow. + +Pauline reflected for a moment. + +“As a matter of propriety,” she said, “you certainly ought to leave me +at once. As a matter of fact, I was about to propose something else.” + +“Let me hear it, at any rate,” he insisted. + +“I watched you drive up to your father’s villa in your car. Will you +take me a little way in it?” + +“Rather!” he assented eagerly. “Where shall I pick you up?” + +“Outside the Villa gates,” she replied. “My aunt is absolutely certain +to sleep for two hours. It is the only liberty I have during the day. +Please go at once and fetch the car.” + +She dismissed him with an imperative wave of the hand. As soon as he +was out of sight, she jumped down from the rock, crossed the little +strip of sand, and commenced her leisurely ascent to the Villa. Once or +twice she laughed softly to herself. + +It was an excursion which Gerald pondered on many times afterwards. +Pauline had settled down in the low bucket seat by his side and leaned +back with an air of absolute content. She had, in fact, the appearance +of one enjoying a rare pleasure. As soon as Gerald slackened speed, +however, with the idea of entering into conversation, she became curt +and almost rude, and his proposition that they might take the higher +road and have tea at Nice she promptly negatived. When, after an +absence of about an hour and a half, they drew up at the gates of the +Villa, she left him with the merest nod of farewell. + +“You will come for another ride soon--perhaps to-morrow?” he asked +anxiously. + +She shook her head. + +“I can make no plans,” she replied. “I should think it very improbable. +I thank you so much for your kindness. Your car is quite wonderful.” + +She walked away with the air of one who has conferred a great favour. +Gerald drove slowly back to the Villa d’Acacia and joined his sister on +the terrace. + +“Do you know anything about the two women at the next villa, Mary?” he +asked. + +She looked up from her novel doubtfully. + +“One never knows one’s neighbours here,” she answered. “I saw them +driving, the other day--a strange-looking old lady and a very +good-looking girl. Isn’t there something queer about them, or is it my +fancy?” + +“There is something unusual,” Gerald replied. “They seem curiously +indisposed to forming acquaintances, which is odd in a place like +this. I happened to be talking to the younger woman for a few minutes. +She gave me the impression, somehow, that they were people of greater +consequence than their manner of living here would indicate.” + +“I expect I am uncharitable,” Mary observed. “An elderly lady with no +friends, who takes a rather beautiful young woman about with her to +public places, does certainly invite comment, doesn’t she? Tell me +about your little protégée?” + +“We lunched with her, Chris and I,” Gerald replied. + +“Goodness gracious! Where?” + +“At Ciro’s. We bought her some clothes at Lénore’s, this morning.” + +Lady Mary lit a cigarette and threw down her book. + +“I am not the guardian of your morals, Gerald,” she observed drily; +“a girl, nowadays, has all she can do to look after her own--but I +honestly think you ought to send that child back to her people.” + +“Too brutal,” he replied. “They wanted to marry her to some horrible +old man.” + +“Whatever the position was, your interference was most uncalled for,” +his sister declared. “As for Christopher, I am really surprised at him. +Where is he this afternoon, by-the-by?” + +“I left him with Myrtile,” Gerald replied. “You’d better talk to him. +He’s been lecturing me all the time--kicked up a row, even, because I +wanted to buy the child pretty clothes.” + +The butler came out on to the terrace. + +“Mr. Rushmore has telephoned from the tennis club, my lord, to know if +you and her ladyship will make up a set. They are waiting now for a +reply.” + +Mary rose to her feet. + +“I am all for it, if you can, Gerald,” she declared. + +“Tell Mr. Rushmore that we’ll be down as soon as we can change,” Gerald +directed the butler. “You needn’t order a car. I’ll run you round in +the coupé, Mary.” + +“Shan’t be ten minutes,” his sister promised. + +On their way up the hill, they passed Christopher and Myrtile. Gerald +rather enjoyed his sister’s look of amazement. + +“Doesn’t she look a topper!” he remarked, as he turned to wave his hand. + +“She has an amazing flair for wearing clothes,” Mary admitted drily. “I +think you two young men ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves +for what you are doing, and I shall just look forward to an opportunity +of telling Christopher so.” + +Gerald glanced at his sister’s profile and chuckled. + +“Good old Chris!” he murmured. “I’ll let him know what’s coming to him!” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +Myrtile was suddenly tired. She seated herself upon the trunk of a +tree, and Christopher followed her example. Below them stretched the +motley panorama of Monte Carlo, the wide bay and the glittering sea. +The hillside and all the country within sight was dotted with villas. +There was one especially, overhanging the sea, towards which she gazed +wistfully. + +“Do you know,” she said, “that I have not seen Monsieur Gerald for +three days?” + +“He has been busy,” Christopher answered shortly. + +“Busy?” she queried. + +“He plays golf and tennis every day. Then his father and sister take up +a good deal of his time.” + +“You always find time to come and see me every morning,” she said. +“Besides--it was not his sister with whom I saw him motoring yesterday.” + +“You must remember,” Christopher reminded her, “that Gerald had many +friends before you came here.” + +“I know,” she answered. “I cannot hope to count for very much. But why +cannot he be at least kind like you? If only he knew how long the days +seem when I do not even catch a glimpse of him!” + +Christopher braced himself for an effort. + +“Myrtile,” he began, “you know that I am fond of you.” + +“You have been very kind,” she answered listlessly. + +“Because I want to be kind, I am going to say things that may sound +harsh,” he went on. “You are a very foolish girl to waste your time +thinking and dreaming of Gerald. You should only let your thoughts +dwell upon one man continually when there is some chance in the end +that that man may become your husband.” + +Her listlessness passed. She settled down to the subject seriously. + +“But, Monsieur Christopher----” + +“Christopher,” he interrupted. + +“Christopher, then--you ask me to do what I plainly see no one else +does. Wherever you have taken me here--wherever we go--there are men +and women together who are fond of one another. One only needs to look +at them to see it. It is so in the restaurants, in the gardens where we +sit, in the cafés. I have seen love in the eyes of many girls since I +have been here. They do not all expect to marry the men they are with.” + +Christopher leaned over and laid his hand upon hers. + +“Myrtile dear, will you listen to me?” he begged. “Look at me for a +moment. I am twenty-six years old. I have lived in cities as well as +the country. In London I am what you call an _avocat_. I have to use my +brains every day, I have to understand my fellow creatures. Will you +get that into your head?” + +“It is not difficult,” she assured him, with a little smile. “I think +you are very clever, and you know many, many things.” + +“And as for you, Myrtile,” Christopher went on, “when one thinks of +your upbringing, it is amazing to realise how much you have read, how +much you know. But listen to me. Nothing that one reads can teach one +what life is like. You spent many hours wondering what was at the end +of the road. You think now, because you have passed over the hill, that +you are there. My dear, you are not even at the beginning of the way.” + +She plucked some grasses and twined them round her fingers. + +“Go on,” she whispered. + +“This is not life that you watch day by day. Mostly it is a very garish +imitation of it. And in the same way, that light which you see is not +always love. It is sometimes a very unworthy imitation of it.” + +“They seem very happy,” she murmured. + +“They are not happy--they are only gay,” Christopher insisted. +“Sometimes they are only pretending to be gay. Sometimes their pretence +comes from very unworthy motives. There are dancing girls who smile +upon a king, but there is no love in the matter.” + +“You mean that these people who seem so happy are not in earnest?” she +asked. + +“I mean that if they are in earnest,” he explained, “it is only for the +moment. It is a sham earnestness which spoils the real thing when it +comes. What you see here is not life. It is not even a very wonderful +reflection of it. Mostly it is a little company of pleasure-seekers, +come to cast aside for a time the serious side of life and gamble with +their pleasures as they do with their money.” + +“But some must be in earnest,” Myrtile protested. + +“One of them who is not in earnest is Gerald, and I tell you so, +although Gerald is my friend,” Christopher said. “He is here to amuse +himself, and he would prefer to amuse himself without giving any one +else pain. If that is impossible, however, he is sufficiently reckless +not to count the cost where the other person is concerned.” + +She drew a little away. + +“That does not sound like the speech of a friend,” she reminded him +reproachfully. + +“But I can assure you that I am his friend, although a candid one,” +Christopher declared. “All that I have said to you, I have said to him, +and a great deal more. You will let me finish?” + +She made no reply. She had gathered herself up into an attitude which +in any one else would have been ungraceful, her chin resting upon her +hands, her back curved. Her eyes were fixed upon the exact spot where +the sea seemed to melt into the clouds. The grace of her slim body lent +beauty even to the hunch of her shoulders. + +“You are like a child who has been let out of a dark room,” Christopher +went on. “Everything seems beautiful, but you don’t see clearly--your +eyes aren’t strong enough yet. What you imagine to be love is a worse +thing. Gerald does not love you. He can never marry you. He belongs to +that world at which you are looking with blurred eyes.--Myrtile, how +old were you when your mother died?” + +“Ten years old.” + +“I thought so!” Christopher exclaimed, in despair. “I am certain your +mother was a good woman, Myrtile.” + +“I know she was,” Myrtile answered. + +“I wish to God she were alive!” he groaned. “Myrtile, don’t you want to +be good?” + +“I want to be happy,” Myrtile replied. “I shall always be good.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“Because I am all good inside,” she said. “I couldn’t do any of the +things that wicked people do.” + +Christopher sat for a moment in puzzled thought. + +“Look here,” he went on, “if you love Gerald, and Gerald doesn’t love +you, and you are content with the pretence of his love, and you go on +loving him, and you know that you cannot be his wife, then you are not +good any longer.” + +She shook her head. + +“There is only once in my life,” she said, “that I have ever come near +sin, and that is when I thought of staying at the farm and marrying +Pierre Leschamps. I love Gerald. All that I need to be happy and good +is that he should love me.” + +“But Gerald does not love you and never will,” Christopher declared +bluntly. “He is far too selfish. At the present moment he takes some +one else for a motor ride every afternoon, and doesn’t get up in time +to come and see you in the mornings because he is entertaining the +young ladies of the Russian Ballet at supper every night.” + +She looked at him sadly. + +“And you are his friend,” she reminded him again. + +“Dear, stupid little girl,” he said, “don’t you see that because I +am his friend, and because I am your friend, and because I share the +responsibility of having brought you away, I insist upon your realising +the truth. Gerald, at the present moment, at any rate, is incapable of +a stable affection, and if he were capable of it, his people would not +allow him to marry you.” + +“I do not wish him to marry me,” she declared, with a little choke in +her voice. + +“Perhaps not,” he replied. “In that case, you should listen to me more +patiently. I want you to leave this place and go to some friends of +mine in England.” + +“What, alone?” + +“Alone.” + +She shook her head. + +“Christopher,” she said, suddenly slipping her arm through his, +“I think you want to be kind to me. I believe that you are very +good--perhaps you are better than Gerald. But so long as Gerald wants +me near, I shall stay. Even if he goes about with other people, he +thinks of me. He has told me so, and he has promised to take me to one +of those supper parties this week. I am looking forward to it more than +to anything else in the world.” + +Christopher’s face hardened. + +“You will not go to one of those supper parties, Myrtile,” he insisted. +“I would rather take you back to the farm.” + +She turned her head and looked at him. There was something in her eyes +from which he shrank,--something very much like hate. + +“If you try to stop me,” she threatened, “I shall hate you for ever.” + +She saw the pain in his face and she was suddenly remorseful. She clung +to his arm again. Her cheek almost touched his. + +“Christopher--dear Christopher,” she pleaded, “I did not mean to hurt +you. I know how good you are, but just think how wonderful it would +be for me to go with Gerald, to meet other girls, to laugh and talk, +to sit by his side, his guest, to dance, perhaps--oh, it would be +Paradise! Everybody else goes to parties, Christopher.” + +“I will take you to the Opera,” he promised. + +Her eyes glowed. + +“It would be wonderful,” she murmured, “but you must not prevent my +going to the party.” + +“Myrtile,” he pointed out, “the young women whom you would meet there +are not fit for you to know.” + +“But what harm can they do me?” she persisted. “I know that they are +not nice. I went to the hotel for a few minutes with Annette last +night--she had to go and give her keys to her aunt--and in the distance +I saw Gerald, and I hated the people he was with. But what does it +matter? Gerald will take care of me.” + +Christopher rose to his feet. There was a certain hopelessness about +his task that he was slowly beginning to realise. + +“Come,” he said, “it is time we went back. I am playing tennis with +Gerald’s sister this afternoon.” + +She took his arm as they scrambled down into the road. + +“You are not cross with me, Christopher?” she ventured, a little +timidly. + +He shook his head. + +“No, I am not cross.” + +“You look so gloomy--even a little miserable,” she went on, clinging +to his arm and looking up into his face. “I am a very great trouble to +you, I fear. Are you not sorry that you ever brought me away?” + +“I am not sorry yet, Myrtile,” he answered. “I only hope that I never +may be.” + +Her mood suddenly changed. She laughed gaily. + +“Oh, là, là!” she cried. “If you look so glum, I shall sing and dance +to you, here in the road, as we do at festival time. Gerald says that I +must have dancing lessons. He is going to send me to a woman here.” + +She pirouetted lightly on one foot, a miracle of buoyancy and grace. +Then she went suddenly rigid, took her place by his side and clutched +at his arm. An automobile whizzed past them, on its way up the hill: +Gerald was leaning back in the low driving seat, the sun gleaming on +his dark, closely brushed hair, his head bent towards his companion; +Pauline sat a little aloof, haughty, unbending, her beautiful face +cold, unrelieved by any light of sympathy or interest. Her eyes swept +carelessly over Christopher and his companion, as they passed. Gerald +did not even see them. + +“Who is she?” Myrtile whispered. + +“No one knows much about her,” Christopher replied. “She and her aunt +have the next villa to Gerald’s father. She calls herself Mademoiselle +de Ponière.” + +Myrtile laughed quietly. She was already herself again. + +“Mademoiselle is a very stupid girl,” she declared. “Gerald was looking +at her and she looked only at the road. She does not care. Gerald will +find that out.” + + * * * * * + +Gerald came to the tennis courts, an hour or so later, and played +several sets almost in silence. He had lost for the moment all that +light-hearted gaiety which made him, even amongst the foreigners who +frequented the place, easily the most popular of the tennis-playing +fraternity. He played brilliantly at times, but with obvious +carelessness. He had the air of a man whose thoughts are busily engaged +elsewhere. He took Christopher on one side, during one of the periods +of rest, and flung his arm around his shoulder. + +“Chris, old man,” he confided, “that girl is driving me mad.” + +“Myrtile?” Christopher asked, with wilful obtuseness. + +“Don’t be an ass,” was the impatient reply. “You know very well that +I mean Pauline de Ponière.--Tell me, are you dining at the Villa +to-night?” + +“Not to-night. Your people are dining with the Prince.” + +“I am engaged to Carruthers but I shall throw him over,” Gerald said +eagerly. “I want to talk to you.” + +“And I have a few words I want to say to you,” Christopher rejoined. + +“We’re in this set,” Gerald pointed out, rising to his feet. “Let’s be +alone somewhere, then--Ciro’s Grill at eight-thirty.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Gerald and Christopher were a little disappointed with their +rendezvous, so far as regards its possibilities for intimate +conversation. Although it was twenty minutes to nine when they entered +the place, there was still a fair number of loungers around the bar, +drinking cocktails, and many of the little tables around the room +were already taken. They chose as remote a one as possible, however, +and seated themselves side by side, with their backs against the +wall. Gerald ordered the dinner and the wine. Then he started the +conversation with a somewhat abrupt question. + +“Chris,” he asked, “exactly what do you think of Mademoiselle de +Ponière?” + +“I don’t know her,” Christopher reminded him. + +“As a matter of fact, neither do I,” Gerald declared, a little +bitterly. “She permitted me to introduce myself down on the sands +below the Villa, and she has been for a ride with me in the car every +afternoon since; yet she does this secretly, and if I meet her with her +aunt I am not allowed to speak to her or to expect recognition. I am +not permitted to call at the Villa, I don’t know where they come from, +I don’t know even her nationality. Furthermore, they do not appear to +know a soul in Monte Carlo, nor have we ever stumbled across a single +mutual acquaintance.” + +“The situation seems peculiar,” Christopher admitted. “I can’t see the +faintest reason why she shouldn’t introduce you to her aunt.” + +“Neither can I,” Gerald agreed. “I flatter myself that for my few but +well-spent years I have seen something of the world and its snares, but +I honestly cannot place these two women.” + +“What is mademoiselle’s attitude towards you when you are alone?” +Christopher asked. + +“Ridiculously reserved,” Gerald answered. “I once touched her fingers +and I thought she would have struck me. Humiliating though it may be, +I am half inclined to believe that it is the motoring alone which +attracts her in the slightest degree, and that I represent very little +more to her than the man who is driving the car.” + +“Do you wish to represent more?” Christopher asked bluntly. + +“I don’t know,” Gerald answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “She +attracts me horribly. She has done so from the first.” + +Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by the arrival in the +place of a newcomer, a stranger to both the young men. He was tall +and broad-shouldered, sallow-skinned, with a mass of black hair, good +features, but with hard, almost brutal mouth. Although the night was +warm, he wore a huge overcoat, from which he seemed to part with some +reluctance. He was in morning clothes of fashionable cut, and he wore +a singular number of rings upon his massive fingers. Immediately he +had been relieved of his coat, he made his way to the bar, drank two +cocktails in rapid succession and lit a cigarette. Then he wandered +to the table adjoining the one at which the two young men were +seated, and, having given his order for dinner, busied himself making +calculations upon some scraps of paper which he tore up as soon as they +were filled with figures. Gerald spoke to the waiter who served them, +with whom he was well acquainted. + +“A stranger here, Charles?” + +The man glanced over his shoulder and lowered his tone. + +“A Russian gentleman, milord,” he announced, “staying at the Hôtel de +Paris--Monsieur Zubin, he calls himself. They say that he has been +playing very heavily.” + +“Russians who play high are no great novelty here,” Gerald remarked, +under his breath. “There are not so many of them with money, nowadays, +though.--Chris,” he went on, as the man left them, “you asked yesterday +what was the matter with me. I’ll tell you. It’s this uncertainty about +Mademoiselle de Ponière. It’s an absolute torment to me. It’s getting +on my nerves.” + +“Define the exact nature of your uncertainty?” Christopher suggested. + +“Define it? What the devil do you mean?” Gerald answered gloomily. + +“Is it the character and reputation of these ladies concerning +which you cannot make up your mind, or is it mademoiselle’s lack of +reciprocation to your overtures which you find distressing?” + +“For God’s sake, chuck that legal tosh!” Gerald begged. “It’s both!” + +“Has she ever mentioned the subject of money, directly or indirectly?” +Christopher asked. + +“Not once,” Gerald replied. “She always has the air of having plenty, +and her clothes are quite wonderful. Furthermore,” he went on, helping +himself to wine, “she doesn’t encourage me in the slightest. I wish to +God she would! She really seems to look upon me just as a chauffeur.” + +Christopher laughed quietly. There were people who called Gerald the +most spoilt young man in London, and his present predicament had its +humourous side. Gerald himself made a little grimace. + +“It’s all very well, Christopher,” he said, “but I am a great deal too +near being in earnest over this. Pull yourself together and suggest +some way of getting hold of the truth.” + +“If the girl herself won’t help you,” Christopher replied, “how can any +one else?” + +“I suppose you’re right,” Gerald assented gloomily. + +“Ask her pointblank where she was brought up and how it is she knows no +one here,” Christopher went on. + +“I’ll try it,” Gerald agreed. “The worst of it is, she has such a +terrible way of looking at you when you ask anything she doesn’t +approve of; she makes you feel as though you’d been guilty of an +impertinence. Only yesterday, I suggested Mary’s calling on her. I’m +not at all sure that Mary would have played up, but I risked that. ‘My +aunt is not receiving here,’ was her only reply. Hang it all, you know, +Chris, I’m not a snob, but that does seem a trifle offhand, considering +all things.” + +“I should call it a little ominous,” Christopher pronounced. “If she +and her aunt really are wrong ’uns, she’d be jolly careful not to put +you in a false position by letting your sister call upon her. She knows +quite well that’s the sort of thing a fellow doesn’t forgive.” + +The place had become very crowded indeed. A small orchestra was playing +in the far corner. Several unattached young ladies, who preserved an +air of haughty indifference towards the company generally, but seemed +to be on remarkably good terms with the head waiter, had brought +colour into the little assembly. The large man who was reputed to be a +Russian had called for pen and ink, and between the courses was writing +a letter. The _maître d’hôtel_, who knew Gerald, stooped and whispered +in his ear. + +“Monsieur Zubin, the large gentleman you asked me about, milord,” he +announced, “has just won two million francs over at the Casino. Some +of these people have followed him over. He must have the money in his +pocket.” + +To Christopher the scene was a novel one, and he leaned forward in +his seat. Two young ladies had seated themselves at the next table +to the Russian, and the nearest was glancing tentatively at him now +and then, without, however, evoking the slightest response. A rather +seedy-looking individual, seated upon a stool before the bar, had made +one or two moves in the same direction and was apparently only waiting +for the Russian to finish his letter before he addressed him. On every +side were signs of a sort of parasitical hero worship. People from +all quarters were whispering together and glancing towards him. The +object of all these attentions continued to write his letter unmoved. +Presently he called for a _chasseur_, thrust his letter into an +envelope and addressed it. The boy made a prompt appearance and stood, +cap in hand, waiting for his orders. The man who had just won two +million francs handed him the letter, gave him some brief directions +and a handful of coins. The _chasseur_ saluted and hurried off. Gerald +gripped his companion by the arm. + +“Did you hear that, Chris?” he whispered. + +“I heard nothing,” Christopher replied. + +“I saw the address, too,” Gerald continued eagerly. “The letter is to +Madame de Ponière, Villa Violette!” + +The dispatch of the letter was the signal for certain almost +imperceptible advances on the part of those who had been watching +the great man. The young lady at the next table leaned over and +congratulated him on his good fortune, an overture which was received +a little gruffly and without enthusiasm. Mademoiselle smiled, however, +and did not take the rebuff to heart. A bottle stood in ice by her +neighbour’s side, and she judged that a more propitious moment would +arrive. The seedy-looking stranger slid from his stool, leaned over +the table and whispered a few words in the Russian’s ear. He was a +sandy-haired man, with puffy cheeks and a nervous manner. His clothes +had once been well enough but were now shabby. He had the gambler’s +restless air. + +“Sir,” he began, “forgive my addressing you.” + +“What do you want?” was the blunt rejoinder. + +“I stood behind your chair in the Rooms. I flatter myself that I +brought you fortune, as I have brought it to many others. I have been +an immense loser at the tables, but, in proportion to my own losses, my +friends have always won.” + +“What of this?” the other asked brusquely. + +“The fortunes which control winning or losing are strange ones,” the +sandy-haired man continued. “There are many who contend that they are +influenced by the good or evil will of a bystander. I admired your +courage, monsieur. I willed you to win. I have lost as much at the +tables as you have won. Will you grant me the loan of a meal?” + +“Go to hell!” was the brutal reply. “I have nothing to do with cadgers.” + +The man staggered as though he had received a shock. He was used to +rebuffs, but not such rebuffs as this. + +“Monsieur!” he stammered.--“Perhaps five hundred or even two hundred +francs----” + +“Not a sou, and be off. Do you want me to complain to the manager?” + +The sandy-haired man went back to his stool, a little dazed. He held +out his hand as though for a drink, which the bartender forgot to +serve. A young man dressed in the height of fashion rose from his +place at the other side of the room, and came over to talk to the two +girls for a few moments. Then he turned to the Russian, addressing him +courteously and with an air of respect. + +“I congratulate you, monsieur,” he said, “upon your splendid gambling. +I watched you for an hour this afternoon. It is not often that one sees +the bank broken four times.” + +The Russian looked at the newcomer with his bushy eyebrows drawn +together. His champagne had been served and he had drunk a couple of +glasses of the wine. His expression, however, seemed colder and more +menacing than ever. + +“My gambling is my own affair, sir,” he said. “I do not discuss it with +strangers.” + +The young man smiled. He was not in the least offended. + +“There is a freemasonry here,” he explained, “which sometimes dispenses +with introductions. All of us visitors who measure our wits and our +pockets against those of Monsieur Blanc are in a sense allies. When one +triumphs, it is permitted to the others to congratulate him.” + +“My experience is,” the Russian declared, unmoved, “that, after the +congratulations are over, a little request usually follows. I do not +acknowledge the alliance you speak of. I play for myself, my own +pleasure and my own profit.” + +“It is your right,” the young man acknowledged, his tone still +good-tempered, although there was a malicious twist at the corners of +his lips. “Since my congratulations offend you, I withdraw them. May +you lose back again your two millions, and may some of it flow into our +pockets.” + +The Russian laughed mirthlessly. + +“Whatever of my two millions flows into your pockets,” he replied, +“will come via Monsieur Blanc--I can promise you that! I am a stranger +here, and I desire no acquaintance. Your table, I think, is on the +other side of the room.” + +The young man edged away. The smile remained upon his lips but his +expression was curiously malevolent. Gerald smiled as he saw him cross +the floor. + +“Horribly bad character, that,” he remarked to Christopher. “I missed +him here last season and asked where he was. They told me that he was +in prison for stabbing his mistress.--I suppose I shall get it in the +neck, Chris, but I’ve got to talk to the old brute. I can’t afford to +miss an opportunity of speaking to some one who knows Pauline.” + +“I shouldn’t, if I were you,” Christopher advised. “You see he isn’t in +the humour to talk to anybody, and if there really is any mystery about +the De Ponières, he won’t care about being asked questions about them.” + +Gerald was, for him, however, determined. + +“Those others were all wrong ’uns, and he probably knew it. The +fellow’s manner is brutal, but I believe he’s a personage. I shall try +my luck in a moment or so.” + +Mademoiselle returned to the attack. She leaned once more towards her +neighbour. + +“Monsieur’s wine appears to be excellent,” she ventured. + +The Russian, who had begun to eat seriously, summoned a waiter without +raising his head. + +“Serve two bottles of wine,” he directed, “to mademoiselle and her +friend, and bring me another.” + +“Monsieur is a prince,” the girl murmured. + +The big man flashed a sudden look at her. Then he went on with his +dinner. + +“You are welcome to the wine,” he said. “It does not please me, for the +moment, to converse. Besides, I am hungry.” + +Mademoiselle murmured another word of thanks and turned back to her +companion. She knew her world and she was content. + +“Monsieur must not be interfered with,” she declared. “He has been +playing since the Rooms opened, and he is weary. The fortune of some +people is marvelous,” she went on, watching the coming of the wine. “If +I were to win a mille, I should be crazy with delight.” + +Gerald waited for several minutes, until his neighbour had entered upon +another course. Then he leaned a little towards him. + +“A trifle communistic, the ideas of the world about here,” he remarked. + +The Russian looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. + +“I come from a country where I have learnt to hate that word,” he +said. “Be so good as not to repeat it in my hearing.” + +“You are a Russian?” Gerald ventured. + +“It is entirely my business of what nationality I am,” was the cold +reply. + +“Naturally,” Gerald agreed. “At the same time, we are all human. The +man who wins a couple of millions here is a public character. You will +probably find old ladies rubbing their five-franc pieces against your +coat sleeves, as you enter the Rooms.” + +“So long as they do not attempt to talk to me, I shall be content,” was +the curt retort. + +“You are not exactly looking for acquaintances, I perceive,” Gerald +remarked. + +“I have none here, nor do I desire any.” + +Gerald smiled. He had reached the point at which he had been aiming. + +“That,” he observed, “is not strictly true. You have just dispatched a +note to some ladies of my acquaintance.” + +Monsieur Zubin had so far met Gerald’s tentative overtures with the +cold rudeness of one who recognises an equal. At his last words, +however, a look almost of fury flashed into his face. He struck the +table with his fist. + +“I ought to have remembered the sort of people by whom I was likely to +be surrounded here,” he declared. “One comes to beg for alms, another +to tout for a loan or to pave the way for a robbery, and you, who +look as though you ought to know better, cast sneaking glances over +my shoulder to read the superscription of a private letter. What a +riffraff!” + +Gerald bit his lip. He kept his temper perfectly. + +“I saw the address, I assure you, entirely by accident,” he said. “I +happen to be acquainted with one of the ladies or the name would not +have attracted my notice. Madame and mademoiselle occupy the next villa +to my father’s.” + +“Acquainted? That is a lie!” the Russian exclaimed. “The ladies of whom +you have spoken have no acquaintances in Monte Carlo.” + +Gerald shrugged his shoulders. + +“At least,” he said, “I will agree with you so far as to admit that +this is no place in which to discuss them.” + +Monsieur Zubin rose deliberately to his feet. One realised then his +extraordinary height. He must have been at least six feet, four inches, +and broad in proportion. Gerald, although he himself was considerably +over average height, seemed like a child by his side. + +“If you mention their names again,” he threatened, “I shall throw you +out of the place.” + +Gerald looked him over for a moment, unmoved but intensely curious. The +mystery of Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière had only been increased +by this chance meeting. + +“Pray sit down,” he begged. “You are making every one uneasy. I have +no wish to quarrel with you. I simply took you for an ordinary human +being.” + +The Russian resumed his seat. Mademoiselle raised her glass and laughed +into his eyes. Gerald called for his bill. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +During their short walk to the Sporting Club, where the two young men +had arranged to spend the rest of the evening, Christopher endeavoured +to bring the conversation round to the subject of Myrtile. + +“It is time,” he insisted, “that we did something a little more +definite about Myrtile.” + +“What can we do?” Gerald replied carelessly. “She’ll find a job +presently.” + +“She won’t unless we help her,” Christopher replied, “and meanwhile +this life is horribly bad for her. She is all the time unsettled and +uneasy, and I don’t wonder at it. You don’t take her seriously enough, +Gerald.” + +“In what way?” + +“She told me this afternoon that you had promised to take her to one of +your supper parties.” + +Gerald was not altogether at his ease. + +“It was rather a rash promise,” he admitted, “but after all, why not? +She’d create quite a sensation.” + +“That child’s immediate future is a charge upon our honour,” +Christopher said sternly. “You and I know the class of young women you +invite to your parties. They’re smart enough--the best of their sort, +without a doubt. At the same time, they’re not fit companions for +Myrtile. She’s full of hysterical impressions, as it is. She mustn’t +come near them. She mustn’t breathe the same atmosphere.” + +“Are you in love with Myrtile?” Gerald asked curiously. + +Christopher loathed the question but he remained outwardly unperturbed. + +“Myrtile is a child,” he said. “It will be time enough to think of +such things when she has become a woman. The one deadly and pernicious +certainty is that she is in love with you. Be careful, Gerald. You +don’t want to walk on the floor of hell.” + +They had reached the steps of the Sporting Club. Gerald ran lightly up. + +“My dear Chris,” he said, turning around as he prepared to divest +himself of his overcoat, “don’t be a melodramatic ass. We’re in the +wrong atmosphere for that sort of thing. Jupiter! Here is the family!” + +“Well, you might appear a little more pleased to see us,” Mary +declared. “Dad and I looked in here on our way back from the dinner +party. Dad met an old friend there--Sir William Greatwood--and he +insisted upon our coming. It seemed so ridiculously early to go home. +They’ve hurried in to make sure of places at the first roulette table.” + +“Let’s find a corner in the bar and have some coffee,” Christopher +suggested. “Gerald is too electric to-night for a man of my staid +temperament.” + +“I’m not so sure of your staid temperament as I was,” Mary rejoined. +“However, I’d like some coffee. We’ll take those two easy-chairs.” + +Gerald soon drifted away and the two were left alone. Mary leaned back +in her corner and studied her companion thoughtfully. + +“Christopher,” she began, “I am not at all sure that you two young men +are behaving nicely in Monte Carlo. Father was saying this afternoon +that we scarcely saw you at all except at tennis.” + +“Will you play golf and lunch with me to-morrow morning, Lady Mary?” he +begged. + +“With pleasure,” she replied. “And now that you have made your peace, +do tell me about Gerald. He seems to have an extraordinary craze +for taking the mysterious young woman next door out motoring every +afternoon. Who is she?” + +“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Christopher confessed. “Neither has he. +That, I think, is part of the attraction.” + +“Does any one know her?” Mary asked, a little doubtfully. “She looks +all right, but, after all, ours is such a very small world that it +seems odd no one knows anything about her.” + +Christopher shook his head. + +“I believe that Madame Lénore--the woman from whom we bought the things +for Myrtile--knows something about them, at any rate.” + +Lady Mary played with the pearls which hung from her neck. + +“To leave the subject of our mysterious neighbours, then, have you +succeeded in finding any employment for your little protégée yet?” she +enquired, looking up at her companion. + +“Not yet,” Christopher replied. “I have written to a cousin of mine in +London, who goes in for that sort of thing, to see if she can find her +a post as nursery governess. The housekeeper at the hotel would take +her as a chambermaid, but for once I agree with Gerald--I think she is +far too good for anything of that sort.” + +“I can’t imagine what you two young men think you know about it,” Mary +remarked. “The girl has lived all her life as a peasant, and I am still +old-fashioned enough to believe that it is exceedingly unwise to +pitchfork any one into a position to which he is unaccustomed.” + +“The girl is altogether unusual,” Christopher pointed out. “Her father +and mother were both school-teachers. Sometimes I feel inclined to +regret that we ever discovered her, but so long as we did, and brought +her here, we must try and start her properly.” + +“In Monte Carlo?” his companion observed, a little drily. + +“I shall send her to England, if my cousin agrees to take her,” +Christopher declared. + +“And, in the meantime, the poor little fool is hopelessly in love with +Gerald. Well, you both know what you are doing, I suppose. I should be +sorry to have your responsibility.--I think I ought to go and see how +dad is getting on with his mille.” + +“Wait one moment,” Christopher begged, laying his hand upon her arm. “I +want you to watch this.” + +She looked up curiously. Gerald had just entered the crowded little +room, and, at the same moment, Mademoiselle de Ponière and her aunt +appeared on the other threshold. Madame was dressed in black clothes of +old-fashioned but distinctive cut. A wonderful black lace shawl drooped +from her shoulders. Her ears and fingers blazed with gems. She leaned, +as she walked, upon an ivory-topped stick, and her eyes had their usual +trick of wandering around the room as though she saw no one. Pauline’s +wonderful figure seemed sheathed in a black net gown, which fitted +her with almost magical perfection. From the curve of her large hat, +which framed her pale face and heavily-fringed eyes, to the tips of +her black and white patent shoes, she seemed to represent a perfection +unobtrusive but inevitable. Gerald, who had been on his way to join +his sister and Christopher, paused at their approach, as though bent on +challenging some recognition, however slight, from the girl. In this, +however, he was disappointed. Without any appearance of avoiding him, +without even turning her eyes away from his direction, she passed by as +though in complete unconsciousness of his presence, and followed her +companion through the other door. Gerald stood for a moment in silent +fury after they had left. The cigarette which he had been holding +between his fingers slipped on to the carpet, crushed to pieces. He set +his heel upon it and crossed the room. Lady Mary recognised the sense +of disturbance in him and welcomed him with the tactful smile of one +who has noticed nothing unusual. + +“Tell me whether to play _trente et quarante_ or roulette to-night, +Gerald?” she said. “Or shall I go and play baccarat? If only the people +there weren’t so alarming!” + +Gerald looked across at Christopher. He seemed as though he had +scarcely heard his sister’s words. + +“Did you see that?” he asked, in a low tone. + +Christopher nodded. + +“Personally,” he admitted, “I should find it intolerable, but then, as +you know, I hate all mysteries. I should feel inclined to go up to the +young woman and ask her if she were tired after her motoring.” + +“I believe I have an average amount of pluck,” Gerald declared, “but I +tell you honestly I couldn’t face it. I believe I should get the most +colossal snub which has ever been inflicted upon a human being.” + +“The girl is extraordinarily attractive,” Mary observed. “Shall I +really be brave and call, Gerald? One doesn’t do that sort of thing +abroad, but she must be lonely. If they aren’t what they should be, it +won’t hurt me.” + +“No good, old dear,” Gerald groaned. “I’ve suggested something of the +sort already, but she only threw cold water on the idea.” + +Lady Mary laughed softly. + +“After all,” she decided, “there is something humourous in the +situation. I always look upon Gerald as being the most woman-spoilt man +I know. Quite a new experience for you, dear, isn’t it? I can’t think +how you ever progressed so far as you have done.” + +“Sheer British pluck,” Gerald declared. “I can assure you I never +shivered so much during my three years in France, as I did when I +walked up to the rock where the girl was standing. I don’t remember, +even now, how I made the plunge.” + +“You probably asked her if her name wasn’t Smith and if you hadn’t met +at the Jones’ ball,” Mary remarked. “After all, there have been other +people in the world who haven’t wished to make acquaintances. They are +both in half-mourning, too.” + +“I should cheer up, old fellow,” Christopher advised. “They won’t hold +out for ever. You will probably find that to-morrow afternoon the young +lady will shyly invite you in to meet her aunt.” + +“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gerald growled. “There! Did +you see that?” + +Through the open doorway, Madame de Ponière and her younger companion +were plainly visible, making their way towards one of the roulette +tables. They had come face to face for a moment with a little +Frenchman, who stopped and bowed with every mark of respect. Both of +the women acknowledged his salutation graciously. Gerald sprang to his +feet. + +“That’s Henri Dubois, Monsieur Blanc’s representative there!” he +exclaimed. “He knows them! Thank heavens, I’ve come across some one at +last who does!” + +He crossed the room in half a dozen strides, and accosted Monsieur +Dubois in the private way leading to the Hôtel de Paris. The usual +civilities were exchanged. + +“Monsieur Dubois, you can do me a favour,” Gerald confided, as he drew +him towards the bar and ordered two liqueur brandies. + +“If it is possible, it is done,” Dubois declared. “If it is impossible, +it shall be done.” + +“I want you to tell me,” Gerald continued, “who the two ladies in black +were, to whom you just bowed--Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière, they +call themselves?” + +The courteous smile faded from the lips of the little man. He was +watching intently the pouring of the brandy into his glass. + +“Milord,” he regretted, “I cannot tell you anything about those two +ladies.” + +Gerald was a little staggered. Monsieur Dubois was a well-known gossip, +to whom he had been indebted for the history of many of the visitors to +the place. + +“You, too!” he exclaimed. “What on earth is the mystery about them?” + +The Frenchman looked at him in bland surprise. + +“Mystery, milord?” he repeated. “Is there one?” + +Gerald avoided a fruitless discussion. He laid his hand on his +companion’s shoulder in friendly fashion. + +“Look here, old fellow,” he said, “I will ask you one question, and one +question only. What are their real names?” + +Monsieur Dubois smiled. His difficulties were at an end. + +“Milord,” he declared, “you wrong those very respectable ladies in +imagining that they would present themselves here under names to +which they had no right. Both ladies, who are, as you have doubtless +surmised, related, are entitled to the name of De Ponière. The first +Christian name of the older lady is Anastasie, of the younger--Pauline. +I am happy to be able to satisfy milord. A thousand excuses. They call +me from the baccarat room.” + +Gerald returned dejectedly to the room where his sister and Christopher +were waiting expectantly. + +“It appears that there is no mystery at all,” he announced. “Dubois +assures me that they are related and that their names are indeed De +Ponière.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Myrtile rose in the morning, as was her custom, at a little after +seven o’clock, carefully made her bed, dressed, and walked for an hour +upon the Terrace. These early diurnal wanderings were tempered with a +certain sadness, although she was always finding something new--new +beauties or new sores--in this amazing spot to which she had been +transported. She saw the mists which wreathed the hilltops before +the sun had power to burn them away,--mists grey some mornings and +opalescent on others, but always of wonderful shape, always fantastic, +dissolving sometimes at unexpected moments to reveal unexpected +beauties, hanging down the hillsides at times in long, ghostly arms, to +sever the pine woods, the strips of pasture and the small vineyards. +The little town itself had the air of being in déshabille, of somewhat +resenting this early riser’s curious gaze. Where the coloured lights +had burned last night, and the music of violins made sad and sweet the +throbbing atmosphere, was a desert waste,--tables piled on one another, +chairs turned over, the débris of cigars and cigarette ends and +burned-out matches still littering the ground. There were water carts +in the streets and sweepers upon the pavement. The beshuttered and +becurtained shops looked with blank eyes upon this scene of renovation. +It was too early, as yet, even for the mannequin or the seamstress; the +streets were filled only with the ghosts of last night’s giddy throngs. +The Casino itself, closed and silent, seemed brooding over that hive +of passion, of disappointment and strident joy of a few hours ago. The +villas on the hill were barely opening their eyes. A ragpicker stole +along the Terrace, making his furtive collection. To Myrtile, whose +life as yet was composed mainly of externals, everything was still +beautiful. The sun warmed her with the promise of love. She was never +tired of watching the little waves breaking upon the sandy strip, and +the million scintillating lights upon the bay. She looked up with a +glad smile at the silent hotel where Gerald was sleeping. Perhaps he +was dreaming of her at that very moment. Love had crept into her life +and found her very ignorant. As yet it was a beautiful and simple +thing. That it was capable of change and division never even occurred +to her. She loved Gerald, and, although he sometimes disappointed her, +it must be that Gerald loved her. She had few doubts about it all. All +her confidence, all her will, went freely with that warm, sweet impulse +which filled her heart and thoughts, and which seemed to her the +sweetest and most wonderful thing in life. She was intelligent, almost +brilliantly intelligent, and, even in those few days, the sordid and +ugly side of other people’s lives and aspirations had sometimes been +revealed to her, only to be brushed aside as something very remote, +something from which love made her forever free. Gerald’s attitude +often puzzled, sometimes even distressed her, but she put his vagaries +down to her own lack of understanding. She was convinced that all would +be well when she saw more of him, and she harboured a dull sense of +resentment against Christopher, who she believed was always working for +some unknown reason to keep them apart. + +At half-past eight she returned to her rooms and deliberately attacked +a great mass of sewing, which was sent to her daily from the hotel, +and the payment for which, by arrangement, provided her with board +and lodging. From that time onwards, she sat in the window with but +one hope,--the hope of seeing Gerald. Once or twice he had come and +taken her out to luncheon, but Christopher was unfailing in his +visits. He presented himself every morning at about the same time, +and even if Gerald appeared, he always accompanied him. Gerald once, +obeying a curious impulse, had sent her a great box of roses, over +which she had wept with delight, and which she kept alive by every +known artifice. Christopher brought her, day by day, the little +things she needed,--gloves, stockings, handkerchiefs, and often +a few simple bonbons and flowers. Despite her resentment against +him, it was always a pleasure to hear his firm tread and to watch +his tall, broad-shouldered figure and good-humoured, intelligent +face as he crossed the road, invariably with some small parcel in +his hand. He seemed to have much more time to spare than Gerald, a +fact which, womanlike, she half resented, ignorant of the fact that +Gerald sat up half the night enjoying himself in his own fashion, and +that Christopher often gave up his morning round of golf to be her +companion. She found an evil counsellor, too, in Annette, the maid at +the hotel, who occupied the other bedroom in the little cottage and +generally looked in for a few minutes on her way to work. Annette, +who was thoroughly French, was completely puzzled by the situation. +She could account for it in her own mind only from the fact that the +two young men were English and therefore presumably mad. Of her own +preference she made no secret. + +“But how mademoiselle is industrious!” she exclaimed, looking in at the +door soon after Myrtile had returned from her early morning walk and +settled down to her sewing. “I hope my stingy old aunt pays you well +for all that sewing.” + +“She gives me my board and lodging here,” Myrtile replied, with a +smile. “That more than contents me.” + +“Board and lodging! Oh, là, là!” Annette declared, sinking into her +accustomed chair. “That would not content me. Even one’s salary at the +hotel is not sufficient. It is the tips from which one can buy one’s +clothes.” + +“Soon I shall have to think of clothes,” Myrtile confided. “At present +Monsieur Gerald has given me all that I need.” + +“It is a very chic costume and doubtless expensive,” Annette admitted, +“but for evening clothes mademoiselle has nothing.” + +“I do not go out in the evenings,” Myrtile replied, a little wistfully. +“Monsieur Christopher took me once to the Opera, but we sat in a box.” + +“Monsieur Christopher!” the maid repeated, with a little shrug of the +shoulders. “He is well enough but he is heavy. He speaks French like +an English schoolboy. But Milord Dombey--ah, he is superb! He speaks +French like a Parisian, he dances divinely, he is gay all the time. Oh, +if he were on my floor, that I could see him sometimes, I should be +happy!” + +Myrtile said nothing. She had learnt that the best way to make Annette +talk was just to listen. + +“It amazes me,” Annette continued, “that mademoiselle does not ask +Milord Dombey for some evening frocks and attend one of his supper +parties. Charles, the head waiter, brings me news often of them. They +are of the most amusing. There are artistes there, and all manner of +wonderful people. Has mademoiselle no curiosity to see life?” + +Myrtile threaded a needle carefully before she replied. + +“Milord Dombey,” she said, “would, I believe, take me, but Monsieur +Christopher does not think it well that I go to those parties. He +declares that they are for people whom I should not meet.” + +Annette threw herself back in her chair, revealing to the full her +silk-stockinged legs. She clasped her hands behind the back of her +head. She was vastly amused. + +“Oh, là, là!” she exclaimed. “That is so like Monsieur Bent! What does +he make of life, that young man? Does he think it well for a girl as +beautiful as mademoiselle to sit here alone at night and creep into +bed, while monsieur who adores her spends his time with other women? +Pooh! Mademoiselle should have courage.” + +Myrtile laid down her work. Her heart was beating fast. + +“Tell me, Annette,” she begged, “who are these guests of Milord Dombey? +Why do they keep me away from them?” + +“It is not Milord Dombey’s fault,” Annette declared. “He is a _beau +garçon_, that. It is the stupid Monsieur Bent who should have stayed +at home in his dull London. They are all well enough, these guests of +Milord Dombey’s. Some sing at the Opera; others, perhaps, have seen +life in Paris, but for that what are they the worse--what harm can they +do? It is perhaps Monsieur Bent’s idea that he keeps you away from +Milord Dombey, who is so attractive, and takes you back to his stodgy +England and marries you there himself. Oh, if I were mademoiselle, I +should submit no longer!” + +“What should you do, Annette?” Myrtile asked, half fearfully. + +“I should put on all my prettiest clothes,” Annette replied, entering +into the matter with animation, “and I should come to the hotel. +I should find my way to Milord Dombey--that would be for me to +arrange--and I should just tell him that I had come, that I was tired +of being left at home. Then I would whisper one or two of the nicest +little things I could think of into his ear, and I would put my arms +around his neck, and--well--I know Milord Dombey--he would not send me +away--not if I were mademoiselle.” + +The work had fallen from Myrtile’s hands. She was sitting up in her +chair, her eyes very bright, her lips a little parted. How fortunate +it was that Annette had come! Without a doubt, she would do this. Only +one must beware of Monsieur Christopher. He was full of droll ideas. It +was, perhaps, as Annette had suggested. He must be made to understand. +Presently Annette departed, and when, a little later on, Christopher +arrived to pay his morning call, Myrtile was seated as usual at her +work, her manner unaltered except that she was a little gayer than +usual, perhaps a little more kindly. Christopher, on the other hand, +was inclined to be serious. + +“Myrtile,” he announced, “I have heard from my cousin in England. She +thinks that she will be able to find you a place in about a month’s +time.” + +“That is very kind of her,” Myrtile answered, without enthusiasm. “What +does Gerald say about it?” + +“I have not mentioned it to Gerald yet,” Christopher replied. “He was +dining out last night and had a supper party afterwards at the Carlton, +and as a matter of fact he was fast asleep when I came out. I have no +doubt, however, that he will be glad.” + +The girl made a little grimace. + +“He may not be so glad to get rid of me as you,” she remarked. + +“We shall neither of us be here in a month’s time,” Christopher +reminded her. “Certainly I shall not, and Gerald, I believe, is due to +go on to Biarritz before then.” + +Myrtile sewed industriously for a moment. + +“Perhaps,” she suggested, “he may want me to go on to Biarritz with +him.” + +“You must not talk like that, Myrtile,” Christopher said sternly. “You +must not say such things. If Gerald goes, it will be with some other +young men to play polo. There would be no possible place for you in +such a company.” + +Myrtile proceeded calmly with her sewing. She was beginning to be sorry +for Christopher. He understood so little. + +“We must tell Gerald about it,” she conceded. “You understand that I +should not do anything without his approval?” + +“Quite,” Christopher acquiesced. “We are both equally your guardians, +Myrtile. Gerald is just as fond of you, I am sure, as I am.” + +She smiled without looking up. Some day he would know the truth, this +kindly but rather foolish Englishman. He would know that she and Gerald +loved one another. He should always be their friend, though. He was +very good, in his way, only he would not understand. + +“What about a short walk before lunch?” he suggested. + +Myrtile dropped her work at once. + +“We will go along the Terrace,” she proposed, “and while I sit upon a +seat, you shall go in and wake up that lazy Gerald. You shall tell him +that I am waiting, and I am sure that he will hurry out.” + +Christopher assented, a little sadly. Once or twice before they had +carried out the same programme, and he was wondering whether it would +not have been better to have told Myrtile the truth,--that on two +occasions Gerald had absolutely refused to join them, and that on the +third he had been brought out almost by force. There was a little pang +in his heart as he watched Myrtile’s gay preparations. Life was so +wonderful to her that it seemed a shame to destroy a single illusion. + +“We’ll try and rout him out, at all events,” he promised. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +Myrtile was seated alone at the far end of the Terrace, outside the +Hôtel de Paris, when the tragedy happened. Her first impression +was that some very unusual people had found their way on to the +promenade,--a fête-day excursion, perhaps, from one of the neighbouring +villages. And then the colour seemed slowly drained from her cheeks. +She would have got up and fled but her limbs absolutely refused their +office. Her slight movement, however, had attracted the attention of +the two men. With exclamations of incredulity, they hurried towards +her. The incredulity turned swiftly to joy. Myrtile, in such clothes, +represented, without a doubt, boundless wealth. It was a morning of +good fortune, this! + +“Myrtile, thou little rascal!” her stepfather cried, gripping her +pearl-coloured gloves in his horny fist. “Pierre, thou seest. It is she +indeed. Amazing! It is veritably amazing!” + +Pierre Leschamps was not so fluent. His narrow, covetous eyes looked +over Myrtile’s slim body lasciviously. What he had lost! He was filled +with self-pity. + +“It is an escapade, this,” he said. “Thou art ready to return, Myrtile?” + +“Never!” the girl declared passionately. + +“Oho!” her stepfather exclaimed. “We shall see about that. There is +the law, little one. The law does not allow an honest man to be robbed +of his daughter--ay, stepdaughter, if you will,” he went on, checking +a passionate protest on Myrtile’s lips. “Now, then, out with it, my +child. Where did those clothes come from? Who brought you here? Who is +supporting you?” + +“I am supporting myself,” Myrtile answered. “I sew all the mornings and +most of the afternoons.” + +The two men laughed unpleasantly. Her father laid his hand upon her +shoulder. + +“Listen,” he said, “you were carried away from home by two Englishmen +in a motor car--rich Englishmen, by all accounts, with much luggage. +Where are they?” + +“What do you want with them?” Myrtile demanded. + +“That is not for thy silly head, little one.” + +“There is a matter of compensation,” Pierre growled. “Tell us where to +find these Englishmen?” + +Myrtile looked wildly around. She scarcely knew whether she prayed +for or dreaded Christopher’s return. Then suddenly she saw him close +at hand, accompanied, to her infinite relief, by Gerald. She gave a +little cry of joy. Now, indeed, all would be well. Gerald would arrange +everything. + +“So these are they?” her stepfather muttered, as the two young men +approached. + +“They look like gentlemen of wealth,” Leschamps echoed. + +“The stepfather of Myrtile, as I live,” Gerald muttered, under his +breath. “Heaven grant that we may escape a brawl out here! Must we----” + +“Of course we must,” Christopher answered curtly. “Can’t you see +that the child is frightened to death? We’ll have them in the police +station, if they make any trouble. The police here haven’t much +sympathy with their class.” + +Myrtile called to them softly. + +“This is my stepfather,” she said, “and his friend, Pierre Leschamps.” + +“Mon Dieu!” Gerald exclaimed, in frank horror. “Are you the man whom +Myrtile was to marry?” + +“I am he, indeed, monsieur,” the innkeeper acknowledged. “I have gone +to great expense in the matter. My house was painted and whitewashed +and my bedroom papered. The neighbours were all bidden. I had even laid +in wine for the feast.” + +“Then you ought to have been ashamed of yourself,” Gerald declared. +“Why, how old are you, my friend?” + +Leschamps patted his stomach. + +“I am but fifty years old,” he replied, “a man in the prime of life. +Myrtile was promised to me. There is no one else like her. I am without +a wife. It is a very serious position for a man with an inn to look +after.” + +“And what about me?” her stepfather intervened, his voice rising with +the recollection of his wrongs. “For many years I have kept that child. +I have fed her and clothed her all that time. Now that she is eighteen, +now that she is of some use in the world, how does she show her +gratitude? What can I do without her, I ask? I was to marry the good +Widow Dumay. Now she says ‘no!’ She declares that, without Myrtile, the +care of the children is too much for her. She refuses to allow me to +arrange for the wedding, unless either Myrtile returns or she has at +least five hundred francs with which to arrange for help.” + +“Five hundred francs!” Leschamps groaned. “What is that for a wife like +Myrtile! It is a blow to me, this. My health has suffered. I am gloomy. +My business decreases. The neighbours will no longer drink a bottle +of wine with a man who cannot sing a song or smile once during the +evening. They go elsewhere. My connection tumbles to pieces. And there +are my rooms all painted and my bedroom papered, and I have no wife.” + +“It appears to me,” Gerald proposed, “that we had better discuss this +matter in my rooms over a bottle of wine--a bottle of champagne, eh? +What do you say, gentlemen?” + +“Let it be this moment,” Myrtile’s stepfather insisted. “Let us know +where we are without further delay. This matter makes me sad. I cannot +sleep or eat. I have dug deep into my savings to come here. Oh, it has +cost me much money, this journey!” + +“And I,” Leschamps declared, “I who have never been in a train before, +who have never spent ten sous on my own pleasure, it is ruin, this +journey. And I have been sick of the stomach.” + +“Follow me, gentlemen,” Gerald invited. + +He led them into the hotel, much to the amazement of the liveried +servants, took them up in the lift, in which both nearly collapsed +upon the floor, and ushered them into his sitting room. For a few +moments, effrontery and avarice were alike powerless. They were dumb +with amazement. They looked around them, muttering inarticulate words. +Leschamps dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with a bright, +cherry-coloured handkerchief. Her stepfather looked helplessly across +the room to where Myrtile was seated side by side with Christopher. +Gerald ordered champagne, which was brought in by a servant dressed in +knee breeches and silk stockings. Leschamps secretly pinched himself. +Gerald, the central figure of the little party, towards whom every one +turned and on whom Myrtile’s eyes were unswervingly fixed, began to +rather enjoy the situation. + +“Now, gentlemen,” he said, after he had moved them up to the table and +placed the bottle of wine between them, “let us deal with this question +in a few words. Your stepdaughter, Myrtile, is not coming back to you, +Monsieur Sargot; neither will she become your wife, Monsieur Leschamps. +She will be well taken care of and that is all that concerns you. We +would like, if possible, to arrange this matter pleasantly, although +we admit no claim. At what price do you, Monsieur Sargot, place your +daughter’s services? And you, Monsieur Leschamps, at what figure do you +put your expenses in preparing for your wedding which will never take +place?” + +“It is a hard question,” Myrtile’s stepfather declared, seizing the +bottle and pouring himself out another glass of wine. + +“It will be a great loss for me,” the innkeeper groaned. + +“Myrtile did all the cooking,” Jean Sargot continued. “There was no one +made such a ragout, and the children with her were like angels.” + +“That is not true,” Myrtile intervened calmly. “The children were +always bad-tempered and difficult to manage.” + +“She has lost her head, the little one,” her stepfather lamented. + +“There is not another girl in the valley one would marry by the side of +her,” the innkeeper muttered. + +Gerald waited until they had finished. He was leaning against the back +of a sofa, smoking a cigarette which he had just lit. + +“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “it is for you to name a sum. All that I +ask is that Myrtile be left in peace.” + +“The Widow Dumay,” Myrtile’s stepfather said, watching Gerald closely, +“declared that I ought to have in the stocking another two thousand +francs, if I am deprived of Myrtile.” + +Gerald opened his pocketbook. + +“Will the same sum content you, Leschamps?” he asked. + +Pierre Leschamps tried to sigh. His eyes, however, betrayed his greedy +satisfaction. + +“I will accept it,” he said. “May Myrtile be happy!” + +Myrtile’s stepfather struck the table with his fist. + +“Look here, all of you,” he expostulated, “this is all very well, but +why should Pierre Leschamps have as much as I--I who have lost my +daughter----” + +“She was to have been my wife,” Leschamps growled. + +“It was I who was to give her to you,” the other retorted. “You have +lost nothing because she never belonged to you. Five hundred francs +would pay you many times over for all the expense you have been to in +your miserable little house. The rest of your two thousand should come +to me.” + +The faces of the two men were aflame. Pierre Leschamps was tugging +viciously at his little black moustache. There was a purple flush on +Sargot’s cheeks. They seemed about to fall on each other. Gerald struck +the table with the flat of his hand. + +“Look here,” he enjoined, “unless you both want to be ordered out of +the room without a sou, hold your peace.” + +No threat could have been more effective. They stood looking at him +like dumb animals. He silently filled the glass of each with more wine. + +“Now remember that you are friends and comrades,” he begged. “There +is, after all, something in what Jean Sargot has said. To lose a +stepdaughter is more than to lose a promised wife. I will add a +thousand francs to your amount, Jean Sargot.” + +“And I shall have my two thousand?” Leschamps cried. + +“You shall have your two thousand,” Gerald promised. + +Their eyes hung upon his pocketbook like the eyes of sick animals. +Gerald counted out the money but retained it in his hand. + +“You, monsieur,” he said, addressing Myrtile’s stepfather, “will sign +a paper which my friend here will write out, promising to resign all +claim to Myrtile and never to attempt to see her again.” + +“I will sign it,” the man agreed. + +Christopher sat at the desk and wrote out a few brief sentences. Jean +Sargot signed it without even confessing his inability to read. They +stood up to receive the money. Myrtile, and even Christopher, watched +them, fascinated. Their brown, nailless fingers clutched and trembled +as they counted the notes. Each in turn buttoned them into the inside +pocket of his coat. It was more than they had dreamed of, this. +Myrtile, a village child, to be worth a fortune! + +“It is finished, then, this affair,” Sargot declared, as he drained his +glass. + +“It is finished,” Gerald agreed. “I will ring for a page to show you +out.” + +“You need have no anxiety about Myrtile,” Christopher said. “She will +be found a suitable home and she will lead a suitable life.” + +Jean Sargot suddenly remembered that he was her stepfather. He brushed +his coat sleeve across his eyes. + +“Little one,” he cried, “embrace me. This is, then, farewell.” + +Myrtile rose to her feet but she remained at the other side of the +table. + +“I wish you farewell and I wish you good fortune,” she said. “I would +rather not embrace you. You have been hard and cruel to me, as you have +been to others. Try and be kinder to your own children. And as for +you, Pierre Leschamps,” she went on, “do not dream for a moment that I +would ever have married you. I would sooner have thrown myself into the +quarry.” + +“The little one was always strange,” Leschamps muttered, almost +apologetically. + +They stumbled out of the room after the page who presently arrived. +Gerald broke into a shout of laughter as they disappeared. Myrtile’s +eyes, however, were filled with tears. Christopher, too, was grave, but +it was to Gerald the girl turned. + +“I have cost you a great deal, I am afraid,” she said. “Now I belong to +you.” + +She leaned towards him. Christopher intervened almost harshly. + +“To us,” he declared, throwing down a little bundle of notes upon the +table. “You and I are Myrtile’s joint guardians, Gerald. That was our +understanding. I shall hold you to your promise.” + +Myrtile’s head was buried on Gerald’s shoulder. Gerald himself was +for a moment half embarrassed, half carried away by Myrtile’s calm +assumption. He looked into Christopher’s grey eyes, however, and he +pulled himself together. + +“That’s all right, old chap,” he promised. “We’ll steer clear of +trouble--somehow.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +Gerald found Pauline waiting for him at the accustomed spot, after +luncheon that afternoon. As he slowed down his car to pick her up, he +was conscious of a return of that feeling of irritation which had been +growing stronger with him, day by day,--an irritation based upon her +obvious desire to escape recognition when with him and to keep their +acquaintance as far as possible a secret. She was waiting in the shadow +of a great magnolia shrub, dressed in inconspicuous grey, with a veil +thicker even than the exigencies of motoring necessitated. In the +background was the same black-gowned maid who always attended her as +far as the avenue and took her silent leave at his approach. + +Pauline stepped lightly into the place by his side, without waiting for +him to vacate his seat. + +“Turn round, please,” she directed. “We will go the other way. I do not +choose to pass through the town.” + +Gerald obeyed, although her request only added fuel to the smouldering +fire of his resentment. He turned away towards the mountain road and +maintained a silence which was not without its significance. His +companion, after a few minutes, glanced towards him indifferently. He +was leaning back in his place, his eyes, as usual, fixed upon the road, +his left hand firmly grasping the steering wheel. The humourous twitch, +however, had gone from his mouth. There was a distinct frown upon his +forehead. + +“You are perhaps weary to-day?” she suggested. “You would like to +shorten our drive?” + +Gerald turned and looked at her. + +“I am not weary,” he replied. “I am puzzled. I hate mysteries.” + +“The old complaint,” she yawned. + +“With a new reading,” he retorted. “I have shown myself ready, as you +must know,” he went on, “to study your rather peculiar whims in every +way, but when it comes to meeting you face to face at the Club and +receiving nothing but the stoniest of stares, I must admit that the +situation grows beyond me. You could surely find a hundred reasonable +excuses for the most formal sort of recognition. I am not--well, I am +not a disreputable acquaintance, am I?” + +She laughed quietly. + +“Not in the least. You belong to what they call in England the +middle-class aristocracy, do you not,--two or three centuries old, +with a damp house in a park and an armful of undistinguished titles? +I suppose that sort of thing counted for something before your +tradespeople and lawyers and bankers were all admitted into the magic +circle.” + +“Are you a socialist?” Gerald enquired, a little taken aback. + +“Not at all,” she replied curtly. “I am an aristocrat.” + +“Are you afraid to present me to Madame de Ponière?” he asked, after a +moment’s pause. + +“Terrified,” she admitted frankly. + +“Because my quarterings are insufficient? I might remark that my father +is the ninth Earl and that I am his only son.” + +“It is not that at all,” she assured him indifferently. “There is +really no reason why we should not meet in a place like this on equal +terms, but my aunt is a woman with only one idea in her head, and for +the successful development of that idea it is advisable that we make +no acquaintances whatever here. There, my Lord Dombey, have I not been +kind to you? I would see more of you if I could, because in a place +like this the escort of a man is an advantage. As it is, I can assure +you that I risk a good deal in taking these afternoon rides.” + +“You have explained nothing,” he insisted, a little doggedly. “I still +do not see why I may not be recognised in public, why it would not be +in order for my sister to call and invite you to tennis, why you and +your aunt should not allow me to entertain you at dinner. I am just as +far from understanding you as I ever was.” + +She sighed. + +“Well, do not be cross with me, please,” she begged. “If you knew how +wearisome my life was and how grateful I really am to you for these few +hours of escape, you would feel more kindly towards me. See, I give you +my hand. Let us be friends.” + +It was the first time during all their acquaintance that she had +accorded him the slightest mark of favour. The touch of her fingers +thrilled and surprised him. He held her hand unresistingly for several +moments. Then she drew it quietly but firmly away. + +“Well, that is settled,” she said. “Now talk to me about other things. +Is there no news at the Rooms? Has no one been breaking the bank?” + +“There was something I was going to tell you,” Gerald replied, with a +sudden flash of recollection. “I sat next to a man at dinner last night +in Ciro’s Grill, who they say broke the bank several times during the +afternoon. I believe they said that he was a Russian. I suppose you +know all about him, however.” + +“I?” she exclaimed. “Why should I?” + +“Because, between the courses of his dinner, he wrote a letter and sent +it off by messenger. He was at the next table and it was impossible for +me to avoid seeing the envelope. It was addressed to Madame de Ponière.” + +She looked at him, amazed. + +“To my aunt?” she repeated. “But we received no letter from any one +last night.” + +“I saw it sent off about twenty minutes to ten,” Gerald assured her. + +“We left for the Club at half-past nine,” Pauline reflected, “but I am +quite sure that there was no note waiting for us when we got back. What +was this man like?” + +“They said that he was a Russian and that his name was Zubin,” Gerald +replied. “They also said that he had won two million francs in the +afternoon.” + +“Zubin!” she exclaimed, with a little start. “Describe him at once, if +you please.” + +“That is easy,” Gerald acquiesced. “He must have been at least six +foot three or four, and he had tremendous shoulders. He was one of the +most powerful looking men I have ever seen in my life. He had a sallow +complexion, a lined face, black eyes and a mass of black and grey hair.” + +She put her hand upon his. + +“Stop the car, please,” she begged. “Turn round as quickly as you can. +I must go home.” + +Gerald ran on to an adjacent widening of the road, reversed the car, +and headed back for Monte Carlo. + +“If I had known that my news was going to shorten our drive,” he +grumbled, “I shouldn’t have mentioned the fellow at all.” + +“My friend,” she said earnestly, “what you have told me may be of +immense benefit for me to know.” + +“You recognise the man, then?” + +“He is probably my aunt’s steward,” she confided, after a moment’s +hesitation. “There, you see I am telling you secrets. Do you know +whether he played last night?” + +“I was only at the Club,” Gerald replied. “He did not come there. Is +there anything I can do? Would you like me to go and look for him?” + +“Yes, you might do that,” she said thoughtfully. “When you have dropped +me, drive down to the Rooms. If you find him there, touch him on the +shoulder. Say that Madame de Ponière awaits him. You will not forget +this?” + +“I’ll drive there at once,” Gerald promised. + +He set Pauline down, as usual, at the gates of her villa. She scarcely +stayed to say good-by, but her smile was more gracious and her manner +a little kinder. It was obvious, however, that she was disturbed by +his information. Gerald, incurious though he was at most times, felt a +growing interest in his mission. + +Arrived at the Rooms, he walked straight through to the Cercle Privé, +visited each Roulette and _trente et quarante_ table, and strolled +round the baccarat room. There was no sign here of the man of whom +he was in search. He was already on his way out to the Sporting Club +when it occurred to him that the Russian might be playing at one of +the ordinary tables at the Casino. He turned back and visited them one +by one. Towards the end of his quest, he was rewarded. Seated next +to the croupier, at the most remote table, with a little crowd of +people behind his chair, and with a great pile of notes before him, sat +Monsieur Zubin. + +The Russian was betting in maximums, apparently on some system, and +with varying success. To all appearances, he had not changed his +clothes, bathed or shaved since the evening before. There was an +untidy growth of beard upon his chin, a bloodshot streak in his eyes; +his collar and tie were crumpled; his hair, over-luxuriant at the +best of times, was unkempt and disordered. He had a card in his hand, +upon which he marked the numbers as they came up, and from which his +attention never wandered until the final word of the croupier was +spoken, when he turned his attention to the board. Gerald leaned +towards the attendant seated behind the croupier’s chair, under +pretence of handing him a small stake. + +“Monsieur gambles?” Gerald remarked, with an inclination of his head +towards the man who was the centre of interest. + +The attendant turned around with an expressive little nod. + +“Yesterday he broke the bank,” he whispered. “To-day he can do nothing +right.” + +“He is losing, then?” + +The man’s grimace was significant. Gerald watched his own stake swept +away and crossed to a place behind the Russian’s chair. In one of the +intervals, he leaned over and touched him on the shoulder. The man took +no notice. Gerald whispered in his ear. + +“Madame de Ponière awaits you at the Villa.” + +Zubin for a moment remained perfectly still. When at last he turned +around, his face was ghastly. With his strong arm, he pushed back some +one who intervened. + +“Who are you?” he demanded. + +“I am merely a messenger,” Gerald replied. “I know no more than that I +was asked to give you that word if I saw you at the Casino.” + +The Russian rose slowly to his feet, left one of the plaques to guard +his place, thrust a great pile of notes into his pocket, and led Gerald +into a corner. + +“You sat next to me last night at Ciro’s Grill,” he said. + +“Quite true,” Gerald assented. + +“You have been spying on me.” + +“That is, on the other hand, a falsehood,” Gerald replied coldly. + +“It is through you that Madame knows I am in Monte Carlo.” + +“On the contrary,” Gerald reminded him, “you yourself wrote a note to +her and dispatched it by messenger from Ciro’s.” + +“The note was brought back--Madame was out,” the man declared. “It was +an accursed accident, that.” + +“One gathers that you have not been fortunate to-day,” Gerald remarked, +after a brief silence. + +“That is my own affair,” was the grim reply. “What I desire to know is +how you became acquainted with these ladies to such an extent that they +should appoint you as their messenger.” + +“I do not recognise your right to ask me questions,” Gerald asserted, +“but, as a matter of fact, my knowledge of them is of the slightest. +Actually, I do not know them at all. I happened to have a few minutes’ +conversation with Mademoiselle de Ponière, and I mentioned your +winnings. You will remember that I saw a letter from you to Madame last +night.” + +Monsieur Zubin sat for a moment deep in thought. + +“Are you charged to deliver a reply to this message?” he demanded. + +“Certainly not,” Gerald answered. “I have not the privilege of visiting +at the Villa.” + +“I should think not,” the other growled. “I wondered only whether you +had been told to take a message to the back door.” + +“You are a very impertinent fellow,” Gerald told him calmly. “You +appear to have come from a country where manners have ceased to exist.” + +The man laughed brutally. + +“One puts off manners when one deals with spies and meddlers,” he +declared. “Get on about your business.” + +He walked back and took his place at the table. Gerald gazed after him +in blank astonishment. Then he heard a little murmur of laughter from +the couch behind, and, turning around, found seated there the girl who +had been the Russian’s other neighbour on the previous night. + +“Monsieur grows no more amiable,” she remarked, moving her head towards +where Zubin had reseated himself. “To-day, one perhaps excuses. Last +night he was like all his countrymen--savage, drunken with the lust of +gambling.” + +“And to-day?” Gerald observed. + +“To-day he loses all the time,” the girl replied. “Sometimes he leaves +the table and comes back here and mutters to himself. Then he makes +calculations and returns. One wonders sometimes whether he is playing +with his own money.” + +Gerald left the Rooms a few minutes later and strolled out into the +Square. He was in some doubt as to what he ought to do. Pauline had +absolutely forbidden him to communicate with her in any shape or form, +yet he had a conviction that Zubin’s exploits in the Casino should be +made known to her. He strolled across to the establishment of Madame +Lénore. Madame greeted him with a peculiarly knowing smile. He drew her +on one side. + +“Madame,” he said, “you make gowns for Mademoiselle de Ponière.” + +The smile disappeared from Madame’s lips. Her face became impassive. + +“It is true, milord,” she admitted. “What of it?” + +“Just this. You are doubtless in frequent communication with her?” + +“Without a doubt,” Madame assented. “I shall telephone her within a +quarter of an hour. Some lace she desired has just arrived.” + +“Then you can do me and her a great service,” Gerald continued. “I have +some slight acquaintance with mademoiselle but I am not permitted to +communicate with her. It is important that she should know that the +Russian, Zubin, is gambling in the Casino, not in the Cercle Privé, and +losing heavily.” + +“A big man?” Madame asked quickly,--“almost a giant?” + +“That is he,” Gerald assented. + +Madame turned towards the telephone. + +“Demand the Villa Violette,” she told the operator. “Say that I wish to +speak to Mademoiselle de Ponière without delay.” + +Gerald turned away. Madame laid her fingers upon his arm. + +“My congratulations, milord!” + +“I don’t know what on,” Gerald replied, a little ruefully. “I am rather +out of luck.” + +“The little peasant girl,” she whispered. “She is adorable. Such +a figure I have never seen, such an air, such simplicity and yet +such grace. With her hair done _à la Madonne_, and those eyes, under +milord’s tutelage she would turn the heads of half the men in Europe.” + +Gerald sighed. The memory of the little scene earlier in the day was +once more before him. + +“You must remember that I have a co-guardian of the strictest +principles, Madame,” he said, “and besides, that isn’t exactly what we +are planning for her.” + +Madame, steeped in the philosophy of her environment, shrugged her +shoulders in genuine mystification. Gerald took his leave a little +hurriedly, to avoid the comment which he felt was imminent. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Madame de Ponière dismissed the servants with a little wave of the hand +and looked thoughtfully for a few moments into the fire of pine logs +which had been kindled in the grate. The dinner table at which she and +Pauline were seated was piled with dishes of expensive fruits, and +there was wine still in their glasses. Nevertheless, Madame de Ponière +had not the air of one who has enjoyed her meal. + +“Pauline,” she said, “Zubin is already four days late.” + +Pauline made no immediate reply. Her aunt pointed to an escritoire +which stood in a corner of the room. + +“These people,” she continued, “become abusive. Even Lénore has sent an +account. You dispatched the telegram?” + +“I dispatched the telegram,” Pauline assented, “but it was needless. +Zubin is here.” + +“Here in Monte Carlo?” Madame de Ponière demanded quickly. + +“I have heard so,” Pauline replied. “My information is very scanty, but +I understood that he had sent you a letter last night.” + +The pallor of the older woman’s face seemed suddenly deepened. Her eyes +glittered ominously. + +“Jean spoke of a note that had been brought and taken away,” she +muttered. “Tell me at once what you know, Pauline?” + +“I have no definite information,” Pauline reiterated, “but I understand +that he has been seen at the Casino.” + +Madame de Ponière sat like a woman who has received a shock. The shadow +of fear was upon her face. + +“You do not know Zubin,” she groaned. “If he once smells the atmosphere +of that place, it is like a deadly drug to him. And he loses! He always +loses!” + +She leaned over and struck a bell which stood upon a table. + +“The car in a quarter of an hour,” she ordered. “Pauline, get ready. We +must seek Zubin. If he has begun to gamble, he will go on to the end.” + +They drove first to the Casino, where they explored only the Cercle +Privé. From there they went to the Sporting Club, where there was still +no sign of him. Madame de Ponière became more hopeful. + +“He is perhaps resting in his hotel,” she said, “preparing to visit us.” + +“He would never come without sending word beforehand,” Pauline reminded +her. “Besides, there are the ordinary tables at the Casino. We ought to +have looked there.” + +Madame de Ponière gave a little shudder. + +“One sees too much of them as one passes through,” she declared. “The +people and the atmosphere are intolerable.” + +They sat side by side on one of the settees, two rather lonely and +disheartened women face to face with tragedy. Pauline saw Gerald in the +distance and determined upon a bold step. + +“Aunt,” she said, “there is a young man standing by the easy-chair +there, whose father lives at the adjoining villa to ours. He has once +or twice offered me some small courtesies. He is alone and I am sure he +would be glad to be useful. Let me send him to the Casino.” + +“Show him to me,” Madame de Ponière demanded. + +Pauline pointed him out. Her aunt sighed. + +“One breaks a cherished tradition,” she said, “but it must be done. I +leave the matter in your hands.” + +Gerald and Christopher, strolling round the room, came presently to +within a few feet of them. Gerald, bitterly though he resented it, was +passing on after one swift glance at Pauline. She leaned over, however, +and touched him on the arm. + +“Lord Dombey,” she said, “my aunt permits me to present you. Lord +Dombey--Madame de Ponière.” + +Gerald, taken by surprise, bore the shock well. He bowed low and +murmured a few polite words. + +“I am afraid you will think that we are very mercenary,” Pauline +continued, “but we are going to ask a favour.” + +“It is granted,” Gerald assured her swiftly. + +“There is a Russian gentleman in Monte Carlo named Zubin.” + +“I know him by sight,” Gerald declared. “Besides----” + +“Then the rest is easy,” Pauline interrupted, with a warning look. “Our +request is that you search the Casino for him, and, if he is there, +that you bring him to us.” + +Gerald bowed. + +“Mademoiselle,” he promised, “if he is there, I will bring him to you +within a quarter of an hour.” + +Gerald, on entering the Casino, made his way at once to the table at +the farther end. The seat which had been occupied by Zubin, however, +was vacant, though the table itself was crowded. He was on the point of +continuing his search in one of the other rooms, when he suddenly saw +the man of whom he was in search seated on one of the sofas against the +wall. He made his way thither at once. + +“Sir,” he said, “I have brought you a message from Madame de Ponière.” + +The Russian lifted his head, and for a moment Gerald was afraid that he +had had a stroke. His eyes were horribly red, the flesh about his cheek +bones seemed to have become drawn tight, and his cheeks to display new +hollows. His hands were trembling. All his truculence of manner had +departed. + +“From Madame de Ponière?” he repeated. “Where is she?” + +“She is waiting now in the Sporting Club,” Gerald replied. “I will take +you to her if you will accompany me.” + +The Russian rose to his feet and the two men left the place. Many of +the bystanders gazed after them, and Gerald heard something of their +whispers. + +“I’m afraid you’ve been having rather a bad time,” he remarked. + +His companion took no notice. He walked, indeed, like a man in a +nightmare. Not only was he unshaven, but his clothes were creased and +tumbled. He was altogether a dishevelled-looking object. + +“Might I suggest,” Gerald said, as they descended the steps of the +Casino, “that you visit your hotel and freshen up a little before you +come to the Club?” + +Zubin seemed suddenly to step down from another world. He looked +vacantly at Gerald for a moment, at his smoothly brushed hair, his +well-cut dinner coat, his faultless linen. Then, with a little start, +he glanced at himself and shrugged his shoulders ponderously. + +“You are right, monsieur. Come this way.” + +He crossed the street with great strides and entered the Hôtel de +Paris. He turned once more to Gerald as he entered the lift. + +“A quarter of an hour, monsieur,” he said. “I give you my word that I +will not keep you longer than twenty minutes.” + +“I will be waiting here,” Gerald promised. + +After the departure of the lift, Gerald made his way by means of the +private passage to the Sporting Club. Madame de Ponière and her niece +were seated where he had left them, the elder lady sipping some coffee, +Pauline looking around her with a languid air of half-amused interest. +Save for the fact that Madame de Ponière’s lips tightened a little as +she saw Gerald alone, there was not the slightest indication in their +manner or expression that they were confronted in any way with an +exceptional situation. + +“I have found our friend,” he announced. “He is making some alterations +to his toilet. I am meeting him in a few minutes and shall bring him +here.” + +“Was he playing?” Pauline enquired. + +“Not when I arrived,” was the cautious reply. + +Madame de Ponière stirred her coffee negligently. + +“Had he,” she asked, “the air of a man who has been losing?” + +“I fear,” Gerald admitted, “that he rather gave me that impression.” + +Pauline smiled up at him. + +“It is very good of you to give yourself so much trouble,” she said. +“My aunt and I are greatly indebted to you. Please do not lose any time +in bringing Monsieur Zubin here.” + +The words were almost a dismissal. Gerald made his way back through +the passage and took a seat in the lounge of the hotel. Within the time +promised, a transformed Monsieur Zubin made his appearance. Gerald +found it difficult to restrain his surprise. His dinner suit was +faultlessly cut, his black pearl studs were marvellous. He had been +carefully shaved and his hair had been trimmed. He carried white kid +gloves in his hand, a glossy silk hat, and a malacca cane crowned with +malachite. He came over at once to Gerald and signed to a waiter who +was hovering about with a bottle upon a tray. + +“You will give me three minutes,” he begged. “I was interested in a +series of numbers, and I forgot to dine. I have ordered a bottle of +wine. You will perhaps join me.” + +“Very good of you,” Gerald replied. “It is rather between times for me. +I’ll have a _fine champagne_, if I may.” + +Monsieur Zubin bowed gravely and the brandy was brought. Without +turning a hair, he drank two tumblerfuls of the wine. Then he turned +courteously to his companion. + +“If you have no objection,” he proposed, “we will walk outside to the +Sporting Club. The distance is the same and the air is fresher.” + +Gerald assented readily, and they started off side by side. The Russian +was walking with his shoulders back, like a man on parade, and Gerald +suddenly felt that his own stature had become insignificant. All the +way his companion seemed to be reciting to himself in some foreign +tongue, reciting something which now and then seemed to have the swing +of blank verse. As they reached the steps which led up to the Sporting +Club, he came to a full stop and glanced around. + +“Young man,” he said, facing Gerald, “you are probably a little curious +about me. This is the truth. Let those know it who may be interested. +I am the steward of Madame de Ponière and the trustee of as much as +is left of her revenues. I came here ashamed of their scantiness, +and the wild idea of enlarging them at the tables occurred to me. I +have failed. There is a _voiture_ here, you see, by my side, and the +commissionaire is there to help you. I apologise for the trouble I am +giving. I charge you to deliver the expression of my undying devotion +to Madame and Mademoiselle.” + +His right hand, which had been fumbling in the pocket of his dinner +coat, shot out like lightning. A small revolver, flashing in the +electric light, was pressed to his temple. There were two almost +simultaneous reports. The last conscious action of the man was to half +throw himself through the door of the carriage. + +Rumours were already floating about the Club when Gerald hurried in, +five minutes later. Both women looked at him in half-fearful enquiry. +Gerald was very grave. + +“Madame,” he announced, “I bring bad news.” + +Madame unfurled her black lace fan and fanned herself slowly. + +“One hears that a man has shot himself outside,” she said. “It is, +perhaps, the man whom I sent you to seek?” + +“It is he,” Gerald acknowledged. + +Madame de Ponière rose to her feet. She was an ugly woman whom, up to +that moment, Gerald had detested. He found himself now admiring her +profoundly. She leaned a little upon the stick which she carried in her +left hand. Her right she extended towards Gerald. + +“If you will give me the support of your arm downstairs, Lord Dombey, +I shall be glad,” she continued. “I am an old woman, and these shocks +become more poignant with the years. Zubin was a faithful servant of my +house. I am much affected.” + +They made their slow progress from the room. Madame held her head high. +Mademoiselle was a little paler than usual, but her good night to the +commissionaire was as clear and gracious as ever. No signs of any +disturbance remained outside,--Monte Carlo knows how to deal with these +things. Their automobile was already in attendance, and the two women +took their places at once. + +“We are much obliged for your assistance, Lord Dombey,” Madame +declared. “I regret that we should have given you so tragical an +errand.” + +“You will permit me to call, perhaps, at the Villa?” Gerald begged. + +“I shall not be receiving for several days,” Madame replied. “If you +are so gracious as to leave a card, my servants will tell you when I am +disposed to see friends.” + +The car glided off. Madame leaned back with closed eyes. Gerald caught +just a faint glimpse of Pauline’s profile, ivory pale, a gleam of +terror in her eyes, as though she knew that they were passing over the +spot where Zubin had died. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +It was after dinner at the Villa Acacia, and Lady Mary and Christopher, +hardiest of the little gathering, were strolling back and forth on the +terrace in the violet darkness. Arc-like, at their feet, stretched +the lights of the Bay of Mentone. The whole hillside seemed dotted +with little points of fire from the distant villas. Out at sea, sheet +lightning sometimes parted the dense clouds and spread a broad, +phantasmal glare upon the rocking waves. The two were old enough +friends to speak intimately on many topics. They were talking to-night +of Gerald. + +“Gerald, as a rule,” his sister declared, “is almost over-candid about +his love affairs. This is certainly the first time I remember him to +have been mysterious.” + +“I don’t think he has seen anything of Mademoiselle de Ponière since +the tragedy at the Sporting Club,” Christopher remarked. + +“It isn’t for want of trying, then,” the girl replied drily. “He’s +called there every afternoon since. I’ve been mean enough to watch him +up the drive with my glasses, but he hasn’t been allowed in once. They +must be queer people.” + +“There was a distinct suggestion at first,” Christopher observed, “that +they were adventuresses. Their present attitude doesn’t seem like it.” + +Lady Mary leaned over to gather a sprig of the trailing oleander. She +was very becomingly dressed in a gown of deep rose taffeta, one which +Christopher remembered that he had admired on a previous visit. She +had completely lost her slight brusqueness of manner. Her tone and eyes +were soft, as though the magic of the night had had its effect upon her. + +“Really,” she sighed, “you young men who should be our greatest comfort +are actually our greatest responsibility. First of all you pick up a +peasant girl on the road, over whom you both seem to have lost your +heads more or less, and now Gerald is behaving like a lunatic about +this young foreign woman.” + +“Has Gerald told you of the latest developments with regard to +Myrtile?” Christopher enquired. + +“Good gracious, no!” Mary replied. “Have you found a post for her, or +something?” + +“Her father and fiancé turned up,” Christopher declared,--“perfect +brutes, both of them. We bought the child between us for five thousand +francs.” + +Lady Mary frowned. + +“Exactly what do you mean, Christopher?” she asked. + +“Crudely put, but a statement of fact, nevertheless,” was the prompt +reply. “Her stepfather and this other man came and made the dickens of +a row; Gerald took the matter in hand and soon discovered that they +were the usual covetous type of grasping peasant. We paid down five +thousand francs between us, and they signed a paper giving up all claim +to her.” + +“So now she is on your hands permanently,” Mary remarked. + +“I imagine so,” Christopher acknowledged. “On the other hand, I do not +think that she will be a serious charge. I have some friends in London +who have promised to take her for a nursery governess.” + +“Are either of you in love with her?” Mary asked, raising her eyes and +looking her companion in the face. + +Christopher hesitated for several moments before answering. Mary began +to tear into small pieces the sprig of oleander which she was holding. +Her face seemed suddenly to have become very white and tired. + +“I am sure that Gerald is not,” Christopher answered. “As for me--well, +that sort of thing is a little out of my line, isn’t it? The most +serious part of the situation is that I am afraid the child is in love +with Gerald.” + +“She will get over that,” Mary said drily. “Most of the girls I know +have been in love with Gerald at some time or another. Sooner or later, +the wise ones find him out and the butterfly ones flit away somewhere +else. It may seem unsisterly, but I am more concerned about you, +Christopher, than Gerald.” + +He passed his arm through hers, an action which their increasing +intimacy seemed to render perfectly natural. + +“Mary,” he began, “you are just the one person in the world to whom +I could confess an impulse of folly, and this is, I suppose, the one +place I could do it in. I frankly don’t understand what you mean +by being in love. When I have thought of marriage, it has been in +connection with some dear woman friend who would make a home for me and +be a companion. Of course, I expected to care for her and all that, +but--promise you won’t laugh at me?” + +“I shall not laugh,” Mary promised. + +“For the first time in my life, that child has made me think of other +things,” Christopher acknowledged simply. “I don’t know that it amounts +to anything, I dare say really it is an unsuspected vein of kindness +which she has touched; but there it is. I have an absurd feeling of +fondness for her. The idea of her becoming a plaything for Gerald or +anybody makes a madman of me.” + +“And she?” + +“Looks upon me as a kind person but an intolerable nuisance. She dreams +of nobody but Gerald. If he lifts his little finger, she is his.” + +“Really!” Mary drawled coldly. + +“Please don’t judge her too harshly,” Christopher begged. “Myrtile is +temperamentally incapable of a mean or an immoral action. She is just a +child of nature, only instead of being swayed by the lower instincts, +she is swayed by the higher ones. She loves Gerald, and nothing else +counts with her. She would have thrown herself into the river sooner +than have given herself in marriage to the innkeeper. She is equally +capable of giving her life and her soul to Gerald, if he requires the +sacrifice.” + +Mary turned her head towards the window. + +“I think that father wants his game of backgammon,” she observed. “We +had better go in, I am afraid. We must talk of this again sometime. +Will you go first and say that I shall be there directly?” + +Christopher stepped obediently through the window, and Mary passed on +to the farther end of the terrace, where the shadows were deeper. For +a moment her self-control slipped away. Her fingers gripped the ivy +stalks fiercely. There were tears in her eyes, her rather firm but +sensitive little mouth quivered passionately. It seemed so many years +since Christopher had first represented to her all that she desired +in manhood,--a man of character, a worker, a sportsman when the time +came, always ambitious, always ready to pit his brain against others. +She had fancied him in Parliament, a Cabinet Minister later in life, +perhaps. She had thought with happiness of the many ways in which she +could further his career; had dreamed with pleasure of playing hostess +for him in a joint establishment.--She had pictured to herself, for +weeks before their arrival, the coming of these two young men, had +speculated joyfully as to the reason for Christopher’s unexpected +holiday. She had told herself that he, too, had seen the things she +had seen, had felt what she had prayed he might feel. Womanlike, she +had taken note of the signs. She had known that the consummation of +her wish was inevitable, unless something should come between. And +something had most unexpectedly come between--this peasant girl, +this birth of a spurious sentiment--nothing, in a man like Gerald, +but very much to be dreaded in a person of Christopher’s poise and +steadfastness. She was a proud young woman, for all her gracious ways, +and, although she refused to find anything final in his attitude, the +pain that she suffered in those few moments was not only of the heart. + +Christopher and his host, in the intervals of their game, talked of the +latest suicide. With the usual amazing secrecy of the local Press, not +one word had appeared in any paper published in the vicinity. + +“I feel a great deal of sympathy for our neighbours,” Lord Hinterleys +remarked. “Old Colonel Huskinson, whom I met on the Terrace this +morning, told me that the man was bringing them money for some estates +he had sold, which were practically their only means of subsistence.” + +Gerald looked up from the sofa where he was lying. He had complained of +a bad headache earlier in the evening. + +“I suppose, sometime or other,” he said, “the true story of that +man will be known everywhere, and his actual connection with the De +Ponières. The magistrate or coroner, or whatever he was, knew it this +morning, but he wasn’t giving anything away.” + +“There seems to be a great deal of needless secrecy about the matter,” +his father observed. “You were present in court, I suppose, Gerald?” + +“I was fetched by a small army of gendarmes,” Gerald told them. “They +escorted me there in a carriage, although the court house was only +about half a mile away. It was the quaintest scene. They were simply +out for hushing the whole thing up in the most extraordinary manner. +They summoned us there, but they apparently didn’t want anything from +us in the shape of evidence. All that they were anxious about was to +get rid of us as soon as they could.” + +Lord Hinterleys had paused in his game. + +“This is really a most extraordinary procedure,” he declared. “Do you +mean to say, Gerald, that no witnesses at all were called?” + +“Not a soul,” Gerald replied. “The whole affair, from our point of +view, was a farce. One was led to believe that he committed suicide for +family reasons or because he had an incurable complaint. I saw Pritili, +the manager of the hotel, just as I was coming out this evening, and I +asked him pointblank who the man really was and whether the story he +had told me himself were true. I was interested in knowing, because it +was I who had fetched him away from the Casino at the request of the +lady whose steward he was supposed to be. Pritili answered me as I have +never been answered by a hotel manager in my life. He drew himself up +and looked like an archbishop. ‘It is one of those things, milord, +into which one does not enquire,’ he said. So that was an end of me.” + +Lord Hinterleys picked up his hand. Mary came in from the terrace and +seated herself by Gerald’s side. The quietness of the evening, however, +was almost immediately disturbed. The butler threw open the door, +announcing guests. + +“The Ladies Victoria and Millicent Cromwell, Mr. James Cromwell, Lady +Esseden.” + +They all trooped in--intimates of the young people of the house. + +“We want you to come down to the Club for an hour or two,” Lady +Victoria, who was always the leading spirit, suggested. “Dad’s just +paid my dress allowance, and I’m dying to lose it, and Jimmy’s going to +give us supper and take us to dance somewhere afterwards.” + +“Added to which,” her sister, Lady Millicent, went on, “we have brought +you news.” + +They were all suddenly attentive. Gerald, who had risen to his feet, +leaned a little forward. + +“News?” Christopher repeated. “From England?” + +“No, you idiot!” Lady Victoria declared. “What news should there be +from England? There’s no polo or cricket or tennis yet, and most of the +people we know have already run away with some one, so there’s not even +scandal left. We know all about the man who committed suicide the other +night.” + +There was a dead silence, a most effective background for Lady +Victoria’s announcement. + +“They tried hard to keep it secret,” she said, “but an English +journalist discovered the truth. The man’s name was Zubin, and he was +the steward of two unfortunate ladies who live near you. He had just +arrived from Russia with a large sum of money for them, went into the +Rooms, gambled with it and lost the lot. They say that it was nearly +three million francs and that it was every penny those poor women had +in the world.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +Christopher and Gerald were taking an early morning stroll and +displaying an almost feminine partiality for the shop windows, when the +former suddenly felt his friend’s hand tighten upon his arm. They had +paused to look through the plate-glass window of a jeweller’s shop in +the Rue de Paris. + +“What is it, old chap?” Christopher asked. + +Gerald pointed to a pearl necklace which hung in the window. + +“You see that?” he exclaimed tragically. “That belonged to Pauline--to +Mademoiselle de Ponière. And that marquise ring below--I am perfectly +certain her aunt was wearing it. Wait a moment, old fellow.” + +Gerald entered the shop hastily. A very suave Frenchman came forward to +meet him. + +“Can you tell me anything about that pearl necklace and the rings +below?” Gerald enquired. + +“But certainly, sir,” the man replied. “One moment.” + +He unfastened the window and brought out the stand on which the +necklace rested. The colour of the pearls was wonderful. They were not +large, but they had an almost pink glow. + +“I have no doubt monsieur is a judge and I need say little about these +pearls,” the shopman began. “I would point out to you, however, that +they were matched for royalty itself, and the quality of each one is +superlative. If monsieur is a purchaser, I could quote him seven +thousand pounds, and for that sum there is not such another necklace in +the world.” + +“I recognise the necklace,” Gerald admitted. “I might, under certain +circumstances, be induced to buy it. I came in, however, to ask you how +you obtained possession of it, and the rings below?” + +The man’s manner changed. + +“Monsieur,” he said, “I am not able to explain exactly how this +jewellery came into our hands. There are certain confidences which, in +the interests of our clients, we are forced to respect.” + +“Quite so,” Gerald agreed, “but I can assure you that I am not an +impertinent enquirer. This is my name,”--he handed the man a card--“and +I was an acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Ponière, from whom you must +have obtained this necklace. I last saw Madame and Mademoiselle de +Ponière under very tragical circumstances, and I understand that they +have now left Monte Carlo. I am most anxious to obtain word as to their +whereabouts.” + +“As regards that, milord,” the jeweller said, with a measure of +increased respect but with no signs of yielding, “I regret that I am +unable to help you. The transaction, such as it was, is finished. I was +entrusted with no address.” + +“You would not buy jewellery of such value,” Gerald persisted, “unless +you knew something of your clients. You can probably tell me whether De +Ponière is their real name, and you can at least give me a hint as to +where they are to be found.” + +“I regret deeply that I am entirely powerless in the matter, milord,” +the man replied. + +Gerald held up the pearls and let them slip through his fingers. He +remembered something which Pauline had once said to him,--“Pearls are +the maidens’ children. They love and care for them as such.” + +“I have reason to surmise,” Gerald went on, “that a misfortune has +befallen these ladies. If they had confided in me, it would have given +me the greatest pleasure to have offered them assistance.” + +The jeweller smiled inscrutably. + +“I fear that it would have been useless, milord,” he said. “I have had +the privilege of knowing the elder of these ladies for some thirty +years, and I supplied the first string of pearls which the younger lady +ever wore, at the time of her confirmation. I would willingly have +undertaken the payment of such debts as were owing in Monte Carlo, +without security, but I should never have had the courage to suggest +it. You will see an announcement in the evening paper, milord, that all +claims against the ladies will be settled by me on demand.” + +“If I buy the necklace,” Gerald proposed bluntly, “will you tell me how +and where to find Mademoiselle de Ponière?” + +The jeweller’s bow was almost frigid. + +“My word is passed to these two ladies, milord. I have no information +whatever to give you.” + +“You cannot even tell me what relation they were to Monsieur Zubin?” + +“Monsieur Zubin?” the jeweller repeated, a little vaguely. + +“The man who committed suicide a few nights ago outside the Sporting +Club.” + +The jeweller shrugged his shoulders. + +“There is no question of relationship, milord. Monsieur Zubin was, +I understand, the steward entrusted with the realisation of certain +properties belonging to Mademoiselle. I do not know whether I +have a right even to say so much,” he continued, after a moment’s +hesitation, “but it suggests itself that it was owing to Monsieur +Zubin’s embezzlements--he is reported to have lost several millions at +the tables here--that the ladies whom we have been discussing found +themselves temporarily embarrassed.” + +Gerald laid down the pearls. + +“If you care to keep these for me for a week,” he proposed, “until I +get the money from London, I will have them.” + +The man bowed. + +“Milord can take them with him,” he said, “or permit me to send them to +the hotel. Payment can be as desired.” + +“You can send them round to the Hôtel de Paris,” Gerald directed. “If +you are as loyal to all your clients, you deserve to prosper in your +business.” + +The man bowed lower than ever as he showed Gerald out. + +“Perhaps some day,” he said, “it will be my privilege to explain to +milord that loyalty.” + +“I have committed an extravagance,” Gerald confessed, as the two young +men continued their stroll. + +“You have bought the presents for your supper party?” Christopher +suggested. + +“I never thought of them,” was the candid reply. “I have given seven +thousand pounds for a pearl necklace.” + +“Great Scott! Why?” + +“Because I was right in my surmise. It was Pauline’s necklace, left +there so that they could pay their bills. Madame’s rings are there, +too. Pretty sort of adventuresses, Christopher!” + +“But what are you going to do with the necklace?” Christopher, always +intensely practical, demanded. + +“I am going to keep it until I meet Mademoiselle de Ponière again,” +Gerald replied. “Then I shall beg to be allowed to present it to her.” + +“Have you found out who she is?” + +“I have not, but I have found a loyal and honest tradesman. If I had +asked him another question, I should have felt a cad.” + +Christopher looked up towards the hills. + +“It’s too misty for golf,” he said. “Shall we go and see Myrtile?” + +“I suppose so,” Gerald agreed, without marked interest. “Any news from +your nursery governess friends?” + +“They can’t take her for a month or so,” Christopher replied. “I don’t +quite know what to do about it. I must leave on Thursday week.” + +Gerald laughed. + +“And you daren’t trust her here with me, old chap, is that it?” + +“Something like it, I’m afraid,” the other admitted frankly. + +Gerald sighed. + +“What a Lothario you must think me!” he declared. “As a matter of fact, +Chris, I don’t think that the ingénue does attract me very much. I +am too young and unsophisticated myself. It is hardened sinners like +you who are bowled over by rusticity and morals. I prefer something a +little more advanced in the world’s ways.” + +“Then, for heaven’s sake, leave the others alone!” Christopher enjoined +curtly. “We have a difficult task before us with Myrtile, especially +as, for once in her life, Mary doesn’t seem inclined to help us. Treat +the child sensibly, for heaven’s sake.” + +“What do you mean by ‘sensibly’, old chap?” + +“Well, remember that she has to be a nursery governess and not a +Parisian demi-mondaine. It’s idiotic to take her to these smart +restaurants and dancing places. It’s outside her life. It gives her +false ideas.” + +“This from the man who took her to the Opera on a gala night!” Gerald +scoffed. + +“I took her to the Opera in a small box and in her ordinary clothes,” +Christopher retorted. “I took her for the sake of the music, and she +didn’t think of a thing except the music from the beginning to the end.” + +“Frankly, you bore me about Myrtile,” Gerald declared. “You ought to +have been born in the days of dear old Oliver Cromwell. My idea is that +girls were made to live like butterflies, to be happy just in the few +hours when the sun shines.” + +“You have not even the philosophy of the pagan,” Christopher retorted. +“You forget that the butterfly enjoys the supreme advantage of being +unencumbered with a soul.” + +The street door was suddenly opened in their faces. They had arrived at +Myrtile’s lodgings, to find her issuing into the street. She seemed to +look through Christopher at Gerald, who was a pace or two behind. Her +smile was wonderful. + +“I knew that something pleasant was going to happen this morning!” she +exclaimed. “I felt it when I got up.” + +“You were quite right,” Gerald assured her. “Something very pleasant +is going to happen. I am going to take you over to Nice in the car to +lunch.” + +Myrtile clapped her hands. + +“Wait one moment,” she begged. “I must go and get some different +gloves. I’ll catch you up before you get to the corner of the street.” + +The two young men strolled slowly on. There was a serious expression on +Christopher’s face. + +“I am lunching with your people to-day, Gerald--at least I promised to +if there was no golf,” he observed. + +“I heard Mary say so,” was the indifferent reply. “Good luck to you!” + +“And you are taking Myrtile to Nice--Mademoiselle de Ponière having +left,” Christopher continued thoughtfully. + +Gerald frowned. + +“That was rather my idea,” he admitted. “Have you anything against it?” + +Christopher passed his hand through his friend’s arm. They had reached +the end of the street and turned slowly back again. + +“Look here, old fellow, don’t be shirty,” he begged. “You know I’m +right. We can only look after this girl decently in one way, and that +is by finding her some sort of a situation not too far removed from the +way she has been brought up, in which she can earn an honest living. +I’m on my way to secure this for her, but if you go turning her head by +taking her about to these smart restaurants, and developing her taste +for the gaieties of life, you’ll only unsettle her terribly and spoil +her chances of contentment.” + +“You’ve taken her out yourself once or twice,” Gerald reminded him. + +“I never take her to the very fashionable places,” Christopher insisted +earnestly, “and I try all the time to impress upon her the necessity +of work and the fact that life out here is merely a holiday existence. +Take her to Nice, by all means, if you want to, Gerald, but don’t turn +her head.” + +Myrtile came down the street towards them. Gerald’s face cleared--as he +watched her, it was lit with a wave of admiration. + +“She is like a piece of floating sunshine,” he declared enthusiastically. +“Chris, I’m not at all sure that she ought to be a nursery governess. +She’s going to be beautiful enough to turn the heads of half the men in +Europe.” + +“It will be very largely our responsibility,” Christopher said, +lowering his voice a little as Myrtile drew near, “whether that beauty +is going to be a curse or a happiness to her. Don’t you forget that, +Gerald--or our bargain.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Gerald was absolutely amazed as he led Myrtile back to their seat in +the palm court of the hotel. They had lunched, wandered about the town, +and afterwards made their way back to the hotel lounge, where a Thé +Dansant was in progress. + +“Why, where on earth did you learn to dance like that, Myrtile?” he +demanded. + +She laughed softly. + +“Learn?” she exclaimed. “Why, there has never been any one to teach me. +I have never had a lesson in my life. I just listened to the music and +watched the people, and then I saw that it was quite easy. Oh, how I +love it!” + +“What a pity I can’t have you to my supper party to-night!” Gerald +sighed. + +She leaned towards him. She was still a little out of breath. Her +cheeks were pink, her eyes aglow. + +“Mayn’t I come, please, Gerald?” she begged. “I should be so happy.” + +Gerald looked doubtful. + +“There would be the devil to pay with Christopher,” he pointed out. +“And, besides, it really isn’t the place for you.” + +“What do you mean?” she persisted. + +“Well, it’s a Bohemian sort of affair,” Gerald explained, a little +awkwardly. “The girls aren’t all of them just what they should be.” + +Myrtile laughed again. + +“But what does that matter?” she protested. “They will not hurt me or +I them. When I am not dancing with you, I can sit alone and talk to no +one.” + +Gerald shook his head. + +“Can’t be done, little girl,” he decided regretfully. “Christopher is +quite right when he says I ought not to encourage the taste for that +sort of life in you at all. These girls all drink a lot of champagne, +and smoke furiously--lead rotten lives, most of them--and their +conversation sometimes--well, it wouldn’t be fit for you to listen to. +Some evening or other I’ll have quite a small party--just one or two +who I know are all right.” + +“That isn’t what I want,” Myrtile declared. “I want to go to the party +to-night. You will dance with other girls if I am not there. I don’t +want you to--not to-day, at any rate. You have danced with me, and it +was wonderful.” + +“I begin to think that I don’t want to dance with any one else myself,” +Gerald confessed, looking at her admiringly. “I’ll think it over on the +way back.” + +“Must we start now?” she asked wistfully. + +“This moment,” Gerald insisted. “I have to dine with the family. It’s +their last night. They are off to England to-morrow. I tell you what +we’ll do, though, if you like. We’ll take the mountain road.” + +“Is it longer?” + +“About half an hour,” he replied. “There won’t be nearly so much +traffic, though, and I love putting the old ’bus at the hills.” + +They made their way out to the open space in front of the hotel, +where Gerald had left the car, and very soon they were on their way +homeward. Driving, for the first half-hour, absorbed Gerald’s whole +attention, and Myrtile leaned back in the low seat by his side, +filled with the joy of their rapid ascent, the smooth, birdlike motion +which seemed to be taking them, with scarcely an effort, up into the +clouds. Soon all the signs of over-population which spoil the effect +of the coast road became blurred and undistinguishable. The natural +beauties of that wonderful line of coast reasserted themselves. Up +here in the mountains were no cafés with flamboyant invitations, or +jerry-built villas. One had the sensation of being lifted out of the +tawdriness and artificiality of a region over-abundant in tourists, +a little over-anxious to display for their benefit its charms.--Once +Myrtile turned her head as they were about to round the last corner of +the ascent, and looked backwards. Gerald, with quick comprehension, +understood her thoughts and spoke for the first time. + +“This is the real road, Myrtile,” he said. “It comes straight from +Cannes, straight from the gate over which you leaned. The other we only +took that night for safety.” + +Her beautiful eyes sought for his and were rewarded with a momentary +glance of sympathy. Gerald was at his best when driving. The slight +weakness of his face disappeared in the concentration of watching the +road. He drove always with his head a little thrown back, not in any +way the action of a poseur, but simply the fixed desire of the born +motorist to see as far as possible ahead of him. + +“I think,” Myrtile whispered, “that this is the real road which leads +to happiness. The road down there is tangled and twisted. Here one +seems to breathe more wonderfully, to come nearer to the things one +feels but does not understand. It is more like the air around the farm, +when I used to get up sometimes before the sunrise and walk through +the violet patch and the cypresses to the gate. The sun rose at the end +of the road.” + +“You are a quaint child, Myrtile,” Gerald reflected. “I wonder what +would have happened to you if we had not passed along that night.” + +She shivered. + +“I know,” she answered. “I am quite sure that I know. I felt it in my +heart when I leaned over the gate and looked to the end of the road. +There was the mystery there towards which I seemed always to have +groped. That night it was the mystery of life or the mystery of death. +You came, and it was life.” + +They were travelling more slowly now, crawling along the level stretch +of ledge-like road at its extreme summit. Gerald had never before felt +the fascination of the girl by his side as he felt it in those moments. +He stretched out his left hand and she gripped it in hers, tearing off +her gloves so that her fingers could clasp his. + +“And since it is life,” he asked, “is the mystery passing?” + +Her eyes were swimming with the desire of happiness. + +“There is no mystery any longer,” she told him. “I know what lies at +the end of the road, where the sun used to rise. I know now.” + +He moved a little uneasily. The descent was commencing, and he needed +his left hand. There were portents already of the short twilight. Here +and there, an early light glimmered out amongst the hills. The air was +cool and crisp. Gerald, impressionable as ever, felt the spurious glow +of exaltation, spurious because its influence was wholly external. His +face became graver, his tone was almost stern. + +“What we hope you will find there,” he said, “is happiness. +Christopher has explained to you about this post in England?” + +“Yes,” she answered. + +“You will like it?” + +“No!” + +He rounded a difficult corner and brought the car to a standstill in a +wall-encircled arc of the road, a little space thrown out like a bay +window, where one may pause for a moment from the strain of driving. +Below lay the wonderful bay, the rock of Monaco, the white Casino +standing over the dark blue sea. More lights were flashing out now. The +blurred landscape seemed to gain in beauty of outline what it lost in +colour. + +“But you must be happy, Myrtile. We want you to be happy,” Gerald +declared. + +“If you want me to be happy,” she whispered, “I shall always be happy +because it is you--you----” + +Gerald, a moment ago, had been full of good intentions, of good advice. +Myrtile leaned towards him. Her slim body, sweet but throbbing with +eagerness, prayed for his embrace. Her left arm stole out towards his +shoulder, as though to turn his head. + +“Gerald!” she whispered. + +“Myrtile!” he begged, “you must not----” + +Then all Gerald’s good resolutions crumbled for the moment. Her lips +were pressed to his, warm and sweet, passionate with the fervour which +comes from the soul alone, which takes no count of lesser things than +the Heaven where, to the innocent, love only dwells. She rested in his +arms, tumultuously happy. Somewhere in the field below was a bonfire +of fallen pine boughs, and for years afterwards the smell of burning +wood, fragrant and aromatic, brought back to Gerald the memory of those +few seconds.--There was a flash of lights below from an approaching +automobile. Gerald drew away, pale and a little remorseful. Myrtile’s +face was like the face of a child who has seen Heaven. + +“We must get on,” he said hoarsely. + +She lay back in her place without moving until they began the last +descent into the town. + +“May I come to your party to-night, Gerald--now?” she whispered. + +“No!” + +She laughed quietly to herself. There was no longer any shadow of +disappointment in her face. + +“But you are very foolish,” she remonstrated. “How can you think that +it would not be well for me to be where you are? Besides, I want you to +dance with me. They are very beautiful young ladies who come to your +parties--Christopher showed me some of them at the Opera.” + +“There is not one of them so beautiful as you,” he declared. + +She smiled happily. + +“Will you think so to-night?” she asked. + +“I shall think so all the time--and I shall miss you horribly,” he +assured her. + +“Perhaps you will, perhaps you will not,” she replied enigmatically. +“You must put me down here. This is my corner.” + +She jumped lightly down, with only a touch of his fingers for farewell. +Gerald, although he had set a stern face against the rush of ideas and +anticipations which were crowding into his brain, felt a little pang of +disappointment as she left him without further protest. He would never +have allowed her to come, he told himself, as he drove slowly off. Yet +at that moment he had a vision. He escaped a taxicab by a few inches. + +Myrtile waited until Gerald was out of sight. Then she crossed the +Square, walked a few steps along the Rue de Paris, paused before the +curtained door of Madame Lénore’s little establishment, and pushed it +open. Madame Lénore herself came forward. There was something sinister, +though not unfriendly, in the smile with which she greeted her visitor. + +“What can I do for mademoiselle?” she enquired. + +“Can I have the clothes for the evening which you showed me when I +first came here?” Myrtile asked, a little anxiously. + +“But certainly, Mademoiselle,” the Frenchwoman answered graciously. +“Mademoiselle desires them for this evening?” + +“I want to wear them to-night,” was the happy reply. + +Madame studied the slim figure before her, followed its beautiful +lines, yielding her half grudging, half cynical admiration to its +undeveloped perfection. Then she studied the girl’s face. She had not a +doubt in her mind as to what this visit meant. She decided that, if she +were properly handled, this peasant child might bring fame even to her +establishment. + +“There are some other things mademoiselle will require,” she said +thoughtfully, “and it will be necessary for mademoiselle to have the +coiffeur. Mademoiselle will place herself in my hands for the evening? +I will promise that there is not a girl in Monte Carlo who will be half +so beautiful.” + +“I want to look as nice as it is possible for me to look,” Myrtile +confided. “I will do just as you say, Madame.” + +“Is it a party which mademoiselle desires to attend?” + +“A supper party,” Myrtile replied. “It is at half-past eleven.” + +“At the Hôtel de Paris?” + +“Yes!” + +Madame glanced at the clock. + +“If mademoiselle will return at eight o’clock,” she said, “I will have +a coiffeur here and give him instructions myself. Afterwards, we will +dress her. I live here--my assistant and I--on the floor above. It will +not incommode us.” + +“I shall be quite punctual,” Myrtile promised. “You are very kind, +Madame.” + +The unwilling admiration shone once more in Madame’s beady eyes as +Myrtile turned and walked lightly away. + +“It is a pity,” she sighed, “that the girl is such a fool!” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Once more Christopher and Lady Mary braved the night air on the terrace +of the Villa Acacia. The latter pointed across the gorge to the villa +on the other side, a shadowy-looking building, unlit, and without any +sign of habitation. + +“I wonder what Gerald does without his little play-fellow in the +afternoons,” she observed. + +Christopher frowned. + +“I know what he did this afternoon. He took Myrtile over to Nice.” + +“Myrtile?” Lady Mary repeated coldly. “Your little protégée?” + +“Yes,” Christopher assented. + +“The young lady you purchased from a sordid stepfather and an amorous +suitor,” Lady Mary continued, the irony of her tone merging almost into +bitterness. “You young men will end by getting into trouble with the +police or your own consciences.” + +“I am not in the least afraid of either contingency,” Christopher +assured her. + +“Then why do you look so disturbed every time the girl’s name is +mentioned?” Lady Mary asked him, pointblank. + +They were passing one of the long, high windows. Christopher paused +for a moment to look inside. Gerald and his father were playing +chess,--Gerald slim, handsome, obviously a little bored with the game; +his father keenly interested by a somewhat audacious move which had +just been made. + +“If I do,” Christopher said, “as I tried to explain to you before, it +is not on my own account.” + +Lady Mary laughed. + +“You can’t imagine that Gerald is likely to find her dangerous!” she +scoffed. “Why, he was head over ears in love with that strange girl +over at the Villa Violette yesterday, and, besides, Gerald isn’t +vicious--you know that.” + +“Gerald is very weak sometimes,” Christopher said bluntly. “He has +a man’s conscience where men are concerned, but with regard to +women--well, he sees things differently. He has been terribly spoilt, +of course, and in this particular instance the trouble is that the +child fancies herself in love with him.” + +“In love with Gerald! How ridiculous!” + +“You don’t quite appreciate her, if you don’t mind my saying so,” +Christopher declared, a little timidly. “She is extraordinarily +ignorant and she is also extraordinarily innocent. All her life she has +been starved for kindness and beauty. I don’t think there was ever a +human being in the world who needed help and counsel more than she does +to-day.” + +“Shall I remove her from temptation?” Mary enquired, after a moment’s +reflection. “My maid has just broken it to me that she is going to stay +here and get married. Shall I take your protégée back to England in her +place?” + +“If only you would!” Christopher exclaimed eagerly. “You needn’t keep +her. My cousin is going to find a place for her as nursery governess, +but she isn’t quite ready yet.” + +Lady Mary considered the matter, leaning over the balcony, her head +a little thrown back as though to enjoy the perfume of the pines. Her +profile was luminously sweet against the dark background, but there was +rather a tired droop at the corners of her lips. Her thoughts wandered +for a moment from the subject of discussion. + +“I wonder whether I am glad to go home,” she ruminated. + +“We shall miss you,” Christopher declared. + +She turned her head and looked at him. + +“Will you?” + +“Immensely,” he assured her. “I shall miss our tennis more than +anything. To tell you the truth,” he went on, “except for the tennis +and the rather amazing golf, I don’t think Monte Carlo appeals to me +very much.” + +“You are no gambler,” she observed. + +“I haven’t the faintest inclination towards it,” he confessed. “I hate +the things in life which I cannot control.” + +“Isn’t that a little rash?” she ventured. “You might have to hate your +own affections.” + +He was silent for a moment. She watched him curiously. + +“I don’t think I am the sort of person,” he said, “who would be likely +to be led very far by his affections alone.--What about the child, +Mary?” + +“I will take her if you wish it,” she decided. “She must be at the +station at eight o’clock. You know that we have to make an early start. +There will be nothing for her to do. Janet has packed and will arrange +all my things for the journey.” + +Christopher drew a long breath of relief. + +“You are a dear!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “You can’t imagine +what a weight this is off my mind.” + +“I am doing it for your sake,” Lady Mary told him. “I do not like the +child. I disapprove most strongly of the whole situation. However, I +will do what I have promised. We are going straight to Hinterleys. She +can remain there until your cousin is ready for her.” + +Gerald came strolling out to them, pausing on the way to light a +cigarette. The game of chess was over and his father was buried in the +_Times_, which had just been brought in. + +“What are you two conspiring about?” he enquired. + +“I have been saying good-by to your sister,” Christopher replied. + +Gerald passed his arm around her affectionately. + +“We shall miss you, dear,” he said. + +“I think I am really rather sorry to go,” Mary confessed. “Father is +getting quite restless, though. He never cares to stay in one place too +long.” + +Gerald glanced at his watch. + +“I must be off,” he announced. “I’ve a few of my frivolous friends +coming in to supper after the Opera. Are you coming, Christopher?” + +“I don’t think so, if you don’t mind, Gerald,” was the apologetic +reply. “I dance very badly, and none of those little lady friends of +yours seems to understand my French. I shall stay and talk to your +father for half an hour and then walk down.” + +For some unaccountable reason, Gerald felt relieved. He took his leave +of his father and sister, started up his car, and drove through the +scented darkness back to the hotel. All the time he was conscious of a +little quiver of excitement for which he could not account. The Villa +Violette, at which he gazed as he turned out of the avenue, was dark +and empty. He thought of Pauline and sighed. The ghost in the empty +seat by his side faded away. He was for a single moment a man, angry +with himself, bitterly regretful. + +“I was a cad to kiss her like that,” he muttered. “All the same, a +child has no right to such lips.” + +Gerald was met in the hall of the hotel by Charles, the _maître +d’hôtel_ to whom he had left the arrangements for his supper party. + +“If milord will be so kind as to ascend with me,” the latter suggested, +“I can show him the preparations I have made.” + +Gerald nodded and ascended to the first floor. The man threw open +the door of a large apartment with smoothly polished floor. A round +table, arranged for sixteen, stood in the middle of the room under a +glittering chandelier. A heavily laden sideboard stood in a recess. +At the farther end, on a slightly raised dais, three musicians were +seated, looking through their music. + +“This is the most convenient suite for milord,” Charles explained, +“because the door at the left-hand there communicates with milord’s own +suite of apartments, where his friends, if they like, can leave their +hats and coats. I shall serve the supper myself. Everything will be as +commanded. The supper table can be moved into a corner of the room at +any time desired,--as soon, in fact, as milord cares to start dancing. +Monsieur Léon presents his compliments, and, although he has no desire +to impose anything in the way of restrictions, he begs that the party +may finish at half-past three, in order to avoid complaints.” + +Gerald nodded and dismissed the man. He stood for a moment in the +centre of the waxed floor, his hands behind him and a freshly lit +cigarette between his lips. The sight of these preparations for the +night’s festivities had left him curiously unmoved. He could picture +the whole affair,--a little cosmopolitan crowd of giggling, shrieking +girls, half French, half Russian, with a dash, here and there, of the +Egyptian and the Italian. It was a surge of femininity with which the +room would presently be assailed, and he was conscious of a sudden +sense of revulsion. Nadine, with her pale cheeks, her eyes half green, +half yellow, like the eyes of a cat, her alluring smile. Somehow or +other she would find her way to his side, she would whisper to him +in corners, brazenly ignoring the fact that she was the guest of the +American whose yacht was moored in the harbour, but who had gone to +Paris for a week. Then there were Chlotilde and Phrynette, Parisians to +the rosy tips of their fingers, more blatant still in their desires, +frank and unashamed of the silken net they trolled. It was, after +all, a dull game to play. The finesse of refusal had never seemed +so flat, the ignominy of consent so repulsive. He moved impatiently +to the window and stood looking across the strip of garden to the +bay. The violinist behind was playing something very softly, nothing +to do with the dance, a little fragment of music made for himself. +Gerald leaned towards the cool darkness. The music helped him to a +momentary escape. He thought of Pauline, cold as the snows, proud and +indifferent, yet with the charm of hidden things in her clear eyes and +delicate aloofness. Her indifference had hurt--how much he realised +when he thought of the coming evening. And then, like a flash, his mood +changed. There was the other type, as beautiful in its way, as serene, +as wonderful in its strange, virginal passion, the lips that had clung +to his with the frank offer of supreme, unselfish love.--Christopher +was right. There was no pleasure amongst the herds. + +He turned away, and, crossing the room, opened the door leading into +his own suite. A wondrous--an amazing--vision confronted him. For +a moment he was aghast. Myrtile, transformed as though by the wand +of an artist, her gown, simple and unadorned, retentive of all the +grace of her girlhood, yet exquisitely suggestive of the woman to +come,--Myrtile, her hair drooped low on either side of her oval face, a +robed lily, unspoilt and untarnished by the cunning fingers which had +produced a veritable triumph. Her bosom was rising and falling quickly, +her lips were parted. Then she began to laugh softly. Everything was +right with the world. Gerald’s look of transfixed admiration told her +all that she needed to know. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +“Will I do?” Myrtile asked demurely. + +“You are wonderful!” Gerald exclaimed. “But--what does it mean?” + +“I have come to your party,” Myrtile announced, “and even Monsieur +Christopher shall not send me away. I went to Madame Lénore. She +dressed me and she had my hair arranged. It was so droll. When I looked +in the glass I scarcely knew myself. You are pleased?” + +“I am more than pleased,” Gerald answered, taking her hand. “But about +this party. I am not sure----” + +“You don’t want me?” she whispered. + +He could no longer resist the invitation of her lips. After a moment, +however, she sprang away. The violinist in the room beyond had +commenced a waltz. She dragged Gerald through the open door and gave a +little cry of delight when she saw the room. + +“Dance with me,” she begged, “just you and I, all alone. Dance with me, +Gerald!” + +They moved off to the music. The violinist smiled with pleasure. The +other instruments took up the strain. Myrtile was as light as a feather +in her partner’s arms, her feet flashed or lingered upon the floor like +flecks of sunlight upon a wave-stirred sea. She closed her eyes, half +fainting with the joy of the music, the smooth floor, Gerald’s arms. +Presently he stopped. He was unaccountably out of breath. He took one +of the gold-foiled bottles from the sideboard, opened it and filled +two glasses with the foaming wine. Myrtile’s eyes shone like stars as +she drank. + +“Oh, I am happy!” she murmured. “This is wonderful! Promise, Gerald, +that you will never send me away. Promise?” + +There was a shriek of voices as the room was invaded. Nadine came +through the door which led from his own suite. + +“Gerald,” she cried, “there is a cloak already upon your bed! I am on +fire with jealousy. Who is your early guest?--Ah! A thousand pardons!” + +Gerald’s movement had disclosed Myrtile. Nadine, daringly, almost +shamelessly dressed, raised her bare arms. + +“Heaven!” she exclaimed. “Gerald has robbed a convent!” + +Some men followed, accompanied by a little crowd of girls. Every one +was curious about Myrtile. She shook hands shyly with those whom Gerald +presented to her. When they asked for her name, however, he shook his +head. + +“Mademoiselle is our guest for this evening,” he announced. “She is +not, alas! of our world. Let us call her Mademoiselle X.” + +“Mademoiselle the Spirit, rather!” a Frenchman exclaimed. “I think that +you have dragged her down from the skies. Present me, Gerald, or I +shall be your enemy for life.” + +“The Marquis Chantelaine,” Gerald murmured, “Mademoiselle X. The +Marquis is a shameless fellow, Myrtile, and you must not believe a word +he says.” + +“I am shameless or not according to my surroundings,” the Frenchman +declared. “No one could look into the eyes of Mademoiselle and speak +other than the truth.” + +Chlotilde pouted. + +“Is no one going to say nice things to us others?” she complained. +“Gerald, you ought to have warned us. I would have worn my new gown. It +is exactly the colour of the sky. Even my maid declared that I, too, +slipped down from heaven.” + +There was a little chorus of laughter. Cocktails were brought in and +cigarettes lit. Every one gathered around and talked to Myrtile. +She answered them naturally enough, but every now and then with +embarrassment. + +“Mademoiselle X may be asked no questions,” Gerald insisted. “Where +she comes from I shall not tell any of you. Whither she goes after +to-night, you will none of you know.” + +“Mademoiselle is of the _haut monde_, perhaps?” Nadine whispered +maliciously, under her breath. + +“Mademoiselle belongs to a world we are none of us privileged to +enter,” Gerald answered. “It is the one favour I ask, as your host. +Please accept my guest as a butterfly, born this evening, passing away +to-morrow.” + +“Oh, là, là!” Chlotilde exclaimed. “We are all like that. Give me +another cocktail, Charles. I have not had a drink all the evening, and +my sylph dance was twice encored.” + +They made their way presently to the supper table. Myrtile sat at +Gerald’s right hand, and next her, on the other side, was the Marquis +de Chantelaine. Any form of tête-à-tête conversation, however, was +impossible from the first. They all seemed to be talking together +at the top of their voices in an almost incomprehensible argot, a +jumble of personal quips and sallies. Myrtile listened sympathetically +but understood little. Occasionally she laughed when the others +laughed, but as a matter of fact she needed nothing to complete her +happiness. She was next to Gerald, who whispered every now and then +little words of encouragement in her ear. The Marquis, too, murmured +occasional compliments, but he was man of the world enough partially +to understand the situation, and he restrained his natural instincts +towards unbridled gallantry. Presently Chlotilde jumped up and danced. +Phrynette followed suit and executed a wonderful _pas seul_. There was +a good deal of boisterous applause. Myrtile felt the colour burning in +her cheeks. She glanced towards Gerald. He was laughing, so it must be +all right. Nevertheless, she was relieved when at last Phrynette sat +down. + +“I will show you,” Nadine suggested, “how they dance in Algiers.” + +There was a little chorus of applause. Gerald alone for a moment looked +doubtful. He glanced towards Myrtile at his side. + +“Don’t overdo it, Nadine,” he begged. + +Nadine laughed subtly. + +“Is it for your ingénue you fear, or yourself?” she asked. “Very well, +I will give you both something to think about.” + +She danced at first with all the quivering grace of restrained but +passionate movements. Myrtile watched her with fascinated eyes. Then +she suddenly broke loose. Myrtile looked down at her plate and gripped +Gerald’s hand. + +“Remember I warned you, dear,” he whispered. “Don’t watch.” + +“Mademoiselle would perhaps care for a little stroll upon the +balcony?” the Marquis whispered in her ear. + +Myrtile shook her head. + +“Thank you,” she murmured, “I do not wish to leave Gerald. As for the +dancing, it is foolish of me but I have never seen anything like it. It +never seemed to me possible that women could do such things. That is +because I have not lived in the world. I shall progress.” + +The dance came to an end amidst uproarious applause. Nadine, +dishevelled and breathless, pirouetted towards the door leading to +Gerald’s suite. + +“I shall go into your bedroom and make myself tidy,” she called out. +“You can come and fetch me when you want me,” she added, looking over +her shoulder at her host. + +The corks began to fly faster still. Presently, couples stood up and +danced. Then, indeed, happiness began for Myrtile. She danced with +Gerald again and again, danced to music which was indeed of the best, +for Gerald was somewhat of an epicure in such matters, until she forgot +the loud voices, the haze of cigarette smoke, the slightly unsteady +condition of one or two of the guests. To her, so long as it was +Gerald’s arm which controlled her, it was all beautiful. By degrees +she seemed to slip into her place, however incongruous it might be, +in the little company. The first impulse of resentment against her +presence, shown most clearly by Nadine after her prolonged but useless +wait before Gerald’s looking-glass, soon passed away. She was accepted +as one of the kaleidoscopic pictures of Monte Carlo flirtations. She +had come, and there was an end of it. There were other hosts besides +Gerald, other Englishmen crowding all the time into the place. The +very singleness of her devotion made her to some extent a rival to be +accepted philosophically. She at least made not the slightest response +to the advances which were offered her freely enough by the other men +of the party. + +It seemed incredible that four o’clock had arrived when Louis presented +himself with many apologies. There was a ball that night at the +Carlton, however, so every one was resigned. They invaded Gerald’s +rooms for their coats and wraps. Myrtile remained talking with the +Marquis, with whom she had been dancing. Her body was still swaying a +little to the rhythm of the music. + +“So this is your first night, Mademoiselle?” her companion said softly. +“I shall hope that we may meet many more times.” + +“If you are a friend of Gerald’s, I hope that we may,” Myrtile replied. + +“You have enjoyed yourself, on the whole?” he asked, looking at her +curiously. + +Her ears were straining for Gerald’s voice. She could hear all the time +the shrill laughter of Nadine and her friends. + +“I have enjoyed the dancing,” she said. + +“But not the dancing of Mademoiselle Nadine?” + +Her cheeks were suddenly hot. There was a look of trouble in her eyes +which he had noticed before and wondered at. + +“No, I did not like that,” she acknowledged. “I cannot believe that +Gerald liked it, really. It was not beautiful.” + +“She is very famous,” the Marquis remarked. + +“It was not beautiful,” Myrtile repeated. “It frightened me a little.” + +The Frenchman, a little intrigued, smiled. + +“I begin to believe,” he said, “that you are really as young as you +look.” + +“I am eighteen,” she told him. + +“For that moment I was not thinking of your actual years,” he +explained. “How long have you known Lord Dombey?” + +“Gerald?” she queried. “Only a very short time. I have never danced +with him before to-day.” + +“It seems easy to believe,” he said, “that you slipped down from the +skies, only nowadays Heaven does not part with its children so easily. +Tell me, where did you come from, really?” + +“A little farm on the other side of the mountains,” she said. “Gerald +and Monsieur Christopher brought me here. Monsieur Christopher wants me +to go to England, but I hope that Gerald will not let me go.” + +“But what shall you do if you stay here?” he asked. + +“Gerald will take care of me,” she answered. “I shall be very happy if +he lets me stay.” + +He looked at her thoughtfully. He was inclined to be a disbeliever, the +accepted pose towards women at his age, but a little flicker of genuine +feeling disturbed for a moment his placid and cultivated cynicism. + +“I am not at all sure,” he said, “if you are what you seem to be, that +it would not be better if you went to England.” + +They all came trooping out. Myrtile got up to fetch her own cloak, but +Gerald detained her. She stood by his side, bidding good night to his +guests with him. The Marquis frowned slightly as he made his adieux. +The look in his eyes haunted her for a moment as he turned away. +Then she was conscious of a curious sense of disturbance. Throughout +the dancing she had been soothed into a state of ecstatic happiness. +Suddenly there was a change. She was alone with Gerald and he was +looking at her strangely. Two of the musicians were packing up their +music. Once more the violinist was playing softly, as though to himself. + +“You have been happy, Myrtile?” Gerald asked, and his voice seemed to +come from a long way off. + +“Wonderfully,” she answered. “I--there is my cloak.” + +She moved towards the open door leading into Gerald’s suite. She seemed +suddenly torn by a strange medley of sensations and memories. She saw +Nadine pass through it, dishevelled and indecent, with that backward +glance at Gerald which, even to her ignorance, seemed ugly. She heard +the voices of all of them laughing stridently. Little half-understood +sentences puzzled her. She passed into the sitting room. Gerald +followed, closing the door. The sound of the music came more quietly. +Myrtile felt suddenly faint. + +“You are tired!” Gerald exclaimed, bending anxiously over her. + +She put her arms around his neck like a child. + +“Gerald,” she whispered, “take care of me. I am afraid. Be good to me, +Gerald.” + +Their lips met, but there was something absent from the warm joy of +that first kiss. Side by side with her happiness came the feeling of +discordant music all around her. Rank perfumes seemed to hang in the +air. A ribbon from one of Nadine’s discarded garments lay upon the +sofa. Yet when Gerald leaned towards her and his eyes sought for hers, +a strange content seemed to creep like a flood over all these other +things. + +The door of the sitting room was suddenly opened and closed. +Christopher stood there, a little breathless, as though he had run up +the stairs, pale, and with a look in his eyes from which both Gerald +and Myrtile quailed,--Gerald with fuller understanding. His arms +dropped. He was nearer fear than ever before in his life. Christopher +spoke with marvellous calmness. + +“Gerald,” he said, “were you thinking of breaking your trust?” + +“Yes!” Gerald answered hoarsely. “Drop this Don Quixote business, +Christopher. I’m sick of it.” + +Christopher came a step nearer. + +“Myrtile is coming back to her lodgings with me,” he announced. “She is +going to England to-morrow morning. Your sister has promised to take +her.” + +“But it is impossible!” Myrtile cried passionately. + +“It is arranged,” Christopher declared. “I went to your rooms to-night, +Myrtile, to tell you. I received Annette’s lying message. I was told +that you were in bed and asleep. I left a note. Then, for the first +time since I have been here, I went to the Club and stayed late. I +heard your guests downstairs speak of your good fortune, Gerald.” + +Gerald laid his hand upon Myrtile’s wrist. + +“Well,” he said, “what are you going to do about it?” + +“I am going to take Myrtile home,” Christopher insisted. + +“I refuse to let her go,” Gerald declared. + +Christopher looked for a moment away at Myrtile. She clung to Gerald +like a frightened child. + +“Listen,” Christopher went on, “you and I have been friends all our +lives, Gerald. We know one another pretty well. You know of me that I +am a man of my word. I know of you that, though you are selfish and +worship pleasure, you are white enough when the hour strikes. The hour +has struck, Gerald. Let me take Myrtile home.” + +“Myrtile shall choose,” Gerald proposed. + +“Myrtile shall do nothing of the sort,” was the prompt reply. “You +might as well ask her to choose the right path through a strange city. +Gerald, old chap, don’t take this hardly. I am not here to sling abuse +at you. And Myrtile--just doesn’t understand. Thank God I was in +time!--Myrtile, take your cloak.” + +She clung to Gerald’s arm, looking anxiously into his face. Something +else discordant had come into the room, something unbeautiful, +something to be feared. She looked from one to the other of the two +men. Gerald’s fist was clenched. For all his calm, there was a subtle +threat in Christopher’s attitude. + +“I don’t want to quarrel,” Christopher went on. “Don’t let it come to +that, Gerald, but you see it is inevitable that Myrtile should leave +with me to-night. I shall not go without her. You know what that means.” + +“I am to remember, I suppose,” Gerald said thickly, “that you were the +Varsity boxing champion?” + +“Please don’t,” Christopher begged. “Myrtile must come. I can’t always +be in the way. To-night I am. To-night, at any rate, you have a +reprieve.--Myrtile!” + +She stooped for her cloak. Christopher arranged it around her +shoulders. His fingers shivered at the touch of the filmy laciness, as +though he loathed it. + +“You are ready, Myrtile?” he asked. + +She looked once more at Gerald. He seemed so far away. And was it her +fancy, or was there something in his face which she had seen in the +faces of those others?--He lit a cigarette almost ostentatiously. + +“You had better go, Myrtile,” he said. “Christopher has the whip hand +of us. We can’t have a row here.” + +“Good-by, Gerald,” she faltered. “It isn’t my fault.” + +“Of course not,” Gerald answered. “We are all a little overstrung, I +think. Good-by, little one!” + +He kissed her almost carelessly and nodded to Christopher. The two left +the room. The music had ceased. + +They walked through the empty streets in silence. When they arrived +within a few yards of Myrtile’s lodgings, Christopher slackened his +pace. Myrtile was crying quietly. + +“Myrtile,” he begged, “please listen to me.” + +“I am listening,” she told him drearily. + +“This morning at eight o’clock I shall be here to take you to the +station. Please leave behind the clothes you are wearing, and I will +return them to Madame Lénore. You will go to London, and Lady Mary will +take care of you. Lady Mary is Gerald’s sister. Do you understand?” + +“Yes,” she faltered. + +“Please don’t think of me as an executioner,” Christopher went on, with +a note of unusual feeling in his tone. “Love is a very wonderful thing, +Myrtile, but it is also a very dangerous paradise. If you care for +Gerald, and he cares for you, believe me, some day, you will belong to +one another and you will be happy, but the love which brings happiness +is not of a moment’s growth. It is not a matter of feeling only. To-day +you love Gerald with your whole soul. Gerald has simply a little +affection for you. You are a whim to him, a child whose softness and +prettiness attracts him. The kingdom of love is a wonderful place, but +no two people who are in the position of you and Gerald can enter it +by the lower gates. If you are faithful, remember this. A year or two +of life will bring womanhood to you, and you will understand just what +was lacking to-night, just what, in a corner of your heart, Myrtile, +I believe that you guessed was lacking. That something would have +poisoned even your wonderful happiness. You must wait, dear. Nothing in +the world will keep you and Gerald apart if your love for one another +becomes the love that endures.” + +Myrtile crept away without a word. For an hour Christopher waited, +unseen, at the darkened corner of the street. He waited until he saw +the light go out in Myrtile’s room. Then he went back to the hotel, +changed his clothes and rested for a couple of hours. When he returned +to her room, she was waiting for him, dressed in her little blue serge +suit, pale, mutely pathetic. Christopher carried her small bag and they +made their way to the station. + +“Myrtile,” he said, as they stood together, watching the train come +round the bay, “this morning I think that you are hating me. You think +me very cruel. Try and not judge me for a year.” + +“I think that you mean well,” she sighed, “but you do not understand.” + +Christopher put money into her purse and took her up to where Lady +Mary was standing with her little array of dependents. She spoke a few +kindly words to Myrtile, who answered her politely but without any +trace of feeling in her tone. Myrtile sat down on one of the trunks and +looked steadily across at the sleeping white-fronted hotel. Christopher +and Lady Mary walked for a moment apart. + +“I don’t know why I am doing this thing for you,” Mary said. “If you +want to know the truth, I dislike the young woman intensely.” + +“If you can’t feel that you are doing it for my sake,” Christopher +replied, “think that you are doing it for Gerald’s.” + +Lady Mary stared at him for a moment, and Christopher fancied that he +could read in her somewhat haughty look some trace of that patrician +superstition which claimed for its people the bodies and souls of their +satellites.--The train thundered in. + +“You will come and see me in London?” she asked, a little softened. + +“Directly I return,” he promised. “I shan’t forget this, Mary,” he +added, a little awkwardly. “You’ve been a brick.” + +She smiled, curiously gratified at his hesitating words. Christopher +leaned towards Myrtile. + +“Good-by, Myrtile,” he said. + +She removed her eyes from the window for a moment. + +“Good-by, Christopher,” she answered--and looked back again at the +white building, with its irregular front and close-drawn curtains. +Behind one of them Gerald was sleeping. With a cloud of black smoke and +a succession of hoarse, sobbing pants, the long train steamed slowly +out of the station. + + + + +BOOK TWO + + + + +BOOK TWO + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Gerald had been lunching at the Hyde Park Hotel and was on his way to +pay a call in Curzon Street. Hence his progress through the sun-baked +and dusty park at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in August. +Christopher, who had been his fellow guest, caught him up just as he +had reached the shelter of the trees. The two young men were apparently +still on the same friendly terms. No one but themselves realised the +slight cloud which had never wholly passed away from between them since +the night in Gerald’s sitting room at the Hôtel de Paris, eighteen +months ago. + +“Couldn’t get near you at lunch,” Christopher remarked. “What a squash!” + +“Hideous!” Gerald agreed. + +“Every one all right at Hinterleys?” Christopher enquired. + +“Haven’t heard for over a week. Aren’t they rather expecting you down +there?” + +“I’m going to-morrow. Can’t take you, I suppose?” + +Gerald shook his head. + +“I can’t stand Hinterleys when there’s nothing to do,” he confided. “I +shall be there on the 31st. all right.” + +“You’re not going to stay in town till then?” + +“I’m off to Bourne End this afternoon,” was the unenthusiastic reply. +“I shall probably stay there a day or two. I ought to have gone up to +Scotland this week, but I have put it off until the end of September. +The Governor forgives a good deal, but he wouldn’t forgive me if I +weren’t at Hinterleys for the 1st.” + +Christopher took his friend’s arm lightly. He had made several attempts +to break through the slight restraint that existed between them, and +Gerald’s appearance these days rather troubled him. He was thinner, +his eyes were restless, his manner a little nervous. He was still fit +enough, for he had had a great season at polo, and had played cricket +half a dozen times for his county with almost startling success. Yet +he had not the appearance of being the spoilt child of fortune that he +certainly was. + +“I wonder you don’t get fed up with that Bourne End crowd,” Christopher +remarked. + +“I very nearly am,” Gerald confessed. “They were much more amusing in +the old days, before they took up marriage as a hobby. Now the most +flagrant little hussy begins to talk about her people in the country +and St. George’s, Hanover Square, if you hold her fingers. It’s all the +fault of these callow youths--Christopher--Great Heavens!” + +They had passed the Achilles Statue and were making towards Stanhope +Gate. The crowd here seemed more spiritless than ever. There was a +sprinkling of ladies’ maids, sitting demurely alone, waiting patiently +for the coming of romance; a few young men of doubtful types, a certain +number of loafers pure and simple, and a few reasonable people, +driven out by the craving for air which had some of the qualities of +freshness. In chairs a little way back and apart from the others, two +women, dressed in plain black, were seated. One was elderly, the other +young. Both were weary, both sat there with the air of wishing to +avoid observation. To Christopher they were entirely unfamiliar. His +whole attention was absorbed by Gerald’s strange demeanour. Gerald’s +long fingers had gripped his arm almost painfully. For the first time +for many months, there was real feeling in his face. + +“It’s Pauline!” he exclaimed. “Wait for me, Chris.” + +Without hesitation, Gerald turned and threaded his way among the +chairs. The two women watched his approach, the older one with stolid +indifference, Pauline apparently with some faint resentment. Gerald, +however, in these last few seconds had become a very determined person. +He stood before them with his hat in his hand. His bow was lower than +is customary amongst English people. His manner could scarcely have +been more respectful if he had been paying his homage at Buckingham +Palace. + +“May I be permitted to recall myself to the recollection of Madame de +Ponière?” he begged. + +The woman looked at him with unrecognising eyes. The last eighteen +months had dealt hardly with her. The flesh had sagged a little from +her cheek bones, her mouth had become bitter, her throat was thin, her +eyes cold and glassy. + +“You do not succeed in doing so, monsieur,” she said coldly. + +Pauline intervened. There was some faint note of courtesy in her +manner, nothing whatever of kindliness. + +“This young gentleman,” she explained to her aunt,--“Lord Dombey, I +believe his name is--was kind enough to be of assistance to us at Monte +Carlo, on the night when Zubin met with his unfortunate accident.” + +Madame de Ponière inclined her head. + +“I trust that we tendered our thanks on that occasion,” she observed +icily. + +Gerald held his ground. Pauline was paler than ever, and thin, but +perhaps he fancied that there was a shade of encouragement in those +soft, weary eyes. + +“Madame,” he said, “there was some slight previous acquaintance between +your niece and myself, some trifling service I had been able to render +which gave me the right to perform this further one. It gives me great +pleasure to see you again in my own country.” + +The older woman laughed hardly. + +“It is difficult to believe,” she scoffed, “that the sight of us could +give pleasure to any one; apart from which fact,” she added rapidly, +“it is not our wish to make or renew acquaintances whilst we are here.” + +“Madame,” Gerald replied, “that was your attitude in Monte Carlo, an +attitude which I may say occasioned me the deepest regret. I venture to +hope that I may be able to induce you to modify it.” + +“And why should I?” she asked, almost insolently. + +“Because I have the sincerest and most profound admiration for +mademoiselle,” Gerald declared stoutly, “and because, in my own +country, there is the possibility that I may be of service to you.” + +Madame de Ponière opened a plain pair of lorgnettes and looked for a +moment at Gerald. + +“For an Englishman,” she remarked coolly, “you seem to have some +manners. Who is this, Pauline?” + +There was the faintest possible indication of a smile on Pauline’s lips. + +“His name is Lord Dombey,” she answered demurely. “He is the son of the +Earl of Hinterleys.” + +“Dear me!” Madame de Ponière murmured. + +“The Earl of Hinterleys,” Pauline continued, “is one of the lesser +English noblemen.” + +Notwithstanding his anxiety, Gerald’s sense of humour was touched. If +only his father could have been standing by his side to assist in the +conversation with these two shabbily dressed ladies! + +“Our titles are, at any rate, not unduly modern,” he pleaded +deprecatingly. “Besides, is this of any real consequence?” + +“What precisely do you want of us?” the older lady asked, after a +slight hesitation. + +“The privilege of renewing my acquaintance with you both,” Gerald +replied. + +“You have done so,” Madame de Ponière reminded him. + +“With permission to pay my respects at your London residence,” he urged. + +“We do not receive in London,” was the curt reply. + +“I trust,” Gerald persisted, “that you will make an exception in my +favour.” + +Pauline suddenly intervened. There was a shade of hauteur in her +manner, but some frankness. + +“My dear aunt,” she said, “there are certain things which it is +impossible to conceal. My aunt and I,” she went on, addressing Gerald, +“are living in some impossible rooms in an impossible hotel in South +Kensington. I see no reason, however, why we should not receive you +there, if you are in earnest in your desire to call. We are without +acquaintances in this city.” + +Madame de Ponière closed her lorgnettes with a little snap. + +“We are staying at Number 28, Erriston Gardens, South Kensington,” she +said. “I believe they call the place the Erriston Gardens Hotel.” + +“If you will permit me,” Gerald suggested, “I will bring my sister +to call upon you when she is in town. In the meantime, may I venture +upon a daring suggestion? You are without acquaintances in town; so, +for these few days, am I. Will you do me the great honour of dining at +Ranelagh to-night with me? We shall escape this insufferable heat and +be able to listen to music out of doors.” + +“I regret that it is impossible, sir,” Madame de Ponière replied. + +Gerald was naturally quick-witted. There were many little things he had +already noted. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said, turning to Pauline, “I beg you to intercede +with your aunt. I do not invite you to one of the established +restaurants. The great charm of Ranelagh is its informality. The people +who have been playing tennis and golf stay on to dine, with some +trifling change in their attire. I myself should have to ask you to +excuse my remaining in morning dress. It is a convention of the place.” + +“Milord Dombey doubts our wardrobe,” Pauline remarked, with a faint +smile. “No,” she went on hastily, “please do not think we are offended. +I think your discretion is admirable. And, aunt, I beg of you, let us +accept Lord Dombey’s invitation. Think how much we are suffering from +the heat. Think of our stuffy room, our unspeakable dinner! In short, I +insist.” + +“If you will allow me, I will call for you at a quarter to eight,” +Gerald proposed, turning to Madame de Ponière. + +Madame de Ponière hesitated for another moment. Perhaps it was +something in the almost boyish quality of Gerald’s eagerness which +decided her. This Englishman was at any rate no _boulevardier_. + +“We will await you at that hour,” she replied. “I trust,” she added, +after a moment’s pause, “that you will not consider my hesitation in +any way discourteous. There are reasons which make it difficult for my +niece and myself to accept hospitality.” + +Gerald bowed low, and, acting on a momentary impulse, raised Madame’s +fingers to his lips. She yielded them naturally enough, but with a +little glance around, almost of fear. Mademoiselle also extended her +finger tips. He took his leave and was received by Christopher, who was +waiting for him, with a gaze almost of astonishment. Gerald was holding +himself differently, his eyes were filled with a lustre which they had +lacked for months, he was smiling again in his old manner. + +“My dear fellow,” Christopher exclaimed, “what on earth has happened?” + +“That old devil has recognised my existence at last,” Gerald declared. +“I had almost to force myself upon her. Chris, they’re dining with me +to-night!” + +“Before you say another word,” Christopher enjoined, “I want you to +look at the man on that seat by the side of the tree. Look at him +carefully, please.” + +The two young men slackened their pace. The person whom Christopher had +indicated was a man of medium height, dressed, notwithstanding the heat +of the day, in sombre black clothes, and wearing a black bowler hat. He +was dark, and he was, or affected to be, reading a book. His complexion +was sallow and he wore a slight black moustache. His hair was unusually +long and even covered a portion of his ears. + +“Well, I see him,” Gerald admitted. “Not much to look at. Looks like +one of the chaps who go in for this tub-thumping up at the far end.” + +“He came from that way,” Christopher said, “but the reason I am +pointing him out to you is because he appeared to recognise your two +friends at the same instant that you did. He was walking down between +that last row of chairs. Directly he saw them, however, he stood quite +still for a moment. He seemed almost as knocked over as you were. Then +he slunk back into that chair and he has been watching them ever since.” + +Gerald attached no undue importance to the affair. + +“I’ll tell them about it this evening, if I can remember,” he +promised.--“Chris, did you ever know such luck! She is more wonderful +than ever. No wonder I could never get the feeling of her out of my +blood, the thought of her from my brain! Her eyes--Chris, did you ever +see such eyes in your life!” + +“Kind of hazel, aren’t they?” Christopher hazarded. + +“You ass!” Gerald declared contemptuously. “They’re brown--the most +glorious shade of brown I ever saw. I’m going to call for them in +South Kensington at a quarter to eight, Chris. We’re going to dine at +Ranelagh.” + +“So you told me,” Christopher observed, smiling. “What about Bourne +End?” + +Gerald’s radiant happiness was not for a moment disturbed. He took +Christopher’s arm. + +“Bourne End,” he confided, “has, allegorically speaking, vanished into +the blue horizon. Chris, I know now what has been the matter with me +all these months. I knew it directly I saw her sitting there, tired and +miserable, under the trees. I came up against the real thing and never +knew it. I am in love with Pauline!” + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Pauline leaned back in her chair with a little murmur of content. +Through the drooping branches of the great plane tree was a fascinating +little vista of scarlet-clad orchestra, of the terrace with its curving +rows of lights, the little groups of people sitting about, the waiters +in their quaint liveries. And beyond, the smooth lawn, the picturesque +front of the house; up above, the deep blue sky, pierced here and there +with an early star. Even the little murmur of conversation seemed to +blend with the strains of the music. A breeze rippled in the tree tops. +After the heat of London, it was a wonderful respite. + +“You are very kind,” she murmured to Gerald, “to bring us here.” + +“I was very fortunate to meet you,” he declared. “Don’t you think, +after all the discouragement I have received, I was very brave to come +and beard your aunt?” + +“Not so very,” she answered. “We were two defenceless women, very sad +and weary with life.” + +“I wish,” Gerald said deliberately, “that you would tell me more about +yourselves.” + +Pauline glanced across at her aunt, who was leaning back in her chair, +also with the appearance of deep content, her eyes closed, her air of +isolation complete. + +“My aunt does not approve of such questions,” she said quietly. + +“We speak in English,” Gerald reminded her, “and your aunt does not +understand.” + +“My aunt understands English better than you would believe,” Pauline +replied. “There is the fact, also, that I have confidence in her. I +believe that she knows what is best.” + +“The best thing for you,” Gerald said firmly, “is to believe in me.” + +She looked at him with a slight smile. Her face, however, remained +unsoftened. + +“Really? And why should I believe in you? And what is there to believe?” + +“That I am deeply interested,” Gerald replied promptly, “in everything +that concerns you; that I wish to be your friend; that I wish----” + +She stopped him with a little gesture instinctively mandatory. + +“Neither my aunt nor I,” she interrupted, “are in a position to accept +more than the simplest acts of good will from any one. I have tried to +make that clear to you.” + +“You have,” Gerald admitted, “but before I accept your decision +finally, I shall expect some further explanation.” + +“We do not belong to your world,” Pauline said. “We are what you call, +I think, adventuresses.” + +“Of a unique type, then,” Gerald declared, smiling. “It is not the +usual action of such people, having met with a great loss, as you did +at Monte Carlo, to sell their jewellery to pay their bills, and leave +without owing a penny.” + +“You are well informed,” Pauline remarked coldly. + +“I saw your pearl necklace in Desfordes’, the jeweller’s.” + +“I cannot believe that Desfordes----” Pauline began, in some agitation. + +“The man told me nothing,” Gerald interrupted. “I recognised the +necklace and I bought it.” + +“You bought my necklace?” she repeated incredulously. + +“Hoping,” Gerald ventured, “that some day it would be my privilege to +return it to you.” + +She was distinctly taken aback. + +“You are apparently a rich young man, Lord Dombey, as well as an +impertinent one,” she said. “Are you often subject to these whims?” + +“I am well off,” Gerald replied, “that is to say that I have an income +apart from my allowance. For the rest, I have never done anything of +the sort before, because I have never felt the same inclination.” + +“I thought that you were rather by way of being the support of the +ladies of the ballet at Monte Carlo,” she observed. “Did you not +entertain them at supper and that sort of thing?” + +“I entertained them at supper occasionally,” Gerald admitted, “but that +is the extent of my acquaintance with them.” + +“Then there was a child whom you and your friend found at a mountain +farm--she became your ward, did she not?--a pretty child, with large, +affectionate eyes?” + +“My family has relieved me of my responsibility in that direction,” +Gerald replied. “She is living down at Hinterleys with my people. My +father will allow no one else to read to him, my sister is devoted to +her, and my friend is in love with her.” + +“I still do not understand what made you buy my pearls,” Pauline +remarked, after a moment’s thoughtful silence, “or under what possible +conditions you contemplated returning them to me.” + +“I bought them because I am in love with you,” Gerald declared. + +She turned her head and studied him deliberately. She was still +lounging in her chair, but she gave him the impression that she was +looking down at him. + +“That,” she said quietly, “is a style of conversation which you must +keep for your dancing ladies or your village maidens.” + +“It happens to be the truth,” he insisted doggedly. + +Once more she looked at him, still puzzled, but this time a little more +leniently. His dark eyes were aglow. He was obviously in earnest. + +“You must forgive me if I find your methods a little unusual,” she +said. “Do I understand that you are proposing an alliance?” + +“I ask you to do me the honour of becoming my wife,” Gerald replied. + +Pauline turned to her aunt. + +“Aunt,” she said in French, “Lord Dombey desires to marry me. He has +just told me so most eloquently.” + +Madame de Ponière’s expression was, for her, almost tolerant. + +“Never mind, my dear,” she rejoined, “he is a very amiable young man +and he has given us an excellent dinner.” + +Pauline turned back to Gerald, smiling. + +“You see, my aunt is quite reasonable about the matter,” she remarked. +“Order some more cigarettes, will you? And some coffee, I think.” + +Gerald obeyed promptly. Then he leaned forward. + +“Madame de Ponière,” he said, “do I understand that I have your +permission to pay my addresses to your niece?” + +“You must not be foolish,” she replied soothingly. “We are exceedingly +obliged to you for giving us dinner in this charming place. It is +really quite a revelation to me. The _suprême de volaille_ reminded +me--but that is not of any import.” + +“Mademoiselle de Ponière,” Gerald continued, appealing to Pauline, +“will you be my wife?” + +“Monsieur Lord Dombey,” was the prompt but not unkindly reply, “I will +not.” + +“Then may I become your suitor,” he pleaded, “hoping that you will +change your mind when you find that I am very much in earnest?” + +“It appears to me,” she answered, “that the office would be a thankless +one.” + +“I am content to take my chance,” Gerald pronounced. “I can command all +the usual resources which might make life more endurable for you. My +personal devotion you are already assured of.” + +“You had better not tempt us too far,” Pauline warned him, a little +bitterly. “The good folk at Monte Carlo were only guessing when they +called us adventuresses, but we are down on our luck just now--we might +accept your offer.” + +“I will take my risk,” Gerald declared eagerly. “You have given me no +encouragement. You have no responsibility. As for the rest, we are all +adventurers or adventuresses, more or less. I am in quest of happiness, +and I have met no one else except you who could give it to me.” + +There was a touch of real feeling in her eyes as she glanced towards +him, feeling, however, composed of varying elements,--some curiosity, +a tinge of scorn, an iota of compassion. She shrugged her shoulders +slightly beneath her wrap of black lace. + +“How long do you remain in London, Lord Dombey?” she enquired. + +“As long as I can be of service to you,” was the quick reply. “I was +going down to Hinterleys soon, for want of something better to do. A +day’s visit there will suffice. I shall remain at your service.” + +“I am in love with another man,” Pauline assured him. + +Gerald considered the matter for a moment. + +“I do not believe it,” he declared. + +Pauline sighed. + +“Nevertheless, it is true,” she reiterated. “He is very bad-tempered, +and if he knows that I am accepting all these attentions from another +man, he will certainly quarrel with you.” + +“I will risk it,” Gerald decided. + +“How am I to get rid of this persistent young man?” Pauline asked her +aunt. + +Madame de Ponière had a great deal to say about the subject in a rapid +undertone. When she had finished, Pauline turned back to her companion. + +“My aunt was very much against a renewal of our acquaintance,” she +told him, “but, as she justly remarks, one must live. This evening has +turned our heads a little--a return to the fleshpots, you know, and +that sort of thing. You shall be my suitor if you will, Lord Dombey, +but of one thing you may be very sure--I shall never marry you.” + +“There is another thing of which you may be equally sure,” Gerald +rejoined. “I shall never leave off trying to persuade you to.” + +“Gallant but pig-headed,” Pauline murmured. “You can judge of my +aunt’s newly found tolerance when I tell you that she permits us to +walk in the rose garden. I want to see whether those delphiniums are +really as blue as they seem to be.” + +Gerald sprang eagerly to his feet and they moved off together across +the lawn. He was obliged continually to half pause, to return the +greetings of his many friends. Pauline walked steadily on, looking +neither to the right nor to the left, composed and stately, her +clothes, although they were not in the very latest style, individual +and obviously the creation of an artist. People put their heads +together and whispered. The same question must have been asked a score +of times before they left the little crowd behind them, but no one +knew, no one could even hazard a surmise as to whom Gerald’s companion +might be. + +The walk in the rose gardens, although Gerald welcomed with intense +satisfaction this new phase in his relations with Pauline, was in some +ways a disappointment. Pauline looked around her all the time with +serene pleasure. She was fond of flowers, she knew them all by name, +and paused often to admire some wonderfully fine bloom. She acceded +without demur to his suggestion that they should take one of the small +boats moored against the bridge and lay back amongst the cushions +whilst he lazily sculled round the small stretch of water. On the far +side of the island he let the boat drift and laid the oar across his +knees. + +“Pauline,” he said, leaning a little forward, “you are adorable.” + +“I suppose it goes without saying that you should find me so,” she +answered composedly. “I suppose, also, that I must permit you the +privilege of my Christian name. On the other hand, do not try to get +on too quickly, will you? I must warn you that you have reached the +extreme limit of my complaisance.” + +His eyes flashed for a moment. He was much too spoilt to regard her +indifference as anything more than part of the game. It was a duel +between the two, the result of which he scarcely doubted, but with his +usual impetuosity he resented delay. + +“You will accept me some day,” he said. “Why not now? We could spend +the honeymoon in Paris and go on to the Italian lakes. Or we could be +married at the Embassy in Paris, if you liked. Enthoven, the first +secretary, is my cousin, and would see things through for us.” + +“You are taking base advantage of this lonely spot,” she murmured, +dipping her hand in the water. “I have told you that I am in love with +another man.” + +“You will forget him in a week,” Gerald assured her. “I am a most +companionable person.” + +“I have no doubt that you have given many people the opportunity of +finding you so,” she replied drily. “However, I am not prepared just +yet for such an experiment.” + +“Pauline, do you like me a little?” he asked earnestly. + +She looked him in the eyes. + +“Not very much,” she admitted frankly. “You see, the nicer part of +me--the part with which I should care--is numb--numbed with misfortune. +The most that I can say is that if you are very kind, I may change--to +some extent. Personally, I think it hopeless.” + +“You wouldn’t consider, I suppose,” he suggested, “telling me your +history now that we are on a slightly different footing?” + +“Nothing would induce me to do anything of the sort,” she replied. “I +think that we have left my aunt alone quite long enough.” + +He took up the scull and dug it into the still, stagnant water. He did +not speak again until they reached the landing stage. + +“Where is this other man?” he asked, as he handed her out. + +She thought for several moments before she answered. Then she turned +towards him with the air of one who has arrived at a decision. + +“The other man,” she declared, “is my brother. He is in prison, +condemned to what you call, I believe, penal servitude.” + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Lord Hinterleys leaned back in his chair and prepared to enjoy his +greatest treat during the day,--his one glass of vintage port. + +“So you did not go to Scotland after all, Gerald?” he remarked, on the +evening of the latter’s arrival at Hinterleys. + +“No, I didn’t go, sir,” Gerald replied. “Some old friends of mine +turned up in town. I have been spending a good deal of time with them.” + +“I would have preferred hearing that you had been on the moors,” his +father observed, with a glance at his son’s pallid face and careworn +expression. “London in August always seems to me intolerable.” + +“It was certainly very hot,” Gerald admitted. “I was on the river a +great deal of the time, though.” + +There was a short silence. Lord Hinterleys was, as a rule, a reserved +man, and he very much disliked the task which he had set himself. He +dallied with it for a few moments, looking through the high window, +across the terrace to the gardens below. His face softened as he +glanced at the two girlish figures seated under the cedar tree, where +coffee was being served. + +“You have been guilty, I suppose, Gerald,” he said drily, “of the usual +number of indiscretions, but one action of yours which threatened +to come under that heading, I shall always remember with gratitude. +Myrtile is the most wonderful child who ever came to brighten a +somewhat dull household.” + +“I am glad you approve of her, sir,” Gerald replied indifferently. + +“The more I study her,” Lord Hinterleys went on earnestly, “the more +she fills me with amazement. It seems as though she must be some sort +of a spiritual changeling. I have always been, as you know, rather a +stickler for race. Myrtile is one of those marvellous exceptions which +upset all argument. She is an aristocrat to the finger tips in every +way, small or great, that counts. It seems as though it were absolutely +impossible for her to do an ungracious or ungraceful thing. She has +destroyed every prejudice I ever possessed.” + +Gerald was interested at last. It was many years since he had known his +father so enthusiastic. + +“I am very glad you kept her here, sir,” he remarked. + +“I am more than glad--I am thankful,” was the fervent reply. “I look +forward with a pleasure which I can scarcely describe to the hours +she gives up for my entertainment. When I think that nothing but an +outbreak of scarlet fever in the household to which she was bound was +responsible for her staying here long enough for us to appreciate her, +I can never feel sufficiently thankful. To watch her development, too, +during the last year, has been like watching a beautiful flower.” + +“She’s made a conquest of you, at any rate, dad,” Gerald remarked. “I +thought myself that she looked perfectly sweet to-night at dinner time.” + +“She has made a conquest of me to an extent which I should never have +believed possible,” Lord Hinterleys admitted, glancing across at his +son. “I have had an elderly man’s desire, Gerald, to welcome home to +Hinterleys the woman whom you might decide to choose for a wife. I +have kept a little list in my mind of the young women at present known +to Society, whom it would give me pleasure to see here. I have never +for one second contemplated the addition to that list of an unknown +person. And yet----” + +“There is no question of anything of that sort between Myrtile and me, +sir,” Gerald declared, breaking a somewhat embarrassed pause. + +Lord Hinterleys sipped his port and looked once more out of the window. +Gerald, a little startled by his father’s unexpected suggestion, was +suddenly conscious of that one wild moment after his supper party at +the Hôtel de Paris, of Christopher’s stern figure, of that strange +medley of sensations, the flare of passion which seemed to have +perished in the shame of Christopher’s triumph. He, too, looked out of +the window. Myrtile had been a child then. She was a woman now, more +wonderful, more gracious, just as completely virginal. Yet to him she +existed at that moment only as the picture of something that had passed. + +“I am afraid,” his father said, a little sadly, “that Myrtile does not +look at it in quite the same way. However, that is nothing. It may +be only a sort of hero worship with her. It was you, I understand, +who took the initiative in bringing her away from her home. Her +indifference to your sex is a little abnormal for her years. Doubtless +it will pass when the right man arrives. I envy that man more than any +other living.” + +Lord Hinterleys slowly finished his wine. Gerald produced his cigarette +case. + +“You are ready, sir?” he asked. “Will you take my arm?” + +“Not for a moment,” was the quiet reply. “You perceive, from my +references to Myrtile, that I am in a confidential frame of mind. I +shall go even further to prove it.” + +“You won’t mind my cigarette, sir?” + +“Not in the least.--Gerald, I do not, as a rule, interfere in such +matters, as you know, but I take a certain natural interest, I think, +in your associates and your affairs generally. It has come to my +knowledge through various channels that you have spent the greater part +of the last month with two ladies bearing a French name--an aunt and a +niece, I believe--both unknown to English Society.” + +“That is true, sir,” Gerald admitted. + +“Furthermore,” Lord Hinterleys continued, “although again I am a little +outside my province, I must confess that I was somewhat disturbed to +hear from Mr. Bendover that you had offered for sale a portion of the +Lutsall property and were considering a mortgage upon Rhysalls.” + +“I do not know why Mr. Bendover should have troubled you with these +details,” Gerald said, a little uneasily, “but in the main they are +correct.” + +“I make you an allowance, as you know,” his father continued, “as my +only son and the heir to Hinterleys, of five thousand a year, which +I can well afford to do. You have yourself something like the same +amount, I believe. You occupy a portion of Hinterleys House in town, +and you have the use of my servants there. Your polo ponies, by express +arrangement, have always been charged to my own stable expenses. You +must forgive my feeling some surprise, therefore, at the fact that you +have found it necessary to raise these large sums of money.” + +Gerald was silent for a moment, conscious of and inwardly resenting his +father’s anxious scrutiny. Something of the bitterness which he was +feeling showed itself, perhaps, in his tone. + +“I needed the money, dad,” he said. “It will probably all come back to +me, or its value.” + +“If the necessity is occasioned by your losses at cards or on the +turf,” Lord Hinterleys continued, “I should prefer making you some +advance myself, to having you part with land which belonged to your +great-grandmother, or executing a mortgage upon any part of your +property.” + +“I have needed the money for quite a different purpose,” Gerald +explained, “a purpose which precluded my applying to you. There are +other people involved.” + +“I see,” Lord Hinterleys concluded drily. “We will leave the matter +where it is, then, for the present.--If you will give me your arm now, +we will take our coffee in the gardens.” + +“Sorry, dad, to seem mysterious and uncommunicative, and that sort of +thing,” Gerald apologised, with an attempt at levity. “I’m not quite +off my head, I can assure you.” + +“You have never presented yourself to my mind, Gerald,” his father +admitted, “as being a likely tool for the adventurers or harpies of +the world. I shall continue to believe that you are able to take care +of yourself, although I am bound to say that I regret your lack of +confidence.” + +“I shall be in a position to tell you the whole story very shortly,” +Gerald promised. “The element of secrecy about it at present has +nothing to do with me.” + +They made their way through the window, on to the terrace, down the +steps and across the lawn to the cedar tree. Myrtile was standing +behind the coffee tray, and Gerald, remembering his father’s recent +words, gazed at her with a new, though somewhat languid interest. She +was wearing a simple frock of grey muslin, her hair was parted in the +middle and drooped low over her ears. The thinness of a year ago had +given place to the slender perfection of early womanhood. She had the +air of being wholly and gracefully at her ease, yet the sweetness of +her smile, a certain ever-present but unobtrusive desire to please, +seemed like the hallmarks of her constant but unexpressed gratitude. +Lady Mary, sunburnt and amiable, lolled in a hammock, with a cigarette +between her teeth. There was a telegram upon her knee. She seemed +content with life. + +“Have you heard the news?” she asked. “Christopher has been invited to +stand for West Leeds. It is a certain seat and he has accepted. He is +coming down to-morrow afternoon.” + +“Good old Chris!” Gerald murmured. “Though what on earth he wants to +spend half his time pottering about the House of Commons for, I can’t +imagine.” + +“Your friend Christopher Bent,” Lord Hinterleys observed, “finds his +pleasures, without a doubt, somewhat interfered with by the possession +of some out-of-date principles. He will be very welcome here.--My +coffee and the evening paper, if you please, Myrtile.” + +Myrtile’s attention had momentarily wandered. Her eyes were fixed upon +Gerald, who was looking paler and more tired than ever in the clear +evening twilight. + +“You found it hot in the city?” she asked softly, as she poured out the +coffee. + +He frowned impatiently. There is nothing which irritates a selfish man +more than the evidences of an affection which he does not covet. + +“If it was, I don’t deserve any sympathy,” he replied. “I was only +there because it amused me.” + +He threw himself into a chair, declined coffee with unnecessary +abruptness, and asked for brandy. Myrtile, with a little pain at +her heart, no infrequent visitor there, took her place apart from +the others, near Lord Hinterleys, and, spreading out the newspaper, +commenced her evening task. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +The world seemed a very good place to Lady Mary as, from the depths +of her chair under the cedar tree on the following afternoon, she +watched Christopher, conducted as far as the terrace by the butler, +descend the steps lightly and move across the lawn towards her. He had +been away for a holiday earlier in the summer and was still healthily +tanned. His grey tweeds became him. He walked with the dignity and +assurance of a man whose life is being worthily lived. It was a long +way across the lawn, and the girl who waited for his coming had time +for a crowd of pleasant thoughts as she watched the approach of the +man on whom she had set her heart. Everything that he did and had +done in life appealed to her. She even appreciated now the reticence +which he had shown in their many conversations, the absence of any +indications of more than ordinary interest in her. He had sentiment +enough,--that was proved by the tenderness for Myrtile to which he +had confessed that night at Monte Carlo, a night which she had always +remembered as one of the unhappiest of her life. She had long since +been convinced, both by his manner and Myrtile’s, that the tenderness, +such as it had been, had become merged in a purely fraternal and kindly +regard. Of his reticence towards herself she thought nothing. He was +possessed, as she well knew, of a very high sense of honour, and she +had always felt that, however greatly she might have desired to hear +his declaration, he would say nothing until he had passed definitely +out of the somewhat miscellaneous category of rising young men into the +position of one whose future is assured. To-day he was the youngest K. +C., and a seat in Parliament was almost within his reach. She thought +of her own fortune with a deep sense of pleasure. It was larger than he +imagined, larger than any one else except herself and her father knew. +Christopher would be free to make the best of himself, free for all +time from any shadow of financial worry. How well he looked, how strong +and eager! She held out both her hands as he drew near, and her smile +of welcome made her for a moment radiantly beautiful. + +“How delightful to see you, Christopher!” she exclaimed. “And what +wonderful news! It’s just what you wanted, isn’t it, and just what we +all wanted for you.” + +He took her hands and stood smiling down at her. Her heart was +beginning to beat more quickly. She hoped that he would suggest walking +in the gardens. + +“It is a wonderful stroke of fortune, isn’t it?” he agreed. “It all +came about through going down to help Andrew Hodgson at the Darlington +election. I knew I’d got on pretty well with the speech-making down +there, but I never thought it would lead to this.” + +He did not sit down, nor did he suggest the gardens. He had looked +around for a moment, almost as though disappointed to find her alone. +Still her heart did not misgive her. She thought him a little nervous, +and she smiled tolerantly. + +“You were a dear to telegraph to me at once,” she said. “I can’t tell +you how interested and flattered I was.” + +“I wanted you all to know,” he declared, looking around once more. “How +is every one?” + +“In excellent health, thank you,” she answered. “Father is having +his usual afternoon sleep. Gerald has been here, but, as I dare say +you know, he went away this morning. We must talk about him later, +Christopher. I am rather worried--but that can wait. Will you sit down, +or would you like to see how wonderful the gardens are?” + +He looked at her a little apologetically, yet without the slightest +idea of how great an apology was needed. + +“I wondered,” he said, “if I could see Myrtile.” + +“Myrtile?” Mary repeated. + +He assented a little sheepishly, yet with a rather engaging smile. + +“I wanted to see her and tell her about it,” he confided. “She won’t +understand just what it means, perhaps, but she’s so much more of a +woman now.” + +His voice seemed to come from a long way off. It seemed all part of a +horrible nightmare, something unreal, some black thought, the figment +of a nocturnal fancy.--Then she was conscious of his standing before +her, waiting, expectant, with the eagerness of a lover in his eyes. + +“Myrtile went down to gather some roses,” she told him. “You will find +her at the end of the pergola.” + +He was gone almost before the words had left her lips, gone with some +sort of mumbled excuse, unconscious of the tragedy he had created, +clumsily oblivious of the fierce struggle which had kept her calm and +collected. She turned her head and watched him go, watched his long, +eager footsteps, saw his tall figure stoop as he entered the pergola. +Her fingers tore at the sides of her chair. She looked at the distance +between her and the terrace steps. If only she could escape! Her limbs +for the time seemed powerless. She sat there with all the healthy +colour drained from her cheeks, her fixed eyes seeing nothing but +the ruin of her confident hopes. There were three old ladies in the +family of Hinterleys--one her father’s sister, the others a little more +distantly related--prim beings, full of the weaknesses and prejudices +evolved by their unlived lives. She remembered now how she had shrunk, +even in her school days, from the thought of ever finding herself in +a similar situation. But she was suddenly face to face with it now. +She could see herself growing old, marching down the avenues of time, +preserving in a certain measure, perhaps, her dignity, but growing day +by day a little more jealous and narrow, a little more captious of the +happiness of others. There was only one Christopher, and he was there +at the bottom of the pergola with Myrtile. Even in her bitterness she +did not blame him for a moment. There were a hundred different ways +in which she might have misunderstood him. She had made the foolish +mistake of many ignorant young women. She had mistaken companionship, +and the desire for companionship, on his part, for the subtler and +rarer gift which she herself had been so ready to offer. Christopher, +she remembered, had even warned her, more than a year ago, at the villa +in Monte Carlo that night when they had paced the terrace together. She +had refused to take him seriously, and he had never once reverted to +the subject. It had seemed to her, indeed, that he had almost avoided +Myrtile during his visits to Hinterleys, and she had commended him for +his discretion. Myrtile was sweet and full of charm, but what use could +she be as a wife to an ambitious man like Christopher? How she herself +could have helped with her sympathy, her social influence, her tact, +to say nothing of her great fortune! It was amazing what follies a man +could commit for the sake of a fancy! She could call it nothing else. + +Presently she rose calmly to her feet and walked towards the house. +Soon it swallowed her up, the key was turned in the door of her room, +the long minutes that passed were her own. She never counted them then, +she never dwelt on them afterwards. The period of her agony was, in +fact, short enough. Her pride came to her rescue. When her maid tapped +on the door she had already bathed her eyes, and there remained nothing +to denote her suffering but a little tired look about her mouth and a +slight weariness of gait. She opened the door at once. + +“Mr. Bent is obliged to go back to town almost immediately, your +ladyship,” the maid announced. “He has asked specially whether he could +see you for a moment.” + +“Tell Mr. Bent that I shall be down in five minutes,” her mistress +enjoined. + +The maid departed, and Mary turned once more anxiously to the mirror. +This was a trial which she had scarcely expected. Her fingers passed +over her face, anxious to smooth out its lines. Her lips moved, as +though she were uttering a prayer. She was, indeed, appealing to +herself, to the strength and pride of her young womanhood. When she +entered the library where Christopher was waiting for her, she knew +that she was free from all trace of disturbance. + +“Christopher, you don’t mean that you are going to leave us at once?” +she protested. “And where is Myrtile? I expected to see you both +together.” + +“I left Myrtile where I found her,” Christopher answered, a little +harshly. “Will you keep my secret, please, Mary, and forget my visit?” + +“Forget your visit?” she repeated wonderingly. + +“Myrtile does not care for me,” Christopher explained, “not in the way +I want her to. It is the same with her now as from that first moment. I +thought it was a fancy of which she might have been cured. I find it is +nothing of the sort.” + +At that moment Mary hated herself, hated the joy which swelled up in +her heart, hated the sudden passionate rush of blood through all her +veins, the sense of grotesque, immeasurable relief. She hated the lying +words she spoke. + +“Oh, Christopher, I am so sorry!” she said. “I do not understand, but I +am very, very sorry.” + +“Myrtile loves Gerald,” he continued. “She will love him all her days. +She is one of those strange creatures who will never change, to whom +love is just one final thing for good or for evil. She loved Gerald +when she stepped into the car and we carried her with us along the road +around the end of which she had woven all her dreams. She cares for him +so much that I am not sure whether, at the bottom of her pure heart, +she does not hate me because I once kept them apart.” + +She laid her hand upon his arm. That sense of sickening joy had gone. +She was a woman again, feeling nothing but sorrow for the suffering of +her man. + +“Christopher dear,” she begged, “Myrtile will see the truth in time. +Gerald cares nothing for her, nothing for anybody except himself and +his own pleasures. She will understand this presently. Remember, +although she has grown so sensible and so gracious in her attitude +towards life, she is really only a child.” + +“In one way she will always be a child,” he answered sadly. “Her love +will last her time, whether Gerald ever returns it or not.” + +“There is still your work,” she went on, “great, wonderful work waiting +for you. And your friends. Don’t take this so hardly, Christopher.” + +He looked down at her with a very forced smile. + +“Oh, I shall get over it,” he assured her. “I am not the first man who +has had to face this sort of thing. It is odd, though, that it should +have happened to me. Whatever thoughts I may have had in the past about +marriage were so different.” + +“Isn’t it just possible, perhaps,” she ventured, “that those other +thoughts were the wisest?” + +“Wisdom has so little to do with life, really,” he answered drearily. +“I should have planned it differently if I could.--Well, I had to see +you, Mary. You’ve been perfectly sweet, as I knew you would be. I want +to get off without seeing a soul now, if I can. You won’t mind?” + +“Of course not! You wouldn’t like me to speak to Myrtile?” + +“Absolutely useless,” he replied. “She was really shocked when she +knew why I had come. I believe it seems to her a trifle irreligious to +discuss the possibility of her caring for any one except Gerald. No, +I’m not going to encourage any false hopes, Mary. I’ve had my answer +and there’s an end of it. What I want to do is to get away.” + +“That you can do and shall,” she assented. “I did so want to hear about +Leeds, but that must be another time. You won’t keep away from us +because of this, Christopher?” + +“Of course not,” he promised half-heartedly. “I’ll write, if I may. +There are heaps of things I want to tell you. You won’t mind?” + +She smiled and let him open the door, taking him by a devious way to +the courtyard where his car was still standing. + +“There,” she directed, “you can go out by the south drive, across the +deer park, and you won’t meet a soul.” + +He held her hand tightly for a moment at parting. + +“God bless you, Mary!” he said. “You’re a wonderful pal.” + +“Thank you,” she answered simply. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +“Well, thank heavens you haven’t forgotten how to hold your gun +straight!” Lord Hinterleys remarked, a few days later, laying his hand +affectionately upon his son’s shoulder. “It is always a treat to see +you shoot, Gerald. I used to fancy myself when I was your age, but I +could never have touched your performance to-day.” + +“You mustn’t forget the difference in the guns, dad,” Gerald reminded +him, “and the powder. You were pretty useful yourself at those last two +drives.” + +Lord Hinterleys mounted his pony. + +“I brought down a beautiful high one at Smith’s corner,” he +admitted.--“Are you sure, you people, that you wouldn’t like to have a +car sent down? I shall be home in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, +and Oliver could be here with the shooting brake whilst you are having +a cup of tea with Mrs. Amos.” + +No one, it appeared, was tired. Gerald shouldered his gun and passed +his arm through Myrtile’s. + +“Come along,” he invited, “we’ll go home through the forty-acre wood. +It isn’t more than a mile. It seems to me we’ve been standing about all +day.” + +“I should like it very much,” Myrtile assented joyfully. + +“We are all coming presently,” Mary remarked. “Amos is just making up +the bag. Dad wants the exact figures. Don’t you want some tea, Myrtile? +Lady Hadley and I are going to have some.” + +Myrtile shook her head. + +“I do not care for tea very much, as you know,” she said, “and I should +like to walk with Gerald.” + +“Showing thereby your good taste, my child,” Gerald observed, as they +strolled off, “and also a wise regard for your digestion.” + +“One sees so little of you nowadays,” Myrtile sighed. “You are all the +time in London.” + +“You’re not going to lecture me?” + +“That would not be for me,” she said gravely. “If you think it well to +be there, it is well. I am only glad that you are here to-day. It has +made your father so happy.” + +They crossed the meadow and entered the little wood. The path here +was so narrow that Gerald took Myrtile’s arm again. He was quite +unconscious that at his touch she shivered with emotion. + +“Myrtile,” he confided, “I saw Chris yesterday.” + +“Yes?” + +“Poor old chap,” Gerald went on, “he looked absolutely done in. I made +him come and have some dinner with me. I don’t think he meant to tell +me, but it all came out in time. He told me about his visit here.” + +She walked on, her head uplifted, her face a little tense. + +“Yes?” she murmured. + +“I’d no idea,” Gerald continued, “that he was seriously in love with +you, Myrtile. He’s such a sober sort of chap really--no lady friends, +you know, or anything of that sort. When he takes a fancy to any one, +it’s a serious affair.” + +“He is not like you, Gerald,” she said quietly. + +“You’re quite right, he isn’t,” Gerald acknowledged frankly. “We all +have our different hobbies. I candidly admit that the society of your +sex has been one of mine. Christopher has never been like that, though. +You are his first love, Myrtile.” + +“It is a great pity,” she declared. + +“You used to seem very fond of him,” Gerald hazarded, “and he certainly +looked after you jolly well at Monte Carlo.” + +“Do you mean,” Myrtile asked calmly, “when he came to your room in the +Hôtel de Paris, after the supper party?” + +Gerald was completely taken aback. She had turned and was looking at +him with her large, serious eyes. She was deliberately forcing upon him +the memory of an episode which he had slurred over in his mind. + +“I wasn’t thinking of that altogether,” he replied, with a certain rare +awkwardness. “All the same----” + +“All the same, what, please?” she insisted, after a moment’s pause. “I +should like you to finish your sentence.” + +“Well, from old Chris’s point of view, he was doing the chivalrous +thing, and all that,” Gerald explained clumsily. “He must have thought, +of course, that I was going to be a perfect brute.” + +“Were you not?” she asked. + +He was amazed at her coolness. She, whose purity seemed rather to +increase with her larger knowledge of the world, seemed to be forcing +him to speak of those very ugly moments. + +“I am afraid that I can’t say what would have happened,” he admitted. +“I was very much attracted by you, and you hadn’t the faintest idea +what it all meant. So, you see, you do owe him a very great debt of +gratitude, Myrtile.” + +“I do not think so,” she replied. + +Gerald was more startled than ever. Her deliberate speech seemed to him +almost a challenge. + +“You are about the only person in the world who would say that,” he +observed. + +“Perhaps so,” she admitted. “Perhaps, too, I am the only one who is in +a position to know.” + +Gerald was poignantly interested. He looked down at her face, calm +and serious. There was no added colour in her cheeks, no sign of any +confusion. + +“You mean that you are sorry that Christopher interfered? That you +would have risked my forgetting--all that I ought to have remembered?” + +“I am sorry that Christopher interfered,” she said distinctly. “At +that moment I loved you, and I did not know that it was wicked for me +to love you. If afterwards you had got tired of me, as you would have +done, then I should have killed myself when I understood. But I should +have been happy first.” + +“But aren’t you happy now?” he asked. + +“I am very contented,” she answered, “and I am very, very grateful. +I think that no one in the world has ever received such wonderful +kindness as I have. But happiness, it seems to me, is a thing apart. +It is a great and a wonderful and a rare gift. I do not think that +very many people possess it, although they think they do. I should +have possessed it, for however short a time, if Christopher had not +interfered.” + +Gerald was staggered. It seemed to him that this girl, walking so +sedately by his side, had suddenly become his monitress; was trying to +explain to him, as though he were a pupil, great and elemental things. + +“Myrtile,” he declared, “you surprise me very much. I never dreamed +that you would feel like that. Supposing, then, I were to say to +you--‘Come away from here with me to-morrow; come up to London and be +my companion there’?” + +“You could not do that,” she said simply. “You could not offer me so +terrible and so ugly an insult. Surely you understand that then I did +not know that you did not love me?” + +“I see,” he murmured. + +“I loved you,” she went on, her eyes lifted a little to the interlacing +boughs of the trees under which they were passing, “when you came like +a prince to the gate where I stood shaking with terror, and laughed +at my fears. I loved you when you pointed to the end of the road and +promised to take me there. I loved you in those first few moments, and +just as it seemed to me then that I had loved you before I was born, +so I know that I shall love you after I die. That is just the kind of +wisdom which even children have. Where I was simple and ignorant was +that I did not understand that love could be one-sided. I thought that +love belonged to two people. Now I know very differently.” + +“Myrtile----” he began. + +She checked him gravely. + +“To-day,” she continued, “there is more for me to say than for you, +because I am rather glad that you should understand. Only you must not +talk to me about Christopher. I am very sorry, but I think that he is +foolish. I was a peasant child and I knew nothing. But a wise, clever +man like Christopher should understand. It seems to me absurd that he +should think it possible that I might love him. It is so absurd that +I do not believe his love is a real thing. I think that he will soon +forget.” + +“What is to become of you, then, Myrtile?” Gerald demanded. + +She looked up at him with a smile. + +“What happens to all those others,” she asked, “who go through life as +I shall go through it? They are very content. Very many pleasant things +come their way. They are spared a great deal of suffering. So it will +be with me. Now that we have had this talk, Gerald, I can speak to +you, perhaps, a little more frankly. I watch you so closely that I see +things which others might not notice. You were without actual happiness +before because you did not understand what happiness was. Now you are +unhappy. That is so sad.” + +“Yes,” Gerald admitted, “I am unhappy.” + +“There is some one for whom you care?” + +He had no idea of evading the issue. He replied at once, simply and +directly. + +“It is Mademoiselle de Ponière, whom I met at Monte Carlo, and who used +to go out with me in the car. I have met her again.” + +“And yet you are not happy?” + +“I am not happy,” Gerald acknowledged, “because I have not the least +idea whether she cares for me or not. She is very mysterious. She has +troubles which she will not let me share.” + +It seemed to him that Myrtile smiled. They were out of the wood now and +crossing the park. + +“All that you tell me is very strange,” she confessed. “I do not +pretend to understand it. One hears, Gerald, that in your way you have +cared for very many women. That is rather a pity, but, if it is true, +you perhaps do not know your own mind. Are you sure that you love this +young lady?” + +“I only know that she makes me feel and suffer as no one else in the +world has ever done,” he answered a little drearily. + +They were approaching the house now. Myrtile laid her fingers timidly +upon his arm. + +“It seems to me, Gerald,” she said, with a rather pathetic smile, “that +we have changed rôles. You asked me to walk home with you that you +might talk to me about Christopher, and now we have finished all that +and it is your own affairs only which remain.” + +“There is nothing about my affairs which even lends itself to +discussion,” Gerald sighed. + +“Not at present,” Myrtile assented, “but in the end there must come +happiness, because where there is love there is always happiness.--May +I say one word more?” + +“Go ahead,” he answered. + +“It is of your father. Why is he so troubled about you?” + +Gerald frowned. + +“I am afraid, Myrtile,” he said, “that that is a matter which I cannot +altogether explain to you.” + +“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted. “I must dare to say this, +though, because, you see, I am with your father many hours in the day, +and he is not so strong as he was and so he shows his mind more easily. +Something about you is worrying him. That is not right, is it?” + +Gerald was silent for a moment. A telegraph boy, who had been riding +down the drive which curved through the park, seeing them, had +dismounted from his bicycle and was crossing the turf towards them with +an orange-coloured envelope in his hand. Gerald took it from him, tore +it open, and read the few lines which it contained. Then he gave the +boy a coin and dismissed him. He looked once more at the message. + +“It is good news?” Myrtile enquired gravely. + +“Good enough,” Gerald answered. “I have been living in a miserable +state of uncertainty. Now it will all be cleared up.” + +“There will be no more trouble, then?” + +“I cannot say that,” he replied, “but at least there will be action. +Next week will see the beginning of the elucidation. I leave for Russia +on Tuesday.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +The change in Pauline’s manner, when Gerald was ushered by an +untidy-looking waiter into her sitting room on the following afternoon, +was almost electrifying. In place of her usual languid greeting, she +sprang lightly to her feet and gave him both her hands. The slight +sullenness had all gone from her face. There was no living person just +then who would not have found her beautiful. + +“You received my telegram?” she demanded eagerly. + +“And I came to you at once,” was the prompt reply. + +She drew him down to her side upon the sofa. Her manner and tone +displayed an animation entirely new to her. + +“Reusser returned the night before last,” she said. “He seems to +have had a comparatively easy journey, and he reports conditions +over there very much more lenient in many ways. He had no difficulty +in landing, or in making his way wherever he wished to go. On the +other hand, the stories he brings back as to the distress and misery +everywhere are simply shocking. The country bleeds to death. There are +few trains running, no order, no discipline, despotic and arbitrary +police surveillance everywhere. But there is also corruption. People, +especially the official classes, are looking everywhere for the means +to live. A merchant who was imprisoned only a month or so ago on a +charge of murder, to which he actually pleaded ‘Guilty’, was set free +the day before Reusser left. It cost him little more than five thousand +roubles.” + +“Did this man Reusser discover where your brother was?” Gerald asked. + +“For ten thousand roubles,” she answered, “he could have searched every +police register in Russia. Paul is at the Fortress of St. Maria, at a +small town called Sokar, about three hundred miles south of Petrograd. +It is a bad journey, of course, but the place is accessible. The +Governor of the prison is a Major Krossneys. He is half an Austrian and +half a Pole. When he is sober, he is simply greedy. When he is drunk, +he is reckless. He is to be managed with ease, but always it is to be +remembered that Paul is his chief prisoner. If Paul were to escape,” +she went on thoughtfully, “he would, without a doubt, lose his post, +certainly his promotion; he might even have to flee the country. To buy +him would probably cost a sum of money sufficient to support him for +the rest of his life. There are still people who would tear Paul to +pieces if they knew who he was.” + +“This Major Krossneys,” Gerald enquired, “does he speak French?” + +“Fortunately, yes,” was the eager assent. “Tell me, Gerald, what do you +think of it all?” + +“Just this,” he replied. “I shall sail on Tuesday. There is a steamer +from Hull. In less than two months I will bring your brother back.” + +Her eyes shone. She seemed to be trembling in every limb. There was +ecstasy in her face, passion on her quivering lips. Yet even as he drew +a little nearer to her, Gerald was drearily conscious that she had +almost forgotten his presence. It was the thought of her brother which +had wrought this transformation. + +“If I bring him back to you, Pauline----” he began. + +She suddenly seized him by the shoulders. + +“Bring him back!” she interrupted passionately. “I make no bargain. I +give no promise--you should know better than to ask for any such. All +that I can tell you is that I would give my soul to see him again.” + +Gerald clenched his hands almost in pain. + +“Pauline,” he pleaded, “for heaven’s sake, soften just a little. You +keep me all the time in torment. Paul shall be set free--I swear it. If +it costs me my fortune, my liberty, even my life, he shall be set free. +But I’m doing it for love of you. My love is choking me. Soften for one +moment. Remember what you will be to me some day. Give me at least a +memory to take with me.” + +She laid her hand upon his. It seemed to him that it was as cold as the +snows. Her eyes looked into his. They were soft and beautiful, full of +colour and sweetness, yet they looked him through as though he were a +denizen of some other world. + +“When I give, I give all,” she said. “You do not understand the people +of my race. We cannot give in driblets--a kiss here, a caress there, +the promise of more to-morrow. God never made us Russians like that. +When I give, it will be the full glory of love. Bring Paul back to me +and you may know what that can mean.” + +Gerald rose to his feet. + +“I should go to my task a stronger man,” he complained, a little +bitterly, “if you could throw me the dole one might give to a beggar.” + +She gave him her finger tips. She was standing by his side, so near +that the desire to hold her in his arms and take from her lips the one +kiss he craved was almost irresistible. At that moment he almost hated +her. + +“Haven’t you even the grace to pretend?” he muttered. + +She laughed, wringing her fingers slightly as though his lips had +seared them. + +“You have been spoilt,” she murmured. “The women you have played with +have been your too willing slaves. A trifle of homage, a trifle of +philandering, a few shadowy caresses--that is all you have known of +love.--Wait!” + +Gerald spent that afternoon in the City, the next few days in making +restless preparations for his absence from London. On the afternoon of +the last day, he was permitted to see Reusser, and he recognised in +him at once the man whom he had seen watching over Madame de Ponière +and her niece in Hyde Park. The meeting took place in the sitting room +of the South Kensington hotel. Reusser, who leaned heavily upon two +sticks, was brought thither by a tall youth, his son, who waited for +him outside the door. He was as thin as a skeleton, his cheeks were +sunken, and every now and then his voice seemed to die away. + +“It is my first day out of the hospital,” he told Gerald +apologetically. “I caught cold on the way back, and my lungs are not +good. Please ask what questions you desire. I am subject to attacks of +weakness.” + +“I understand,” Gerald said, “that you reached Sokar?” + +“I reached it,” he admitted, “but, alas! I was powerless to act. I +took with me every penny of money we could scrape together, but by +the time I reached the city I was penniless. I lodged at the house of +a saddler, whose name you will find in the book I have given you. +He took me to look at the fortress. He showed me the room where the +brother of Mademoiselle lies. He told me much about Major Krossneys, +the commandant of the fortress. But of what avail was it? We had not +enough money between us to pay for a bottle of wine.” + +“How do you propose,” Gerald enquired, “that I approach Krossneys?” + +“The way is arranged,” Reusser replied eagerly. “There is a woman +living in the town, half German, half English. Her name is Elsa +Francks. To-day Krossneys is her slave. You go first to her. Her +address is in the little book you have. She speaks English and French, +besides her own language; even some Russian. Talk to her frankly. She +will bring you to Krossneys. There is one thing, though. You must go as +an American. No one will do anything to help you, although they are all +greedy for money, if they think that you are English. It will be quite +easy, that. There are many Americans in Russia, prospecting. There is a +great oil field on the plains south of Kreussner. Some say there is oil +there; others deny it. That is how your bribes must be worked. You will +buy property. It will be worth nothing. You will find that Krossneys +has land to sell; so has Elsa.” + +“I understand,” Gerald said. + +“You leave to-morrow?” + +“At ten o’clock from King’s Cross,” Gerald assented. “The boat leaves +at night.” + +Reusser raised his right hand. + +“The Father of God speed you!” he said. “Speed is very necessary. The +Government has kept that young man alive, hoping that some day he would +be useful as a bribe or a hostage, but there are still many fanatics +in Russia, haters of his race, who would tear him limb from limb if +they knew.” + +“I shall be in Petrograd in a fortnight,” Gerald declared, “and at +Sokar, I hope, a few days later.” + +Reusser once more raised his hand and muttered inaudible words. +Nevertheless, though his strength seemed departed, he tried to kneel +when Pauline came into the room. She raised him to his feet and called +to his son. + +“All is well,” she said, dismissing them. “Take care of your strength, +Reusser. You must be one of the first to welcome him.” + +The man bowed his head and prayed silently. Then his son led him away. + +Gerald also rose to his feet. He had nerved himself for this interview. + +“I shall have the pleasure of wishing Madame farewell?” he asked. + +“My aunt sends you her excuses and her prayers,” Pauline replied. “She +is too agitated to risk a meeting. You do not quite know what this +means to us.” + +“I know,” Gerald said, “what its results may mean to me.” + +She looked at him a little sadly. + +“My unhappy country,” she sighed, “is to-day only a furnace of woe +and suffering, yet in the jumble of it there are a few millions still +who would kneel through the night and pray for you, if they knew your +mission. I bid you farewell, Gerald, and every throb of my body will +live with you. I have sworn that no word of love shall pass my lips, +nor any feeling of love linger in my heart, so long as my brother lies +in that fortress. But I am here. I would give you anything that would +speed you on your journey. It is for you to choose.” + +She stood perfectly passive, her arms hanging by her sides. Her eyes +looked sadly into his, her lips were composed and still. For a moment +the fires burned in his blood. He took a quick step forward. She +waited, unmoved, yet without shrinking. So they faced one another for a +moment. She extended her hand. Gerald seized it, then dropped it. + +“I shall do my best,” he promised hoarsely. “Good-by!” + +She listened to his departing footsteps; she even moved to the window, +watched him leave the hotel and step into his waiting automobile. He +was well enough to look at, good-looking as ever in his slim, lithe +way, and with his fine carriage. Nevertheless, there was neither love +nor pride in her eyes as she watched him. There was something else, +which seemed to point back down the avenues of the history of her +family, something, perhaps, which had sounded the knell of their doom, +generations before. It was there in her lips, in her eyes, spelled out +in her fixed stare,--the cruelty of a race whose heart is given only to +passion. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +Christopher was warmly welcomed at Hinterleys when he made his promised +appearance there, about a fortnight after Gerald’s departure. He would +have preferred postponing his visit altogether but for Gerald’s urgent +request, made on the night before he had started for abroad. It all +seemed very natural, however. Myrtile welcomed him without a shade of +embarrassment, Lady Mary with her usual delightful friendliness, and +Lord Hinterleys with more than his usual hospitality. + +“Any news from the traveller?” Christopher asked, as they sat round the +fire in the hall, before going up to change. + +“Just a telegram yesterday from Petrograd,” Mary replied,--“‘_Arrived +safely. Love._’” + +“Satisfactory so far as it goes,” Christopher remarked. + +“So far as it goes,” Lord Hinterleys grumbled, “but what on earth +Gerald wants to go over to that barbarous country for, at this time of +the year, I can’t possibly imagine. Who are these friends of his, Bent? +Do you know anything about them?” + +“Very little,” Christopher admitted. “I gather that they are Russian +_emigrées_, but really I don’t know a thing more about them. Gerald +seems to have made their acquaintance at Monte Carlo, when they were +occupying the next villa to yours.” + +“I saw them out driving once or twice,” Lord Hinterleys ruminated. +“The girl was beautiful and looked well-born. The aunt might have been +any one.” + +“I think there is no doubt that they are aristocrats,” Christopher +pronounced. + +“Wasn’t there something rather strange about the way they left Monte +Carlo?” Mary enquired, from the depths of her easy-chair. + +“Strange but not discreditable,” he hastened to assure her. “Their +steward had brought them out a large sum of money, which appears to +have been all that they possessed in the world, and instead of handing +it over, he gambled at the tables, lost it and committed suicide. The +two women apparently sold all their jewellery, scrupulously paid their +debts and disappeared. I believe Gerald discovered them living at a +cheap hotel in South Kensington.” + +“Don’t like the type,” Lord Hinterleys muttered. + +“The girl is very attractive,” Myrtile ventured. “I used to see her +driving sometimes with Gerald.” + +“All the same, I can’t see why Gerald wants to go mixing himself up +in their affairs,” his father observed pettishly, “especially in the +middle of the shooting season.” + +“He expects to be back before you shoot the coverts,” Mary reminded +him. “I don’t know the reason for his journey to Russia any more than +you do, but I don’t imagine he’ll want to stop there any longer than he +can help.” + +“I should think not,” Lord Hinterleys grumbled,--“a country of madmen +and anarchists. I expect he’s there on some fool’s errand.” + +“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mary declared, laying down the book which +she had been studying at intervals, “if Gerald didn’t know perfectly +well what he was doing--if he hadn’t, in fact, stumbled upon some +sort of a romance. The only time I have ever seen these two women, +except in the distance at Monte Carlo, was at Ranelagh on a quiet day +after the season was over; I expect Gerald had given them vouchers. +They were walking about the gardens, and I was with Susan Armitage. +Lord Armitage, as you know, was on the Staff at Petrograd in the +old days. We met them crossing the lawn and I heard Susan give a +little exclamation. Then she stopped quite short and stood almost to +attention, looking steadfastly at the girl. I am perfectly certain that +she was going to curtsey. I could see it in her eye. And I am perfectly +certain, too, that this Madame de Ponière and her niece knew who she +was. They took not the slightest notice, however, so Susan unbent and +came along.” + +“But surely you asked her who they were?” Lord Hinterleys enquired. + +“Of course I did,” Mary assented. “Susan, however, was exceedingly +mysterious. Since Jack began to fancy himself a diplomatist, she apes +all his little ways. ‘I may be mistaken, my dear,’ she said. ‘In any +case, the ladies did not desire to be recognised.’ I pressed her hard, +but she wouldn’t even tell me who she thought they were. Before that I +had asked Gerald if he would like me to go and see them, but he told me +they were in great trouble and were not receiving anybody at present.” + +“This is all very well and charitable and that sort of thing,” her +father remarked, “but I don’t quite see why Gerald should have had to +raise thirty thousand pounds within the last few weeks.” + +“Frankly, I cannot think that these two women are responsible for it,” +Mary declared. “Gerald told me, the day before he left, that they were +still living in that poky little South Kensington place.” + +“Young men are much better married, anyway,” Lord Hinterleys growled. +“Why don’t you get married, Christopher? You could afford to, and a man +like you, with a political future, needs a wife.” + +Christopher smiled imperturbably. + +“Give me time, sir,” he begged. “It’s different with Gerald. He has the +estates, and very little else to think about.” + +“Gerald’s an ass,” was the irritable reply. “He’s too fond of women +to understand them, or even to realise when he comes across the right +thing.” + +“Gerald may have his faults,” his sister observed, “but at least he has +spared us the usual musical comedy infliction. There goes the gong. +Christopher, come into my room for a moment and I’ll show you those +photographs.” + +They trooped up the great oak staircase, and Mary led their guest into +her own little boudoir. She closed the door carefully behind them. + +“Christopher,” she said, “I am so glad you came. Honestly, I am anxious +about Gerald. He came to see you, didn’t he, the night before he +sailed?” + +“He did,” was the cautious admission. + +“He must have told you a little more than he told us,” she went on. + +“Very little,” Christopher assured her. “He mumbled something about +Russia being an uncertain country just now, and got me round to his +rooms to witness his will. Of course, I don’t think there was any +secret that he was going over on business connected with these two new +friends of his. What that business is, though, I haven’t the slightest +idea.” + +“Honest?” + +“Honest! If I were to make a guess, I should say he was going over to +see if he could do anything about their estates, if they have any. On +the other hand, if he’d been doing that, I should have expected him to +have taken a lawyer.” + +“Gerald in matters of business,” his sister sighed, “is a perfect +idiot. I hope he isn’t going to get himself into trouble.” + +“Well, they can’t eat him,” Christopher declared consolingly, “and +they seem to have left off murdering people, at any rate for the +present. Besides, they have common sense enough to know that molesting +Englishmen is an expensive amusement, even in Russia.” + +“You’re a dear, cheering-up sort of person,” Mary said gratefully. +“And, Christopher, I haven’t had an opportunity of saying so before, +but I am still very sorry.” + +“Thank you, Mary.” + +“You’ll have another try, I suppose? You’re a tenacious person.” + +He shook his head. + +“Never,” he answered firmly. “Myrtile is a strange little creature, but +she was cast in the mould of all good women. She loves Gerald, and so +long as she lives she will never love anybody else.” + +“And Gerald----” Mary murmured. + +“Gerald will never love any one,” Christopher interrupted, “not unless +something changes him--trouble or some great disaster. It’s quite +hopeless, Mary, and I know it. I have sealed the chamber down tight, +and here I am, as you see, very much as usual.” + +She pressed his arm. + +“Dear old Christopher!--You’ll find you’re in the oak room at the end +of the corridor, as usual. Howson, Gerald’s servant, is down here doing +nothing. He will look after you. After dinner you must tell me about +the election. I am so interested, and so is dad, when he can spare a +moment from thinking about his pheasants. He is certain to insist upon +Myrtile’s reading to him after dinner, and you and I will knock the +balls about in the billiard room.” + +Christopher would have been less than human if he had not realised the +pleasure of having a very charming and attractive young woman, who was +also his hostess, keenly interested in the one subject which was just +then absorbing the whole of his time and attention. Mary knew a great +deal about politics, and her shrewd comments were not only sympathetic +but at times fairly helpful. They were left undisturbed throughout +the whole of the evening in the billiard room, and Christopher was +surprised at the ease with which he forgot that slim, frail figure +with the haunting eyes and tremulous smile, who had sat opposite him +at dinner. There is something about inevitability which sets its mark +upon all enterprise and sensation. He knew perfectly well that Myrtile +would never alter. She was as far removed from him as though she had +become a beautiful picture or an exquisite piece of statuary. The +conviction itself had a certain soothing effect. No man was ever known +to sigh his heart out for the unattainable. With the merest chance +of some alteration in her feelings, he would have been a persistent +and unchanging lover. There was no chance, and he knew it. The +disappointment was there, a dull pain in his heart whenever he thought +of certain chambers in the building of that house of his future. But it +was a pain of the past, a pain from which frequent escape was at least +possible. He found the coming of the footman with whisky and soda that +night unwelcome and surprising. + +“Eleven o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Why, what has become of the evening?” + +“Flatterer!” she laughed. “Never mind, I was just thinking the same +myself. One game of billiards, and then to bed. You’ll have a long day +to-morrow, for you’re walking in the morning, at any rate, and dad +always relies upon you to do the outsides.--Here’s Myrtile come to wish +us good night.” + +“Haven’t you people played yet?” Myrtile enquired, looking at the +unused table in surprise. + +“Not yet,” Christopher replied. “Lady Mary and I have been talking +politics.” + +Myrtile made a little grimace. + +“Politics!” she sighed. “Lord Hinterleys has tried to explain English +politics to me, but I think that I am stupid. I do not think that I +have ever heard of anything quite so dull.--Good night to you both. I +am going to bed.” + +She waved her hand and disappeared. Mary looked after her thoughtfully. + +“Sometimes,” she said, “Myrtile presents herself to one as a problem. I +wonder whether it is really for their happiness to transplant any one.” + +“Don’t you think that Myrtile is happy?” Christopher asked. + +Mary shook her head. + +“No girl is really happy without love in her life,” she declared. “You +can realise for yourself how little chance Myrtile has of ever being +rewarded for her devotion.” + +He frowned. + +“Poor child!” he said. “But aren’t you a little sweeping, Mary? There +are lots of girls who seem to get everything they want in life, and +to be perfectly happy without a man--without caring for any one in +particular, that is. Yourself, for instance?” + +Mary selected a cue with great care. + +“I suppose I am an exception,” she admitted. “Come along, I’ll play you +one fifty up before I go to bed.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +Gerald, worn out with long and comfortless travel, pulled the long, +iron bell outside the closed door of Elsa Francks’ house in Sokar, with +a sense of relief that the first part of his quest was accomplished. +The street was one which formerly had been possessed of some +pretensions. The houses were tall, solidly built, and had apparently +been occupied by a wealthy class of merchant. They were now mostly let +out in tenements. Exactly opposite where Gerald stood waiting, men +and women--shrunken-looking creatures, most of them--were continually +passing in and out of a broad entrance, from which the gates had been +done away with altogether, with sacks or baskets of partly finished +boots, and the sound of fitful hammering seemed to denote a factory +devoid of machinery. In the centre of the road were some rusty rails, +around which some grass was growing,--the remains of an electric car +service. Most of the houses seemed empty or over-full,--locked and +barred, with broken window frames and closed shutters, or converted +into tenement houses. The long street, full of holes and strewn +with all manner of refuse, ended in a steep hill. Way beyond it, +the so-called fortress, a sinister, grey building of many stories, +glittered in the afternoon sun. + +The door in front of which Gerald was standing was suddenly opened. +A dark-visaged, corpulent woman, dressed apparently in nothing but a +petticoat and shawl, thrust out her head. Gerald handed her a card, on +which, through the friendly offices of the hotel porter, was inscribed +his desire to see Madame Francks. The woman turned it over, looked +Gerald up and down with wide-mouthed astonishment, and finally motioned +him to enter. As soon as he had done so and stepped into the little +cobbled courtyard, she drew the bolt and muttered something which he +understood as an invitation to follow her. She pushed open a heavy door +on the right, and they ascended a gloomy staircase. The atmosphere was +close, almost stifling. There seemed to be no window, or any means of +giving light or ventilation. Arrived on the first floor, she threw open +the door of a room and departed, with a wholly incomprehensible grunt. +Outside, she began to shout, apparently through the door of another +apartment. There was a vigorous duet, the other voice shriller but +scarcely more pleasant. Then there was silence, followed by the sound +of some one moving about in the adjoining room. + +Gerald took a seat upon a couch, upholstered in stained purple velvet, +over which several soiled coverings of imitation lace had been thrown. +The room itself was large and lofty, but scantily furnished. There was +a huge undecorated stove in one corner, which, notwithstanding the +heat of the day, already exuded fumes of burning coke. The polished +floor was innocent of any rug or carpet, and covered with stains +and fragments of cigarettes and cigars. There was a piano, littered +with soiled and torn copies of music, in a distant corner, a small +gramophone with black enamel mouthpiece, blistered by the continual +heat of the room. The walls were hung with the faded remains of some +former attempt at decoration. The windows were covered with a sort of +wire netting, which kept out alike light and air. There was everywhere +an odour of stale tobacco smoke, mingled with a strange smell of cheap +incense or crude perfume of some sort. Gerald, exceedingly sensitive to +surroundings, felt a momentary faintness as he sat and waited for the +woman whom he had come to visit. He began to fidget in his place. He +walked up and down. He was even meditating an attack upon one of the +window fastenings, when he was aware of the sound of heavy footsteps +outside. The door was opened. A woman entered and came towards him with +an enquiring expression upon her face. + +It seemed to Gerald that the newcomer alone was needed to complete the +squalour of his surroundings. She was a big woman, coarsely built, +and with indications of obesity. She wore a dressing gown of some +red material, trimmed with soiled white fur and fastened round her +waist with a girdle. Her hair was a bright yellow, abundant but badly +arranged. It lay in loose coils upon the top of her head, fastened +with some flamboyant ornament. Her features were not ill-shaped, but +were partly concealed under a thick coating of powder. She had eyes of +a peculiarly light blue shade, large and saucer-like when she first +entered the room, but with a habit of narrowing at intervals. She spoke +in English, with a strong German accent. + +“You wish to see me, sir? I am Elsa Francks.” + +Gerald rose to his feet and bowed. + +“Madame,” he said, “I have found my way here under the name of Harmon +P. Cross. I have told every one that I am an American, looking for an +opportunity to invest money. That story is not true. It is my wish, if +you will allow me, to be perfectly candid with you?” + +“You can sit down,” she invited, regarding Gerald with suspicion not +unmixed with favour. “I will hear what you have to say.” + +She threw herself in a lump at the far end of the sofa, and pointed to +a battered horsehair easy-chair. + +“Bring that to the side of me,” she continued. “I do not hear very well +and it is some time since I listened to English. Tell me what you want?” + +“I have a further confession to make,” Gerald began. “I am an +Englishman.” + +“There are Englishmen and Englishmen,” she said indulgently. “Some are +different from others. You are not like those whom our officers have +had to correct in the streets and cafés of Berlin. Now what is your +business, please?” + +“It is very difficult to state,” Gerald admitted frankly, “and I am +only emboldened to approach you because in these difficult times, and +in Russia especially, one needs money. If you will do me a service, I +can find you a great deal of money.” + +Gerald’s methods had at any rate succeeded in exciting the interest of +the woman he had come to visit. Her becarmined lips were parted; her +pale eyes were filled with the light of cupidity. + +“There is not much we would not do for money, nowadays, over here,” she +declared, laughing hardly. “You are a very interesting man. Go on.” + +“Major Ivan Krossneys is a friend of yours,” Gerald said. + +“Ho, ho!” the woman laughed. “So you dabble in politics, eh? Never +mind, Krossneys is my friend. What of it?” + +“He is the Governor of the fortress here,” Gerald went on. “He has a +great number of prisoners under his care.” + +“One hundred and thirty-seven,” Elsa Francks replied promptly. “I see +some of them exercising when I am at the fortress. What he keeps them +alive for, I cannot imagine. They crawl about the yard like lice. What +about these prisoners?” + +Gerald moved his chair a little nearer. The woman smiled at him +graciously. + +“If one of them should escape,” he remarked significantly, “there would +be a great deal of money.” + +“What do you call a great deal of money?” she asked. + +“I do not bargain,” Gerald replied. “I know very well that the escape +of a prisoner is a serious thing. I have at my disposal the sum of ten +thousand pounds.” + +The woman started so that she nearly rolled off the sofa. She sat +suddenly upright. She was too stupefied for emotion. + +“Ten thousand pounds?” she almost shrieked. “Why, it is two million +roubles! Ivan Krossneys would sell you his whole batch of prisoners +for that, and throw the fortress in! Why, if it rested with me,” she +went on, “you could have Krossneys as well, for a quarter of that. Talk +sense, please! There is not an Englishman there. Of that I am certain.” + +“The prisoner whose liberty I desire to buy,” Gerald confided, “is a +Russian. I do not know under what name he passes, but his number is +twenty-nine.” + +Elsa Francks rose to her feet, opened the door and shouted to her maid +in Russian. Then she took up a battered telephone instrument. + +“I will speak with the Major,” she said. “I am the only civilian in +the town with a telephone. It is a great favour. You can wait whilst I +speak with him.” + +There was a good deal of delay before she was connected, and a further +delay before the person with whom she desired to speak arrived. In +time, however, the conversation was finished, apparently to her +satisfaction. She set down the instrument. + +“The Governor is on his way down,” she announced triumphantly. “Come, +we will see to this little affair quickly. You can remain.” + +The maid entered the room, carrying a tray on which were bottles of +beer and glasses. The woman eyed them with satisfaction. + +“You are not Russian,” she said, “so I do not offer you the samovar. +Beer every one drinks--the English especially. That is so, is it not?” + +“That is so,” Gerald admitted. “I shall drink to your good health, +Madame.” + +“You may call me Elsa,” she invited graciously, coming over to his +side with a glass in her hand. “We will drink to the success of our +enterprise.” + +Gerald accepted the glass and exchanged courteous amenities with his +hostess. She eyed him with growing favour. + +“It is a pity that you are not staying longer,” she observed. “We might +become friends. Who knows?” + +“In that case,” Gerald replied gallantly, “I might have to quarrel with +Major Krossneys, and that would not do at all.” + +She snapped her pudgy fingers. A man who had ten thousand pounds to +dispose of! What was Krossneys! + +“Do you think,” she scoffed, “that I shall stay here with him if I +can get hold of half that sum you spoke of? Not I! I shall choose a +different companion. I shall go to Monte Carlo. I shall never enter +this accursed country again. Even to think of leaving it makes me +giddy with happiness. It will be you who will be my deliverer. Let us +drink again together.” + +“Perhaps,” Gerald suggested, “the Governor will not give up his +prisoner.” + +Her exclamation of contempt was almost a shout. The very idea, while +she scouted it as ridiculous, seemed to infuriate her. + +“Give him up? Of course he will give him up!” she declared. “If he +refused--why, I would take him by the beard--I would kill him!” + +Her eyes were lit with cruelty. The snarl of an animal of prey twisted +her lips. Then she burst into a fit of laughter. + +“Why do I make myself furious?” she exclaimed. “Why, Ivan would sell +every one of his hundred and thirty-seven prisoners for a tenth part of +the money you speak of! Come, let us be gay. I will put something on +the gramophone. You shall dance with me, yes?” + +“What about His Excellency the Governor?” Gerald asked. + +The woman made a little grimace. + +“You are perhaps right,” she acquiesced. “One must wait--wait until +everything is arranged. After that I shall snap my fingers at Ivan. He +wearies me, and he is an old man. Will you take me out of the country, +my friend? We might go into Poland--I have friends at Warsaw.” + +There were heavy steps outside. She held up her hand as though to warn +him. + +“It is the Governor,” she announced. “It is Ivan Krossneys who arrives. +Mind, he is very jealous. Be careful.” + +Gerald, with all his nerves on edge, was yet able to indulge for a +moment in a grim smile. The door was opened. The maid poked her head +in and muttered something unintelligible. Close behind her entered the +Governor of the fortress. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +The Governor was a large, corpulent, untidy-looking man in an +ill-fitting uniform, with coarse features and a straggling beard. He +clicked his heels together and made some pretence at a military salute, +as Elsa introduced her visitor. She whispered a word or two apart +with him in Russian, and then continued in French, which she spoke +apparently with less ease than English. + +“This gentleman,” she declared, “has a great affair of business to +discuss with you. He was sent here by a friend of mine whose name I +may not give. He is an Englishman pretending to be an American, but +that makes for little. He is entrusted with a great sum of money for a +certain purpose.” + +Into the Governor’s eyes flashed for a moment some reflection of the +cupidity which had gleamed in the woman’s. Money was scarce in Russia; +pay was small and irregular in coming. The thought of money whetted his +interest. + +“Let me hear what this gentleman has to say,” he invited. + +“I have come with a very bold proposition,” Gerald began, “but it is +one which I hope you will consider carefully. You have many prisoners +in your fortress who are detained largely through misfortune. There are +many there whose offences are trivial, who will probably be released +shortly in any case, and who might just as well be free as remain a +charge upon the Government.” + +“You seem to know a great deal about my prisoners,” the Governor +remarked ungraciously. “Many of them are criminals of the worst order.” + +“It is not one of these whom I wish to discuss with you,” Gerald +assured him. “It happens that you have a young man there who is not of +the criminal class at all. He has very wealthy friends.” + +“Ha!” the Governor exclaimed. “How wealthy?” + +The woman broke into the conversation. She gripped her friend by the +arm. + +“Ivan,” she cried, “it is incredible! Do you know the sum which +monsieur speaks of? It takes one’s breath away! He speaks of ten +thousand pounds! It is two million roubles! What do you think of that?” + +“Holy mother of God!” Krossneys muttered. “A prisoner of mine?” + +“A prisoner of yours,” Gerald repeated. “I will be quite frank with +you, sir. I speak, I know, to a man of honour, but I will ask you to +remember that this young man is unconvicted of any crime, and that the +Government by whom he was sent to you is tottering. This is not a bribe +which I am offering you. It is the price of an act of justice. The +money is to be paid in cash.” + +Krossneys was showing now as much agitation as the woman had displayed. +Mingled with his emotion, however, was a fear, signs of which were at +once manifested in the anxiety which distorted his face, the eagerness +of his demand. + +“The number?” he cried. “Tell me the name or the number of the prisoner +you desire?” + +“Number twenty-nine,” Gerald replied. + +The Governor struck the table with his clenched fist, so that the +glasses rattled. + +“A million devils curse and blast you both!” he shouted. + +He kicked a footstool which was close at hand across the room. Then he +flung himself into an easy-chair and sat there with his arms crossed, +glowering at Elsa. The woman gazed at him as though he had suddenly +gone mad. + +“Are you out of your senses, Ivan?” she asked. “Twenty-nine or +thirty-nine--what does it matter? Is not one prisoner like another? Who +comes to visit them? Who knows which cell is empty? Bah!” + +“So you thought you were rich for life, did you, Elsa?” the man in the +chair muttered. “Well, you can just rid yourself of the idea. And as +for you, sir,” he went on, with a malicious glance at Gerald, “you may +think yourself fortunate if you leave this country as easily as you +entered it.” + +The woman drew a little nearer to him. There was the look of a wild +animal in her face. + +“Listen, Ivan!” she cried. “Are you mad? It is a fortune which this +man carries in his hand! What is there amongst the scum that infests +your prisons of account against that? You terrify me. The money is for +us, to be divided. Cash, Ivan! Money to spend--to-morrow--the next +day--every day!” + +“You fool!” the Governor retorted. “Of what use is money when your feet +dangle in the air and your neck is broken? That for you, and a dozen +rifle bullets in my heart! You are a bold man who came to Russia on +such a mission,” he added, glowering at Gerald. + +She turned to her visitor. + +“What does this madman mean?” she demanded. “Who is this prisoner whose +freedom you seek?” + +“I do not know,” Gerald replied. “I am only an emissary.” + +The Governor sat up in his chair. + +“I will tell you,” he declared hoarsely. “Number twenty-nine is all +the fortress records say of him, but his name is Paul, Grand Duke of +Volostok, Prince of Tamboff, hereditary Grand Duke and Ruler of all +the provinces of the Dvina, nephew of Nicholas, the late Tsar, head +of the House of Romanoff,--himself, if the people changed their fancy +to-morrow, Tsar of all the Russias! There, my woman, now you know the +secret of my fortress! You can guess where we might be if I traded with +this lunatic!” + +The woman flopped upon the sofa. She was pale through all her rouge and +powder. Her yellow hair had broken loose from its band of ribbon. Her +dressing gown had fallen away a little from her ample bust. She sat +breathing heavily for several moments. Gerald, of the three, was the +only one who kept his head. + +“All that makes for nothing,” he said calmly. “You excite yourself +greatly for nothing. The Romanoff dynasty is past. There will never be +another Tsar in Russia. This young man has rich friends and they want +him out of the country. I should think your Government would be glad to +be rid of him.” + +Gerald’s words were not without their effect, especially upon the woman. + +“After all,” she muttered, “this man speaks sense. Who cares about +Grand Dukes, nowadays? There are plenty of them who have already +escaped. What does one more or less matter?” + +“But this one--I have told you who he is!” the man growled. + +The woman was beginning to pluck up spirit. She scoffed at him openly. + +“When the people of Russia want the days of Tsardom back again,” she +said, “they will find one of the brood fast enough. But that day will +not come yet. This young man in your fortress is of no account. You +are a fool, Ivan. You cannot see the truth. You have not thought to +yourself what ten thousand pounds may mean.” + +Krossneys sat back in his chair, biting his finger nails. + +“Who are you?” he demanded suddenly. “And where does this money come +from?” + +“My name is Dombey,” Gerald replied. “I have admitted to Madame Francks +that I am an Englishman. This money has been collected in London by +friends and relatives of the young man. The desire for his release has +not the slightest political significance.” + +“And what the devil excuse can I make for letting him go?” + +“I should put one of your less important prisoners into his cell and +say nothing about it,” Gerald suggested. + +“There is an inspector of State prisons,” Krossneys muttered. “He does +not often come, but who knows when he might take it into his head to +pay us a visit?” + +“The last time he was here,” Elsa Francks reminded him, “you met him at +the station and took him to the hotel. Afterwards, you brought him on +here and he was so drunk that he had to stay for two days. He did not +even go near the fortress. Your papers and books were brought down here +for him to sign.” + +“It is true,” Krossneys assented, “yet next time another man might +come. And again, how will this number twenty-nine get safely out of +Russia?” + +“Think less of these difficulties and more of what one could do with +ten thousand pounds,” the woman insisted. “You are not asked, Ivan, to +run a risk for nothing. I say that it is worth it.” + +“For you, yes,” Krossneys sneered, “because you risk nothing and you +have the spending of the money. For me it is different. I have an +official position. I am Governor of the fortress; I wear the uniform of +the Russian Republic.” + +Elsa Francks laughed loudly and scornfully. She pointed jeeringly at +Krossneys. + +“Uniform of the Russian Republic!” she exclaimed. “A pity they didn’t +make it to fit you! Official position, indeed! What do you get out of +it, I should like to know? Would you not starve if it were not for the +contributions of the prisoners themselves?” + +“It is true,” Krossneys assented gloomily. “It is a dog’s life.” + +“And a dog’s country to live it in!” the woman proclaimed. “Listen to +me, Ivan.” + +She sat upon the arm of his chair and talked to him in Russian. Soon it +was evident that he was yielding. She fetched him beer and then spirits +of some sort from a cupboard. Once or twice she turned and winked +stealthily at Gerald. At last she turned towards him in triumph. + +“It is arranged,” she announced. + +“Not so fast,” Krossneys intervened. “Let us hear how this money is to +be paid?” + +“In cash,” Gerald replied. “I have drafts upon your own banks.” + +“Well, well,” Krossneys muttered, “the money is right enough, then. At +ten o’clock to-morrow morning,” he went on, “present yourself at the +fortress. Enquire for me. I shall give you an audience. The affair may +be concluded at once. Get back to your hotel now and be careful not to +speak of your real business.” + +Gerald rose blithely to his feet. The idea of leaving the horrible +atmosphere of that room was undiluted joy to him. He bowed to the +Governor. Elsa took him to the door and, under pretext of calling the +servant, passed out with him into the passage. + +“You can come back later if you like to talk with me again,” she +whispered. “Be careful, though, for he is very jealous.” + +She shouted something to the Russian maid and stepped back into the +room with a meaning smile. Gerald put money into the hand of the woman +who opened the postern gate and stepped into the street with a gasp of +relief. The clear air was wonderful. He drew in great gulps of it as he +made his way along the uneven pavements, stared at by every passer-by. +He could scarcely believe that his task was coming so easily to an end. +If all went well, in twenty-four hours he might be on his way back to +England. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Gerald, after a weary climb out of the town, stood at last, at the +appointed hour on the following morning, before the rusty iron gates +of the fortress. Untidy and neglected though the whole place seemed, +there was still something sinister about the various crude precautions +against the escape of a prisoner. For a quarter of a mile, on the +outside of the walls, not in themselves formidable, everything in the +shape of trees, shrubs or dwellings had been razed to the ground, and +every fifty paces around the walls, on the top of a buttress, was +mounted a machine gun, from which an iron ladder led to the ground. +The walls themselves were about eight feet high, of stone covered with +white plaster. The fortress itself was built of a kind of grey-coloured +brick, a square, solid building, with a curiously unexpected pointed +top. The barred windows were no more than slits. The space of open +ground by which the main building was surrounded was inches deep in +dust. + +A porter in stained and ill-fitting uniform admitted Gerald to the +building, escorted him across the yard, and passed him on to a +duplicate of himself, to whom Gerald once more presented the card which +had obtained him admittance. He was led down a stone passage, which had +apparently neither been cleaned nor swept for months, into a lofty but +bare apartment at the farther end. Krossneys, who was sitting before +a wooden table, apparently expecting him, dismissed the attendant and +motioned Gerald to sit down. He looked at his visitor in unfriendly +fashion. + +“Why did you not come to me direct instead of going to Elsa Francks?” +he demanded. + +Gerald was not unprepared for the question. + +“I knew your reputation as a soldier and a man of honour,” he replied. +“I feared that unless this matter was put to you in the proper light, +tactfully, as a woman can put it, you would have nothing to say to me.” + +The Governor grunted. + +“It was a mistake,” he declared sourly. “The woman is greedy. She will +demand her full share of the money. It is scarcely justice.” + +“I am sorry,” Gerald said. “I acted as I was advised.” + +“Supposing I accede,” Krossneys went on, after a short pause, “how do +you propose to get Number Twenty-nine out of the country?” + +“I was hoping,” Gerald admitted, “that you might have been able to help +with some suggestion.” + +The Governor stroked his beard. + +“Suggestions,” he muttered, “are worth money.” + +Gerald acquiesced. + +“I have not command of much more than the amount I spoke of,” he +said, “but if you can show me how to get our friend safely out of the +country, I will add a thousand pounds to your share.” + +“Which sum,” the Governor insisted quickly, “will not be mentioned to +Elsa Francks and will belong to me alone.” + +“Agreed,” Gerald acquiesced. + +“Show me your papers,” the Governor demanded. + +Gerald produced them without hesitation,--his passport, an urgent +letter of recommendation by the one statesman who was in good odour in +both countries, banker’s drafts, which needed only his signature to +produce a never-ending flow of cash. The Governor’s eyes glittered as +he turned them over in his hand. It was horrible that a share of these +treasures must go to the woman! She was well enough under his thumb, +the slave of his command, but with money in her pocket--they were +neither of them in their first youth, but, so far as looks went, in his +eyes she still had charm--if she were independent of him, all sorts of +things might happen. He threw down the documents with a little oath. +The passport, however, he kept in his hand. His manner, as he looked at +Gerald, changed. He became almost servile. + +“You, too, are an aristocrat, then,” he remarked. + +“I am of the English aristocracy,” Gerald admitted. “I have another +passport in my pocket, which proclaims me an American citizen.” + +The Governor nodded. He pushed a box of black cigars across to his +visitor. The latter contented himself, however, with accepting a +cigarette. Then he touched a bell. The attendant brought in beer, which +was poured into two glasses. As soon as they were alone, Krossneys +motioned Gerald to draw his chair close to the desk. + +“Now here is my scheme,” he said. “Number Twenty-nine is of your height +and build. You shall see him for yourself and judge. Number One Hundred +and One, also a young man, died yesterday afternoon of malarial fever. +His death has not yet been officially reported. Very good! I take you +to the cell of Number Twenty-nine. You exchange clothes with him. You +give him your American passport. You go in with me to his cell. He +comes out with me. You remain.” + +“The devil I do!” Gerald muttered. + +“Do not be a fool!” the Governor exclaimed impatiently. “I beg your +pardon, Excellency,” he added a moment later, as he remembered his +visitor’s identity. “Your stay there will not be long. I shall explain +in a moment. I drive Number Twenty-nine to a small station on the +line, eleven miles off. I take leave of him there. He is an American +who has bought my oil concessions. The station is in the middle of the +district. My presence with him will remove all suspicions and prevent +their examining the passport too closely. He will travel through to +Petrograd. There, I take it, you have made arrangements.” + +“I have a ship waiting,” Gerald replied. + +“That is my scheme, then.” + +“So far, I approve of it,” Gerald declared, “but what about me?” + +“You will bore yourself for twenty-four hours,” the Governor replied. +“I will see, though, that you have beer and newspapers. If you will, +Elsa can come and see you.” + +“For heaven’s sake, no!” Gerald begged. “I mean,” he added hastily, “I +shall need no society. I am very tired. I shall sleep.” + +“As you will,” the Governor acquiesced. “In the morning, Number One +Hundred and One--I should say his remains--will be carried secretly +down to your cell. You will be moved up to the cell of Number +One Hundred and One. I shall at once report the death of Number +Twenty-nine. He will be buried in the cemetery here before intervention +is possible. Now the question comes how to dispose of you.” + +“I was getting interested in that myself,” Gerald admitted. + +“Number One Hundred and One’s time was up,” the Governor explained. +“He could have gone home last week if he had been strong enough. I +have his papers of release here, signed by myself. To-morrow morning +early, I shall provide you with suitable clothing, and I shall drive +you to the railway station. I myself have leave of absence in my +pocket, granted to me a fortnight ago, but, to be honest with you, +I have not used it because I have had no money with which to enjoy +myself. I shall travel with you myself to Petrograd. You will have +acted as my clerk in the prison, and I take some interest in you. In my +company you are absolutely secure. No one will venture even a question. +Arrived at Petrograd, I will drive with you to the docks, you shall +take me on board your ship, and we will drink a bottle of champagne +together.--What do you think of my plan?” + +“Capital!” Gerald replied. + +“I will conduct you now,” the Governor announced, “to Number +Twenty-nine. We will lock ourselves in his cell. You shall explain +the scheme to him and change clothes. I will bring pen and ink with +me, also the deeds which will put Harmon P. Cross in possession of my +oil properties. You shall pay over the drafts. After that you must be +patient.” + +“I am ready,” Gerald declared, rising to his feet. + +Krossneys unlocked a drawer and took out a bunch of keys which shone +like silver,--the only clean thing, it seemed to Gerald, that he had +seen in the prison. They tramped up two flights of stone steps. + +“I am a humane man,” the Governor said, “and it does not please me to +turn my prisoners into vermin. I have cells underground, without light +or air, which were used by my predecessors. I have had them blocked up. +You will find it not so terrible here.” + +They had reached a long, whitewashed passage with arched roof. The +Governor dismissed the attendant who had followed them, inserted the +key into the lock of the door over which “29” was painted in black +letters, and entered himself, motioning Gerald to follow him. + +In the sudden sombre twilight of the cell, Gerald’s first impressions +were that a man opposite had hanged himself against the wall. At their +entrance, however, the figure dropped to the ground, releasing his +clutch of the rusty bars to which he had been clinging. A tall, thin +young man, with sunken cheeks, long, unkempt hair, and eyes a little +more than ordinarily bright, stood gazing at them. His clothes seemed +to be the remains of a prison uniform. The trousers, always too short, +had worn away at the bottom of the legs, and he wore neither socks nor +shoes. He stared at the two men--at Gerald especially--in wonder, but +remained silent. + +“You speak English?” Gerald enquired. + +Number Twenty-nine shook his head. + +“I speak French better,” he replied. + +“What were you doing when we came in?” the Governor asked. + +Number Twenty-nine smiled wanly. + +“For an hour every day,” he told them, “sometimes for more, I spring +till I catch those bars, and I hang on until I am tired. I can always +see the sky; sometimes, if I am feeling strong, I can lift myself so +that I see a little of the country.” + +“Well, you have something better to do now,” the Governor declared. +“You were a man when you were brought in. I have seen you play a +man’s part. Remember, if you faint or do anything foolish, you spoil +everything. Set your teeth and take off your clothes. You are going to +be set at liberty.” + +Number Twenty-nine scarcely faltered. + +“I am to be shot, I suppose,” he said coolly. “I trust that your +warders are better marksmen than they are soldiers.” + +“There is a long story,” Gerald intervened, “of which the Governor +will tell you as much as he chooses. I am an Englishman, sent here by +relatives of yours. I have been able to arrange for your freedom. In a +few days’ time, you will be steaming for England.” + +“Cut it short,” the Governor interrupted. “I will do all the +explaining.” + +Gerald took a letter from his pocketbook. + +“Read that letter,” he invited. “It is from Pauline. She is my friend. +I am Lord Dombey, an Englishman. We shall meet at Petrograd later. +On the steamer I will explain everything. Meanwhile, take off your +clothes. You will have to wear mine for a couple of days.” + +The young man took off his coat almost mechanically. His shirt was +ragged. He had apparently no underclothes. His fingers began to shake. + +“I cannot,” he faltered. + +“But it is necessary,” Gerald assured him. “See, I am half undressed +myself.” + +He took off his coat and waistcoat. At the sight of his silk +underclothes, the other man began suddenly to sob. + +“I--I have had no water here for a fortnight,” he groaned. + +Gerald looked him in the eyes. + +“We’ve done campaigning, both of us,” he said. “I read of you when you +led your regiment into Germany. I was in a trench myself for five days +at a stretch. Those things don’t really matter. Five days was quite +long enough there in the mud. We didn’t worry about soap then. Get on +with it, please.” + +Number Twenty-nine closed his eyes as he shed his last garments. Then +he drew on Gerald’s. Presently the Governor laughed. + +“Upon my word,” he declared, “it is better than I thought. I have +ordered the barber into the next cell. He is a prisoner himself, so +there is not much chance of his blabbing. Come along. We will be back +in five minutes,” he added, turning to Gerald. “In time to take your +orders for lunch, eh? Give you time to settle down.” + +They passed out. Gerald felt a queer sense of loneliness as the door +closed behind him. He looked around him half fearfully. Everything was +worse than he had feared. The floor was of concrete, and there was not +a single article of furniture of any description in the room except +a straw mattress already full of holes. The floor had apparently not +been swept for weeks. While he sat there, however, there was the click +of a key in the door and a burly Russian entered. Without a word he +commenced some effort at cleansing the place. When he had finished, +he threw in a rug and disappeared. Gerald breathed a little more +freely. Then he heard footsteps outside again. The Governor and Number +Twenty-nine entered, the latter curiously changed in appearance. + +“By all the Saints,” the Governor chuckled, “I never realised that the +barber was so wonderful a person! This little scheme of mine marches +well. Now, then, for your share.” + +He handed a fountain pen to Gerald, who endorsed the drafts he had +brought, wrote out a further cheque for a thousand pounds, and handed +them, together with his American passport, to Krossneys. The latter +thrust a document into Number Twenty-nine’s pocket. + +“You may not know it,” he said, “but you are now the owner of five +hundred acres of forest where oil may some day be found.” + +He roared with laughter. Neither of the young men moved a muscle. + +“Now, listen, both of you,” he went on, “the only automobile in the +town awaits me outside. We depart in a minute. Say your farewells, +you two. At one o’clock to-morrow morning,” he concluded, turning to +Gerald, “you will be moved into cell ‘101,’ and later you will go to +attend your own funeral. From now until one or perhaps half-past one +to-morrow morning, you will have to make the best of it. I will come +and superintend your removal myself and let you know that all is well.” + +“I shall try to sleep until then,” Gerald announced. “I am very tired.” + +“You shall have a little meal in my office in the intervals of being +changed,” the Governor promised him. “I shall lock the door and no one +will know.--Now, Mr. Harmon P. Cross, please, American speculator who +has bought my oil fields, come with me. I am going to drive you to the +train.” + +Number Twenty-nine held out both his hands to his deliverer. There was +a simple dignity in his few words. + +“Sir,” he said, “I know nothing of you, but my life will not be long +enough for me to express my gratitude. The day after to-morrow----” + +“The day after to-morrow there will be much for us to talk about,” +Gerald interrupted. “What I have done, I have done joyfully. So far, +it has been much easier than I expected.” + +The Governor and his charge took their leave. The door closed behind +them. Gerald heard their footsteps die away on the paved floor. He +threw himself down on the mattress and tried to sleep. It was an +impossible task but there was plenty to think about.--At one o’clock +the same burly Russian entered, bearing a bowl of something which was +half stew, half soup. Gerald smelt it, looked at it, and set it in a +distant corner of the room. Then he walked back and forth, counting +how many paces it took him from wall to wall. Presently, with a throb +of joy, he remembered his cigarette case. He smoked two cigarettes. +Afterwards, he dozed for a little time. Towards evening, he amused +himself trying to make his predecessor’s daily jump. It was not until +the seventh attempt that he succeeded, and then the rust of the bars +cut so deeply into his palms that he let go almost at once. At eight +o’clock, the Russian appeared again with a bowl of soup similar to the +last. Gerald waved it away. + +“Not hungry?” the man asked in German. + +Gerald shook his head. Somehow or other, it was a relief to find that +he was not shut out altogether from communication with the outside +world. + +“You speak German, eh?” he asked. + +The man shook his head. + +“Few words.” + +“Bring me something better to eat,” Gerald begged. “Can’t I have some +beer?” + +The man held out his hand and Gerald filled it with silver. He +disappeared and returned presently with two bottles of beer concealed +in his baggy trousers, and a loaf of bread. + +“Not understand this,” he said, shaking his head. “Where Number +Twenty-nine gone?” + +Gerald shook his head. + +“Better ask no questions until the Governor comes back,” he enjoined. + +“No fear talk,” the man declared with a laugh. “Governor given me +twenty marks. If talk, I get twenty lashes instead. Good night!” + +He departed finally, closing and locking the door behind him. Gerald +ate some bread hungrily and drank the beer. Then for a time he dozed. +When he woke up and looked at his watch, it was twelve o’clock. Very +soon he would begin to expect the Governor. He sat up on the mattress +with his back to the wall. Between twelve and one o’clock he looked +at his watch twenty times. One o’clock came and passed; half-past +one. Then he rose to his feet and began pacing the cell restlessly. +Two o’clock came; half-past. He held his watch in his hand now, to +save himself the continual dragging it out from his pocket. Every few +minutes he stopped to listen. The great fortress apparently slept. +There was no sound anywhere. Only time went on. Three o’clock arrived +and passed--four!--five! Presently streaks of daylight began to appear. +At six o’clock at last there were footsteps outside. The warder entered +once more. This time he carried a jug of hot liquid. + +“Tea,” he announced, “from kitchen. Give me something.” + +Gerald gave him more silver. The tea was the colour of straw and water, +but the faint smell of it was refreshing. + +“Where is the Governor?” he asked. + +The warder shook his head. + +“Not ask questions,” he begged. “Governor not here.” + +Gerald pulled himself together and dismissed the man. He drank the +tea slowly. Once more he sat down on the mattress. The room now was a +little lighter. He could see as far as the opposite wall. He sat down +and waited. Every nerve in his body seemed tingling. He tried to keep +his mind off the subject of what could have happened to detain the +Governor, to turn his thoughts back to England.--He suddenly found +himself by the roadside, watching the mending of the puncture, looking +impatiently along the white ribbon of road which led to Cannes, and, +beyond, to Monte Carlo, where the lights were burning and the violins +were playing their pagan overture. He saw Myrtile’s pale, terrified +face gleaming out against the background of the cypress trees, heard +her pathetic story throbbing in the pine-sweetened stillness. He +remembered their drive. All those things seemed part of another world. +He remembered those few furious moments when Christopher had taken her +from his arms. A faint feeling of shame crept over him as he sat there, +huddled up. Then, with a rush, came the memory which swept everything +else out of his mind. He saw Pauline, felt the disturbance of her +presence, remembered the slow ebbing away of her pride, her first few +kind words, the half-spoken promise. What was there about her, he +wondered vaguely, which had brought him, with all his experience, so +completely to her feet? She had shown him no kindness. She had not even +been gracious. He had read dislike in her eyes more often than any +other feeling. There remained, too, the pitiless truth that all the +favours he had won from her he had bought, indirectly if not directly. +Yet there she was, ruling over his life, the one sweet, dominant +figure, for whose sake he sat in these miserable clothes, a forgotten +figure,--perhaps, even, in danger.--He took out his watch with +trembling fingers. It was ten o’clock. His thoughts mocked him now. He +could find no escape by means of them. He could think of nothing but +the present. Something had gone wrong with their plans. What would it +mean for him? Not a soul in the world knew where he was. If he had a +name at all here, it was the name of the man whom the people of Russia +had once threatened to tear limb from limb. + +At last there came a little stir, an unaccustomed sound of voices. +Presently he heard footsteps outside, the key turned in the lock. +His heart turned sick with disappointment--it was the warder alone! +Gerald dug his hand once more into his pocket. This time he brought +out a note. For some reason or other he was terrified. Even the stolid +features of his visitor seemed disturbed. + +“Where is the Governor?” Gerald demanded. “See, there is this note if +you will go and fetch him.” + +The man returned to the door and shook it to be sure that it was +fastened. Then he came back to Gerald. + +“A strange thing has happened,” he said. “There is a German woman in +the town. Last night the Governor spent at her house. They were both +drunk. They quarrelled. Elsa killed him. The Governor is dead.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +The telegram was brought in to Lady Mary as she sat alone in her little +sitting room, in the hours between tea and the dressing bell,--hours +which, so far as possible, especially during the last few months, she +tried to keep to herself. It had been handed in at a branch office +in the north of London and contained the news for which she had been +waiting: + + Elected majority two thousand heartiest thanks for good wishes. + + CHRISTOPHER. + +Her first impulse was one of genuine pleasure. She started to her +feet, meaning to take it to her father, who was with Myrtile in the +library. Then she stopped short and slowly resumed her seat. That +little orange-coloured form might have meant so much more, so much +food for her ambitions, her natural and proper ambitions for the man +she loved. It might have been such a pledge for the interest of their +life together, such a wonderful life, brimful of movement and colour +in which she, too, might well hope to take a part. In her quiet way, +she had for years looked upon her marriage with Christopher, sooner +or later, as a certainty. Without the slightest desire in any way to +mislead her, Christopher had subconsciously encouraged the idea. She +knew perfectly well that, as soon as his position was a little more +assured, he had intended to ask her to be his wife. It was one of +those pleasant yet wonderful arrangements which seemed to develop +automatically. Christopher was well-born, his friends were her friends, +his disposition accorded with hers. She could never have married an +idle man. Christopher had many a worthy ambition. She was precisely +the wife to further them. Her money and her social influence would +save him years of fruitless labour. He could leave the Bar whenever he +liked, and turn his whole attention to politics.--And now the dream +had crumbled. This slip of paper was nothing but a friendly message, +telling her of the success of a friend with whose career she had no +intimate concern. Her disposition was too kindly not to feel a certain +amount of pleasure at his success, but that very pleasure brought its +shadow of personal grief. She sat looking into the fire, twisting +the little slip of paper in her hands. She knew very well that she +was cursed with that one terrible and self-mortifying virtue, the +unalterable fidelity of the woman who permits in her mind the thought +of one man only and who can never replace him. The very thought of +marriage with any one but Christopher was revolting. It seemed to her, +as she sat there, that she was doomed to a career of lovelessness and +inutility. She might labour in good works till her hair was streaked +with grey and her face lined, and she knew very well the fruitlessness +of all that she would accomplish. The best work of a woman, as she well +knew, is the work done for the man she loves. + +It was perhaps natural that her thoughts should turn to Myrtile. She +wondered for a moment, slowly and painfully, at the instinct which +had warned her of coming trouble when the two young men had told her +of their adventure. She had felt it when first she had seen the +frightened child, whose unspoken appeal for protection had met with so +cold a response from her. She had been conscious of a cruelty wholly +foreign to her nature, in those days at Monte Carlo, whenever the name +of Myrtile was mentioned. She had puzzled Christopher and her brother +alike by her lack of sympathy. Well, she was punished now. The child +had justified all that she had felt. She had robbed her, unconsciously +and unwillingly, of the greatest thing in life. As she sat there, the +telegram crumpled up in her fingers, all that old hardness came back +to her. It seemed to her a bitter thing that this unknown child should +have been brought into the august household in which her own serene +days had been spent, to rob her, the benefactress, of the crown of her +life, to draw the sunshine from her days and send her down to a joyless +grave. For a moment she was on the verge of a passion. She hated +Myrtile, hated the sight of her gentle movements, the thought of her +and all to do with her. She rose to her feet with an unaccustomed fire +in her eyes and swung round--to find that the slight noise which had +disturbed her meditations had been caused by the entrance of Myrtile +herself. + +There are moments when revelation is self-illuminative. This was +one of them. Myrtile, gazing almost in terror into the face of her +benefactress, knew that she was hated, and, with an extraordinary +insight, she knew why. She saw the crumpled up telegraph form; she +guessed at everything which had lain unspoken between them. She closed +the door firmly behind her, came across to Lady Mary’s chair, fell on +her knees and struggled with her sobs. + +“I know! I know!” she cried. “I am very miserable!” + +Mary looked at her coldly and critically. All the natural impulses of +her heart seemed dried up. Even her pride refused to come to her aid. +The truth lay naked between the two. + +“I was a fool not to realise what bringing you here meant,” she said. +“It is too late now. Here is the telegram. Christopher is elected.” + +Myrtile brushed it away. It was a thing of no account. + +“I care nothing for Christopher and you know it,” she declared +passionately. “I do not care whether he is elected or not. Nothing +about him makes any difference to me, or ever will.” + +Myrtile was speaking the truth. To Mary it seemed amazing, but she knew +that it was the truth. + +“It is only a fancy which Christopher has for me,” Myrtile went on. “It +will pass--oh, I am sure that it will pass! Deep down in his heart I +know that there is another feeling.” + +“There was,” Mary agreed. “But for your coming, he would have known it +himself before now.” + +Myrtile shook with the pain of it. + +“But for my coming!” she repeated. “And I have prayed that I might +bring a little happiness to you who have been so good to me!” + +Her anguish was apparent. There was something almost unearthly in the +sorrow which shone out of her eyes. Mary’s heart began to fail her. Her +fingers rested on the top of the other girl’s head. A gleam of coming +kindness shone mistily in her eyes. + +“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. + +“It is my fault that I am alive!” Myrtile moaned. “But listen, please. +I have my plans. I am going away.” + +“What good would that do?” Mary asked doubtfully. + +“It would do great good,” Myrtile declared. “I shall remove myself +altogether. Christopher’s fancy will pass. And besides--I must go.” + +“My father would never spare you,” Mary said, ashamed of the joy with +which the thought filled her. + +“I have thought of everything,” Myrtile insisted. “Lord Hinterleys +has been very kind to me, but he will forget. If he chooses to see me +sometimes, it will be possible. Let me tell you, please. I have a plan. +Only yesterday I heard from the curé. He is back again in the valley. +He is at the church there now. He says, if I need ever to go back, I +can teach at the school. All my people have gone away many, many miles. +My stepfather has a larger farm. I shall go back. I should never have +come away.” + +Mary looked at her searchingly. All the suffering in the world seemed +to be quivering in Myrtile’s sensitive face. She leaned a little +forward towards the kneeling girl. + +“Myrtile,” she whispered, “there is pain in your heart, too.” + +“Oh, God knows it!” Myrtile sobbed. “There will be for ever and ever. +It is for my own sake that I must leave. I thought that love was a +toy, and I laughed to find it in my heart. And now I know that it is a +torment. I want to go back along the road I have come and hide.” + +“We have both been a little foolish,” Mary said kindly. “You looked out +into life, expecting to find happiness, just as children go into the +meadows to pick flowers. And I, too, forgot that happiness only comes +when it is earned.--Now let us try and be sensible. I think that yours +is a very good idea. We shall miss you very much here, but perhaps it +will be best for you to go away for a little time.” + +“I must go,” Myrtile insisted fervently. + +“But teaching?” + +“There is no need for me to teach,” Myrtile declared. “This letter +that I have from the curé, it was written to tell me that my mother’s +brother, who went to Geneva many years ago, has died and left me some +money. An _avocat_ at Toulon has it for me. It is quite a great deal. +I thought that I would buy a small farm and work in the fields there, +work and work until I got brown and hard and grew like those other +peasant girls there, lumps of the earth to which they stoop all the +time. In a way I used to love the farm,” she went on, “when I was +alone--those first few mornings when the fields began to show purple +with the budding violets, and the still evenings when the cypress trees +looked as though they had come out of a box of children’s toys--and the +colours the sunset used to draw out of the mountains, the magentas and +purples, and the pink glow coming in such unexpected places.” + +“Why, you’re positively homesick!” Mary exclaimed. + +“No, I am not homesick,” Myrtile assured her gravely, “but I am like an +animal that has been hurt and wants to limp back to its home. A little +time ago it was different. Every fibre of me longed for escape, to be +where life was. Now I would like to go where I can forget it.” + +Mary sighed. + +“Fortunately,” she said, “you are very young. You will learn soon that +there are many men of Gerald’s type, and that they are not to be taken +too seriously. They have the trick of making you believe what they +want you to believe, and they use it because they must. They are never +quite honest. They are never quite bad. They certainly are not worth a +broken heart.--Now we must take this message down to my father and send +a reply. He does not altogether approve of Christopher’s politics, but +he will be glad to know that he is elected. Afterwards, I will talk to +him about you. I shall have to be very eloquent, for I know he will +hate your going.” + +“If it could be before Gerald comes back,” Myrtile pleaded. + +Mary had even more trouble with her father than she had expected. At +the first mention of Gerald’s name in connection with Myrtile’s desire +to return to France, he stiffened. + +“Mary,” he insisted, “I shall require you to tell me the exact truth as +to this matter.” + +“I will do so,” Mary promised. + +“How much blame is to be attached to Gerald, and precisely what are his +relations with Myrtile?” Lord Hinterleys asked sternly. + +“Gerald is to blame only for thoughtlessness,” she assured him. “He +is a born philanderer, just as Myrtile was born to be a ready victim. +Myrtile loves him, and I am afraid she will never care for any one +else. Other women have to bear their hurts, though, and I dare say she +will get over it.” + +“Gerald is a fool,” his father declared. “Marrying in one’s own class +is well enough in an ordinary way, but--well, there isn’t another woman +like Myrtile in the world. Gerald is an ass not to realise it instead +of going to Russia, risking his life and liberty for the sake of this +Russian girl. I don’t like Russians--never did. You are a person of +common sense, Mary. If you say Myrtile must go, go she must, but I’d +much rather Gerald came to his senses and married her.” + +“Men are rather difficult in that way,” Mary rejoined, a little +bitterly. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +The butler made his announcement to his mistress a little doubtfully. + +“There is a person here, your ladyship, who desires to see you.” + +“What sort of a person?” Lady Mary enquired. + +The butler coughed. + +“A woman, your ladyship. She struck me as being some sort of a +foreigner. She assured me that her business was urgent. I have shown +her into the morning room.” + +Mary rose to her feet at once. + +“A foreigner?” she repeated, with suddenly aroused interest. “Perhaps +she has news of Lord Dombey.” + +Nevertheless, when she entered the little room where Elsa Francks was +waiting, it scarcely seemed likely that news of so fastidious a person +as her brother could come from such a source. Her doubts, however, were +soon set at rest. + +“Are you Lord Dombey’s sister?” the woman asked bluntly, without +offering to move from her chair. + +“I am,” Lady Mary acknowledged at once. “Have you brought news of him?” + +“I have brought him home,” was the unexpected reply. + +“You?” Lady Mary exclaimed. + +The woman laughed coarsely. + +“Yes, me!” she declared. “I have saved his life a dozen times over, as +I dare say he will tell you some day. Even now I do not know why.” + +“But where is he?” Lady Mary demanded. + +“He is safe in the Charing Cross Hospital,” the woman replied, “and if +you want to know all about him, you will give me some wine quickly.” + +Mary, scarcely conscious of what she did, rang the bell. This woman was +certainly the strangest visitor who had ever penetrated the portals of +Hinterleys House. She seemed larger and coarser than ever. Her clothes +were showy, but unbrushed and crumpled as though she had slept in them +for nights; her hair was yellow but untidy. The rouge and powder were +distributed upon her face in ungainly daubs. She breathed an atmosphere +of stale scent. Notwithstanding all these things, she had news of +Gerald, Gerald who for seven months had been lost! Lady Mary waited +eagerly for the butler, who entered the room, full of the confident +anticipation that he would be asked to remove this incongruous visitor. + +“This lady would like some wine,” Lady Mary announced. “Do tell me what +you would prefer?” she added, turning towards her guest. + +“Champagne, if you have it,” was the prompt reply. + +“Bring champagne, Richards,” his mistress directed. “Perhaps you had +better tell his lordship. This lady has brought us news of Lord Dombey.” + +The woman held out her hand. + +“Don’t bring any lordships here,” she begged. “I will tell my story to +you, ma’am. I am very near hysterics myself. To reach here from Sokar +has taken us a month. We tried at seven places on the frontier before +we could get into Poland.” + +“Poland?” Mary exclaimed. “But here is the wine. Do, please, help +yourself.” + +The woman was served with champagne and dry biscuits, which latter she +scornfully rejected. She drank three glasses of champagne, however. +Then she filled a fourth glass for herself and began to talk. + +“How much do you know of your brother’s visit to Russia?” she asked. + +“Only that he went there on some mysterious errand at the instigation +of two ladies, who are, I believe, Russians.” + +“One of them was called Pauline--his sweetheart, eh?” + +“I suppose so,” Mary admitted. + +“Well, here is my story,” Elsa Francks said, draining the contents of +her glass and refilling it. “Remember it, for I shall never tell it +again. It is a story I would like to forget.” + +“I will certainly remember it,” Mary promised. + +“Twelve months ago I went to live at Sokar,” Elsa Francks began. “It +is a miserable place, but I went there to be near my friend Ivan +Krossneys, the Governor of the fortress. In that fortress was confined +a man whom your brother went to Russia to rescue. He came to me to ask +me to help him bribe the Governor. That was in the month of October +last year. He was a very different person then, and I thought that I +liked him very much.” + +The woman sipped her champagne. The warmth of the room, and the wine, +had moistened her face. A little streak of rouge had spread upon her +left cheek. There were black lines under her eyes. Her voice, however, +was stronger. + +“He offered a great deal of money and I agreed to help. I sent for Ivan +and, although he made difficulties, he was easy to persuade. It was +all arranged. The prisoner--Number Twenty-nine, we called him--walked +out of the fortress in your brother’s clothes and with his American +passport. Your brother was to take his place for twenty-four hours. +Then he was to leave the prison in the funeral coach of another +prisoner who had died.” + +“This was seven months ago,” Mary faltered. + +The woman wiped her lips, shivered at the sight of the colour upon her +handkerchief, closed her eyes for a moment and recovered herself. + +“That seven months,” she said deliberately, “has seemed like seven +years, and each year like a lifetime in hell!--Listen. I go on with the +story. Your brother entered the fortress as arranged, changed clothes +with Number Twenty-nine, who walked out of the place and came, without +doubt, to London. Your brother was to spend that night in the fortress. +Krossneys came down to me. We were both excited. It was a great sum of +money which we had been paid, and life in Russia is a horrible burden. +We drank a great deal of wine. The more we drank, the more quarrelsome +Ivan became. He resented having to part with so large a share of the +money to me. We quarrelled. Once or twice we made it up. Then Ivan’s +anger flared out again. In the end, he declared that he would take away +a part of my share. We had a struggle. Somehow or other, his revolver +went off. He went backwards with a groan. He was dead.” + +The woman dabbed at her face. Mary could find no word of any sort. Her +visitor’s eyes seemed fixed in a rigid stare. It was as though she were +living through the scene again. + +“The police came,” she went on. “I was arrested. I told my story. There +were no witnesses. After four days they had to let me go. The moment I +was free I went to the fortress. Ivan’s deputy was taking his place. +He was a man of a different type, a politician, a Bolshevist from +conviction. Every time he mentioned Number Twenty-nine, he spat. I had +much trouble with him.” + +“Go on,” Mary begged, glancing at the clock. + +“You need not worry about your brother,” Elsa Francks said. “He +will not know you when you go to see him. He has forgotten most +things.--This man’s name was Ahrensein. I told him the whole truth. I +am quite sure that if he had come into charge of the prison whilst the +real Number Twenty-nine had been there, he would have found some excuse +for having him shot within twenty-four hours. He even told me so. He +was furious at the trick which had been played,--‘But,’ he declared, +‘the Englishman who has put himself in Number Twenty-nine’s place shall +suffer for him!’ I was allowed to see your brother. He had got over +the first shock of what had happened and I found him full of courage. +We discussed several plans for his escape, which, however, we never +carried into effect. I do not believe that any one could have bought +the life of Number Twenty-nine from Ahrensein for a million pounds. +With your brother, however, it was different. In the end, I made +over to him one of your brother’s drafts--one I took back from Ivan +Krossneys after he was dead--cashed one of the smaller ones, and one +dark night we drove away from the fortress.” + +“But this is all so long ago!” Mary exclaimed wonderingly. + +The woman nodded. + +“We were in the train for Petrograd,” she went on, “when I had a +message from Ahrensein, telling me that he was superseded. His +successor had arrived, and was holding an enquiry into the escape of +Number Twenty-nine. He advised me not to go near Petrograd. We left the +train just as a company of soldiers from the fortress arrived on the +platform. The train was held up and searched. We took a carriage and +drove away, anywhere, away into the plains. We had money but nothing +else. We bought the carriage and horses, bought the driver, body and +soul. Driving by night, resting the horses and hiding ourselves by day, +we travelled a hundred miles southeastwards.” + +“You must tell me the rest another time,” Lady Mary suggested. + +“What I am going to tell you, I shall tell you now or never,” Elsa +Francks answered fiercely. “It won’t be much, I can promise you. When I +leave this house, the story of these months is coming out of my mind, +whether I have to dull it by drink, or even cut it out of my brain.--We +were always in danger, always being tracked. We went short distances by +train. Sometimes we hired carriages. We even travelled for the whole of +one day in an electric car which crawled between two small towns. Seven +times we tried to cross the frontier into Poland, and each time we were +turned back. Once they had heard of us and we were placed under arrest. +Your brother shot two of the guard and we escaped. After that it was +life or death with us. We were passed across the frontier at last in +a spot where the war zone had been. We were scarcely in Poland before +half a regiment of Russians was after us. We were in Poland, however. +We left them fighting. We heard afterwards that the Russians who had +crossed the frontier were wiped out.--We got across Poland, somehow +or other, into Germany. The rest was all discomfort and misery, but +most of the danger was past. Your brother fell ill in Warsaw. Since +then he has been dazed and weak, with a high temperature, and with +fits of unconsciousness. How I got him here, I don’t know. We arrived +at Fenchurch Street this morning. I drove to Charing Cross Hospital +and they took him at once. He was shouting like a madman. Then I drove +here.” + +She poured out the last glass of wine from the bottle and drank it. +Then she rose to her feet. + +“It is a wonderful story, this!” Mary exclaimed. “You must not go away +yet, or, if you do, you must come back again. My father will want to +thank you.” + +“I do not want thanks,” the woman scoffed. “I started out on this +adventure because your brother had paid a great sum of money and +because I had a fancy for him. I have lost that fancy, but I made up my +mind that I would bring your brother home, and I have done it. I do not +wish for any further payment. I have spent your brother’s money freely, +but I have enough left to give me all that I need in life. I do not +like England and I am going away to-day. Is there any further question +you wish to ask?” + +“None that I can think of for the moment,” Lady Mary admitted. “I think +that it was very wonderful of you to run all these risks. You might +have left my brother there and gone away with the money.” + +“I very nearly did,” the woman confessed bluntly. “Many a time, on the +way home, I wished that I had done it. Your brother has a fine courage +at times, but he is a weakling in the ugly places of life. Often when +I dragged him along through the mud, and he had to sleep on a stone +floor, with coarse food to eat, and no wine, he would rather have come +out into the open and fought for his life and ended it. I dare say, +when he recovers, he will be grateful to me. There have been many +times when he has hated me.--Now I will go.” + +She rose to her feet, dabbed more powder on her face and looked at her +hostess a little defiantly. Lady Mary rang the bell. Then she held out +her hand. + +“Thank you very much for bringing Gerald home,” she said. + +Elsa Francks laughed hardly. She refused the hand. + +“You have no need for gratitude,” she said. “I started on the job +because I had a fancy for your brother. When I lost that, I went on +because I am an obstinate woman. As for recompense, I still have a +fortune, but I am glad that these months are over. You can tell your +brother that I took Krossneys’ share of the money as well as my own. +When he comes to think it over, I think he will say I earned it.” + +She followed the butler out of the room. Mary watched her from the +window with fascinated eyes, saw her hail a passing taxicab with her +outstretched umbrella, watched her fling herself into it, put up her +feet on the opposite seat and light a cigarette. She had the air of a +woman who has accomplished a great task. + +Lady Mary rang the bell. + +“The car at once, Richards,” she ordered. “Lord Dombey is in London. I +am going to fetch him home.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +Christopher had taken his seat--had already, indeed, made his maiden +speech--when Gerald left the nursing home into which he had been moved +from the hospital. The doctors, however, were far from satisfied with +his condition. He was still thin, listless in manner, with long periods +of absent-mindedness. He seemed, in a way, to have lost self-control. +Mary, as they drove home together to Hinterleys House, made up her mind +to break the long silence which had existed between them on the subject +of Pauline. + +“Gerald,” she asked, “have you seen or heard anything of the De +Ponières?” + +Gerald turned and looked at her out of his hollow eyes. + +“Nothing,” he confessed. “I wrote from the nursing home six times. I +have had no reply. They must have left the hotel in South Kensington.” + +“Would you like me to try and find out?” + +“It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “I have made up my mind to go there +myself this afternoon.” + +“May I come with you?” she begged. + +“If you like,” he answered half-heartedly. “They won’t be there, +though. I am just hoping that I may hear of them.” + +The hope, however, was not realised. Madame and Mademoiselle had left +the hotel many months ago, and had left no address behind. The hall +porter, encouraged to tell what he knew by Gerald’s liberal tip, showed +a great sheaf of letters which he had been unable to forward. + +“Can’t understand their leaving no address, sir,” he confided. “They +paid their accounts well and regular, gave notice in the usual way, and +just drove off. I asked if they wouldn’t leave an address in case there +should be any letters, but the young lady replied that she would call +round for them when she was in town again.” + +“And she hasn’t been here since?” Lady Mary enquired. + +“Never a sign of her,” the hall porter replied. + +Gerald handed the man his card. + +“It will be worth a five-pound note to you at any time if you should +discover their address,” he said. + +“I’ll let you know within ten minutes, if I can get hold of it, sir,” +the man promised. “I’ve a sort of an idea, though, that we shan’t set +eyes on those two ladies again. The manageress,” he went on, dropping +his voice to a confidential whisper, “wasn’t too sorry to see them go.” + +“Why?” Gerald asked. + +“Well, she don’t like foreigners, to start with,” he explained, +“besides which we were always getting queer sorts of people here asking +about them. Might have been detectives or anything. I’m not saying a +word against them--they always paid their way right and generously--but +there was a queer lot of people watching them all the time.” + +Gerald and his sister drove away from the hotel in silence. + +“You are disappointed?” Mary asked him anxiously. + +“I thought they might have left a message for me,” he admitted. + +“You’ll come down to Hinterleys to-morrow?” + +He shook his head. + +“I must find her,” he announced, in a tone curiously devoid of +enthusiasm or hope. + +Mary said nothing then, but she took him to task that evening. They +had dined tête-à-tête, Lord Hinterleys having already gone down to the +country. For the first time Gerald showed some interest in Myrtile’s +absence. + +“What did you say had become of Myrtile?” he enquired. + +“She has gone back to France,” his sister told him. “She had a little +money left to her, and she wanted to go. I had a letter from her this +morning. She has bought the old farm where you first saw her and is +growing violets.” + +“Why did she want to go back?” Gerald persisted. “You were all kind to +her, I hope?” + +“We all tried to be,” Mary answered. “Dad misses her terribly.--Why, +here’s Christopher!” she broke off suddenly. “Whatever are you doing, +neglecting your duties in this manner?” she asked, as Christopher, +still in morning clothes, was shown in by the butler. + +“I’ve come to beg for some dinner,” was the smiling reply, “and +incidentally to welcome Gerald back.” + +Mary coloured a little with pleasure. The butler was already arranging +another place. + +“It’s awfully nice of you, Christopher,” she said. + +“Very good of you to take me in like this,” he replied. “There’s +nothing doing at the House, and I felt sure you two would be alone. I +should think you must have been about fed up with that nursing home, +Gerald.” + +“I’m fed up with everything,” Gerald replied, a little wearily. “The +doctors say I’m all right again, but I don’t know. I can’t sleep, and +there seems to be an empty place in my head, somehow. If I begin to +think, I get the jim-jams. Give me some champagne, Richards.” + +“The country for you, my boy,” Christopher declared. “If I were Mary, +I’d take you down to-morrow.” + +Gerald shook his head. + +“I’ve something to do first,” he said. “By the bye, you know about +Myrtile, I suppose? She’s gone back to the little farm.” + +Christopher nodded. Mary, who was watching him closely, fancied that +his indifference was almost natural. + +“Queer thing,” he observed, “to think that she should end up there, +after all. I wonder whether she blesses or curses us, Gerald, for +taking her to the end of the road.” + +Gerald sighed a little wearily. + +“Curses us, I should think,” he replied. “All knowledge is pain; so is +memory. Last night I woke up suddenly and I remembered fighting with +that great brute on the Polish frontier.--Did Elsa tell you about the +man I killed there?” he asked, frowning. + +Mary rose abruptly to her feet. + +“Remember the doctor’s orders,” she insisted. “The last twelve +months are taboo. There are worse things in the world than killing +Bolshevists, anyhow.” + +“The chap had some one who was fond of him, I suppose,” Gerald said +gloomily. “You ought to have seen that woman who brought me home, +Christopher. I can’t get the thought of her out of my brain. The first +time I saw her, I went to persuade her to bribe her lover, Krossneys. I +thought her the coarsest, most brutal, most ungainly creature who ever +abused the name of Woman. Then I saw her month after month, playing +a man’s part. She lied, she swore, she fought,--fought with her fists +if there was nothing else handy; she drank; once she almost carried me +over a mile of marshland, with some outpost sentries sniping at us all +the time. She was a hideous, glorious, epic figure. There was a man +whom we both knew to be a spy and on my tracks. I saw her wheedle him +into her room. Two minutes afterwards, his blood was streaming out from +under the door.” + +“Gerald!” his sister entreated. + +“All right,” he muttered. “I’m not sure that it doesn’t do me good to +talk of these things. They’ve been a silent horror with me for so long.” + +Later, the doctor called to see Gerald, and Christopher led Mary across +the hall into the billiard room. + +“Mary,” he confided, as soon as he had closed the door, “I had a reason +for coming round to-night. I have seen the girl.” + +“Where?” Mary asked breathlessly. + +“Here in London. They were opening the gates of Marlborough House as I +came along Pall Mall, and I was stopped for a moment on the pavement. +A small brougham came out. The windows were closed, but I was within a +few feet of it. The girl was inside with a young man.” + +“If only you could have found out where they went to!” Mary exclaimed. +“Gerald will never be better until he has seen her.” + +“He can do that when he likes, then,” Christopher replied. “I jumped +into a taxi and followed the carriage. It drew up before quite a small, +detached house at the back of Roehampton Lane. I jumped out of my taxi +quickly, and I was just in time to stop her as she was entering the +gate.” + +“Go on,” Mary begged. “This is exciting.” + +“She recognised me at once,” Christopher went on, “and she made no +attempt to get away. I told her that I was Gerald’s friend and that he +was looking for her. ‘You can tell him,’ she replied, ‘that he can find +me here.’” + +“What did the young man say?” + +“Nothing at all. He was very good-looking in his way, a great strong +fellow, but he looked as though he had been ill.--What are you going to +do about this? Are you going to tell Gerald?” + +She nodded. + +“I think so. I don’t believe this girl means to marry him. It is much +better, however, that he knows the exact position.” + +“I wrote down the address and here it is,” Christopher said, handing +her a card. “If I can be of any use----” + +“You dear man!” she exclaimed. “We must leave it to Gerald. I hope that +he will let me go with him. I think he ought to find out just where he +stands at once.” + +“I am not going back to the House,” Christopher remarked. “Could we +have one game of billiards?” + +“I should love it,” she answered. “Gerald will come and look for us as +soon as he has finished with the doctor. You used to give me fifteen, +wasn’t it?” + +Gerald came in presently and sat watching them a little listlessly. +When the game, which Mary won with some ease, came to an end, she went +over and seated herself by her brother’s side. + +“Gerald,” she said, “Christopher has discovered Pauline’s address. It +is quite close by here. You must go and see her to-morrow. Would you +like either of us to come with you?” + +Gerald began to tremble. + +“She is here--in London--all right?” he demanded. + +“Absolutely,” Christopher declared. “She was looking quite well. Her +brother was with her.” + +“I will go alone,” Gerald decided. “I will go to-morrow. Now you have +told me something worth hearing. Perhaps to-night I shall sleep.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +Gerald, after all, derived small satisfaction from his visit on +the following day. He found his destination easily,--a small, +detached house in a retired back street, with a bell at the front +gate and spiked railings. He was admitted without undue delay by an +ordinary-looking parlour maid and conducted into a small sitting room. +After waiting a minute or two, the door was opened and Madame de +Ponière entered. + +“You have come to see my niece, Lord Dombey?” she enquired, after a +word of conventional greeting. + +“Is it very surprising that I should come?” Gerald rejoined, a little +bitterly. + +“Perhaps not from your point of view,” was the equable reply. “My niece +has, in fact, been anticipating your visit.” + +“It would have been kinder of her,” Gerald ventured, “if she had let me +know her whereabouts. I have been in the hospital and afterwards in a +nursing home for some time.” + +“My niece had other matters to consider,” Madame de Ponière declared +drily. “She is living in the utmost retirement, through force of +circumstances.” + +“Can I see her now?” Gerald asked bluntly. + +“She will grant you an audience,” Madame de Ponière replied. “I have +her permission to disclose her whereabouts, on one condition.” + +“She is not here, then?” Gerald exclaimed. + +“She is not here.” + +“But she was here yesterday.” + +“She was forced to come to London on a certain matter,” her aunt +explained. “She left at nightfall. If you wish to make the journey, you +can go and see her.” + +“Where is she?” Gerald asked. + +“I shall require,” Madame de Ponière said, “your word of honour that +you will not divulge her whereabouts to any living person.” + +“I think that the dangers you conjure up are entirely imaginary,” +Gerald remarked, a little impatiently, “but I will give you that +promise.” + +“My niece is to be found at Duvenny Castle in Scotland,” Madame de +Ponière announced. “It is a somewhat inaccessible place. Particulars of +how to reach it are here.” + +She handed him a slip of paper. + +“In Scotland?” Gerald repeated, a little wearily. “But she was here +yesterday.” + +“She left at night,” Madame de Ponière reminded him. + +Gerald folded the slip of paper and put it in his pocket. + +“Very well,” he said, “I will go to Scotland.” + +Madame de Ponière looked at him through her lorgnettes for a moment +thoughtfully. + +“You have been ill,” she remarked. + +“I have been ill,” he assented. + +Madame de Ponière lowered her lorgnettes and closed them with a little +snap. + +“If I thought that you would accept it,” she said, “I would give you a +word of advice.” + +“I can at least hear it,” he suggested. + +“Go back to the manner of life you were living before you met +Pauline--and forget her. Your visit to Scotland will be of no service +to you. It will only end in disappointment.” + +Gerald shook his head. + +“That,” he said obstinately, “I must discover for myself.” + +Gerald, following in the main the directions on the slip of paper given +him by Madame de Ponière, reached his destination on the afternoon of +the third day. He was in the car which he had hired at the last town on +the railway route, a town which seemed to him, unacquainted with this +corner of Scotland, almost an outpost of civilisation. After miles of +moorland, unbroken except for huge boulders, the way had led around a +range of smaller mountains until he had suddenly encountered, when he +had been least expecting it, the tang of the sea. Many hundreds of feet +below, he saw at last his destination, a dwelling of stone as ancient +and rudely fashioned, it seemed, as the massed-up boulders on every +side. The road by which it was approached was precipitous, in places +almost impassable. The last quarter of a mile was along a narrow bank, +unprotected on either side, with the spray from the waves leaping up +into his face. The road ended in a circular sweep, surrounded by a +high wall. In front of him was a massive gate, closed and barred. The +porter who appeared in answer to the bell kept him waiting while he +communicated with the house. Finally the gates were pushed open and the +car allowed to proceed up a steep, stone-paved ascent to a courtyard +also flagged with stones and also surrounded by a high wall. In front +was another massive door, which, however, already stood open. Two +men servants, both foreigners, awaited his arrival. One attended to +the closing of the door and remained with the chauffeur; the other +silently beckoned Gerald to follow him across the stone floor of the +bare, circular hall into a room at the further end. He stood aside to +let Gerald precede him. + +“The gentleman will please be seated,” he said. + +Gerald found himself alone in an apartment not unduly large but +exceedingly lofty. It was simply but magnificently furnished, but only +a single rug lay upon the floor. The windows looked sheer over the sea, +and the thunder of the waves against the jagged rocks seemed almost +at his feet. The windows themselves were narrow--the windows of a +fortress--and the depth of the window seat showed the thickness of the +walls. Gerald had little time to take note of these things, however. +Within a moment or two of his being left alone, the door opened and +Pauline entered. + +Speech of any sort, it seemed to Gerald, must be pitifully inadequate. +He stood looking at her, wondering if anything in her expression +would give him the clue to her mysterious behaviour. She came towards +him, however, as composed and unresponsive as ever. There was nothing +whatever in her manner to indicate the fact that she was greeting the +man who had risked his life in a mad enterprise for her sake. + +“You have had a long journey, Lord Dombey,” she said. + +He bowed over the hand which she had extended to him. + +“A long journey, indeed,” he assented, “a journey down into hell and +back.” + +“Sit down,” she invited, “and I will give you the explanation I owe +you.” + +“Thank you,” he answered, “I do not feel at home in this house. Let me +remain standing until after you have told me what it all means. I have +done your bidding. I have come to beg for my reward.” + +Her eyes looked at him coldly. + +“I promised no reward,” she reminded him. + +“Not in words,” he admitted, “yet you know what I desire.” + +“What you desire is absurd,” she declared. “That is what I wish to +explain. You have discovered, perhaps, who I am.” + +“I learned who your brother was.” + +“My brother!” she smiled. “Well,” she went on, “listen. I am the Grand +Duchess Pauline of Russia, Princess and hereditary ruler of the Caspian +Provinces, and nearest in kin amongst living women to Nicholas, who was +murdered by the people. The man whom you rescued is Paul, Grand Duke of +Volostok, hereditary ruler of seventeen provinces, and nearest in the +male line to the Crown of Russia. He is my cousin.” + +“Your cousin?” Gerald exclaimed. + +“And my husband,” she answered calmly. + +Gerald was extraordinarily cool. The situation began slowly to shape +itself in his mind. + +“It has been the province of royalty,” Pauline continued, “to make +use of their courtiers, without explanation, in whatever way may seem +good to them. I have made use of you. I did not seek your acquaintance +or your friendship. I have made you no promises. I have kept you +much farther away even from hope than would many of my illustrious +ancestresses. Yet, in these days, you will probably think that you have +been ill-treated. I cannot help it. I and others of my race have been +ill and mercilessly treated. Yours has been a small wrong. I made use +of you and your devotion to free my cousin, to whom I was affianced. +So far as my thanks can satisfy you, I tender them.” + +“You are very gracious,” Gerald acknowledged, forgetting all his +weariness and holding himself like a man. “May I ask, were you married +to the Grand Duke when I fetched him from his prison?” + +“I was not,” Pauline assured him. “I was married a month after his +return to England, with the consent and the approbation of my relatives +here. Paul and I have but one hope and one desire--to live until the +time when the people of Russia return to their allegiance, and to +reëstablish the Romanoff dynasty in Russia, either through ourselves or +our children. For that reason we are living here with an unseen guard +provided by the English Government. When you first met us, we lived in +seclusion because already four times my life had been attempted. There +are still men pledged to destroy us root and branch. Here they will +not succeed. We are surrounded by faithful guards, and our lives are +consecrate. Not until the children live and flourish who shall carry on +our name, will I or my husband take the slightest risk. The world may +see something of us later. For the present we have only one thought.” + +Gerald stood amongst the wreck of his dreams. He seemed to be listening +to the thunder of the sea, to be watching the queer-shaped shaft of +sunlight which stretched across the floor. He found speech almost +impossible. The silence lasted so long, however, that he was compelled +to break it. + +“Your Highness’ explanation is complete?” he asked. + +“It is complete,” she replied. “You will understand that your--shall +I call it admiration?--was, in a sense, an offence to me. In Monte +Carlo I will admit that through sheer weariness I was perhaps a little +indiscreet. The situation then seemed hopeless.” + +“I understand,” Gerald murmured. + +“The Grand Duke, my husband, will wish to offer you some hospitality,” +she said, touching a bell. + +“It is quite unnecessary,” Gerald replied. + +“Be so good as to await his coming,” she enjoined. + +Prince Paul entered the room a moment or two later, a touch of sunburn +on his cheeks, erect and handsome, a very different person from the +broken prisoner of a few months ago. He advanced towards Gerald with +outstretched hand. + +“It gives me great pleasure,” he said, “to welcome you in my very bad +English to our home. You see, I reached England safely.” + +“I was glad to hear of it,” Gerald remarked. + +“Some day you must tell me your own adventures,” the young man +continued. “Perhaps you will give us the pleasure of your company to +dinner to-night?” + +Gerald shook his head. + +“I have promised the owner of the car which I hired,” he said, “to +return it to him to-night. I must, in fact, be leaving at once.” + +A servant entered with a tray bearing wine and whisky. Paul served his +guest himself. + +“They tell me that this is the most hospitable country of the world,” +he observed. “Even in Russia we should not let you depart without a +toast. You will wish us those things for which Her Highness and I live.” + +Gerald bowed and raised his glass to his lips. + +“I shall drink to you and to your country,” he said, “and to the good +of both.” + +He set down his glass empty. Pauline smiled her good-by, but +they handed him over to the care of servants with the air of +royalty.--Gerald drove through the opened gates, heard the bars grind +behind him, and, looking around for a last view, was dimly conscious +of men who watched. Years afterwards, this strange visit, with all +its trifling events, assumed its proper proportions in his mind. That +night, however, he drove over the moors and around the mountains +absolutely without any direct emotions. It was impossible to believe +that his visit had not been the phantasy of an afternoon’s slumber. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +After they had left Toulon, the two men seemed almost to change +places. Gerald, who for the last four days had been in much the same +mentally comatose state as he had been since his return from Scotland, +sat up and for the first time began to look about him with interest. +Christopher, on the other hand, who during the whole of their journey +had been continually endeavouring to amuse and entertain his companion, +gradually relapsed into a rare fit of thoughtfulness. They had passed +through Hyères, however, and were winding their way around the Forêt +du Dom, before any direct allusion was made to the subject which in +varying degrees was foremost in the minds of both of them. + +“About an hour and a half beyond this, wasn’t it?” Gerald asked. + +Christopher nodded. It was significant that he made no comment upon the +fact that Gerald had caught up with his own train of thought. + +“Just about this time of the year, too,” Gerald went on, ruminatingly. +“I remember these orchards were just showing a little pink. And you say +she’s back again there, Chris. I wonder why? There wasn’t any trouble +at home, was there?” + +“Not the slightest,” Christopher assured him. “In fact, all the time +you were in Russia your father seemed to rely upon her absolutely. It +was a great blow to him when she made up her mind to go back.” + +“But what made her want to leave?” Gerald persisted. + +Christopher did not hesitate for a moment. He meant to take every +possible advantage of this, the first sign of any real interest in life +which Gerald had shown for months. + +“Because she is very finely strung,” he said, “and the situation was +becoming impossible for her. She was very much in love with you, and +you were crazy about some one else. I was very much in love with her, +as I always had been, and I was ass enough to try and persuade her +to marry me. Of course,” he went on, “I ought to have realised the +unconquerable fidelity of a nature like hers. An ordinary woman,” he +went on, leaning back in his corner and discussing the matter very much +as he would have done a legal point presented for his opinion, “might +select and prefer one man to all others, but if, for some reason or +other, he did not return her affection, she would be able, in course of +time, to feel practically the same thing for another man. Myrtile could +never do that. She has that saint-like fidelity which is the joy and +the curse of the best women. You are a very dear fellow, Gerald, and I +am very fond of you, but I sometimes get fed up with your nerves, your +blindness, your Grand Duchesses and your stark idiocy.” + +Gerald sat up in his place and stared at his friend in amazement. + +“How long have you been keeping that bottled up, Chris?” he asked. + +“Ever since Myrtile turned me down,” was the prompt reply. “She was as +kind as she could be about it, but she did her job like a surgeon. She +hurt, but I knew it was no use ever thinking about her again that way. +I am a dispassionate observer now and I can see the truth.” + +“I suppose I have been rather an ass,” Gerald acknowledged, “but you +must remember, Chris, I didn’t quite know what I was in for when I took +on that visit to Russia, and I don’t think any one could go through +what I had to go through without getting bowled over. Fancy being taken +care of like a baby by that amazing woman, Elsa Francks!--Having to +owe her your life half a dozen times over! Seeing that great coarse +creature, with her hank of yellow hair, and her breath smelling of +drink and patchouli, standing up one moment and defying death, and +lying the next without a tremor to guards who would have set us up +against the wall and shot us on sight if they had known the truth!” + +“She was an epic figure,” Christopher declared. “I wonder what has +become of her.” + +“Heaven knows!” Gerald answered. “We may meet her queening it at Monte +Carlo, or she may have married a respectable German tradesman and +buried the past. She is wealthy enough. She got that fellow Krossneys’ +share of the money I took out, as well as her own.--How these pine +trees smell, Chris! And what sunshine! One could sleep here.” + +Gerald leaned back in his place with half-closed eyes, and Christopher +was well content to leave him alone. This was the first time he had +spoken naturally of his journey to Russia and the terrible experience +through which he had passed. All through the summer months he had +lain about the gardens at Hinterleys, accepting life as an inevitable +burden, gaining no strength, sleeping little, all the time engaged +in a morbid struggle with the tyranny of his nerves. Nothing had +moved or interested him. These last few sentences of his were the +first evidences of his return to a natural outlook. Physically he had +shrunken almost to a shadow. There was very little left of the gay and +debonair young man who had passed his arm round Myrtile’s waist and +drawn her into the car, mocked at Christopher’s remonstrances, and, +with a few careless words, built up in Myrtile’s heart the fairyland at +the end of the road. Yet, as they drew near the place where they had +found her, he seemed to shake off some of his torpor. He sat up and +looked about him with reminiscent eyes. One more bend and they would +see the gate! + +“Would you like to stop for a moment?” Christopher asked. “Myrtile is +almost certain to be here.” + +This was most assuredly a changed Gerald. He was almost diffident. + +“If you think she would like to see us,” he assented. + +He sat upright now, leaning a little forward. They were round the +corner, in sight of the little grove of cypresses. And there at the +gate--Myrtile!--Gerald gave a little exclamation which sounded almost +like a sob. His incredulous stare had something in it alike of pain and +fear. + +“I wrote her days ago and said that we should be passing,” Christopher +hastily explained. + +She stepped out into the road to greet them. Even to Christopher, her +coming was almost like a vision. The small differences of clothing and +circumstance seemed scarcely to exist. It was Myrtile who welcomed +them, shyly but joyfully. Her eyes were fixed upon Gerald, and there +was a touch of sublime pity in them as she realised the change. But +from her face shone the same things. + +“You will come in and see my home?” she begged. “The car can turn in +here. The road is better than it used to be.” + +“I am tired of the car,” Gerald said. “I would rather walk.” + +They moved slowly down through the cypress avenue, Gerald leaning a +little on Myrtile’s arm, Christopher loitering behind. On one side were +the formal lines of the closely pruned vines, protruding from the rich +brown earth; on the other a flush of purple from the field of violets. +Myrtile answered some half intelligible question from Gerald. + +“I am very happy here,” she assured him. “There is so much to do. I +have broken up some more of the land for growing violets, and presently +I will show you my carnations. The vineyards, too, needed a lot of +attention; they had been very much neglected. I hope you like the +colour of the house? I had it painted pink because of the background. +And you see what a lovely verandah I have had built? By moving a few +yards one gets the sun all day.” + +“It is the most restful and the most beautiful place I have ever been +in,” Gerald murmured. “Tell me, Myrtile,” he added, “do you know all +that has happened to me?” + +“Everything! Christopher has written, and I had a long letter, too, +from your father. Please do not speak of those things which are +finished. You are here to forget.” + +Involuntarily he looked away towards the road and turned back with +a shiver. Whatever his thoughts might have been, he said nothing. A +little French maid, in spotless white cap and apron, came out on to the +verandah in reply to Myrtile’s call. + +“A bottle of our own wine and glasses,” Myrtile ordered, “some fruit, +and the sandwiches I told you to have ready, Marie. Come, we have +another half-hour of sunshine. Gerald, you must take the sofa chair.” + +Gerald sank into a sea of cushions. Myrtile, bending over him, arranged +them more comfortably. Her eyes were soft with the shadow of tears. +Gerald, more weary than he had confessed, seemed for a moment almost to +doze. + +“He is very weak,” Myrtile whispered, looking anxiously across towards +Christopher. + +Christopher nodded. + +“It is the journey,” he answered. “I wish that it were over.” + +The wine was brought, but Gerald was now in a deep sleep. Christopher +and Myrtile sat at the other end of the verandah and talked in an +undertone. Presently the sun began to sink behind the forest-crowned +hills, westwards. A cool breeze came stealing across the valley. +Myrtile rose suddenly to her feet. + +“He must not sleep any longer,” she said firmly. “He ought not to be +out at all as late as this.” + +They tried to rouse him. Three times Christopher laid his hand upon +his shoulder and called him by name. There was no response. Gerald was +sleeping heavily, his breathing was regular, the lines seemed to have +faded from his face. + +“It is the first time he has slept like this for weeks,” Christopher +declared. “It seems a shame to wake him.” + +“Don’t,” she begged eagerly. “You see the chair has castors. Wheel it +into the sitting room, and if he doesn’t wake, leave him here. Marie +and I can look after him, and Pierre, my head man, is a treasure. He +could carry him upstairs if it were necessary.” + +“We’ll move him in and see if he wakes, anyhow,” Christopher agreed. + +They wheeled him into Myrtile’s sitting room, sweet and flower-scented, +without his showing the slightest sign of being disturbed. Myrtile +closed the outer doors and lit the fire of pine logs and cones which +was already prepared upon the hearth. Then she and Christopher stole +from the room. + +“This may be his salvation,” Christopher declared hopefully. + +There were tears in Myrtile’s eyes. All the time she seemed to be +listening. + +“Leave him with me, Christopher,” she begged. “He needs rest.” + +Christopher nodded. + +“I’ll send two of his bags down from the car,” he proposed, “and some +of us will come and have a look at him in a few days. His servant can +stay here if you like, so that you have help if you want it.” + +She smiled through her tears. + +“I shall need no help,” she promised. “I will cure Gerald. Tell Lady +Mary and Lord Hinterleys that I promise it. Only leave him alone with +me. Do not come, any of you, until I send. If he wishes to leave, I can +hire a car from San Raphael--he can be with you in a few hours. But I +think he will be content. I think he will get better here.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +“And now,” Christopher said, as their car crawled up the last ascent, +“to see if Myrtile has kept her word!” + +“Personally,” Lord Hinterleys declared, “I am confident. That young +woman has powers beyond the ordinary human being’s. Besides, our +telegrams every day have assured us that all is well.” + +“It seems curious to me that Gerald should have been so content,” Mary +remarked. “Is this the place, Christopher?” + +Christopher nodded. The car was slowing up. On their right was the +little grove of cypress trees and the gate. + +“Here they are!” Mary exclaimed. “Why, just look at Gerald!” + +The two young people came down the cypress grove, arm in arm. Gerald +was walking with much of his old swagger. Once more his head was thrown +back; once more there was all the joy of wild spirits in the abandon of +his enthusiastic greeting. Myrtile, on the other hand, seemed quieter +than usual. + +“Something deuced odd about the look of both of them,” Lord Hinterleys +remarked. “Gerald, you rascal, how are you?” + +“Sane and sound, sir,” Gerald answered, stretching out his hand, +“thanks to Myrtile.” + +Lord Hinterleys looked at her curiously. Her eyes suddenly fell. She +had been laughing a little hysterically a moment before. Now a fit of +trembling seemed to have seized her. + +“Gerald, what have you been up to?” his father demanded. + +Gerald laughed. + +“Listen to that, dad,” he said, “and see if you can’t guess.” + +The bell from the little white church was tinkling away crazily. Gerald +passed his arm around Myrtile. + +“She’s terrified to death,” he declared. “Please every one tell her +that they’re glad.” + +Myrtile was easily persuaded. Her father-in-law dispossessed Gerald as +they turned towards the house. Mary walked on the other side. + +“You have now arrived in time for the celebrations,” Gerald continued. +“The feasting tenantry are in view on the far side of the house. You +will presently have the opportunity of hearing me make a little speech +in my most perfect French, which I have just learnt by heart.” + +“So you are really married!” Mary exclaimed incredulously. +“Gerald--Myrtile--how wonderful it all seems!” + +“Amazing!” Gerald agreed. “Matrimony was evidently my predestined +Mecca. I am no longer ill. I have never been so happy in my life. I +was ploughing for four hours yesterday, and practising approach shots +over the road to get rid of a little superfluous energy after tea. What +I really covet is the job of Pierre, the head man, but Myrtile won’t +listen to it. She says I don’t understand the soil.” + +As they reached the house, the old curé came shuffling out, beaming +with smiles, delighted to find that every one spoke his own language +and that he could talk to them about Myrtile.--Luncheon was spread +out on the verandah, and Marie and a young friend from the village, +with great bunches of white carnations fastened to their frocks, were +waiting to serve. Gerald himself uncorked the wine. + +“I propose to make a speech,” Lord Hinterleys announced, holding out +his foaming glass. + +“It must be a short one,” Gerald insisted. “The omelette won’t wait.” + +“Then, as an omelette is my favourite dish and that one appears to be a +_chef-d’oeuvre_, I drop the speech,” his father assented. “I will only +say, Gerald, that you have made Mary and me very happy, and that no +bride in the world was ever more welcome than Myrtile to our home and +lives.” + +Every one began to talk at once. By and by, that curious sense of +unreality, the feeling that the whole thing was a scene out of an +old-fashioned comedy, passed away. Gerald, who was shamelessly holding +Myrtile’s hand under the tablecloth, raised his glass and looked into +her eyes. + +“It was I, after all,” he whispered, “who had no idea what lay at the +end of the road. You were the wise lady and I the fool. You climbed, I +pushed my way through the slough--but we found out.” + +All through the afternoon the villagers came and went, and the young +people danced in the field at the back of the farm. Many toasts were +exchanged. Every one was extraordinarily happy. Then the time came for +Christopher, who was on his way back to England, to leave. Mary, who +was spending the night with her father at Cannes, walked with him to +the road. They paused for a moment at the gate. + +“And it was really here that you found Myrtile?” Mary remarked, +looking around her with interest. + +“We found her on this very spot,” Christopher answered, “gazing along +the road to the hills. All her life she had wondered what lay on the +other side. Many of us never find out. I think that Gerald has been +very fortunate.” + +“I am glad that you are happy about it,” she said, with quiet but +tactful significance. + +“It is because I am happy about it,” Christopher rejoined, turning +towards her, “that I am going to venture--that, Mary--well, I think I +feel a little like the man who walked for a few minutes of his life in +the moonlight and fancied that it was day. I honestly thought that I +was in love with Myrtile. I know now that there is no one I ever really +cared for but you, Mary.” + +She raised her head and looked at him, yielding unresistingly to the +arm which was drawn around her. + +“I am quite sure,” she murmured, “that this is an enchanted land.” + + +THE END + + + + +NOVELS _by_ E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM + +“He is past master of the art of telling a story. He has humor, a keen +sense of the dramatic, and a knack of turning out a happy ending just +when the complications of the plot threaten worse disasters.”--_The New +York Times._ + +“Mr. Oppenheim has few equals among modern novelists. He is prolific, +he is untiring in the invention of mysterious plots, he is a clever +weaver of the plausible with the sensational, and he has the necessary +gift of facile narrative.”--_The Boston Transcript._ + + A Prince of Sinners The Way of These Women + A Maker of History The Kingdom of the Blind + The Man and His Kingdom The Pawns Count + The Yellow Crayon The Zeppelin’s Passenger + A Sleeping Memory The Curious Quest + The Great Secret The Wicked Marquis + Jeanne of the Marshes The Box with Broken Seals + The Lost Ambassador The Great Impersonation + A Daughter of the Marionis The Devil’s Paw + Havoc Jacob’s Ladder + The Lighted Way The Profiteers + The Survivor Nobody’s Man + A People’s Man The Great Prince Shan + The Vanished Messenger The Evil Shepherd + The Seven Conundrums The Mystery Road + +Boston LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY Publishers + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: + + + Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. + + Perceived typographical errors have been corrected. + + Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. + + Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77836 *** |