The Quest: A Romance
Page 24
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*THE JOINT IN THE ARMOUR*
Ste. Marie put down a book as O'Hara came into the room and rose to meethis visitor.
"I'm compelled," said the Irishman, "to put you on your honour to-day ifyou are to go out as usual. Michel has been sent on an errand, and I ambusy with letters. I shall have to put you on your honour not to makeany effort to escape. Is that agreed to? I shall trust you altogether.You could manage to scramble over the wall somehow, I suppose, and getclean away; but I think you won't try it if you give your word."
"I give my word gladly," said Ste. Marie. "And thanks very much.You've been uncommonly kind to me here. I--regret more than I can saythat we--that we find ourselves on opposite sides, as it were. I wishwe were fighting for the same cause."
The Irishman looked at the younger man sharply for an instant, and hemade as if he would speak, but seemed to think better of it. In the endhe said--
"Yes, quite so! Quite so! Of course you understand that anyconsideration I have used towards you has been by way of making amendsfor--for an unfortunate occurrence."
Ste. Marie laughed.
"The poison!" said he. "Yes, I know. And, of course, I know who was atthe bottom of that. By the way, I met Stewart in the garden the otherday. Did he tell you? He was rather nervous and tried to shoot me, buthe had left his revolver at the house--at least, it wasn't in his pocketwhen he reached for it."
O'Hara's hard face twitched suddenly, as if in anger, and he gave anexclamation under his breath, so the younger man inferred that "oldCharlie" had not spoken of their encounter. And after that the Irishmanonce more turned a sharp, frowning glance upon his prisoner as if hewere puzzled about something. But, as before, he stopped short ofspeech and at last turned away.
"Just a moment!" said the younger man. He asked--
"Is it fair to inquire how long I may expect to be confined here? Idon't want to presume upon your good nature too far, but if you couldtell me I should be glad to know."
The Irishman hesitated a moment, and then said--
"I don't know why I shouldn't answer that. It can't help you, so far asI can see, to do anything which would hinder us. You'll stay untilArthur Benham comes of age, which will be in about two months from now."
"Yes," said the other. "Thanks! I thought so. Until young Arthurcomes of age and receives his patrimony, or until old David Stewartdies. Of course, that might happen at any hour."
The Irishman said--
"I don't quite see what--Ah, yes, to be sure! Yes, I see. Well, Ishould count upon eight weeks, if I were you. In eight weeks the boywill be independent of them all, and we shall go to England for thewedding."
"The wedding?" cried Ste. Marie. "What wedding?--Ah!"
"Arthur Benham and my daughter are to be married," said O'Hara, "so soonas he reaches his majority. I thought you knew that."
In a very vague fashion he realised that he had expected it. And stillthe definite words came to him with a shock which was like a physicalblow, and he turned his back with a man's natural instinct to hide hisfeeling. Certainly that was the logical conclusion to be drawn fromknown premises. That was to be the O'Haras' reward for their labour.To Stewart the great fortune, to the O'Haras a good marriage for thegirl and an assured future. That was reward enough surely for a fewweeks of angling and decoying and luring and lying. That was what shehad meant, on the day before, by saying that she could see all theto-morrows. He realised that he must have been expecting something likethis, but the thought turned him sick nevertheless. He could not forgetthe girl as he had come to know her during the past week. He could notface with any calmness the thought of her as the adventuress who hadlured poor Arthur Benham on to destruction. It was an impossiblethought. He could have laughed at it in scornful anger, and yet--Whatelse was she?
He began to realise that his action in turning his back upon the otherman in the middle of a conversation must look very odd, and he facedround again trying to drive from his expression the pain and distresswhich he knew must be there plain to see. But he need not have troubledhimself, for the other man was standing before the sext window andlooking out into the morning sunlight, and his hard bony face had soaltered that Ste. Marie stared at him with open amazement. He thoughtO'Hara must be ill.
"I want to see her married!" cried the Irishman suddenly. And it was anew voice, a voice Ste. Marie did not know. It shook a little with anemotion that sat uncouthly upon this grim stern man.
"I want to see her married and safe!" he said. "I want her to be rid ofthis damnable, roving, cheap existence. I want her to be rid of me andmy rotten friends and my rotten life." He chafed his hands togetherbefore him, and his tired eyes fixed themselves upon something that heseemed to see out of the window, and glared at it fiercely.
"I should like," said he, "to die on the day after her wedding, and sobe out of her way for ever. I don't want her to have any shadows castover her from the past. I don't want her to open closet doors and findskeletons there. I want her to be free--free to live the sort of lifeshe was born to and has a right to."
He turned sharply upon the younger man.
"You've seen her!" he cried. "You've talked to her, you know her!Think of that girl dragged about Europe with me ever since she was alittle child! Think of the people she's had to know, the things she'shad to see! Do you wonder that I want to have her free of it all,married and safe and comfortable and in peace? Do you? I tell you ithas driven me as nearly mad as a man can be. But I couldn't go madbecause I had to take care of her. I couldn't even die because she'dhave been left alone, without any one to look out for her.
"She wouldn't leave me! I could have settled her somewhere in somequiet place where she'd have been quit at least of shady rotten people,but she wouldn't have it. She's stuck to me always through good timesand bad. She's kept my heart up when I'd have been ready to cut mythroat if I'd been alone. She's been the--bravest andfaithfullest--Well I--And look at her! Look at her now! Think of whatshe's had to see and know--the people she's had to live with--and lookat her! Has any of it stuck to her? Has it cheapened her in anylittlest way? No, by God! She has come through it all like a--like aSister of Charity through a city slum--like an angel through the dark!"
The Irishman broke off speaking, for his voice was beyond control, butafter a moment he went on again more calmly--
"This boy, this young Benham, is a fool, but he's not a mean fool.She'll make a man of him. And, married to him, she'll have the comfortsthat she ought to have and the care and--freedom. She'll have a chanceto live the life that she had a right to, among the sort of people shehas a right to know. I'm not afraid for her. She'll do her part andmore. She'll hold up her head among duchesses, that girl. I'm notafraid for her."
He said this last sentence over several times, standing before thewindow and staring out at the sun upon the treetops. "I'm not afraidfor her.... I'm not afraid for her." He seemed to have forgotten thatthe younger man was in the room, for he did not look towards him againor pay him any attention for a long while. He only gazed out of thewindow into the fresh morning sunlight, and his face worked and quiveredand his lean hands chafed restlessly together before him.
But at last he seemed to realise where he was, for he turned with asudden start, and he stared at Ste. Marie frowning as if the younger manwere some one he had never seen before. He said--
"Ah, yes, yes! You were wanting to go out into the garden. Yes, quiteso! I--I was thinking of something else. I seem to be absent-minded oflate. Don't let me keep you here!" He seemed a little embarrassed andill at ease, and Ste. Marie said--
"Oh, thanks! There's no hurry. However, I'll go, I think. It's aftereleven. I understand that I'm on my honour not to climb over the wallor burrow under it or batter it down. That's understood. I----"
He felt that he ought to say something in acknowledgment of O'Hara'slong speech about hi
s daughter; but he could think of nothing to say,and besides, the Irishman seemed not to expect any comment upon hisstrange outburst. So, in the end, Ste. Marie nodded and went out of theroom without further ceremony.
He had been astonished almost beyond words at that sudden andunlooked-for breakdown of the other man's impregnable reserve, and dimlyhe realised that it must have come out of some very extraordinarynervous strain; but he himself had been in no state to give theIrishman's words the attention and thought that he would have given themat another time. His mind, his whole field of mental vision had beenfull of one great fact--_the girl was to be married to young ArthurBenham_. The thing loomed gigantic before him, and, in some strange way,terrifying. He could neither see nor think beyond it. O'Hara's burstof confidence had reached his ears very faintly, as if from a greatdistance--poignant but only half comprehended words, to be reflectedupon later in their own time.
He stumbled down the ill-lighted stair with fixed, wide, unseeing eyes,and he said one sentence over and over aloud--as the Irishman standingbeside the window had said another.
"She is going to be married! She is going to be married!"
It would seem that he must have forgotten his previous half knowledge ofthe fact. It would seem to have remained, as at the first hearing, agreat and appalling shock--thunderous out of a blue sky.
Below in the open his feet led him mechanically straight down under thetrees, through the tangle of shrubbery beyond, and so to the wall underthe cedar. Arrived there he awoke all at once to his task, and with asort of frowning anger shook off the dream which enveloped him. Hiseyes sharpened and grew keen and eager. He said--
"The last arrow! God send it reached home!" And so went in under thelilac shrubs.
He was there longer than usual: unhampered now he may have made a largersearch, but when at last he emerged Ste. Marie's hands were over hisface, and his feet dragged slowly like an old man's feet.
Without knowing that he had stirred he found himself some distance away,standing still beside a chestnut tree. A great wave of depression andfear and hopelessness swept him, and he shivered under it. He had aninstant's wild panic, and mad, desperate thoughts surged upon him. Hesaw utter failure confronting him. He saw himself as helpless as alittle child, his feeble efforts already spent for naught, and, like alittle child, he was afraid. He would have rushed at that grimencircling wall and fought his way up and over it, but even as theimpulse raced to his feet the momentary madness left him and he turnedaway. He could not do a dishonourable thing even for all he helddearest.
He walked on in the direction which lay before him, but he took no heedof where he went; and Mlle. Coira O'Hara spoke to him twice before heheard or saw her.