CHAPTER XXXIII
DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND
It was late when Dormer Colville reached the quiet sea-coast village ofRoyan on the evening of his return to the west. He did not seek Mrs. St.Pierre Lawrence until the luncheon hour next morning, when he wasinformed that she was away from home.
"Madame has gone to Paris," the man said, who, with his wife, was left incharge of the empty house. "It was a sudden resolution, one mustconclude," he added, darkly, "but Madame took no one into her confidence.She received news by post, which must have brought about this suddendecision."
Colville was intimately acquainted with his cousin's affairs; manyhazarded an opinion that, without the help of Madame St. Pierre Lawrence,this rolling stone would have been bare enough. She had gone to Paris forone of two reasons, he concluded. Either she had expected him to returnthither from London, and had gone to meet him with the intention ofcoming to some arrangement as to the disposal of the vast sum of moneynow in Turner's hands awaiting further developments, or some hitch hadoccurred with respect to John Turner himself.
Dormer Colville returned, thoughtfully, to his lodging, and in theevening set out for Paris.
He himself had not seen Turner since that morning in the banker's officein the Rue Lafayette, when they had parted so unceremoniously, in asomewhat heated spirit. But, on reflection, Colville, who had sought toreassure himself with regard to one whose name stood for the incarnationof gastronomy and mental density in the Anglo-French clubs of Paris, hadcome to the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by forcing a quarrelupon Turner. It was impossible to bring home to him an accusation ofcomplicity in an outrage which had been carried through with remarkableskill. And when it is impossible to force home an accusation, a wise manwill hold his tongue.
Colville could not prove that Turner had known Barebone to be in thecarriage waiting in the courtyard, and his own action in the matter hadbeen limited to the interposition of his own clumsy person betweenColville and the window; which might, after all, have been due tostupidity. This, as a matter of fact, was Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence'stheory on the subject. For that lady, resting cheerfully on the firmbasis of a self-confidence which the possession of money nearly alwaysconfers on women, had laughed at Turner all her life, and now proposed tocontinue that course of treatment.
"Take my word," she had assured Colville, "he was only acting in hisusual dense way, and probably thinks now that you are subject to brieffits of mental aberration. I am not afraid of him or anything that he cando. Leave him to me, and devote all your attention to finding LooBarebone again."
Upon which advice Colville had been content to act. He had a faith inMrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's wit which was almost as great as her own; andthought, perhaps rightly enough, that if any one were a match for JohnTurner it was his sprightly and capable client. For there are two ways ofgetting on in this world: one is to get credit for being cleverer thanyou are, and the other to be cleverer than your neighbour suspects. Butthe latter plan is seldom followed, for the satisfaction it provides mustnecessarily be shared with no confidant.
Colville knew where to look for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence in Paris, whereshe always took an apartment in a quiet and old-fashioned hotel rejoicingin a select Royalist clientele on the Place Vendome. On arriving at thecapital, he hurried thither, and was told that the lady he sought hadgone out a few minutes earlier. "But Madame's maid," the porter added,"is no doubt within."
Colville was conducted to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's room, and was hardlythere before the lady's French maid came hurrying in with upraised hands.
"A just Heaven has assuredly sent Monsieur at this moment!" sheexclaimed. "Madame only quitted this room ten minutes ago, and she wasagitated--she, who is usually so calm. She would tell me nothing; but Iknow--I, who have done Madame's hair these ten years! And there is onlyone thing that could cause her anxiety--except, of course, any mishap toMonsieur; that would touch the heart--yes!"
"You are very kind, Catherine," said Colville, with a laugh, "to think meso important. Is that letter for me?" And he pointed to a note in thewoman's hand.
"But--yes!" was the reply, and she gave up the letter, somewhatreluctantly. "There is only one thing, and that is money," she concluded,watching him tear open the envelope.
"I am going to John Turner's office," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence wrote."If, by some lucky chance, you should pass through Paris, and happen tocall this morning, follow me to the Rue Lafayette. M. St. P. L."
It was plain enough. Colville reflected that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence hadheard of the success of his mission to England and the safe return toGemosac of Loo Barebone. For the moment, he could not think how the newscould have reached her. She might have heard it from Miriam Liston; fortheir journey hack to Gemosac had occupied nearly a week. On learning thegood news, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had promptly grasped the situation;for she was very quick in thought and deed. The money would be wanted atonce. She had gone to Turner's office to withdraw it in person.
Dormer Colville bought a flower in a shop in the Rue de la Paix, and hadit affixed to his buttonhole by the handmaid of Flora, who made it herbusiness to linger over the office with a gentle familiarity no doubtpleasing enough to the majority of her clients.
Colville was absent-minded as he drove, in a hired carriage, to the RueLafayette. He was wondering whether Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's maid hadany grounds for stating that a mishap to him would touch her mistress'sheart. He was a man of unbounded enterprise; but, like many who aregamblers at heart, he was superstitious. He had never dared to try hisluck with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. She was so hard, so worldly, soinfinitely capable of managing her own affairs and regulating her ownlife, that to offer her his hand and heart in exchange for her fortunehad hitherto been dismissed from his mind as a last expedient, only to befaced when ruin awaited him.
She had only been a widow three years. She had never been a sentimentalwoman, and now her liberty and her wealth were obviously so dear to herthat, in common sense, he could scarcely, with any prospect of success,ask her outright to part with them. Moreover, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrenceknew all about Dormer Colville, as men say. Which is only a saying; forno human being knows all about another human being, nor one-half, norone-tenth of what there is to know. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence knew enough,at all events, Colville reflected, rather ruefully, to disillusionise aschoolgirl, much more a woman of the world, knowing good and evil.
He had not lived forty years in the world, and twenty years in that worldof French culture which digs and digs into human nature, without havingheard philosophers opine that, in matters of the heart, women have noillusions at all, and that it is only men who go blindfold into thetortuous ways of love. But he was too practical a man to build up a falsehope on so frail a basis as a theory applied to a woman's heart.
He bought a flower for his buttonhole then, and squared his shoulders,without any definite design. It was a mere habit--the habit acquired bytwenty years of unsuccessful enterprise, and renewed effort and deferredhope--of leaving no stone unturned.
His cab wheeled into the Rue Lafayette, and the man drove more slowly,reading the numbers on the houses. Then he stopped altogether, and turnedround in his seat.
"Citizen," he said, "there is a great crowd at the house you named. Itextends half across the street. I will go no further. It is not I whocare about publicity."
Colville stood up and looked in the direction indicated by his driver'swhip. The man had scarcely exaggerated. A number of people were waitingtheir turn on the pavement and out into the roadway, while two gendarmesheld the door. Dormer Colville paid his cabman and walked into thatcrowd, with a sinking heart.
"It is the great English banker," explained an on-looker, even before hewas asked, "who has failed."
Colville had never found any difficulty in making his way through acrowd--a useful accomplishment in Paris at all times, where government isconducted, thrones are raised and toppled over, provinces are won andlost again, by the mob. He had
that air of distinction which, if wieldedgood-naturedly, is the surest passport in any concourse. Some, no doubt,recognised him as an Englishman. One after another made way for him.Persons unknown to him commanded others to step aside and let him pass;for the busybody we have always with us.
In a few minutes he was at the top of the stairs, and there elbowed hisway into the office, where the five clerks sat bent up over theirledgers. The space on the hither side of the counter was crammed withmen, who whispered impatiently together. If any one raised his voice, theclerk whose business it was lifted his head and looked at the speakerwith a mute surprise.
One after another these white-faced applicants leant over the counter.
"_Voyons_, Monsieur!" they urged; "tell me this or inform me of that."
But the clerk only smiled and shook his head.
"Patience, Monsieur," he answered. "I cannot tell you yet. We areawaiting advices from London."
"But when will you receive them?" inquired several, at once.
"It may be to-morrow. It may not be for several days."
"But can one see Mr. Turner?" inquired one, more daring than the rest.
"He is engaged."
Colville caught the eye of the clerk, and by a gesture made it known thathe must be allowed to pass on into the inner room. Once more his air ofthe great world, his good clothes, his flower in the buttonhole, gave himthe advantage over others; and the clerk got down from his stool.
"Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence is with him, I know," whispered Colville. "Icome by appointment to meet her here."
He was shown in without further trouble, and found Mrs. St. PierreLawrence sitting, white-faced and voluble, in the visitors' chair.
John Turner had his usual air of dense placidity, but the narrow blacktie he always tied in a bow was inclined slightly to one side; his hairwas ruffled, and, although the weather was not warm, his face wore ashiny look. Any banker, with his clients clamouring on the stairs and outinto the street, might look as John Turner looked.
"You have heard the news?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, turningsharply in her chair and looking at Colville with an expression of suddenrelief. She carried a handkerchief in her hand, but her eyes were dry.She was, after all, only a forerunner of those who now propose to managehuman affairs. And even in these later days of their great advance, theyhave not left their pocket-handkerchiefs behind them.
"I was told by one of the crowd," replied Colville, with a side smilefull of sympathy for Turner, "that the--er--bank had come to grief."
"Was just telling Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence," said Turner, imperturbably,"that it is too early in the day to throw up the sponge and cry out thatall is lost."
"All!" echoed Colville, angrily. "But do you mean to say--Why, surely,there is generally something left."
Turner shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence, gnawing the middlejoint of his thumb.
"But I must have the money!" cried Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. "It is mostimportant, and I must have it at once. I withdraw it all. See, I broughtmy cheque-book with me. And I know that there are over a hundred thousandpounds in my account. As well as that, you hold securities for twohundred and fifty thousand more--my whole fortune. The money is notyours: it is mine. I draw it all out, and I insist on having it."
Turner continued to bite his thumb, and glanced at her without speaking.
"Now, damn it all, Turner!" said Colville, in a voice suddenly hoarse;"hand it over, man."
"I tell you it is gone," was the answer.
"What? Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds? Then you are a rogue! Youare a fraudulent trustee! I always thought you were a damned scoundrel,Turner, and now I know it. I'll get you to the galleys for the rest ofyour life, I promise you that."
"You will gain nothing by that," returned the banker, staring at thedate-card in front of him. "And you will lose any chance there is ofrecovering something from the wreck. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had bettertake the advice of her lawyer--in preference to yours."
"Then I am ruined!" said that lady, rising, with an air of resolution.She was brave, at all events.
"At the present moment, it looks like it," admitted Turner, withoutmeeting her eye.
"What am I to do?" murmured Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, looking helplesslyround the room and finally at the banker's stolid face.
"Like the rest of us, I suppose," he admitted. "Begin the world afresh.Perhaps your friends will come forward."
And he looked calmly toward Colville. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's facesuddenly flushed, and she turned away toward the door. Turner rose,laboriously, and opened it.
"There is another staircase through this side door," he said, opening asecond door, which had the appearance of a cupboard. "You can avoid thecrowd."
They passed out together, and Turner, having closed the door behind them,crossed the room to where a small mirror was suspended. He set his tiestraight and smoothed his hair, and then returned to his chair, with avague smile on his face.
Colville took the vacant seat in Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's brougham. Shestill held a handkerchief in her hand.
"I do not mind for myself," she exclaimed, suddenly, when the carriagemoved out of the court-yard. "It is only for your sake, Dormer."
She turned and glanced at him with eyes that shone, but not with tears.
"Oh! Don't you understand?" she asked, in a whisper. "Don't you see,Dormer?"
"A way out of it?" he answered, hurriedly, almost interrupting her. Hewithdrew his hand, upon which she had laid her own; withdrew itsympathetically, almost tenderly. "See a way out of it?" he repeated, ina reflective and business-like voice. "No, I am afraid, for the moment, Idon't."
He sat stroking his moustache, looking out of the window, while shelooked out of the other, resolutely blinking back her tears. They droveback to her hotel without speaking.
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