*CHAPTER VI*
*A BRAVE GENTLEMAN RECEIVES A HURT BUT VOLUNTEERS IN A GOOD CAUSE*
When Ste. Marie had gone Miss Benham sat alone in the drawing-room foralmost an hour. She had been stirred that afternoon more deeply thanshe thought she had ever been stirred before, and she needed time toregain that cool poise, that mental equilibrium which was normal to herand necessary for coherent thought.
She was still in a sort of fever of bewilderment and exaltation, stillall aglow with the man's own high fervour; but the second self, which sooften sat apart from her and looked on with critical mocking eyes,whispered that to-morrow, the fervour past, the fever cooled, she mustsee the thing in its truer light--a glorious lunacy born of a moment ofenthusiasm. It was finely romantic of him, this mocking second selfwhispered to her: picturesque beyond criticism; but, setting aside thepractical folly of it, could even the mood last?
The girl rose to her feet with an angry exclamation. She found herselfintolerable at such times as this.
"If there's a heaven," she cried out, "and by chance I ever go there, Isuppose I shall walk sneering through the streets, and saying to myself:'Oh yes, it's pretty enough, but how absurd and unpractical!'"
She passed before one of the small narrow mirrors which were let intothe walls of the room in gilt Louis Seize frames with candles besidethem, and she turned and stared at her very beautiful reflection with aresentful wonder.
"Shall I always drag along so far behind him?" she said. "Shall I neverrise to him, save in the moods of an hour?"
She began suddenly to realise what the man's going away meant--that shemight not see him again for weeks, months, even a year. For was it atall likely that he could succeed in what he had undertaken?
"Why did I let him go?" she cried. "Oh, fool, fool, to let him go!"But even as she said it she knew that she could not have held him back.
She began to be afraid, not for him, but of herself. He had taught herwhat it might be to love. For the first time love's premonitorythrill--promise of unspeakable uncomprehended mysteries--had wrung her,and the echo of that thrill stirred in her yet; but what might nothappen in his long absence? She was afraid of that critical andanalysing power of mind which she had so long trained to attack all thatcame to her. What might it not work with the new thing that had come?To what pitiful shreds might it not be rent while he, who only couldrenew it, was away? She looked ahead at the weeks and months to come,and she was terribly afraid.
She went out of the room and up to her grandfather's chamber and knockedthere. The admirable Peters who opened to her said that his master hadnot been very well and was just then asleep, but as they spoke togetherin low tones the old gentleman cried testily from within--
"Well? Well? Who's there? Who wants to see me? Who is it?"
Miss Benham went into the dim shaded room, and when old David saw who itwas he sank back upon his pillows with a pacified growl. He certainlylooked ill, and he had grown thinner and whiter within the past month,and the lines in his waxlike face seemed to be deeper scored.
The girl went up beside the bed and stood there a moment, after she hadbent over and kissed her grandfather's cheek, stroking with her hand theabsurdly gorgeous mandarin's jacket--an imperial yellow one this time.
"Isn't this new?" she asked. "I seem never to have seen this onebefore. It's quite wonderful."
The old gentleman looked down at it with the pride of a little girl overher first party frock. He came as near simpering as a fierce person ofeighty-six, with a square white beard, can come.
"Rather good, that! What?" said he. "Yes, it's new. De Vries sent itme. It is my best one. Imperial yellow. Did you notice the little_Show_ medallions with the _swastika_? Young Ste. Marie was here thisafternoon." He introduced the name with no pause or change ofexpression, as if Ste. Marie were a part of the decoration of themandarin's jacket.
"I told him he was a damned fool."
"Yes," said Miss Benham, "I know. He said you did."
"I suppose," she said, "that in a sort of very informal fashion I amengaged to him. Well no, perhaps not quite that, but he seems toconsider himself engaged to me, and when he has finished something veryimportant that he has undertaken to do he is coming to ask me definitelyto marry him. No, I suppose we aren't engaged yet: at least I'm not.But it's almost the same, because I suppose I shall accept him whetherhe fails or succeeds in what he is doing."
"If he fails in it, whatever it may be," said old David, "he won't giveyou a chance to accept him. He won't come back. I know him well enoughfor that. He's a romantic fool, but he's a thorough-going fool. Heplays the game." The old man looked up to his granddaughter, scowling alittle.
"You two are absurdly unsuited to each other," said he, "and I told Ste.Marie so. I suppose you think you're in love with him."
"Yes," said the girl, "I suppose I do."
"Idleness and all? You were rather severe on idleness at one time."
"He isn't idle any more," said she. "He has undertaken--of his ownaccord--to find Arthur. He has some theory about it. And he is notgoing to see me again until he has succeeded--or until a year is past.If he fails, I fancy he won't come back."
Old David gave a sudden hoarse exclamation, and his withered hands shookand stirred before him. Afterwards he fell to half-inarticulatemuttering.
"The young romantic fool!--Don Quixote--like all the rest of them--thoseSte. Maries. The fool and the angels. The angels and the fool." Thegirl distinguished words from time to time. For the most part he mumbledunder his breath. But when he had been silent a long time he saidsuddenly--
"It would be ridiculously like him to succeed."
The girl gave a little sigh.
"I wish I dared hope for it," said she. "I wish I dared hope for it."
She had left a book that she wanted in the drawing-room, and whenpresently her grandfather fell asleep in his fitful manner, she wentdown after it. In crossing the hall she came upon Captain Stewart, whowas dressed for the street and had his hat and stick in his hands. Hedid not live in his father's house, for he had a little flat in the Ruedu Faubourg St. Honore, but he was in and out a good deal. He pausedwhen he saw his niece and smiled upon her a benignant smile, which sherather disliked, because she disliked benignant people. The two reallysaw very little of each other, though Captain Stewart often sat forhours together with his sister up in a little boudoir which she hadfurnished in the execrable taste which to her meant comfort, while thattimid and colourless lady embroidered strange tea-cloths with strangerflora, and prattled about the heathen, in whom she had an academicinterest.
He said--
"Ah, my dear! It's you?" Indisputably it was, and there seemed to beno use of denying it, so Miss Benham said nothing, but waited for theman to go on if he had more to say.
"I dropped in," he continued, "to see my father, but they told me he wasasleep and so I didn't disturb him. I talked a little while with yourmother instead."
"I have just come from him," said Miss Benham. "He dozed off again as Ileft. Still, if you had anything in particular to tell him, he'd beglad to be wakened, I fancy. There's no news?"
"No," said Captain Stewart sadly, "no, nothing. I do not give up hope,but I am, I confess, a little discouraged."
"We are all that, I should think," said Miss Benham briefly. She gavehim a little nod, and turned away into the drawing-room. Her uncle'speculiar dry manner irritated her at times beyond bearing, and she feltthat this was one of the times. She had never had any reason fordoubting that he was a good and kindly soul, but she disliked himbecause he bored her. Her mother bored her too--the poor woman boredeverybody--but the sense of filial obligation was strong enough in thegirl to prevent her from acknowledging this even to herself. In regardto her uncle she had no sense of obligation whatever, except to be ascivil to him as possible, and so she kept out of his way.
She heard the heavy front
door close and gave a little sigh of relief.
"If he had come in here and tried to talk to me," she said, "I shouldhave screamed."
Meanwhile Ste. Marie, a man moving in a dream, uplifted,cloud-enwrapped, made his way homeward. He walked all the longdistance--that is, looking backward upon it later he thought he musthave walked, but the half-hour was a blank to him, an indeterminate, achaotic whirl of things and emotions.
In the little flat in the Rue d'Assas he came upon Richard Hartley, who,having found the door unlocked and the master of the place absent, hadsat comfortably down with a pipe and a stack of _Courriers Francais_ towait. Ste. Marie burst into the doorway of the room where his friendsat at ease. Hat, gloves and stick fell away from him in a sort ofshower. He extended his arms high in air. His face was, as it were,luminous. The Englishman regarded him morosely. He said--
"You look as if somebody had died and left you money. What the devilare you looking like that for?"
"_He!_" cried Ste. Marie in a great voice. "_He_, the world is mine!Embrace me, my infant! Sacred name of a pig, why do you sit there?Embrace me!" He began to stride about the room, his head between hishands. Speech lofty and ridiculous burst from him in a sort of splutterof fireworks, but the Englishman sat still in his chair, and a greybleak look came upon him, for he began to understand. He was more orless used to these outbursts, and he bore them as patiently as he could;but though seven times out of the ten they were no more than spasms ofpure joy of living, and meant, "It's a fine spring day," or "I've justseen two beautiful princesses of milliners in the street," an innervoice told him that this time it meant another thing. Quite suddenly herealised that he had been waiting for this, bracing himself against itsonslaught. He had not been altogether blind through the past month.
Ste. Marie seized him and dragged him from his chair.
"Dance, lump of flesh! dance, sacred English _rosbif_ that you are!Sing, _gros polisson_! Sing!" Abruptly, as usual, the mania departedfrom him, but not the glory; his eyes shone bright and triumphant.
"Ah, my old," said he, "I am near the stars at last. My feet are on thetop rungs of the ladder. Tell me that you are glad!" The Englishmandrew a long breath.
"I take it," said he, "that means that you're--that she has acceptedyou, eh?" He held out his hand. He was a brave and honest man. Evenin pain he was incapable of jealousy. He said--
"I ought to want to murder you, but I don't. I congratulate you. You'rean undeserving beggar, but so were the rest of us. It was an openfield, and you've won quite honestly. My best wishes!"
Then at last Ste. Marie understood, and in a flash the glory went out ofhis face. He cried--
"Ah, _mon cher ami_! Pig that I am to forget. Pig! pig! animal!" Theother man saw that tears had sprung to his eyes, and was horriblyembarrassed to the very bottom of his good British soul.
"Yes! yes!" he said gruffly. "Quite so, quite so! No consequence!" Hedragged his hands away from Ste. Marie's grasp, stuck them in hispockets, and turned to the window beside which he had been sitting. Itlooked out over the sweet green peace of the Luxembourg Gardens withtheir winding paths and their clumps of trees and shrubbery, theirflaming flower-beds, their groups of weather-stained sculpture. A youthin labourer's corduroys and an unclean beret strolled along under thehigh palings, one arm was about the ample waist of a woman somewhat theyouth's senior, but, as ever, love was blind. The youth carolled in ahigh, clear voice: "_Vous etes si jolie_," a song of abundant sentiment,and the young woman put up one hand and patted his cheek. So theystrolled on and turned up into the Rue Vavin.
Ste. Marie, across the room, looked at his friend's square back, andknew that in his silent way the man was suffering. A great sadness, therecoil from his trembling heights of bliss, came upon him and envelopedhim. Was it true that one man's joy must inevitably be another's pain?He tried to imagine himself in Hartley's place, Hartley in his; and hegave a little shiver. He knew that if that _bouleversement_ wereactually to take place he would be as glad for his friend's sake as poorHartley was now for his; but he knew also that the smile ofcongratulation would be a grimace of almost intolerable pain, and so heknew what Hartley's black hour must be like.
"You must forgive me," he said. "I had forgotten. I don't know why.Well, yes, happiness is a very selfish state of mind, I suppose. Onethinks of nothing but one's self--and one other. I--during this pastmonth I've been in the clouds. You must forgive me."
The Englishman turned back into the room. Ste. Marie saw that his facewas as completely devoid of expression as it usually was, that his handswhen he chose and lighted a cigarette were quite steady, and hemarvelled. That would have been impossible for him under suchcircumstances.
"She has accepted you, I take it?" said Hartley again.
"Not quite that," said he. "Sit down and I'll tell you about it." Sohe told him about his hour with Miss Benham, and about what had beenagreed upon between them, and about what he had undertaken to do.
"Apart from wishing to do everything in this world that I can do to makeher happy," he said, "--and she will never be at peace again until sheknows the truth about her brother--apart from that, I'm purely selfishin the thing. I've got to win her respect as well as--the rest. I wanther to respect me, and she has never quite done that. I'm an idler. Soare you, but you have a perfectly good excuse. I have not. I've beenan idler because it suited me, because nothing turned up, and because Ihave enough to eat without working for my living. I know how she hasfelt about all that. Well, she shall feel it no longer."
"You're taking on a big order," said the other man.
"The bigger the better," said Ste. Marie. "And I shall succeed in it ornever see her again. I've sworn that." The odd look of exaltation thatMiss Benham had seen in his face, the look of knightly fervour, camethere again, and Hartley saw it and knew that the man was stirred by notransient whim. Oddly enough he thought, as had the girl earlier in theday, of those elder Ste. Maries who had taken sword and lance and goneout into a strange world, a place of unknown terrors, afire for theGreat Adventure. And this was one of their blood.
"I'm afraid you don't realise," he went on, "the difficulties you've gotto face. Better men than you have failed over this thing, you know."
"A worse might nevertheless succeed," said Ste. Marie, and the othersaid--
"Yes. Oh, yes. And there's always luck to be considered, of course.You might stumble on some trace." He threw away his cigarette andlighted another, and he smoked it down almost to the end before hespoke. At last he said--
"I want to tell you something. The reason why I want to tell it comes alittle later. A few weeks before you returned to Paris I asked MissBenham to marry me."
Ste. Marie looked up with a quick sympathy.
"Ah!" said he. "I have sometimes thought--wondered. I have wondered ifit went as far as that. Of course I could see that you had known herwell, though you seldom go there nowadays."
"Yes," said Hartley, "it went as far as that, but no farther.She--well, she didn't care for me--not in that way. So I stiffened myback and shut my mouth, and got used to the fact that what I'd hoped forwas impossible.
"And now comes the reason for telling you what I've told. I want you tolet me help you in what you're going to do--if you think you can, thatis. Remember, I--cared for her too. I'd like to do something for her.It would never have occurred to me to do this until you thought of it,but I should like very much to lend a hand, do some of the work. D'youthink you could let me in?"
Ste. Marie stared at him in open astonishment, and, for an instant,something like dismay.
"Yes, yes! I know what you're thinking," said the Englishman. "You'dhoped to do it all yourself. It's your game, I know. Well, it's yourgame even if you let me come in. I'm just a helper. Some one to runerrands, some one perhaps to take counsel with now and then. Look at iton the practical side! Two heads are certainly better than one.Certainly I could be of use to you. And besides--well, I want to
dosomething for her. I--cared too, you see. D'you think you could take mein?"
It was the man's love that made his appeal irresistible. No one couldappeal to Ste. Marie on that score in vain. It was true that he hadhoped to work alone, to win or lose alone, to stand, in this matter,quite on his own feet, but he could not deny the man who had loved herand lost her. Ste. Marie thrust out his hand.
"You love her too!" he said. "That is enough. We work together. I havea possibly foolish idea that if we can find a certain man we will learnsomething about Arthur Benham. I'll tell you about it."
But before he could begin the door-bell jangled.
The Quest: A Romance Page 6
