*CHAPTER XIX*
*THE INVALID TAKES THE AIR*
When O'Hara, the next morning, went through the formality of looking inupon his patient, and after a taciturn nod was about to go away again,Ste. Marie called him back. He said--
"Would you mind waiting a moment?" and the Irishman halted inside thedoor.
"I made an experiment yesterday," said Ste. Marie, "and I find that,after a poor fashion, I can walk--that is to say, I can drag myselfabout a little, without any great pain, if I don't bend the left leg."
O'Hara returned to the bed and made a silent examination of the bulletwound which, it was plain to see, was doing very well indeed.
"You'll be all right in a few days," said he, "but you'll be lame for aweek yet--maybe two. As a matter of fact, I've known men to march half aday with a hole in the leg worse than yours, though it probably was notquite pleasant."
"I'm afraid I couldn't march very far," said Ste. Marie, "but I canhobble a bit. The point is, I'm going mad from confinement in thisroom. Do you think I might be allowed to stagger about the garden foran hour, or sit there under one of the trees? I don't like to askfavours, but--so far as I can see it could do no harm. I couldn'tpossibly escape, you see. I couldn't climb a fifteen foot wall even ifI had two good legs: as it is, with a leg and a half, I couldn't climbanything."
The Irishman looked at him sharply, and was silent for a time as ifconsidering. But at last he said--
"Of course there is no reason whatever for granting you any favourshere. You're on the footing of a spy--a captured spy, and you're verylucky not to have got what you deserved instead of a trumpery fleshwound." The man's face twisted into a heavy scowl.
"Unfortunately," said he, "an--accident has put me--put us in asunpleasant a position towards you as you had put yourself towards us.We seem to stand in the position of having tried to poison you,and--well, we owe you something for that. Still, I'd meant to keep youlocked up in this room so long as it was necessary to have you at LaLierre." He scowled once more in an intimidating fashion at Ste. Marie,and it was evident that he found himself embarrassed.
"And," he said awkwardly, "I suppose I owe something to your father'sson.... Look here! if you're to be allowed in the garden you mustunderstand that it's at fixed hours and not alone. Somebody will alwaysbe with you, and old Michel will be on hand to shoot you down if you tryto run for it, or if you try to communicate with Arthur Benham. Is thatunderstood?"
"Quite!" said Ste. Marie gaily.
"Quite understood and agreed to. And many thanks for your courtesy. Ishan't forget it. We differ rather widely on some rather importantsubjects, you and I, but I must confess that you're very generous, and Ithank you. The old Michel has my full permission to shoot at me if hesees me trying to fly over a fifteen foot wall."
"He'll shoot without asking your permission," said the Irishman grimly,"if you try that on, but I don't think you'll be apt to try it for thepresent--not with a crippled leg." He pulled out his watch and lookedat it.
"Nine o'clock," said he. "If you care to begin to-day you can go out ateleven for an hour. I'll see that old Michel is ready at that time."
"Eleven will suit me perfectly," said Ste. Marie. "You're very good.Thanks once more!" The Irishman did not seem to hear. He replaced thewatch in his pocket and turned away in silence. But before he left theroom he stood a moment beside one of the windows, staring out into themorning sunshine, and the other man could see that his face had oncemore settled into the still and melancholic gloom which wascharacteristic of it. Ste. Marie watched and, for the first time, theman began to interest him as a human being. He had thought of O'Harabefore merely as a rather shady adventurer of a not very rare type, buthe looked at the adventurer's face now, and he saw that it was the faceof a man of unspeakable sorrows. When O'Hara looked at one, one sawonly a pair of singularly keen and hard blue eyes set under a bony brow.When those eyes were turned away, the man's attention relaxed, the facebecame a battleground furrowed and scarred with wrecked pride and withbitterness and with shame and with agony. Most soldiers of fortune havefaces like that, for the world has used them very ill, and they havelost one precious thing after another until all are gone; and they havetasted everything that there is in life, and the flavour which remainsis a very bitter flavour--dry like ashes.
It came to Ste. Marie, as he lay watching this man, that the story ofthe man's life, if he could be made to tell it would doubtless be one ofthe most interesting stories in the world, as must be the tale of theadventurous career of any one who has slipped down the ladder ofrespectability rung by rung into that shadowy no-man's-land, where thefurtive birds of prey foregather and hatch their plots. It was plainenough that O'Hara had, as the phrase goes, seen better days. Withoutquestion he was a villain, but after all a generous villain. He had beenvery decent about making amends for that poisoning affair. A cheaperrascal would have behaved otherwise. Ste. Marie suddenly rememberedwhat a friend of his had once said of this mysterious Irishman. The twohad been sitting on the terrace of a cafe, and, as O'Hara passed by,Ste. Marie's friend pointed after him and said: "There goes some of thebest blood that ever came out of Ireland. See what it has fallen to!"
Seemingly it had fallen pretty low. He would have liked very much toknow about the downward stages, but he knew that he would never hearanything of them from the man himself, for O'Hara was clad, as it were,in an armour of taciturnity. He was incredibly silent. He wore mailthat nothing could pierce.
The Irishman turned abruptly away and left the room, and Ste. Marie,with all the gay excitement of a little girl preparing for her firstnursery party, began to get himself ready to go out. The old Michel hadalready been there to help him bathe and shave, so that he had only todress himself and attend to his one conspicuous vanity--the painstakingarrangement of his hair, which he wore, according to the fashion of theday, parted a little at one side and brushed almost straight back, sothat it looked rather like a close-fitting and incredibly glossyskull-cap. Richard Hartley, who was inclined to joke at his friend'sgrave interest in the matter, said that it reminded him of patentleather.
When he was dressed--and he found that putting on his left boot was nomean feat--Ste. Marie sat down in a chair by the window and lighted acigarette. He had half an hour to wait, and so he picked up the volumeof Bayard, which Coira O'Hara had not yet taken away from him, and beganto read in it at random. He became so absorbed that the old Michel,come to summon him, took him by surprise. But it was a pleasantsurprise and very welcome. He followed the old man out of the room witha heart that beat fast with eagerness.
The descent of the stairs offered difficulties, for the wounded legprotested sharply against being bent more than a very little at theknee. But, by aid of Michel's shoulder, he made the passage in safety,and so came to the lower story. At the foot of the stairs some oneopened a door almost in their faces, but closed it again with greathaste, and Ste. Marie gave a chuckle of laughter, for, though it wasalmost dark there, he thought he had recognised Captain Stewart.
"So old Charlie's with us to-day, is he?" he said aloud, and Michelqueried: "_Comment, monsieur?_" because Ste. Marie had spoken inEnglish.
They came out upon the terrace before the house, and the fresh sweet airbore against their faces, and little flecks of live gold danced andshivered about their feet upon the moss-stained tiles. The gardenerstepped back for an instant into the doorway and reappeared, bearingacross his arms the short carbine with which Ste. Marie had already madeacquaintance. The victim looked at this weapon with a laugh, and theold Michel's gnome-like countenance distorted itself suddenly and aweird cackle came from it.
"It is my old friend?" demanded Ste. Marie, and the gardener cackledonce more, stroking the barrel of the weapon as if it were a faithfuldog.
"The same, monsieur," said he. "But she apologises for not doingbetter."
"Beg her for me," said the young man, "to cheer up.
She may get anotherchance." Old Michel's face froze into an expression of anxious andrather frightened solicitude, but he waved his arm for the prisoner toprecede him, and Ste. Marie began to limp down across the littered andunkempt sweep of turf. Behind him at the distance of a dozen paces heheard the shambling footfalls of his guard, but he had expected that,and it could not rob him of his swelling and exultant joy at treadingonce more upon green grass and looking up into blue sky. He was like aman newly released from a dungeon, rather than from a sunny and by nomeans uncomfortable upper chamber. He would have liked to dance andsing, to run at full speed like a child until he was breathless and redin the face. Instead of that he had to drag himself with slow pains andsome discomfort, but his spirit ran ahead, dancing and singing, and hethought that it even halted now and then to roll on the grass.
As he had observed, a week before from the top of his wall, a double rowof larches led straight down away from the front of the house, making awide and long vista interrupted, halfway to its end, by a _rond point_,in the centre of which was a pool and a fountain. The double row oftrees was sadly broken now, and the trees were untrimmed and uncaredfor. One of them had fallen, probably in a wind storm, and lay deadacross the way. Ste. Marie turned aside towards the west and foundhimself presently among chestnuts, planted in close rows, whose topsgrew in so thick a canopy above that but little sunshine came through,and there was no turf under foot, only black earth hard trodden, mossyhere and there.
From beyond, in the direction he had chanced to take and a littletowards the west, a soft morning breeze bore to him the scent of roses,so constant and so sweet despite its delicacy that to breathe it waslike an intoxication. He felt it begin to take hold upon and to swayhis senses like an exquisite, an insidious wine.
"The flower gardens, Michel?" he asked over his shoulder. "They arebefore us?"
"Ahead and to the left, monsieur," said the old man, and he took up oncemore his slow and difficult progress. But again, before he had gonemany steps, he was halted. There began to reach his ears a rich butslender strain of sound, a golden thread of melody. At first he thoughtthat it was a cello or the lower notes of a violin, but presently hebecame aware that it was a woman singing in a half-voice without thoughtof what she sang--as women croon to a child, or over their work, or whenthey are idle and their thoughts are far wandering.
The mistake was not as absurd as it may seem, for it is a fact that thevoice which is called a contralto, if it is a good and clear and fairlyresonant voice, sounds at a distance very much indeed like a cello orthe lower register of a violin. And that is especially true when thevoice is hushed to a half-articulate murmur. Indeed, this is but one ofthe many strange peculiarities of that most beautiful of all humanorgans. The contralto can rarely express the lighter things, and it isquite impossible for it to express merriment or gaiety, but it canthrill the heart as can no other sound emitted by a human throat, and itcan shake the soul to its very innermost hidden deeps. It is the softyellow gold of singing--the wine of sound: it is mystery: it is shadowyunknown beautiful places: it is enchantment.
Ste. Marie stood still and listened. The sound of low singing came fromthe right. Without realising that he had moved he began to make his wayin that direction, and the old Michel, carbine upon arm, followed behindhim. He had no doubt of the singer. He knew well who it was, for thegirl's speaking voice had thrilled him long before this. He came to theeastern margin of the grove of chestnuts, and found that he was besidethe open _rond point_ where the pool lay within its stone circumference,unclean and choked with lily pads, and the fountain, a naked ladyholding aloft a shell, stood above. The _rond point_ was not in realityround, it was an oval with its greater axis at right angles to the longstraight avenue of larches. At the two ends of the oval there werestone benches with backs, and behind these tall shrubs grew close andoverhung so that even at noonday the spots were shaded.
The Quest: A Romance Page 19
