I certainly could not complain of any lack of interest on the part of my auditors. They listened to every word of my story with rapt attention. When I had finished they were both silent for several moments. Mabane eyed me curiously. I think that at first he scarcely knew whether to believe me altogether serious.
"The man who was with the girl," Arthur asked at last—"this Major Delahaye, or whatever his name was—is he dead?"
"He was alive two hours ago," I answered.
"Will he recover?"
"I believe that there is just a bare chance—no more," I answered. "He had a weak heart, and the shock was almost enough to kill him."
"And your friend—the man who shot him—where is he?" Mabane asked. "Is he in custody?"
I shook my head.
"He disappeared," I answered, "as though by magic. You see, we were sitting at the table next the door, and he had every opportunity for slipping out unnoticed."
"It was at the Café Grand, you said, wasn't it?" Arthur asked.
I nodded.
"How about the commissionaire, then?"
"He saw the man come out, but he took no particular notice of him," I answered. "He crossed the street at an ordinary walking pace, and he was out of sight before the commotion inside began."
"It seems to me," Mabane remarked, "that you must have found yourself in rather an awkward position."
"I did," I answered grimly. "Of course my story sounded a bit thin, and the police made me go to the station with them. As luck would have it, however, I knew the inspector, and I managed to convince him that I was telling the truth, or I doubt whether they would have let me go. I suppose," I added, a little doubtfully, "that you fellows must think me a perfect idiot for bringing the child here, but upon my word I don't know what else I could have done. I simply couldn't leave her there, or in the streets. I'm awfully sorry—"
"Don't be an ass," Arthur interrupted energetically. "Of course you couldn't do anything but bring her here. You acted like a sensible chap for once."
"Have you questioned her," Mabane asked, "about her friends? If she has none in London, she must have some somewhere!"
"I have questioned her," I answered, "but not very successfully. She appears to know nothing about her relations, or even her parentage. She has been at the convent ever since she can remember, and she has seen no one outside it except this man who took her there and came to fetch her away."
"And what relation is he?" Allan asked.
"None! He called himself simply her guardian."
Arthur walked across the room for his pipe, and commenced to fill it.
"Well," he said, "you are like the man in the Scriptures, who found what he went out for to see. You've got your adventure, at any rate. All owing to my advice, too. Hullo!"
We all turned round. The door of the room was suddenly opened and closed. My host of a few hours ago stood upon the threshold, smiling suavely upon us. He wore a low black hat, and a coat somewhat thicker than the season of the year seemed to demand. Every article of attire was different, but his face seemed to defy disguise. I should have known Mr. Grooten anywhere.
His unexpected presence seemed to deprive me almost of my wits. I simply gaped at him like the others.
"Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "You here!"
He stood quite still for a moment, listening. Then he glanced sharply around the room. He looked at Mabane, and he looked at Arthur. Finally he addressed me.
"I fancy that I am a fairly obvious apparition," he remarked. "Where is the child?"
"She is here," I answered, "in another room with our housekeeper just now. But——"
"I have only a few seconds to spare," Mr. Grooten interrupted ruthlessly. "Listen to me. You have chosen to interfere in this concern, and you must take your part in it now. You have the child, and you must keep her for a time. You must not let her go, on any account. Unfortunately, the man who sold me that pistol was a liar. Delahaye is not dead. It is possible even that he may recover. Will you swear to keep the child from him?"
I hesitated. It seemed to me that Grooten was taking a great deal for granted.
"You must remember," I said, "that I have absolutely no legal hold upon her. If Delahaye is her guardian it will be quite easy for him to take her away."
"He is not her legal guardian," Grooten said sharply. "He has no just claim upon her at all."
"Neither have I," I reminded him.
"You have possession," Grooten exclaimed. "I tell you that neither Delahaye, if he lives, nor any other person, will appeal to the law to force you to give the child up. This is the truth. I see you still hesitate. Listen! This also is truth. The child is in danger from Delahaye—hideous, unmentionable danger."
I never thought of doubting his word. Truth blazed out from his keen grey eyes; his words carried conviction with them.
"I will keep the child," I promised him. "But tell me who you are, and what you have to do with her."
"No matter," he answered swiftly. "I lay this thing upon you, a charge upon your honour. Guard the child. If Delahaye recovers there will be trouble. You must brave it out. You are an Englishman; you are one of a stubborn, honourable race. Do my bidding in this matter, and you shall learn what gratitude can mean."
Once more he listened for a moment intently. Then he continued.
"I am followed by the police," he said. "They may be here at any moment. You can tell them of my visit if it is necessary. My escape is provided for."
"But surely you will tell me something else about the child," I exclaimed. "Tell me at least——"
He held out his hand.
"You are safer to know nothing," he said quickly. "Be faithful to what you have promised, and you will never regret it."
With almost incredible swiftness he disappeared. We all three looked at one another, speechless. Then from outside came the sound of light footsteps, and a laugh as from the throat of a singing bird. The door was thrown open, and Isobel entered.
"Such a funny little man has just gone out!" she exclaimed. "He had a handkerchief tied round his face as though he had been fighting. What lazy people!" she added, looking around. "I expected to find tea ready. Will you please tell me some more about motor-cars, Mr. Arthur?"
She sat on a stool in our midst, and chattered while we fed her with cakes, and screamed with laughter at Mabane's toast. The tragedy of a few hours ago seemed to have passed already from her mind. She was all charm and irresponsibility. The gaunt, bare room, which for years had mocked all our efforts at decoration, seemed suddenly a beautiful place. Easily, and with the effortless grace of her fifteen years, she laughed her way into our hearts.
"Arnold!"
I waved my left hand.
"Don't disturb me for a few minutes, Allan, there's a good chap," I begged. "I'm hard at it."
"Found your plot, then, eh?"
"I've got a start, anyhow! Give me half an hour. I only want to set the thing going."
Mabane grunted, and took up his brush. For once I was thankful that we were alone. At last I saw my way. After weeks of ineffective scribbling a glimpse of the real thing had come to me.
The stiffness had gone from my brain and fingers. My pen flew over the paper. The joy of creation sang once more in my heart, tingled in all my pulses. We worked together and in silence for an hour or more. Then, with a little sigh of satisfaction, I leaned back in my chair.
"The story goes, then?" Mabane remarked.
"Yes, it goes," I assented, my eyes fixed absently upon the loose sheets of manuscript strewn all over my desk. Already I was finding it hard to tear my thoughts away from it.
There was a short silence. Then Mabane, who had been filling his pipe, came over to my side.
"You heard from the convent this morning, Arnold?"
"Yes! The letter is here. Read it!"
Mabane shook his head.
"I can't read French," he said.
"They want her back again," I told him, thoughtfully. "The woman appears to be honest enough. She admits that they have no absolute claim—they do not even know her parentage. They have been paid, she says, regularly and well for the child's education, and if she is now without a home they would like her to go back to them. She thinks it possible that Major Delahaye's relatives, or the people for whom he acted, might continue the payments, but they are willing to take their risk of that. The long and short of it is, that they want her back again."
"As a pupil still?" Mabane asked.
"They would train her for a teacher. In that case she would have to serve a sort of novitiate. She would practically become a nun."
Mabane withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and looked thoughtfully into the bowl of it.
"I never had a sister," he said, "and I really know nothing whatever about children. But does it occur to you, Arnold, that this—young lady seems particularly adapted for a convent?"
"I believe," I said firmly, "that it would be misery for her."
Mabane walked over to his canvas and came back again.
"What about Delahaye?" he asked.
"He is still unconscious at the hospital," I answered.
Mabane hesitated.
"I do not wish to seem intrusive, Arnold," he said, "but I can't help remembering that a certain lady with whom you were very friendly once married a Delahaye!"
I nodded.
"I should have told you, in any case," I said. "This is the man—Major Sir William Delahaye, whom Eileen Marigold married."
"Then surely you recognized him in the restaurant?"
"I never met him," I answered. "This marriage was arranged very quickly, as you know, and I was abroad when it took place. I called on Lady Delahaye twice, but I did not meet her husband on either occasion."
Mabane fingered the loose sheets of my manuscript idly.
"Your story, Arnold," he said, "is having a tragic birth. Will Delahaye really die, do you think?"
"The doctors are not very hopeful," I told him. "The wound itself is not mortal, but the shock seems to have affected him seriously. He is not a young man, and he has lived hard all his days."
"If he dies," Mabane said thoughtfully, "your friend Grooten, I think you said he called himself, will have to disappear altogether. In that case I suppose we—shall be compelled to send the child back to the convent?"
"Unless——"
"Unless what?"
"Unless we provide for her ourselves," I answered boldly.
Mabane smoked furiously for a few moments. His hands were thrust deep down in his trousers pockets. He looked fixedly out of the window.
"Arnold," he said abruptly, "do you believe in presentiments?"
"It depends whether they affect me favourably or the reverse," I answered carelessly. "You Scotchmen are all so superstitious."
"You may call it superstition," Mabane continued. "Everything of the sort which an ignorant man cannot understand he calls superstition. But if you like, I will tell you something which is surely going to happen. I will tell you what I have seen."
I leaned forward in my chair, and looked curiously into Allan's face. His hard, somewhat commonplace features seemed touched for the moment by some transfiguring fire. His keen, blue-grey eyes were as soft and luminous as a girl's. He had actually the appearance of a man who sees a little way beyond the border. Even then I could not take him seriously.
"Speak, Sir Prophet!" I exclaimed, with a little laugh. "Let my eyes also be touched with fire. Let me see what you see."
Mabane showed no sign of annoyance. He looked at me composedly.
"Do not be a fool, Arnold," he said. "You may believe or disbelieve, but some day you will know that the things which I have in my mind are true."
I think that I was a little bewildered. I realized now what at first I had been inclined to doubt—that Mabane was wholly in earnest. Unconsciously my attitude towards him changed. It is hard to mock a man who believes in himself.
"Go ahead, then, Allan," I said quietly. "Remember that you have told me nothing yet."
Mabane turned towards me. He spoke slowly. His face was serious—almost solemn.
"The man Delahaye will never claim the child," he said. "I think that he will die. The man who shot him has gone—we shall not hear of him again, not for many years, if at all. He has gone like a stone dropped into a bottomless tarn. We shall not send the child back to the convent. She will remain here."
He paused, as though expecting me to speak. I shrugged my shoulders.
"Come," I said, "I shall not quarrel with your prophecy so far, Allan. The introduction of a feminine element here seems a little incongruous, but after all she is very young."
Mabane unclasped his arms, and looked thoughtfully around the room. Already there was a change since a few days ago. The ornaments and furniture were free from dust. There were two great bowls of flowers upon the table, some studies which had hung upon the wall were replaced with others of a more sedate character. The atmosphere of the place was different. Wild untidiness had given place to some semblance of order. There was an attempt everywhere at repression. Mabane knocked the ashes from his pipe.
"For five years," he said abstractedly, "you and I and Arthur have lived here together. Are you satisfied with those five years? Think!"
I looked from my desk out of the window, over the housetops up into the sunshine, and I too was grave. Satisfied! Is anyone short of a fool ever satisfied?
"No! I am not," I admitted, a little bitterly.
"Tell me what you think of these five years, Arnold. Tell me the truth," Mabane persisted. "Let me know if your thoughts are the same as mine."
"Drift," I answered. "We have worked a little, and thought a little—but our feet have been on the earth a great deal oftener than our heads have touched the clouds."
"Drift," Mabane repeated. "It is a true word. We have gained a little experience of the wrong sort: we have learnt how to adapt our poor little gifts to the whim of the moment. Such as our talent has been, we have made a servant of it to minister to our physical necessities. We have lived little lives, Arnold—very little lives."
"Go on," I murmured. "This at least is truth!"
Mabane paused. He looked at his pipe, but he did not relight it.
"There is a change coming," he said, slowly. "We are going to drift no longer. We are going to be drawn into the maelstrom of life. What it may mean for you and for me and for the boy, I do not know. It will change us—it must change our work. I shall paint no more guesses at realism—after someone else; and you will write no more of princesses, or pull the strings of tinsel-decked puppets, so that they may dance their way through the pages of your gaily-dressed novels. And an end has come to these things, Arnold. No, I am not raving, nor is this a jest. Wait!"
"You speak," I told him, "like a seer. Since when was it given to you to read the future so glibly, my friend?"
Mabane looked at me with grave eyes. There was no shadow of levity in his manner.
"I am not a superstitious man, Arnold," he said, "but I come, after all, of hill-folk, and I believe that there are times when one can feel and see the shadow of coming things. My grandfather knew the day of his death, and spoke of it; my father made his will before he set foot on the steamer which went to the bottom on a calm day between Dover and Ostend. Nothing of this sort has ever come to me before. You yourself have called me too hard-headed, too material for an artist. So I have always thought myself—until to-day. To-day I feel differently."
"Is it this child, then, who is to open the gates of the world to us?" I asked.
"Remember," Mabane answered, "that before many months have passed she will be a woman."
I moved in my chair a little uneasily.
"I wonder," I said, half to myself, "whether I did well to bring her here!"
Mabane laughed shortly.
"It was not you who brought her," he declared. "She was sent."
"Sent?"
"Aye, these things are not of our choosing, Arnold. There is something behind which drives the great wheels. You can call it Fate or God, according to your philosophy. It is there all the time, the one eternal force."
I looked at Mabane steadfastly. He did not flinch.
"Psychologically, my dear Allan," I said, "you appear to be in a very interesting state just now."
Mabane shrugged his shoulders. He crossed the room for some tobacco, and began to refill his pipe.
"Well," he said, "I have finished. To-morrow, I suppose, I shall want to kick myself for having said as much as I have. Listen! Here they come."
Isobel came into the room, followed by Arthur in a leather jacket and breeches. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes danced with excitement. She threw off her tam-o'-shanter, and stood deftly re-arranging for a moment her wind-tossed hair.
"Glorious!" she exclaimed. "Oh, it has been glorious! Mr. Arthur, how can I thank you? I have never enjoyed myself so much in my life. If the Sister Superior could only have seen me—and the girls!"
"Motoring, I presume," Mabane remarked, "is amongst the pleasures denied to the young ladies of the convent?"
She laughed gaily.
"Pleasures! Why, there are no pleasures for those poor girls. One may not even smile, and as for games, even they are not permitted. I think that it is shameful to make such a purgatory of a place. One may not, one could not, be happy there. It is not allowed."
She caught the look which flashed from Mabane to me, and turned instantly around.
"Oh, Monsieur Arnold," she cried breathlessly, "you do not think—I shall not have to return there?"
"Not likely!" Arthur interposed with vigour. "By Jove! if anyone shut you up there again I'd come and fetch you out."
She threw a quick glance of gratitude towards him, but her eyes returned almost immediately to mine. She waited anxiously for me to speak.
"If we can possibly prevent it," I said slowly, "you shall never return there. I do not think that it is at all the proper place for you. But you must remember that we are, after all, people of no authority. Someone might come forward to-morrow with a legal right to claim you, and we should be helpless."
Slowly the colour died away from her cheeks. Her eyes became preternaturally bright and anxious.
"There is no one," she faltered, "except that man. He called himself my guardian."
"Had you seen him before he came to the convent and fetched you away?" I asked.
"Only once," she answered. "He came to St. Argueil about a year ago. I hated him then. I have hated him ever since. I think that if all men were like that I would be content to stay in the convent all my life."
"You don't remember the circumstances under which he took you there, I suppose?" Mabane asked thoughtfully.
She shook her head.
"I do not remember being taken there at all," she answered. "I think that I was not more than four or five years old."
"And all the time no one else has been to see you or written to you?" I asked.
"No one!"
She smothered a little sob as she answered me. It was as though my questions and Mabane's, although I had asked them gently enough, had suddenly brought home to her a fuller sense of her complete loneliness. Her eyes were full of tears. She held herself proudly, and she fought hard for her self-control. Arthur glanced indignantly at both of us. He had the wit, however, to remain silent.
"There are just one or two more questions, Isobel," I said, "which I must ask you some time or other."
"Now, please, then," she begged.
"Did Major Delahaye ever mention his wife to you?"
"Never."
"You did not even know, then, when you arrived in London where he was taking you?"
"I knew nothing," she admitted. "He behaved very strangely, and I was miserable every moment of the time I was with him. I understood that I was to have a companion and live in London."
I felt my blood run cold for a moment. I did not dare to look at Mabane.
"I do not think," I said, "that you need fear anything more from Major Delahaye, even if he should recover."
"You mean—?" she cried breathlessly.
"We should never give you up to him," I declared firmly.
"Thank God!" she murmured. "Mr. Arnold," she added, looking at me eagerly, "I can paint and sing and play the piano. Can't people earn money sometimes by doing these things? I would work—oh, I am not afraid to work. Couldn't I stay here for a little while?"
"Of course you can," I assured her. "And there is no need at all for you to think about earning money yet. It is not that which troubles us at all. It is the fact that we have no legal claim upon you, and people may come forward at any moment who have."
Arthur glanced towards her triumphantly.
"What did I tell you?" he exclaimed.
She looked timidly across at Mabane.
"The other gentleman won't mind?" she asked timidly.
Mabane smiled at her, and his smile was a revelation even to us who knew him so well.
"My dear young lady," he said, "you will be more than welcome. I have just been telling Arnold that your coming will make the world a different place for us."
The girl's smile was illumining. It seemed to include us all. She held out both her hands. Mabane seized one and bent over it with the air of a courtier. The other was offered to me. Arthur was content to beam upon us all from the background. At that precise moment came a tap at the door. Mrs. Burdett brought in a telegram.
I tore it open, and hastily reading it, passed it on to Mabane. He hesitated for a moment, and then turned gravely to Isobel.
"Major Delahaye will not trouble you any more," he said. "He died in the hospital an hour ago."
"A shade more to the right, please. There, just as you are now! Don't move! In five minutes I shall have finished for the day."
Isobel smiled.
"I think that your five minutes," she said, "last sometimes for a very long time. But I am not tired—no, not at all. I can stay like this if you wish until the light goes."
"You are splendid," Mabane murmured. "The best sitter—oh, hang it, who's that?"
"There is certainly some one at the door," Isobel remarked.
Mabane paused in his work to shout fiercely, "Come in!" I too looked up from my writing. A woman was ushered into the room—a woman dressed in fashionable mourning, of medium height, and with a wealth of fair, fluffy hair, which seemed to mock the restraining black bands. Mrs. Burdett, visibly impressed, lingered in the background.
The woman paused and looked around. She looked at me, and the pen slipped from my nerveless fingers. I rose to my feet.
"Eil—Lady Delahaye!" I exclaimed.
She inclined her head. Her demeanour was cold, almost belligerent.
"I am glad to find you here, Arnold Greatson," she said. "You are a friend, I believe, of the man who murdered my husband?"
"You have been misinformed, Lady Delahaye," I answered quietly. "I was not even an acquaintance of his. We met that day for the first time."
By the faintest possible curl of the lips she expressed her contemptuous disbelief.
"Ah!" she said. "I remember your story at the inquest. You will forgive me if, in company, I believe, with the majority who heard it, I find it a trifle improbable."
I looked at her gravely. This was the woman with whom I had once believed myself in love, the woman who had jilted me to marry a man of whom even his friends found it hard to speak well.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "my story may have sounded strangely, but it was true. I presume that you did not come here solely with the purpose of expressing your amiable opinion of my veracity?"
"You are quite right," she admitted drily. "I did not."
She was silent for a few moments. Her eyes were fixed upon Isobel, and I did not like their expression.
"May I offer you a chair, Lady Delahaye?" I asked.
"Thank you, I prefer to stand—here," she answered. "This, I believe, is the young person who was with my husband?"
She extended a sombrely gloved forefinger towards Isobel, who met her gaze unflinchingly.
"That is the young lady," I answered. "Have you anything to say to her?"
"My errand here is with her," Lady Delahaye declared. "What is it that you call yourself, girl?"
Isobel was a little bewildered. She seemed scarcely able to appreciate Lady Delahaye's attitude.
"My name," she said, "is Isobel de Sorrens."
"You asserted at the inquest," Lady Delahaye continued, "that my husband was your guardian. What did you mean by such an extraordinary statement?"
Isobel seemed suddenly to grasp the situation. Her finely arched eyebrows were raised, her cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkling. She rose slowly to her feet, and, child though she was, the dignity of her demeanour was such that Lady Delahaye with her accusing forefinger seemed to shrink into insignificance.
"I think," she said, "that you are a very rude person. Major Delahaye took me to the convent of St. Argueil when I was four years old, and left me there. He visited me twelve months ago, and brought me to England you know when. I was with him for less than twenty-four hours, and I was very unhappy indeed all the time. I did not understand the things which he said to me, nor did I like him at all. I think that if he had left me out of his sight for a moment I should have run away."
Lady Delahaye was very pale, and her eyes were full of unpleasant things. I found myself looking at her, and marvelling at the folly which I had long since forgotten.
"You perhaps complained of him—to his murderer! It is you, no doubt, who are responsible for my husband's death!"
Isobel's lips curled contemptuously.
"Major Delahaye," she said, "did not permit me to speak to anyone. As for the man whom you call his murderer, I never saw him before in my life, nor should I recognize him again if I saw him now. I do not know why you come here and say all these unkind things to me. I have done you no harm. I am very sorry about Major Delahaye, but—but—"
Her lips quivered. I hastily interposed.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "I do not know what the immediate object of your visit here may be, but——"
"The immediate object of my visit," she interrupted coldly, "is as repugnant to me, Mr. Greatson, as it may possibly be disappointing to you. I am here, however, to carry out my husband's last wish. This child herself has asserted that he was her guardian. By his death that most unwelcome post devolves upon me."
Isobel turned white, as though stung by a sudden apprehension. She looked towards me, and I took her hand in mine. Lady Delahaye smiled unpleasantly upon us both.
"You mean," I said, "that you wish to take her away from us?"
"Wish!" Lady Delahaye repeated coldly. "I can assure you that I am not consulting my own wishes upon the subject at all. What I am doing is simply my duty. The child had better get her hat on."
Isobel did not move, but she turned very pale. Her eyes seemed fastened upon mine. She waited for me to speak. The situation was embarrassing enough so far as I was concerned, for Lady Delahaye was obviously in earnest. I tried to gain time.
"May I ask what your intentions are with regard to the child? You intend to take her to your home—to adopt her, I suppose?"
Lady Delahaye regarded me with cold surprise.
"Certainly not," she answered. "I shall find a fitting position for her in her own station of life."
"May I assume then," I continued, with some eagerness, "that you know what that is? You are acquainted, perhaps, with her parentage?"
She returned my gaze steadily.
"I may be," she answered. "That, however, is beside the question. I intend to do my duty by the child. If you have been put to any expense with regard to her, you can mention the amount and I will defray it. I have answered enough questions. What is your name, child—Isobel? Get ready to come with me."
Isobel answered her steadily, but her eyes were filled with shrinking fear.
"I do not wish to come with you," she said. "I do not like you at all."
Lady Delahaye raised her eyebrows. It seemed to me that in a quiet way she was becoming angry.
"Unfortunately," she said, "your liking or disliking me makes very little difference. I have no choice in the matter at all. The care of you has devolved upon me, and I must undertake it. You had better come at once."
Isobel trembled where she stood. I judged it time to intervene.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the duty of looking after this child is evidently a distasteful one to you. We will relieve you of it. She can remain with us."
Lady Delahaye looked at me in astonishment. Then she laughed, and it seemed to all of us that we had never heard a more unpleasant travesty of mirth.
"Indeed!" she exclaimed. "And may I ask of whom your household consists?"
"Of myself and my two friends, Mabane and Fielding. We have a most responsible housekeeper, however, who will be able to look after the child."
"Until she herself can qualify for the position, I presume," Lady Delahaye remarked drily. "What a delightful arrangement! A sort of co-operative household. Quite Arcadian, I am sure, and so truly philanthropic. You have changed a good deal during the last few years, Mr. Arnold Greatson, to be able to stand there and make such an extraordinary proposition to me."
I was determined not to lose my temper, though, as a matter of fact, I was fiercely angry.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "we are not prepared to give this child up to you. It will perhaps help to shorten a—a painful interview if you will accept that from me as final."
The change in Isobel was marvellous. The brilliant colour streamed into her cheeks. Her long-drawn, quivering sigh of relief seemed in the momentary silence which followed my pronouncement a very audible thing. Lady Delahaye looked at me as though she doubted the meaning of my words.
"You are aware," she said, "that this will mean great unpleasantness for you. You know the law?"
"I neither know it nor wish to know it," I answered. "We shall not give up the child."
I glanced at Mabane. His confirmation was swift and decisive.
"I am entirely in accord with my friend, madam," he said, with grim precision.
"The law will compel you," she declared.
"We will do our best, then," he answered, "to cheat the law."
"I should like to add, Lady Delahaye," I continued, "that our housekeeper, who has been in the service of my family for over thirty years, has willingly undertaken the care of the child, and I can assure you, in case you should have any anxieties concerning her, that she will be as safe under our charge as in your own."
Lady Delahaye moved towards the door. On the threshold she turned and laid her hand upon my arm. I was preparing to show her out. There was meaning in her eyes as she leaned towards me.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "we were once friends, or I should drive straight from here to my solicitors. I presume you are aware that your present attitude is capable of very serious misrepresentation?"
"I must take the risk of that, Lady Delahaye," I answered. "I ask you to remember, however, that the law would also require you to prove your guardianship. Do you yourself know anything of the child's parentage?"
She did not answer me directly.
"I shall give you," she said, "twenty-four hours for reflection. At the end of that time, if I do not hear from you, I shall apply to the courts."
I held the door open and bowed.
"You will doubtless act," I said, "according to your discretion."
The moment seemed propitious for her departure. All that had to be said had surely passed between us. Yet she seemed for some reason unwilling to go.
"I am not sure, Mr. Greatson," she said, "that I can find my way out. Will you be so good as to see me to my carriage?"
I had no alternative but to obey. Our rooms were on the fifth floor of a block of flats overlooking Chelsea Embankment, and we had no lift. We descended two flights of the stone stairs in silence. Then she suddenly laid her fingers upon my arm.
"Arnold," she said softly, "I never thought that we should meet again like this."
"Nor I, Lady Delahaye," I answered, truthfully enough.
"You have changed."
I looked at her. She had the grace to blush.
"Oh, I know that I behaved badly," she murmured, "but think how poor we were, and oh, how weary I was of poverty. If I had refused Major Delahaye I think that my mother would have turned me out of doors. I wrote and told you all about it."
"Yes," I admitted, "you wrote!"
"And you never answered my letter."
"It seemed to me," I remarked, "that it needed no answer."
"And afterwards," she said, "I wrote and asked you to come and see me."
"Lady Delahaye——" I began.
"Eileen!" she interrupted.
"Very well, then, if you will have it so, Eileen," I said. "You have alluded to events which I have forgotten. Whether you or I behaved well or ill does not matter in the least now. It is all over and done with."
"You mean, then, that I am unforgiven?"
"On the contrary," I assured her, "I have nothing to forgive."
She flashed a swift glance of reproach up on me. To my amazement there were tears in her eyes.
"Mr. Greatson," she said, "I can find my way to the street alone. I will not trouble you further."
She swept away with a dignity which became her better than her previous attitude. There was nothing left for me to do but to turn back.
Isobel was standing quite still in the middle of the room, her hands tightly clenched, a spot of colour aflame in her cheeks. Arthur, who had passed Lady Delahaye and me upon the stairs, had apparently just been told the object of her visit.
"Oh, I hate that woman!" Isobel exclaimed as I entered, "I hate her! I would rather die than go to her. I would rather go back to the convent. She looks at me as though I were something to be despised, something which should not be allowed to go alive upon the earth!"
Arthur would have spoken, but Mabane interrupted him. He laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.
"Isobel," he said gently, "you need have no fear. I know how Arnold feels about it, and I can speak for myself also. You shall not go to her. We will not give you up. I do not believe that she will go to the courts at all. I doubt if she has any claim."
"Why, we'd hide you, run away with you, anything," Arthur declared impetuously. "Don't you be scared, Isobel, I don't believe she can do a thing. The law's like a great fat animal. It takes a plaguey lot to move it, and then it moves as slowly as a steam-roller. We'll dodge it somehow."
She gave them a hand each. Her action was almost regal. It some way, it seemed that in according her our protection we were receiving rather than conferring a favour.
"My friends," she said, "you are so kind that I have no words with which to thank you. But you will believe that I am grateful."
It was then for the first time that they saw me upon the threshold. Isobel looked at me anxiously.
"She has gone?"
I nodded.
"I do not think that she will trouble us again just yet," I said. "At the same time, we must be prepared. Tell me, whereabouts is this school from which you came, Isobel?"
"St. Argueil? It is about three hours' journey from Paris. Why do you ask?"
"Because I think that I must go there," I answered. "We must try and find out what legal claims Major Delahaye had upon you. What is the name of the Principal?"
"Madame Richard is the lay principal," Isobel answered, "but Sister Ursula is really the head of the place. We girls saw her, though, very seldom—only those who were going to remain," she added, with a little shudder.
"And this Madame Richard," I asked, "is she a kindly sort of a person?"
Isobel shook her head doubtfully.
"I did not like her," she said. "She is very stern. She is not kind to anyone."
"Nevertheless, I suppose she will tell me what she knows," I said. "Give me the Bradshaw, Allan, and that old Continental guide."
I presently became immersed in planning out my route. When at last I looked up, Mabane was working steadily. The others had gone. I looked round the room.
"Where are Arthur and Isobel?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Like calling to like," he remarked tersely. "They have gone trailing."
I put the Bradshaw down.
"I shall leave for Paris at midnight, Mabane," I said.
He nodded.
"It seems to be the most sensible thing to do," he remarked. "There is no other way of getting to the bottom of the affair."
So I went to pack my bag. And within an hour I was on my way to France.
I rose to my feet, after a somewhat lengthy wait, and bowed. Between this newcomer and myself, across the stone floor, lay the sunlight, a long, yellow stream which seemed to me the only living thing which I had as yet seen in this strange, grim-looking building. I spoke in indifferent French. She answered me in perfect English.
"I have the honour to address——"
"Madame Richard. I am the lay principal of the convent. Will you permit me?"
The blind fell, and there was no more sunlight. I was conscious of a sudden chill. The bare room, with its stone-flagged floor, its plain deal furniture, depressed me no less than the cold, forbidding appearance of the woman who stood now motionless before me. She was paler than any woman whom I had ever seen in my life. A living person, she seemed the personification of lifelessness. Her black hair was streaked with grey; her dress, which suggested a uniform in its severity, knew no adornment save the plain ivory cross which hung from an almost invisible chain about her neck. Her expression indicated neither curiosity nor courtesy. She simply waited. I, although as a rule I had no great difficulty in finding words, felt myself almost embarrassed.
"I have come from London to see you," I said. "My name is Greatson—Arnold Greatson."
There was not a quiver of expression in her cold acknowledgment of my declaration. Nevertheless, at that moment I received an inspiration. I was perfectly sure that she knew who I was and what I had come for.
"I have come to know," I continued, "if you can give me any information as to the friends or parentage of a young lady who was recently, I believe, a pupil of yours—a Miss Isobel de Sorrens?"
"The young lady is still in your charge, I hear," Madame Richard remarked quietly.
Notwithstanding my inspiration I was startled.
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"We despatched a messenger only yesterday to escort Isobel back here," Madame Richard answered. "Your address was the destination given us."
"May I ask who gave it you? At whose instigation you sent?"
"At the instigation of those who have the right to consider themselves Isobel's guardians," Madame Richard said quietly.
"Isobel's guardians!" I repeated softly. "But surely you know, Madame Richard—you have heard of the tragedy which happened in London? Major Delahaye died last week."
"We have been informed of the occurrence," she answered, her tone as perfectly emotionless as though she had been discussing the veriest trifle. "We were content to recognize Major Delahaye as representing those who have the right to dispose of Isobel's future. His death, however, alters many things. Isobel will be placed in even surer hands."
"Isobel has, I presume, then, relatives living?" I remarked. "May I know their names?"
Madame Richard was silent for a moment. She was regarding me steadily. I even fancied that the ghost of a hard smile trembled upon her lips.
"I have no authority to disclose any information whatever," she said.
I bowed.
"I have no desire to seem inquisitive," I said. "On the other hand, I and my friends are greatly interested in the child. I will be frank with you, Madame Richard. We have no claim upon her, I know, but we should certainly require to know something about the people into whose charge she was to pass before we gave her up."
"She is to come back here," Madame Richard answered calmly. "We are ready to receive her. She has lived with us for ten years. I presume under the circumstances, and when I add that it is the desire of those who are responsible for her that she should immediately return to us, that you will not hesitate to send her?"
"Madame Richard," I answered gravely, "you who live so far from the world lose touch sometimes with its worst side. We others, to our sorrow, know more, though our experience is dearly enough bought. Let me tell you that I should hesitate at any time to give back the child into the care of those who sent her out into the world alone with such a man as Major Delahaye."
Madame Richard touched the cross which hung upon her bosom. Her eyes, it seemed to me, narrowed a little.
"Major Delahaye," she said, "was the nominee of those who have the right to dispose of the child."
"Then," I answered, "I shall require their right proven before Isobel leaves us. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I was present when Major Delahaye was shot, and I am not sure that the bullet of his assassin did not prevent a worse crime. The child was terrified to death. It is my honest conviction that her fear was not uncalled for."
Madame Richard raised her hand slightly.
"Monsieur," she said, "such matters are not our concern. It is because of the passions and evil doing of the world outside that we cling so closely here to our own doctrine of isolation. Whatever she may have suffered, Isobel will learn to forget here. In the blessed years which lie before her, the memory of her unhappy pilgrimage will grow dim and faint. It may even be for the best that she has realized for a moment the shadow of evil things."
"Isobel is intended, then?" I asked.
"For the Church," Madame Richard answered. "That is the present decision of those who have the right to decide for her. We ourselves do not care to take pupils who have no idea at all of the novitiate. Occasionally we are disappointed, and those in whom we have placed faith are tempted back into the world. But we do our best while they are here to show them the better way. We feared that we had lost Isobel. We shall be all the more happy to welcome her back."
I shivered a little. I could not help feeling the cold repression of the place. A vision of thin, grey-gowned figures, with pallid faces and weary, discontented eyes, haunted me. I tried to fancy Isobel amongst them. It was preposterous.
"Madame," I said, "I do not believe that Isobel is adapted by nature or disposition for such a life."
"The desire for holiness," Madame Richard answered, "is never very apparent in the young. It is the child's great good fortune that she will grow into it."
"I am afraid," I answered, "that our views upon this matter are too far apart to render discussion profitable. You have spoken of those who have the right to dispose of the child's future. I will go and see them."
"It is not necessary," Madame Richard answered. "We will send to England for the child."
"Do I understand, Madame Richard," I said, "that you decline to give me the address of those who stand behind you in the disposal of Isobel?"
"They would not discuss the matter with you," she answered calmly. "Their decision is already made. Isobel is for the Church."
I took up my hat.
"I will not detain you any further, Madame," I said.
"A messenger is already in London to bring back the child," she remarked.
"As to that," I answered, "it is perhaps better to be frank with you, Madame Richard. Your messenger will return alone."
For the first time the woman's face showed some signs of feeling. Her dark eyebrows contracted a little. Her expression was coldly repellent.
"You have no claim upon the child," she said.
"Neither do I know of any other person who has," I answered.
"We have had the charge of her for ten years. That itself is a claim. It is unseemly that she should remain with you."
"Madame," I answered, "Isobel is meant for life—not a living death."
The woman crossed herself.
"There is but one life," she said. "We wish to prepare Isobel for it."
"Madame," I said, "as to that, argument between us is impossible. I shall consult with my friends. Your messenger shall bring back word as to our decision."
The face of the woman grew darker.
"But surely," she protested, "you will not dare to keep the child?"
"Madame," I answered, "humanity makes sometimes strange claims upon us. Isobel is as yet a child. She came into my keeping by the strangest of chances. I did not seek the charge of her. It was, to tell the truth, an embarrassment to me. Yet she is under my care to-day, and I shall do what I believe to be the right thing."
"Monsieur," she said, "you are interfering in matters greater than you have any knowledge of."
"It is in your power," I reminded her, "to enlighten me."
"It is not a power which I am able to use," she answered.
"Then I will not detain you further, Madame," I said.
As I passed out she leaned over towards me. She had already rung a bell, and outside I could hear the shuffling footsteps of the old servant who had admitted me.
"Monsieur," she said, "if you keep the child you make enemies—very powerful enemies. It is long since I lived in the world, but I think that the times have not changed very much. Of the child's parentage I may not tell you, but as I hope for salvation I will tell you this. It will be better for you, and better for the child, that she comes back here, even to embrace what you have called the living death."
"Madame," I said, "I will consider all these things."
"It will be well for you to do so, Monsieur," she said with meaning. "An enemy of those in whose name I have spoken must needs be a holy man, for he lives hand in hand with death."
So I was driven back to Argueil, the red-tiled, sleepy old town, with its great gaunt church, whose windows, as the lumbering cart descended the hill, were stained blood-red by the dying sunset. Behind, on the hillside, was the convent, with its avenue of stunted elms, its close-barred windows, its terrible prison-like silence. As I looked behind, holding on to the sides of the springless cart to avoid being jostled into the road, I found myself shivering. The convent boarding-schools which I had heard of had been very different sort of places. Even after my brief visit there this return into the fresh country air, the smell of the fields, the colour and life of the rolling landscape, were blessed things. I was more than ever satisfied with my decision. It was not possible to send the child back to such a place.
Across a great vineyard plain, through which the narrow white road ran like a tightly drawn band of ribbon, I came presently to the village of Argueil. The street which led to the inn was paved with the most abominable cobbles, and I was forced to hold my hat with one hand and the side of the cart with the other. My blue-smocked driver pulled up with a flourish in front of the ancient gateway of theLeon d'Or, and I was very nearly precipitated on to the top of the broad-backed horse. As I gathered myself together I was conscious of a soft peal of laughter—a woman's laughter, which came from the arched entrance to the inn. I looked up quickly. A too familiar figure was standing there watching me,—Lady Delahaye, trim, elegant, a trifle supercilious. By her side stood the innkeeper, white-aproned and obsequious.
I clambered down on to the pavement, and Lady Delahaye advanced a little way to meet me. She held out a delicately gloved hand, and smiled.
"You must forgive my laughing, Arnold," she said. "Really, you looked too funny in that terrible cart. What an odd meeting, isn't it? Have you a few minutes to spare?"
"I believe," I answered, "that I cannot get away from this place till the evening. Shall we go in and sit down?"
She shook her head.
"The inn-parlour is too stuffy," she answered. "I was obliged to come out myself for some fresh air. Let us walk up the street."
I paid for my conveyance, and we strolled along the broad sidewalk. Lady Delahaye seemed inclined to thrust the onus of commencing our conversation upon me.
"I presume," I said, "that we are here with the same object?"
She glanced at me curiously.
"Indeed!" she remarked. "Then tell me why you came."
"To discover that child's parentage, if possible," I answered promptly. "I want to discover who her friends are, who really has the right to take charge of her."
"You perplex me, Arnold," she said thoughtfully. "I do not understand your position in the matter. I always looked upon you as a somewhat indolent person. Yet I find you now taking any amount of trouble in a matter which really does not concern you at all. Whence all this good-nature?"
"Lady Delahaye——"
"Eileen," she interrupted softly.
"Lady Delahaye," I answered firmly. "You must forgive me if I remind you that I have no longer the right to call you by any other name. I am not good-natured, and I am afraid that I am still indolent. Nevertheless, I am interested in this child, and I intend to do my utmost to prevent her returning to this place."
"I am still in the dark," she said, looking at me curiously. "She is nothing to you. A more unsuitable home for her than with three young men I cannot imagine. You seem to want to keep her there. Why? She is a child to-day, it is true—but in little more than a year's time she will be a woman. The position then for you will be full of embarrassments."
"I find the position now," I answered, "equally embarrassing. We can only give the child up to you, send her back to the convent, or keep her ourselves. Of the three we prefer to keep her."
"You seem to have a great distaste for the convent," she remarked, "but that is because you are not a Catholic, and you do not understand these things. She would at least be safe there, and in time, I think, happy."
We were at the head of the village street now, upon a slight eminence. I pointed backwards to the prison-like building, standing grim and desolate on the bare hillside.
"I should consider myself no less a murderer than the man who shot your husband," I answered, "if I sent her there. I have made all the enquiries I could in the neighbourhood, and I have added to them my own impressions. The secular part of the place may be conducted as other places of its sort, but the great object of Madame Richard's sister is to pass her pupils from that into the religious portion. Isobel is not adapted for such a life."
Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders.
"Well," she said, "I am a Catholic, so of course I don't agree with you. But why do you hesitate to give the child up to me?"
I was silent for a moment. It was not easy to put my feeling into words.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you must forgive my reminding you that on the occasion of your visit to us you did not attempt to conceal the fact that your feelings towards her were inimical. Beyond that, I was pledged not to hand her back into your husband's care, and——"
"Pledged by whom?" she asked quickly.
"I am afraid," I said, "that I cannot answer you that question."
She flashed an angry glance upon me.
"You pretend that the man who called himself Grooten was not your friend. Yet you have been in communication with him since!"
"I saw Mr. Grooten for the first time in my life on the morning of that day," I answered.
"You know where he is now?" she asked, watching me keenly.
"I have not the slightest idea. I wish that I did know," I declared truthfully. "There is no man whom I am more anxious to see."
"You would, of course, inform the police?" she asked.
"I am afraid not," I answered.
Again she was angry. This time scarcely without reason.
"Your sympathies, in short, are with the murderer rather than with his victim—the man who was shot without warning in the back? It accords, I presume, with your idea of fair play?"
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the subject is unpleasant and futile. Let us return to the inn."
She turned abruptly around. She made a little motion as of dismissal, but I remained by her side.
"By-the-bye," I said, "we were to exchange confidences. You are here, of course, to visit the convent? Why?"
She smiled enigmatically.
"I am not sure, my very simple conspirator," she said, "whether I will imitate your frankness. You see, you have blundered into a somewhat more important matter than you have any idea of. But I will tell you this, if you like. You may call that place a prison, or any hard names you please—yet it is destined to be Isobel's home. Not only that, but it is her only chance. I am putting you on your guard, you see, but I do not think that it matters. You are fighting against hopeless odds, and if by any chance you should succeed, your success would be the most terrible thing which could happen to Isobel."
I walked by her side for a moment in silence. There was in her words and tone some underlying note of fear, some suggestion of hidden danger, which brought back to my mind at once the farewell speech of Madame Richard. There was something ominous, too, in her presence here.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, as lightly as possible, "you have told me a great deal, and less than nothing at all. Yet I gather that you know more about the child and her history than you have led me to suppose."
"Yes," she admitted, "that is perhaps true."
"Why not let me share your knowledge?" I suggested boldly.
"You carry candour," she remarked, smiling, "to absurdity. We are on opposite sides. Ah, how delicious this is!"
We were regaining the centre of the little town by a footpath which for some distance had followed the river, and now, turning almost at right angles, skirted a cherry orchard in late blossom. The perfume of the pink and white buds, swaying slightly in the breeze, came to us both—a waft of delicate and poignant freshness. Lady Delahaye stood still, and half closed her eyes.
"How perfectly delicious," she murmured. "Arn—Mr. Greatson, do get me just the tiniest piece. I can't quite reach."
I broke off a small branch, and she thrust it into the bosom of her dress. The orchard was gay with bees and a few early butterflies, blue and white and orange coloured. In the porch of a red-tiled cottage a few yards away a girl was singing. Suddenly I stopped and pointed.
"Look!"
An avenue with a gate at the end led through the orchard, and under the drooping boughs we caught a glimpse of the convent away on the hillside. Greyer and more stern than ever it seemed through the delicate framework of soft green foliage and blossoms.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you are yourself a young woman. Could you bear to think of banishing from your life for ever all the colour and the sweet places, all the joy of living? Would you be content to build for yourself a tomb, to commit yourself to a living death?"
She answered me instantly, almost impulsively.
"There is all the difference in the world," she declared. "I am a woman; although I am not old, I know what life is. I know what it would be to give it up. But the child—she knows nothing. She is too young to know what lies before her. As yet her eyes are not opened. Very soon she would be content there."
I shook my head. I did not agree with Lady Delahaye.
"Indeed no!" I protested. "You reckon nothing for disposition. In her heart the song of life is already formed, the joy of it is already stirring in her blood. The convent would be slow torture to her. She shall not go there!"
Lady Delahaye smiled—mirthlessly, yet as one who has some hidden knowledge which she may not share.
"You think yourself her friend," she said. "In reality you are her enemy. If not the convent, then worse may befall her."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"As to that," I said, "we shall see!"
We resumed our walk. Again we were nearing the inn. Lady Delahaye looked at me every now and then curiously. My feeling towards her had grown more and more belligerent.
"You puzzle me, Arnold," she said softly. "After all, Isobel is but a child. What cunning tune can she have played upon your heartstrings that you should espouse her cause with so much fervour? If she were a few years older one could perhaps understand."
I disregarded her innuendo.
"Lady Delahaye," I said, "if you were as much her friend as I believe that I am, you would not hesitate to tell me all that you know. I have no other wish than to see her safe, and amongst her friends, but I will give her up to no one whom I believe to be her enemy."
"Arnold," she answered gravely, "I can only repeat what I have told you before. You are interfering in greater concerns than you know of. Even if I would, I dare not give you any information. The fate of this child, insignificant in herself though she is, is bound up with very important issues."
Our eyes met for a moment. The expression in hers puzzled me—puzzled me to such an extent that I made her no answer. Slowly she extended her hand.
"At least," she said, "let us part friends—unless you choose to be gallant and wait here for me until to-morrow. It is a dreary journey home alone."
I took her hand readily enough.
"Friends, by all means," I answered, "but I must get back to Paris to-night. A messenger from Madame Richard is already waiting for me in London."
She withdrew her hand quickly, and turned away.
"It must be as you will, of course," she said coldly. "I do not wish to detain you."
Nevertheless, her farewell look haunted me as I sped across the great fertile plain on my way to Paris.