"L'honneur n'existe que pour ceux qui ont de l'honneur."
"L'honneur n'existe que pour ceux qui ont de l'honneur."
Two or three days later I received a telegram from Sander, couched in the abrupt language affected by that keen-witted individual:
"Ask John Turner if he knows Devar."
The great banker's affairs were at this time of such moment that it seemed inconsiderate to trouble him with my difficulties. Also I was beginning to learn a lesson which has since been more fully impressed on my mind—namely, that there is only one person whose interest in one's affairs is continuous and sincere—namely, one's self. John Turner was a kind friend, and one who, I believe, bestowed a great affection upon a very unworthy object; but at such a time, when France seemed to be crumbling away in the sight of men, it was surely asking too much that I should expect him to turn his thoughts to me. I called, however, at the hotel where he had established himself, and there learnt from his valet that my friend was inthe habit of quitting his temporary abode early in the day, not to return until evening.
"Where does he lunch?" I asked.
"Sometimes at one place, sometimes at another—wherever they have a goodchef, sir," the man replied.
I bethought me of my own club and its renown. Come peace or war, I knew that John Turner never missed his meals. I left a note asking him to take luncheon with me at the club on the following day, to discuss matters of importance and meet a mutual acquaintance. I invited him fifteen minutes later than the hour named to Mr. Devar, and in the evening received his acceptance. As I was walking down St. James Street the next morning I met Alphonse Giraud.
"Will you lunch with me at the club," I said, "to-day, at one. I want to give you every facility to carry out your scheme to keep an eye on me."
Poor Alphonse blushed and hung his head.
"John Turner will be there," I said, with a laugh, "and perhaps we may hear something that will interest you—at all events, he will talk of money, since you are so absorbed in it."
So my luncheon party formed itself into a rather queerpartie carrée; for I knew John Turner's contempt for Alphonse, and hoped that he might cherish a yet stronger feeling against Devar.
At the hour appointed that gentleman arrived, and was pleased to be very gracious and patronising. His manner towards me was that of a man of the world who is kindly disposed towards a country bumpkin. I received him in the smaller smoking-room, where we were alone, and were still sitting there when Alphonse came. It was quite evident that the little Frenchman appreciated the great English club.
"Now, in Paris," he said, "we copy all this. But it is not the same thing. We have our clubs, but they are quite different—they are but cafés—and why?"
He looked at us in the deepest distress.
"Because," I suggested, "you are by nature too sociable. Frenchman cannot meet without being polite to each other, so the independence of a club is lost. Englishmen can share a cabin, and still be distant."
"The furniture is the same," said Giraud, looking round with a reflective eye, "but there is a different feeling in the air. It is different from the Paris clubs. Do you know Paris, Monsieur Devar?" Devar paused.
"Of course, I have been there," he replied, looking at the carpet. "What Englishman has not?"
"MR. DEVAR," REPEATED TURNER, "LET ME DRAW YOUR ATTENTION TO THE DOOR!""MR. DEVAR," REPEATED TURNER, "LET ME DRAW YOUR ATTENTION TO THE DOOR!"
And he was still saying pleasant things of thecapital, when the button-boy brought me John Turner's card. I told him to bring the gentleman upstairs, and remember still the odd feeling in the throat with which I heard Turner's step.
The door was thrown open. The boy announced Mr. John Turner, and for a brief moment Devar's eye meeting mine told me that I had another enemy in the world. The man's face was mottled, and he sat quite still. I rose and shook hands with John Turner, who had not yet recovered his breath. Alphonse—ever polite and affable—did the same. Then I turned and said:
"Let me introduce to you Mr. Devar—Mr. John Turner."
Turner's face, at no time expressive, did not change.
"Ah!" he said, slowly—"Mr. Devar of Paris."
There was a short silence, during which the two men looked at each other, and Alphonse shuffled from one foot to the other in an intense desire to keep things pleasant and friendly in circumstances dimly adverse.
"Mr. Devar," repeated Turner, "let me draw your attention to the door!"
There was nothing dramatic about my old friend. He never forgot his stoutness, and always carried it with dignity. He merely jerked his thumb towards the door by which he had entered.
Devar must have known Turner better than I did. Perhaps he knew the sterner side of a character of which I had only experienced the kindness and friendship, for he stood with a white face, and never looked at Giraud or myself. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked slowly towards the door, his face wearing the sickly smile of the vanquished.
"Is that what you invited me for?" asked my old friend, when the door had closed behind Devar.
"Partly."
"But I suppose we are to have some luncheon?"
"Yes; there is some luncheon."
"Then let us go to it," said Turner, with his watch in his hand. But before we had reached the door, Alphonse had placed himself in Turner's way, looking as tall as he could.
"Mr. Devar is my friend," he cried, with a dramatic gesture and a fierce snatch at that side of his mustache which invariably failed him at crucial moments.
"Then, my dear Giraud," said Turner, laying his fatherly hand on the Frenchman's shoulder, "say nothing about it. It is no matter for pride. Devar was once my clerk, and would now be doing penal servitude if I had not let him off. Shall we go to luncheon?"
But Alphonse was not to be mollified, and during a meal, of which Turner duly appreciated the merits, concealed his annoyance with a tact truly French. He was a little more formal in his speech—a little more ceremonious in manner, and John Turner ignored these signs with a placid assurance for which I was grateful.
"Where did you pick up Devar?" asked the banker, when the edge of his appetite had been blunted by cold game pie.
"He picked me up," answered I; and went on to explain how this gentleman had forced himself upon us, and how Sander had given me a plain hint how to rid myself of him.
"Of course," said John Turner, "he is in league with Miste, and has been keeping him informed of your movements. If you see Devar again, kick him. I had that pleasure myself once, but I'm afraid you will never get the chance. The man has had a finger in every Anglo-French swindle of the last ten years. He dares not show his face in Paris."
We continued to talk of Mr. Devar and his liabilities, of which the least seemed to be the risk of a kicking from myself. The man had, it appeared, sailed too near the wind of fraud on several occasions, and John Turner held him in the hollow of his hand.
Alphonse, however, was not to be appeased. His honour had, as he imagined, been assailed bythis insult to one upon whom he had bestowed his friendship, and he took no part in our talk when it was of Devar.
Turner did not stay long after we had finished our wine.
"No," he said, "if I do not keep moving I shall go to sleep."
When he had left us, Alphonse showed a restlessness which soon culminated in departure, and I sat down to write to Sander. The rapid exit (which ultimately proved to be as complete as it was sudden) of Mr. Devar could not fail to have some bearing on the quest in which Sander was engaged, and I now recapitulated in mind many suspicious incidents connected with the well-dressed adventurer who had so easily found an entrée to Isabella's house.
Alphonse went, as I later learnt, straight to Hyde Park Street, and found Isabella alone. For Madame de Clericy and Lucille were regular in their attendance at a neighbouring Roman Catholic Church, whither many Frenchwomen resorted at this time to pray for their friends and country.
"Howard," said Alphonse, "has grossly insulted Mr. Devar. In my country such an incident would not pass without bloodshed."
And he related, with considerable fire, the scene in the smoking-room at the club.
"But it was Mr. Turner and not Dick who insulted Mr. Devar."
"That is true, but Howard planned the whole—it was a trick, a trap."
"A clever trap," said Isabella, with her incomprehensible smile. "I did not know that Dick had the wit."
"Mr. Turner appears to have known Devar before," explained Alphonse, "and seemed to have some cause for complaint against him, though I do not believe all he said. And now Howard wantonly insults one of your friends, a gentleman who has dined in this house. He takes too much upon himself. If you will only say the word, Miss Gayerson, I will quarrel with Howard myself."
And Isabella, as Alphonse subsequently told me, received this offer with an ill-concealed smile.
"Dick is not afraid of the responsibility," she said, and did not appear so resentful as her champion.
"But why did he do it?"
Isabella did not answer at once, and Alphonse, whose good heart invariably tricked his temper, made a suggestion.
"Is it because he thought Mr. Devar no fit friend for yourself, Miss Gayerson?"
Isabella laughed derisively before she did me another wrong.
"He does not trouble about me or my affairs," she answered. "No, it is because Mr. Devar is too clever a person to be a welcome observer of Dick's actions. Dick probably knows that Mr. Devar is an expert in money matters, and less easy to deceive than yourself and a few ignorant and trusting women."
"You mean in the matter of my fortune?"
"Yes," replied the friend of my childhood. "It is probable that Mr. Devar suspects what others suspect. But you are so simple, Monsieur Giraud!"
Alphonse shrugged his shoulders.
"It is not that—Mademoiselle," he said with his light laugh. "It is that I am a fool."
Isabella was not looking at him, but at her quiet hands clasped together on her lap.
"We all know," she said, "that Dick is supplying Madame de Clericy with money that does not come from her estates. Whence does it come?"
"You suggest," said Alphonse, "that Howard has recovered my money and is supporting Madame de Clericy and Lucille with it."
What answer Isabella would have made to this I know not, for it was at this moment that the servant threw open the door and ushered me into a silence which was significant even to one of no very quick understanding. I saw that Alphonse Giraud was agitated and caught a singular gleam in Isabella's eyes. I suppose she was one of those women who take pleasure in stirring up strife between men. Her cheeks had a faint pink flush on them that made her suddenly beautiful. I had never noticed her looks before.
It was Alphonse who spoke first.
"There are several points, Monsieur," he said, angrily, "upon which I demand an explanation."
"All right—but I am not going to quarrel with you, Giraud."
I looked very straight at Isabella, whose eyes, however, did not fall under mine. But I think she knew that I blamed her for this.
"You have insulted a friend of Miss Gayerson's."
"A matter," was my reply, "which rests between Miss Gayerson and myself. I have rid her house of a scoundrel—that is all."
I thought Isabella was going to speak, but she closed her pale lips again and glanced at Alphonse.
"You have been supplying Madame de Clericy with money during the last six months?" said he.—"Yes."
"Your own money?"—"Most certainly"—and I was soft-hearted enough to omit reminding him that he owed me a thousand francs.
"You have repeatedly told me," pursued Alphonse, who seemed to be nursing his anger intoan artificial life, "that you are penniless. Whence comes this money?"
"I borrowed it."
"And if Madame de Clericy fails to repay you, you will be ruined?"
"Precisely."
"And you ask me to believe that," laughed Giraud, scornfully.
"No," answered I, going towards the door, for my temper was rising, and there remained but that way of avoiding a quarrel. "You may do as you like."
As I turned to close the door I caught sight of Isabella's face, and it wore a look that took me back to school holidays, when she and I wandered in the Hopton woods together, and were, I dare say, sentimental enough.
"Les plus généreux sont toujours ceux qui n'ont rien."
"Les plus généreux sont toujours ceux qui n'ont rien."
The events in France, stupendous in themselves, seemed to have shaken the nerves of nations. That great sleeping Bear of the North roused itself, and in its clumsy awakening put a heavy paw through the Treaty of Paris. The Americans—our brothers in thought, speech and energetic purpose—raised a great cry against us in that we had allowed the ill-fated Alabama to leave our shores equipped for destruction. There was a spirit of strife and contention in the atmosphere of the world. Friendly nations nursed an imaginary grievance against their neighbours, and those that had one brought it out, as a skeleton from a cupboard, and inspected it in public.
In a school playground the rumour of a fight stirs latent passions, and doubles many a peaceful fist. France and Prussia, grasping each other by the throat, seemed to have caused such an electric disturbance in the atmosphere of Europe, and manyEnglishmen were for fighting some one—they did not care whom.
During this disturbed spring of 1871, Madame de Clericy and Lucille returned to Hopton, where a warm and pleasant April made them admit that the English climate was not wholly bad. For my own part, it is in the autumn that I like Hopton best, when the old cock pheasants call defiance to each other in the spinneys, and the hedgerows rustle with life.
The ladies were kind enough to make known to me their amended opinion of England when I went down to my home, soon after Easter; and indeed I thought the old place looking wonderfully homelike and beautiful, with the young green about its gray walls and the sense of spring in the breeze that blew across the table-land.
I arrived unexpectedly; for some instinct told me that it would be better to give Isabella no notice of my coming into her neighbourhood. As I rode up the avenue I saw Lucille, herself the incarnation of spring, moving among the flowers. She turned at the sound of the horse's tread, and changed colour when she recognised me. A flush—I suppose of anger—spread over her face.
"I have come, Mademoiselle," I said, "with good news for you. You may soon return home now, and turn your back forever on Hopton."
"I am not so ungrateful as you persist in considering me," she said, with vivacity, "and I like Hopton."
The gardener came forward to take my horse, and we walked towards the house together.
"I am grateful to you, Monsieur Howard," said Lucille, in a softer voice than I had yet heard her use towards me—and in truth I knew every tone of it—"for all that you have done for mother—for us, I mean. You have been a friend in need."
This sudden change of manner was rather bewildering, and I made no doubt that the victim of it was dumb and stupid enough to arouse any woman's anger. But Lucille was always too quick for me, and by the time I began to understand her humour it changed and left me far behind.
"Where have you been all these months?" she asked, almost as if the matter interested her. "And why have you not written?"
"I have been chasing a chimera, Mademoiselle."
"Which you will never catch."
"Which I shall never abandon," answered I, quite failing to emulate her lightness of tone.
When we went indoors and found Madame with her lace-work in the morning-room upstairs, with the windows overlooking the sea—the room, by the way, where I now sit and write—Lucille's manner as abruptly changed again.
"Mother," she said, "here is Monsieur Howard, our benefactor."
"I am glad, mon ami, that you have come," were Madame's words of welcome. And after the manner of good housewives she then inquired when and where I had last eaten.
I had brought a number of the illustrated journals of the day, and with the aid of these convinced even Lucille that the flight from Paris had not been an unnecessary precaution. Upon the heels of the horror of the long siege had followed the greater disorder of the Commune, when brave men were shot down by the insurgent National Guard, and all Paris was at the mercy of the rabble. Indeed, this Reign of Terror must ever remain a blot on the civilisation of the century and the history of the French people.
It was apparent to me that while Madame de Clericy, who was of a more philosophic nature, accepted exile and dependence on myself without great reluctance, Lucille chafed under the knowledge that they were for the moment beholden to me. I had, as a matter of fact, come at Madame's request, who could make but little of the English newspapers, and thirsted for tidings from Paris. The respectable Paris newspapers had one after the other been seized and stopped by the Commune, while the postal service had itself collapsed.
The Vicomtesse also wished for details of her own affairs, and had written to me respecting a sale of some property in order to raise ready money and pay off her debt towards myself. It was with a view of discussing these questions that I had journeyed down to Hopton. So at least I persuaded myself to believe, and knew, at the sight of Lucille among the gnarled old trees, that the self-deception was a thin one. Alphonse had gone to France, being now released from his parole, so I was spared the sight of Lucille and him together.
Madame, however, would not allow me to make my report until we had dined, and we spent the intervening hour in talk of Paris, and the extraordinary events passing there. The ladies, as indeed ladies mostly are, were staunch Royalists, and while evincing but little sympathy for the fallen Buonapartes, learnt with horror of the rise of Anarchy and Republicanism in Paris.
"My poor country," exclaimed Madame. "It will be impossible to live in France again."
And Lucille's eyes lighted up with anger when I told her of the plots to assassinate the Duc D'Aumale—that brave soldier and worthiest member of his family—merely because he was of the Royal race.
All Europe awaited at this time the fall of the desperate Communards, who held Paris and defiedthe government of Versailles, while experts vowed that the end could not be far off. It seemed impossible that a rabble under the command of first one and then another adventurer could hold the capital against disciplined troops, and I, like the majority of onlookers, underestimated the possible duration of this second siege. However, my listeners were consoled with the prospect of returning to their beloved France before the summer passed.
Madame, as I remember, made a great feast in honour of my coming, and the old butler, who had served my father and still called me Master Dick, with an admonishing shake of the head, brought from the cellar some great vintage of claret which Madame said could not have been bettered from the cave at La Pauline.
Again at dinner I thought there was a change in Lucille, who deferred to me on more than one occasion, and listened to my opinion almost as if it deserved respect. After dinner she offered to sing, which she had rarely done since the last sad days in Paris, and once more I heard those old songs of Provence that melt the heart.
It was when Lucille was tired that Madame asked me to make my report, and I produced the books. I had made a rough account showing Madame's liability to myself, and can only repeat now the confession made long ago that it was aninfamous swindle. Madame had no head for figures, as she had, indeed, a hundred times informed me, and I knew well that she had no money to pay me. I had lived in this lady's house a paid dependant only in name and treated as an honoured guest. A time of trouble and distress having come to them, what could I do but help such friends to the best of my power, seeking to avoid any hurt to their pride?
I explained the figures to Madame de Clericy, whose bright quick eyes seemed to watch my face rather than the paper as my pen travelled down it. I began to feel conscious, as I often did in her presence, that I was but a clumsy oaf; and, furthermore, suspected that Lucille was watching me over the book she pretended to read.
"And this," said the Vicomtesse, when I had finished, "is how we stand towards each other?"—
"Yes, Madame."
And I dared not raise my eyes from the books before me. The Vicomtesse rose and moved towards the fireplace, where the logs burned brightly, for the spring evenings are cold on the East Coast, and we are glad enough to burn fires. She held my dishonest account in her hand and quietly dropped it into the fire.
"You are right, mon ami," she said, with a smile. "What we owe you cannot be set down on paper—but it was kind of you to try."
Lucille had risen to her feet. Her glance flashed from one to the other.
"Mother," she said coldly, "what have you done? How can we now pay Mr. Howard?"
Madame made no reply, reserving her defence—as the lawyers have it—until a fitter occasion. This presented itself later in the evening when mother and daughter were alone. Indeed, the Vicomtesse went to Lucille's room for the purpose.
"Lucille," she said, "I wish you would trust Mr. Howard as entirely as I do."
"But no one trusts him," answered Lucille, and her slipper tapped the floor. "Alphonse does not believe that he is looking for the money at all. It was for his own ends that he dismissed Mr. Devar, who was so hurt that he has never appeared since. And you do not know how he treated Isabella."
"How did he treat Isabella?" asked Madame quietly, and seemed to attach some importance to the question.
"He—well, he ought to have married her."
"Why?" asked Madame.
"Oh—it is a long story, and Isabella has only told me parts of it. She dislikes him, and with good cause."
Madame stood with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, the firelight glowing on her black dress. Her clever speculative eyes were fixed onthe smouldering logs of driftwood. Lucille was moving about the room, exhibiting by her manner that impatience which the mention of my name seemed ever to arouse.
"Do not be hasty in judging," said the elder woman with a tolerance that few possess. "Isabella may have cause for complaint against him, or she may be suffering from wounded vanity. A woman's vanity is the rudder that shapes her course through life. If it be injured, the course will be a crooked one. Isabella is a disappointed woman—one sees it in her face. Of the two I prefer to trust Dick Howard, and wish that you could do the same. We know nothing of what may have passed between them, and can therefore form no opinion. One person alone knows, and that is John Turner. He is coming to stay here with Dick in a fortnight. Ask him to judge."
Madame continued thus to plead my cause, while I, no doubt, slept peacefully enough under the same roof, for I have never known what it is to lie awake with my troubles. One damning fact the Vicomtesse could not disguise, namely, that she was for the moment dependent upon me.
"I would rather," said Lucille, "that it had been Alphonse."
To which Madame made no reply. She was a wise woman in that she never asked a confidence ofher daughter, in whose happiness, I know, the interest of her life was centred. It is a great love that discriminates between curiosity and anxiety.
Lucille, however, wanted no help in the management of her life or the guidance of her heart, and made this clear to Madame. Indeed, she had of late begun to exercise somewhat of a sway over her mother, and appeared to be the ruling spirit; for youth is a force in itself. For my own part, however, I have always inclined to the belief that it is the quiet member of the family who manages and guides the household from the dim background of social obscurity. And although Madame de Clericy appeared to be mastered by her quick-witted, quick-spoken daughter, it was usually her will and not Lucille's that gained the victory in the end.
Lucille defended her absent friend with much spirit, and fought that lady's battles for her, protesting that Isabella had been ill used, and the victim of an unscrupulous adventurer. She doubtless said hard things of me, which have now been forgotten, for the lady who took my heart so quickly, and never lost her hold of it, was at this time spontaneous in thought and word, and quick to blame or praise.
WHEN MADAME WAS AT HER PRAYERS, A SWIFT, WHITE FORM HURRIED INTO THE ROOM, AND HELD HER FOR A MOMENT IN A QUICK EMBRACE.WHEN MADAME WAS AT HER PRAYERS, A SWIFT, WHITE FORM HURRIED INTO THE ROOM, AND HELD HER FOR A MOMENT IN A QUICK EMBRACE.
Mother and daughter parted for the night with a colder kiss than usual, and half an hour later,when Madame was at her prayers, a swift white form hurried into the room, held her for a moment in a quick embrace, and was gone before Madame could rise from her knees.
On the following afternoon, some hours after my departure, Isabella came to Hopton; and the dear friends, between whom there had never been a difference, had, as it appeared, a quarrel which sent Isabella home with close-pressed lips, and hurried Lucille to her room, her eyes angry and tearful. But the subject of the disagreement was not myself—nor, indeed, was any definite explanation ever given as to why the two fell out.
"Il ne faut confier son secret qu' à celui qui n'a pas cherché à le deviner."
"Il ne faut confier son secret qu' à celui qui n'a pas cherché à le deviner."
"I do not care whether Paris is in the hands of the Communards or the other bunglers so long as the Bank of France holds good," said John Turner; and, indeed, I afterwards learnt that his whole fortune depended on this turn of the wheel.
We were travelling down to Hopton, and it was the last week of May. We bore to Madame de Clericy the news that at last the government troops had made their entry into Paris and were busy fighting in the streets there, hunting from pillar to post the remnant of the Communard rabble. The reign of terror which had lasted two and a half months was ended, and Paris lay like a ship that having passed through a great storm lies at last in calm water, battered and beaten. Priceless treasures had perished by the incendiarism of the wild mob—the Tuileries were burnt, the Louvre had barely escaped a like fate. The matchless Hôtel de Ville had vanished, and a thousand monumentsand relics were lost for ever. Paris would never be the same again. Anarchy had swept across it, razing many buildings and crushing out not a few of those qualities of good taste and feeling which had raised Frenchmen to the summit of civilisation before the Empire fell.
John Turner was in good humour, for he had just learnt that, owing to the wit and nerve of one man, the Bank of France had stood untouched. With it was saved the house of Turner & Co., of Paris and London. The moment my friend's affairs were on a safe footing he placed himself at my service to help with the Vicomtesse de Clericy's more complicated difficulties. I was glad to avail myself of the assistance of one whose name was a by-word for rectitude and stability. Here, at all events, I had a colleague whose word could not be doubted by Isabella, of whose father John Turner had been a friend as well as of my own.
"Heard any more of Miste?" inquired Turner, while the train stood at Ipswich station; for he was much too easy-going to shout conversation during the progress of our journey.
"Sander writes that he has nearly caught him twice, and singularly enough has done better since you gave Mr. Devar hiscongé."
"Nothing singular about that. Devar was inthe swindle and kept Miste advised of your movements. But there is some one else in it, too."
"A third person?"
"Yes," answered Turner. "A third person. I have been watching the thing, Dick, and am not such a fat old fool as you take me for. It was neither Miste nor Devar who cashed that draft. If you catch Miste you will probably catch some one else, too, some knight-errant of finance, or I am much mistaken."
At this moment the train moved on, and my friend composed his person for a sleep which lasted until we reached Saxmundham.
"I suppose," said my companion, waking up there, "that Mademoiselle of thebeaux yeuxis to marry Alphonse when the fortune is recovered?"
"I suppose so," answered I, and John Turner closed his eyes again with a queer look.
In the station enclosure at Lowestoft we found Alphonse Giraud enjoying himself immensely on the high seat of a dog-cart, controlling, with many French exclamations, and a partial success, the movements of a cob which had taken a fancy to progress backwards round and round the yard.
"It is," he explained, with a jerky salutation of the whip, "the Sunday-school treat departing for Yarmouth. They marched in here with a brass band—too much—Whoa!le petit, whoa!—toomuch for our feelings. There—bonjour, Monsieur Turner—how goes it? There—now we stand still.
"Not for long," said Turner, doubtfully; "and I never get in or out of anything when it is in motion."
With the assistance of sundry idle persons we held the horse still enough for my friend to take his seat beside Alphonse, while I and the luggage found place behind them. We dashed out of the gate at a speed and risk which gave obvious satisfaction to our driver, and our progress up the narrow High Street was a series of hairbreadth escapes.
"It is a pleasure," said Alphonse, airily, as we passed the lighthouse and the cob settled down into a steady trot, "to drive such a horse as this."
"No doubt," said Turner; "but next time I take a cab."
We arrived at the Manor House in time for luncheon, and were received by the ladies at the door. Lucille, I remember, looked grave, but it appeared that the Vicomtesse was in good spirits.
"Then the news is true," she cried, before we had descended from our high places.
"Yes, Madame, for a wonder good news is true," answered Turner, and he stood bareheaded, after the manner of his adopted country, while he shook hands.
On this occasion we all frankly spoke French,for to John Turner this language was second nature. We had plenty to talk of during luncheon, and learnt much from the Paris banker which had never appeared in the newspapers. He had, indeed, passed through a trying ordeal, and that with an imperturbable nerve and coolness of head. He made, however, little of his own difficulties, and gave all his attention to Madame's affairs. Whenever he made mention of my name I saw Lucille frown.
After luncheon we went to the garden, which extends from the grim old house to the cliff-edge, and is protected on either side by a double rank of Scotch firs, all twisted and gnarled by the winter winds—all turning westward, with a queer effect as of raised shoulders and shivering limbs.
Within the boundary we have always, however, succeeded in growing such simple flowers as are indigenous to British soil—making a gay appearance and filling the air with clean-smelling scents.
"Your garden," said Madame, touching my arm as we passed out of the dining-room window, "always suggests to me the English character—not much flower, but a quantity of tough wood."
Alphonse joined us, and embarked at once on the description of an easterly gale such as are too common on this coast, but new to him and grand enough in its onslaught. For the wind hurls itselfunchecked against the cliff and house after its career across the North Sea.
Lucille and John Turner had walked slowly away together down the narrow path running from the house to the solid entrenchment of turf that stands on the cliff edge, covered with such sparse grass and herb as the sand and spray may nourish.
"It is pleasant," Lucille said, as they went from us, "to have some one to talk French with."
She was without her hat or gloves, and I saw the sunlight gleaming on her hair.
"You have Alphonse Giraud," said Turner, in his blunt way.
Lucille shrugged her shoulders.
"And Howard, from time to time," added the banker, who, having received permission to smoke a cigar, was endeavouring to extract a penknife from his waistcoat pocket.
"Who talks French with the understanding of an Englishman," said Lucille, quickly.
"You do not like Englishmen?"
"I like honest ones, Monsieur," said Lucille, looking across the sea.
"Ah!"
"Oh, yes—I know," cried Lucille, impatiently. "You are one of Mr. Howard's partisans. They are so numerous and so ready to speak for him—and he will never speak for himself."
"Then," said John Turner, smoking placidly, "let us agree to differ on that point."
But Lucille had no such intention.
"Does Mr. Howard ask you—you and mother, and sometimes Alphonse—to fight his battles for him and to sing his praises to me?"
Turner did not answer at once.
"Well?" she inquired, impatiently.
"I was just thinking how long it is since Dick Howard mentioned your name to me—about three months, I believe."
Lucille walked on with her head erect.
"What have you against him?" asked Turner, after a short silence.
"It was from your house that Mr. Howard came to us. He came to my father assuring him that he was poor, which he told me afterwards was only a subterfuge and false pretence. I then learnt from Mr. Gayerson that this was not the truth. I suppose Mr. Howard thought that a woman's affection is to be bought by gold."
"All that can be explained, Mademoiselle."
"Then explain it, Monsieur."
"Let Howard do it," said Turner, pausing to knock the ash from his cigar.
"I do not care for Mr. Howard's explanations," said Lucille, coldly. "One never knows what to believe. Is he rich or poor?"
"I WAS JUST THINKING HOW LONG IT IS SINCE DICK HOWARD MENTIONED YOUR NAME TO ME—ABOUT THREE MONTHS, I BELIEVE." LUCILLE WALKED ON WITH HER HEAD ERECT."I WAS JUST THINKING HOW LONG IT IS SINCE DICK HOWARD MENTIONED YOUR NAME TO ME—ABOUT THREE MONTHS, I BELIEVE." LUCILLE WALKED ON WITH HER HEAD ERECT.
"He is which he likes."
Lucille gave a scornful laugh.
"He could be rich to-morrow if he would do as I advise him," grunted Turner.
"What is that, Monsieur?"
"Marry money and a woman he does not love."
They walked on for some moments in silence, and came to the turf entrenchment raised against the wind, as against an assaulting army. They passed through a gangway, cut in the embankment, to one of the seats built against the outer side of it. Below them lay the clean sands, stretching away on either side in unbroken smoothness—the sands of Corton.
"And why will he not take your advice?" asked Lucille.
"Because he is a pig-headed fool—as his father was before him. It is all his father's fault, for placing him in such an impossible position."
"I do not understand," said Lucille.
John Turner crossed his legs with a grunt of obesity.
"It is nevertheless simple, Mademoiselle," he said; "father and son quarrelled because old Howard, who was as obstinate as his son, made up his mind that Dick should marry Isabella Gayerson. Plenty of money, adjoining estates, the old story ofmisery with many servants. Dick, being his father's son, at once determined that he would do no such thing, and there was a row royal. Dick went off to Paris, in debt and heedless of the old man's threat to cut him off with a shilling. He had never cared for Isabella, and was not going to sell his liberty for the sake of a ring fence. His own words, Mademoiselle. At Paris sundry things happened to him, of which you probably know more than I."
He glanced up at Lucille, who was picking blades of grass from the embankment against which he leant. Her eyelids flickered, but she made no reply.
"Then," went on John Turner, "his father died suddenly, and it transpired that the hot-headed old fool had made one of those wills which hot-headed old fools make for the special delectation of novelists and lawyers. He had left Dick penniless, unless he consented to marry Isabella. When Dick told your father he was poor, he was well within the limits of the truth, although he did it, as I understand, to gain his own ends. When he told you a different story, he merely assumed that this quarrel, like others, would end in a reconciliation. He felt remorseful that he had practised a mild deception on your father, and wished to clear his conscience. Death intervened at this moment,and placed our young friend in the uncomfortable position of having told untruths all round. You probably know better than I do, Mademoiselle, why he got himself into this hobble."
But Lucille would make no such admission.
"But you ignore Isabella," she cried, impatiently, "you and Mr. Howard."
"She will not allow us to do that, my dear young lady."
"Is she to wait with folded hands until Mr. Howard decides whether he is inclined to marry her or not?"
"There is no waiting in the question," said John Turner. "Dick made up his mind long ago, in the lifetime of his father, and Isabella must be aware of his decision. Besides, Mademoiselle, you can judge for yourself. Is there any love lost between them, think you?"
"No."
"Is there any reason why they should be miserable if they do not want to be?"
"Isabella could not be more miserable than she is now, though she hides it well."
"Ah," said John Turner, thoughtfully. "Is that so? I wonder why."
Lucille shrugged her shoulders. She either could not or would not answer.
"Too much money," suggested Turner.
"When women have plenty of money they usually want something that cannot be bought."
Lucille frowned.
"And now you are angry, Mademoiselle," said John Turner, placidly, "and I am not afraid. I will make you still more angry."
He rose heavily, and stood, cigar in hand, looking out to sea—his round face puckered with thought.
"Mademoiselle Lucille," he said, slowly, "I have known some men and quite a number of women who have sacrificed their happiness to their pride. I have known them late in life, when the result had to be lived through. They were not good company. If pride or love must go overboard, Mademoiselle, throw pride."