*CHAPTER XVIII*
*A CONVERSATION OVERHEARD*
In the upper chamber at La Lierre the days dragged very slowly by, andthe man who lay in bed there counted interminable hours, and prayed forthe coming of night with its merciful oblivion of sleep. His inactionwas made bitterer by the fact that the days were days of green and gold,of breeze-stirred tree-tops without his windows, of vagrant sweet airsthat stole in upon his solitude, bringing him all the warm fragrance ofsummer and of green things growing.
He suffered little pain. There was, for the first three or four days, adull and feverish ache in his wounded leg, but presently even thatpassed and the leg hurt him only when he moved it. He thought sometimesthat he would be grateful for a bit of physical anguish to make thehours pass more quickly.
The other inmates of the house held aloof from him. Once a day O'Haracame in to see to the wound, but he maintained a well-nigh completesilence over his work and answered questions only with a brief yes orno. Sometimes he did not answer them at all. The old Michel came twicedaily, but this strange being had quite plainly been frightened intodumbness, and there was nothing to be got out of him. He shambledhastily about the place, his one scared eye upon the man in bed, and assoon as possible fled away, closing the door behind him. SometimesMichel brought in the meals, sometimes his wife, a creature so like himthat the two might well have passed for twin survivors of some unknownrace; sometimes--thrice altogether in that first week--Coira O'Harabrought the tray, and she was as silent as the others.
So Ste. Marie was left alone to get through the interminable days asbest he might, and ever afterwards the week remained in his memory as asort of nightmare. Lying idle in his bed he evolved many surprising andfantastic schemes for escape--for getting word to the outside world ofhis presence here, and one by one he gave them up in disgust as theirimpossibility forced itself upon him. Plans and schemes were uselesswhile he lay bed-ridden, unfamiliar even with the house wherein hedwelt, with the garden and park that surrounded it.
As for aid from any of the inmates of the place, that was to be laughedat. They were engaged together in a scheme so desperate that failuremust mean utter ruin to them all. He sometimes wondered if the twoservants could be bribed. Avarice unmistakable gleamed from their littleglittering rat-like eyes, but he was sure that they would sell out forno small sum and, in so far as he could remember, there had been in hispockets when he came here not more than five or six louis. Doubtless theold Michel had managed to abstract those in his daily offices about theroom, for Ste. Marie knew that the clothes hung in a closet across fromhis bed. He had seen them there once when the closet door was open.
Any help that might come to him must come from outside--and what helpwas to be expected there? Over and over again he reminded himself ofhow little Richard Hartley knew. He might suspect Stewart of complicityin this new disappearance, but how was he to find out anything definite?How was any one to do so?
It was at such times as this, when brain and nerves were strained andworn almost to breaking point that Ste. Marie had occasion to begrateful for the southern blood that was in him, the strong tinge offatalism which is common alike to Latin and to Oriental. It rescued himmore than once from something like nervous breakdown, calmed himsuddenly, lifted his burdens from outwearied shoulders, and left him inpeace to wait until some action should be possible. Then, in suchhours, he would fall to thinking of the girl for whose sake, in whosecause, he lay bedridden, beset with dangers. As long before, she came tohim in a sort of waking vision--a being but half earthly, enthroned highabove him, calm-browed, very pure, with passionless eyes that gazed intofar distance and were unaware of the base things below. What would shethink of him, who had sworn to be true knight to her, if she could knowhow he had bungled and failed? He was glad that she did not know, thatif he had blundered into peril the knowledge of it could not reach herto hurt her pride.
And sometimes also, with a great sadness and pity, he thought of poorCoira O'Hara and of the pathetic wreck her life had fallen into. Thegirl was so patently fit for better things! Her splendid beauty was nota cheap beauty. She was no coarse-blown gorgeous flower, imperfect attelltale points. It was good blood that had modelled her darkperfection, good blood that had shaped her long and slim and taperinghands.
"A queen among goddesses!" The words remained with him and he knew thatthey were true. She might have held up her head among the greatest, thisadventurer's girl; but what chance had she had? What merest ghost of achance?
He watched her on the rare occasions when she came into the room. Hewatched the poise of her head, her walk, the movements she made, and hesaid to himself that there was no woman of his acquaintance whose gracewas more perfect--certainly none whose grace was so native.
Once he complained to her of the desperate idleness of his days andasked her to lend him a book of some kind, a review, even a dailynewspaper, though it be a week old.
"I should read the very advertisements with joy," he said.
She went out of the room and returned presently with an armful of books,which she laid upon the bed without comment.
"In my prayers, mademoiselle," cried Ste. Marie, "you shall be foremostforever!" He glanced at the row of titles and looked up in sheerastonishment.
"May I ask whose books these are?" he said.
"They are mine," said the girl. "I caught up the ones that lay first athand. If you don't care for any of them I will choose others." Thebooks were: _Diana of the Crossways_, _Richard Feverel_, Henri Lavedan's_Le Duel_, Maeterlinck's _Pelleas et Melisande_, _Don Quixote de laMancha_, in Spanish, a volume of Virgil's _Eclogues_, and the _Life ofthe Chevalier Bayard_ by the "Loyal Servitor." Ste. Marie stared ather.
"Do you read Spanish?" he demanded, "and Latin, as well as French andEnglish?"
"My mother was Spanish," said she. "And as for Latin, I began to readit with my father when I was a child. Shall I leave the books here?"
Ste. Marie took up the _Bayard_ and held it between his hands.
"It is worn from much reading, mademoiselle," he said.
"It is the best of all," said she. "The very best of all. I didn'tknow I had brought you that." She made a step towards him as if shewould take the book away, and over it the eyes of them met and wereheld. In that moment it may have come to them both who she was, who soloved the knight without fear and without reproach--the daughter of anIrish adventurer of ill repute; for their faces began suddenly to flushwith red and after an instant the girl turned away.
"It is of no consequence," said she. "You may keep the book if you careto." And Ste. Marie said very gently--
"Thank you, mademoiselle! I will keep it for a little while." So shewent out of the room and left him alone.
This was at noon on the sixth day, and after he had swallowed hastilythe lunch which had been set before him Ste. Marie fell upon the bookslike a child upon a new box of sweets. Like the child again it wasdifficult for him to choose among them. He opened one and then another,gloating over them all, but in the end he chose the _Bayard_ and forhours lost himself among the high deeds of the Preux Chevalier and hisfaithful friends (among whom, by the way, there was a Ste. Marie whodied nobly for France). It was late afternoon when at last he laid thebook down with a sigh and settled himself more comfortably among thepillows.
The sun was not in the room at that hour but, from where he lay, hecould see it on the tree-tops, gold upon green. Outside his southwindow the leaves of a chestnut which stood there quivered and rustledgently under a soft breeze. Delectable odours floated in to Ste.Marie's nostrils, and he thought how very pleasant it would be if hewere lying on the turf under the trees, instead of bed-ridden in thisupper chamber, which he had come to hate with a bitter hatred.
He began to wonder if it would be possible to drag himself across thefloor to that south window, and so to lie down for a while with his headin the tiny balcony beyond--his eyes turned to the b
lue sky. Astir withthe new thought he sat up in bed and carefully swung his feet out tillthey hung to the floor. The wound in the left leg smarted and burnt,but not too severely, and with slow pains Ste. Marie stood up. Healmost cried out when he discovered that it could be done quite easily.He essayed to walk and he was a little weak, but by no means helpless.He found that it gave him pain to raise his left leg in the ordinaryaction of walking, or to bend that knee, but he could get about wellenough by dragging the injured member beside him, for when it wasstraight it supported him without protest.
He took his pillows across to the window and disposed them there, for itwas a French window opening to the floor, and the level of the littlebalcony outside was but a few inches above the level of the room. Thenthe desire seized him to make a tour of his prison walls. He went firstto the closet where he had seen his clothes hanging, and they were stillthere. He felt in the pockets and withdrew his little English pig-skinsovereign purse. It had not been tampered with, and he gave anexclamation of relief over that, for he might later on have use formoney. There were eight louis in it, each in its little separatecompartment, and in another pocket he found a fifty-franc note and somesilver. He went to the two east windows and looked out. The treesstood thick together on that side of the house, but between two of themhe could see the park wall fifty yards away. He glanced down, and theside of the house was covered thick with the ivy which had given theplace its name, but there was no water pipe near nor any other thingwhich seemed to offer foot or hand hold--unless perhaps the ivy mightprove strong enough to bear a man's weight. Ste. Marie made a mentalnote to look into that when he was a little stronger, and turned back tothe south window, where he had disposed his pillows.
The unaccustomed activity was making his wound smart and prickle, and helay down at once, with head and shoulders in the open air; and, out ofthe warm and golden sunshine and the emerald shade, the breath of summercame to him and wrapped him round with sweetness and pillowed him uponits fragrant breast.
He became aware, after a long time, of voices below, and turned upon hiselbows to look. The ivy had clambered upon and partly covered the irongrille of the little balcony and he could observe without being seen.Young Arthur Benham and Coira O'Hara had come out of the door of thehouse, and they stood upon the raised and paved terrace which ran thewidth of the facade, and seemed to hesitate as to the direction theyshould take. Ste. Marie heard the girl say--
"It's cooler here in the shade of the house," and, after a moment, thetwo came along the shady terrace, whose outer margin was set atintervals with stained and discoloured marble nymphs upon pedestals,and, between the nymphs, with moss-grown stone benches. They haltedbefore a bench upon which, earlier in the day, a rug had been spread outto dry in the sun and had been forgotten, and, after a moment's furtherhesitation, they sat down upon it. Their faces were turned towards thehouse and every word that they spoke mounted in that still air clear anddistinct to the ears of the man above.
Ste. Marie wriggled back into the room and sat up to consider. Thethought of deliberately listening to a conversation not meant for himsent a hot flush to his cheeks. He told himself that it could not bedone, and that there was an end to the matter. Whatever might hang uponit it could not be asked of him that he should stoop to dishonour. Butat that the heavy and grave responsibility which really did hang uponhim and upon his actions came before his mind's eyes and loomed theremountainous. The fate of this foolish boy, who was set round withthieves and adventurers--even though his eyes were open and he knewwhere he stood--that came to Ste. Marie and confronted him: and thepicture of a bitter old man who was dying of grief came to him: and amother's face: and _hers_. There could be no dishonour in the face ofall this, only a duty very clear and plain. He crept back to his place,his arms folded beneath him as he lay, his eyes at the thin screen ofivy which cloaked the balcony grille.
Young Arthur Benham appeared to be giving tongue to a rather sharpattack of homesickness. It may be that long confinement within the wallsof La Lierre was beginning to try him somewhat.
"Mind you," he declared, as Ste. Marie's ears came once more withinrange, "mind you, I'm not saying that Paris hasn't got its points. Ithas. Oh yes! And so has London, and so has Ostend, and so has MonteCarlo--Verree much so!--I like Paris. I like the theatres and thevaudeville shows in the Champs Elysees, and I like Longchamps. I likethe boys who hang around Henry's bar. They're good sports, all right,all right! But, by Golly, I want to go home! Put me off at the cornerof Forty-second Street and Broadway and I'll ask no more. Set me downat seven p.m. right there on the corner outside the _Knickerbocker_, forthat's where I would live and die." There came into the lad's somewhatstrident voice a softness that was almost pathetic.
"You don't know Broadway, Coira, do you? Nix! of course not. Littlegirl, it's the one, one street of all this large world. It's theequator that runs north and south instead of east and west. It's a longbright gay live wire, that's what Broadway is. And I give you my word ofhonour like a little man that it--is--not--slow. No indeed! When I wasthere last it was being called the _Gay White Way_. It is not calledthe _Gay White Way_ now. It has had forty other new good names sincethen, and I don't know what they are, but I do know that it is forevergay, and that the electric signs are still blazing all along the street,and the street cars are still killing people in the good old fashion,and the newsboys are still dodging under the automobiles to sell you a_Woild_ or a _Choinal_ or, if it's after twelve at night, a _MorningTelegraph_. Coira, my girl, standing on that corner after dark you cansee the electric signs of fifteen theatres, no one of them more thanfive minutes' walk away, and just round the corner there are more.
"I want to go home! I want to take one large unparalleled leap fromhere and come down at the corner I told you about. D'you know what I'ddo? We'll say it's seven p.m. and beginning to get dark. I'd dive intothe _Knickerbocker_ (that's the hotel that the bright and happy peoplego to for dinner or supper), and I'd engage a table up on the terrace.Then I'd telephone to a little friend of mine, whose name is Doe--JohnDoe--and in about ten minutes he'd have left the crowd he was standingin line with and he'd come galloping up that glad to see me you'd cry towatch him. We'd go up on the terrace, where the potted palms grow, forour dinner, and the tables all around us would be full of people thatwould know Johnnie Doe and me, and they'd all make us drink drinks andtell us how glad they were to see us aboard again.
"And after dinner," said young Arthur Benham, with wide and smilingeyes, "after dinner we'd go to see one of the Roof Garden shows. Let metell you they've got the _Marigny_, or the Ambassadeurs, or the Jardinde Paris beaten to a pulp--to--a--pulp! And after the show we'd slipround to the stage door--you bet we would!--and capture the two mostbeautiful ladies in the world and take 'em off to supper." He wrinkledhis young brow in great perplexity.
"Now I wonder," said he anxiously. "I wonder where we'd go for supper.
"You see," he apologised, "it's two years since I left the Real Street,and Gee, what a lot can happen on Broadway in two years! There'sprobably half a dozen new supper places that I don't know anythingabout, and one of them's the place where the crowd goes. Well, anyhow,we'd go to that place, and there'd be a band playing, and the electricfans would go round, and round, and Johnnie Doe and I and the two mostbeautiful ladies would put it all over the other pikers there."
Young Benham gave a little sigh of pleasure and excitement.
"That's what I'd like to do to-night," said he, "and that's what I'lldo, you can bet your sh--boots, when all this silly mess is over and I'ma free man. I'll hike back to good old Broadway, and if ever you see anyone trying to pry me loose from it again, you can laugh yourself todeath, because he'll never, never succeed.
"Nine more weeks shut in here by stonewalls!" said the boy, staringabout him with a sort of bitterness. "Nine weeks more!"
"Is it so hard as that?" asked the girl. There was no foolish coquetryin her tone. She spoke as if the words invol
ved no personal question atall, but there was a little smile at her lips, and Arthur Benham turnedtowards her quickly and caught at her hands.
"No, no!" he cried. "I didn't mean that. You know I didn't mean that.You're worth nine years' waiting. You're the best, d'you hear? the bestthere is. There's nobody anywhere that can touch you. Only--well, thisplace is getting on my nerves. It's got me worn to a frazzle. I feellike a criminal doing time."
"You came very near having to do time somewhere else," said the girl."If this M. Ste. Marie hadn't blundered we should have had them allround our ears, and you'd have had to run for it."
"Yes," the boy said, nodding gravely. "Yes, that was great luck." Heraised his head and looked up along the windows above him.
"Which is his room?" he asked, and Mlle. O'Hara said--
"The one just overhead, but he's in bed far back from the window. Hecouldn't possibly hear us talking." She paused for a moment in frowninghesitation, and, in the end, said--
"Tell me about him, this Ste. Marie! Do you know anything about him?"
"'Tell me about him, this Ste. Marie! Do you knowanything about him?'"]
"No," said Arthur Benham, "I don't--not personally, that is. Of courseI've heard of him. Lots of people have spoken of him to me. And the oddpart of it is that they all had a good word to say. Everybody seemed tolike him. I got the idea that he was the best ever. I wanted to knowhim. I never thought he'd take on a piece of dirty work like this."
"Nor I!" said the girl, in a low voice. "Nor I!" The boy looked up.
"Oh, you've heard of him too, then?" said he. And she said, still in herlow voice--
"I--saw him once."
"Well," declared young Benham, "it's beyond me. I give it up. Younever can tell about people, can you? I guess they'll all go wrong whenthere's enough in it to make it worth while. That's what old Charliealways says. He says most people are straight enough when there'snothing in it, but make the pot big enough and they'll all go crooked."The young man's face turned suddenly hard and old and bitter.
"Gee! I ought to know that well enough, oughtn't I?" he said. "I guessnobody knows that better than I do after what happened to me... Comealong and take a walk in the garden, Maud! I'm sick of sitting still."
Mlle. Coira O'Hara looked up with a start, as if she had not beenlistening, but she rose, when the boy held out his hand to her, and thetwo went down from the terrace and moved off towards the west.
Ste. Marie watched them until they had disappeared among the trees, andthen turned on his back, staring up into the softly stirring canopy ofgreen above him, and the little rifts of bright blue sky. He did notunderstand at all. Something mysterious had crept in where all hadseemed so plain to the eye. Certain words that young Arthur Benham hadspoken repeated themselves in his mind and he could not at once makethem out. Assuredly there was something mysterious here.
In the first place what did the boy mean by "dirty work"? To be surespying in its usual sense is not held to be one of the noblest ofoccupations, but--in such a cause as this! It was absurd, ridiculous,to call it "dirty work." And what did he mean by the words which he hadused afterwards? Ste. Marie did not quite follow the idiom about the"big enough pot," but he assumed that it referred to money. Did theyoung fool think he was being paid for his efforts? That was ridiculoustoo.
The boy's face came before him as it had looked with that sudden hardand bitter expression. What did he mean by saying that no one knew thecrookedness of humanity under money temptation better than he knew itafter something that had happened to him? In a sense his words weredoubtless very true. Captain Stewart (and he must have been "oldCharlie"--Ste. Marie remembered that the name was Charles), O'Hara andO'Hara's daughter stood excellent samples of that bit of cynicism, butobviously the boy had not spoken in that sense--certainly not beforeMlle. O'Hara! He meant something else, then. But what? What?
Ste. Marie rose with some difficulty to his feet, and carried thepillows back to the bed whence he had taken them. He sat down upon theedge of the bed, staring in great perplexity across the room at the openwindow, but all at once he uttered an exclamation, and he smote hishands together.
"That boy doesn't know!" he cried. "They're tricking him, theseothers!"
The lad's face came once more before him, and it was a foolish andstubborn face perhaps, but it was neither vicious nor mean. It was theface of an honest headstrong boy, who would be incapable of the coldcruelty to which all circumstances seemed to point.
"They're tricking him somehow!" cried Ste. Marie again. "They're lyingto him and making him think----"
What was it they were making him think, these three conspirators? Whatpossible thing could they make him think other than the plain truth?Ste. Marie shook a weary head and lay down among his pillows. He wishedthat he had "old Charlie" in a corner of that room with his fingersround "old Charlie's" wicked throat. He would soon get at the truththen: or O'Hara either, that grim and saturnine _chevalier d'industrie_,though O'Hara would be a bad handful to manage: or--Ste. Marie's headdropped back with a little groan when the face of young Arthur'senchantress came between him and the opposite wall of the room, and hergreat and tragic eyes looked into his.
It seemed incredible that that queen among goddesses should be what shewas!
The Quest: A Romance Page 18
