The next morning Brillon brought a note from Ian Belward, which said that he was starting, and asked Gaston to be sure and come to Paris. The note was carelessly friendly. After reading it, he lay thinking. Presently he chanced to see Jacques look intently at him.
“Well, Brillon, what is it?” he asked genially. Jacques had come on better than Gaston had hoped for, but the light play of his nature was gone—he was grave, almost melancholy; and, in his way, as notable as his master. Their life in London had changed him much. A valet in St. James’s Street was not a hunting comrade on the Coppermine River. Often when Jacques was left alone he stood at the window looking out on the gay traffic, scarcely stirring; his eyes slow, brooding. Occasionally, standing so, he would make the sacred gesture. One who heard him swear now and then, in a calm, deliberate way,—at the cook and the porter,—would have thought the matters in strange contrast. But his religion was a central habit, followed as mechanically as his appetite or the folding of his master’s clothes. Besides, like most woodsmen, he was superstitious. Gaston was kind with him, keeping, however, a firm hand till his manner had become informed by the new duties. Jacques’s greatest pleasure was his early morning visits to the stables. Here were Saracen and Jim the broncho-sleek, savage, playful. But he touched the highest point of his London experience when they rode in the Park.
In this Gaston remained singular. He rode always with Jacques. Perhaps he wished to preserve one possible relic of the old life, perhaps he liked this touch of drama; or both. It created notice, criticism, but he was superior to that. Time and again people asked him to ride, but he always pleaded another engagement. He would then be seen with Jacques plus Jacques’s earrings and the wonderful hair, riding grandly in the Row. Jacques’s eyes sparkled and a snatch of song came to his lips at these times.
No figures in the Park were so striking. There was nothing bizarre, but Gaston had a distinguished look, and women who had felt his hand at their waists in the dance the night before, now knew him, somehow, at a grave distance. Though Gaston did not say it to himself, these were the hours when he really was with the old life—lived it again—prairie, savannah, ice-plain, alkali desert. When, dismounting, the horses were taken and they went up the stairs, Gaston would softly lay his whip across Jacques’s shoulders without speaking. This was their only ritual of camaraderie, and neglect of it would have fretted the half-breed. Never had man such a servant. No matter at what hour Gaston returned, he found Jacques waiting; and when he woke he found him ready, as now, on this morning, after a strange night.
“What is it, Jacques?” he repeated.
The old name! Jacques shivered a little with pleasure. Presently he broke out with:
“Monsieur, when do we go back?”
“Go back where?”
“To the North, monsieur.”
“What’s in your noddle now, Brillon?”
The impatient return to “Brillon” cut Jacques like a whip.
“Monsieur,” he suddenly said, his face glowing, his hands opening nervously, “we have eat, we have drunk, we have had the dance and the great music here: is it enough? Sometimes as you sleep you call out, and you toss to the strokes of the tower-clock. When we lie on the Plains of Yath from sunset to sunrise, you never stir then. You remember when we sleep on the ledge of the Voshti mountain—so narrow that we were tied together? Well, we were as babes in blankets. In the Prairie of the Ten Stars your fingers were on the trigger firm as a bolt; here I have watch them shake with the coffee-cup. Monsieur, you have seen: is it enough? You have lived here: is it like the old lodge and the long trail?”
Gaston sat up in bed, looked in the mirror opposite, ran his fingers through his hair, regarded his hands, turning them over, and then, with sharp impatience, said:
“Go to hell!”
The little man’s face flushed to his hair; he sucked in the air with a gasp. Without a word, he went to the dressing-table, poured out the shaving-water, threw a towel over his arm, and turned to come to the bed; but, all at once, he sidled back, put down the water, and furtively drew a sleeve across his eyes.
Gaston saw, and something suddenly burned in him. He dropped his eyes, slid out of bed, into his dressing-gown, and sat down.
Jacques made ready. He was not prepared to have Gaston catch him by the shoulders with a nervous grip, search his eyes, and say:
“You damned little fool, I’m not worth it!” Jacques’s face shone.
“Every great man has his fool—alors!” was the happy reply.
“Jacques,” Gaston presently said, “what’s on your mind?”
“I saw—last night, monsieur,” he said.
“You saw what?”
“I saw you in the court-yard with the lady.” Gaston was now very grave.
“Did you recognise her?”
“No: she moved all as a spirit.”
“Jacques, that matter is between you and me. I’m going to tell you, though, two things; and—where’s your string of beads?”
Jacques drew out his rosary.
“That’s all right. Mum as Manitou! She was asleep; she is my sister. And that is all, till there’s need for you to know more.”
In this new confidence Jacques was content. The life was a gilded mess, but he could endure it now. Three days passed. During that time Gaston was up to town twice; lunched at Lady Dargan’s, and dined at Lord Dunfolly’s. For his grandfather, who was indisposed, he was induced to preside at a political meeting in the interest of a wealthy local brewer, who confidently expected the seat, and, through gifts to the party, a knighthood. Before the meeting, in the gush of—as he put it “kindred aims,” he laid a finger familiarly in Gaston’s button-hole. Jacques, who was present, smiled, for he knew every change in his master’s face, and he saw a glitter in his eye. He remembered when they two were in trouble with a gang of river-drivers, and one did this same thing rudely: how Gaston looked down, and said, with a devilish softness: “Take it away.” And immediately after the man did so.
Mr. Sylvester Gregory Babbs, in a similar position, heard a voice say down at him, with a curious obliqueness:
“If you please!”
The keenest edge of it was lost on the flaring brewer, but his fingers dropped, and he twisted his heavy watchchain uneasily. The meeting began. Gaston in a few formal words, unconventional in idea, introduced Mr. Babbs as “a gentleman whose name was a household word in the county, who would carry into Parliament the civic responsibility shown in his private life, who would render his party a support likely to fulfil its purpose.”
When he sat down, Captain Maudsley said: “That’s a trifle vague, Belward.”
“How can one treat him with importance?”
“He’s the sort that makes a noise one way or another.”
“Yes. Obituary: ‘At his residence in Babbslow Square, yesterday, Sir S. G. Babbs, M. P., member of the London County Council. Sir S. G. Babbs, it will be remembered, gave L100,000 to build a home for the propagation of Vice, and—‘”
“That’s droll!”
“Why not Vice? ‘Twould be just the same in his mind. He doesn’t give from a sense of moral duty. Not he; he’s a bungowawen!”
“What is that?”
“That’s Indian. You buy a lot of Indian or halfbreed loafers with beaver-skins and rum, go to the Mount of the Burning Arrows, and these fellows dance round you and call you one of the lost race, the Mighty Men of the Kimash Hills. And they’ll do that while the rum lasts. Meanwhile you get to think yourself a devil of a swell—you and the gods!... And now we had better listen to this bungowawen, hadn’t we?”
The room was full, and on the platform were gentlemen come to support Sir William Belward. They were interested to see how Gaston would carry it off.
Mr. Babbs’s speech was like a thousand others by the same kind of man. More speeches—some opposing—followed, and at last came the chairman to close the meeting. He addressed himself chiefly to a bunch of farmers, artisans, and labouring-men near. After some good-natured raillery at political meetings in general, the bigotry of party, the difficulty in getting the wheat from the chaff, and some incisive thrusts at those who promised the moon and gave a green cheese, who spent their time in berating their opponents, he said:
“There’s a game that sailors play on board ship—men-o’-war and sailing-ships mostly. I never could quite understand it, nor could any officers ever tell me—the fo’castle for the men and the quarter-deck for the officers, and what’s English to one is Greek to the other. Well, this was all I could see in the game. They sat about, sometimes talking, sometimes not. All at once a chap would rise and say, ‘Allow me to speak, me noble lord,’ and follow this by hitting some one of the party wherever the blow got in easiest—on the head, anywhere! [Laughter.] Then he would sit down seriously, and someone else spoke to his noble lordship. Nobody got angry at the knocks, and Heaven only knows what it was all about. That is much the way with politics, when it is played fair. But here is what I want particularly to say: We are not all born the same, nor can we live the same. One man is born a brute, and another a good sort; one a liar, and one an honest man; one has brains, and the other hasn’t. Now, I’ve lived where, as they say, one man is as good as another. But he isn’t, there or here. A weak man can’t run with a strong. We have heard to-night a lot of talk for something and against something. It is over. Are you sure you have got what was meant clear in your mind? [Laughter, and ‘Blowed if we’ave!’] Very well; do not worry about that. We have been playing a game of ‘Allow me to speak, me noble lord!’ And who is going to help you to get the most out of your country and your life isn’t easy to know. But we can get hold of a few clear ideas, and measure things against them. I know and have talked with a good many of you here [‘That’s so! That’s so!’], and you know my ideas pretty well—that they are honest at least, and that I have seen the countries where freedom is ‘on the job,’ as they say. Now, don’t put your faith in men and in a party that cry, ‘We will make all things new,’ to the tune of, ‘We are a band of brothers.’ Trust in one that says, ‘You cannot undo the centuries. Take off the roof, remove a wall, let in the air, throw out a wing, but leave the old foundations.’ And that is the real difference between the other party and mine; and these political games of ours come to that chiefly.”
Presently he called for the hands of the meeting. They were given for Mr. Babbs.
Suddenly a man’s strong, arid voice came from the crowd:
“‘Allow me to speak, me noble lord!’ [Great laughter. Then a pause.] Where’s my old chum, Jock Lawson?”
The audience stilled. Gaston’s face went grave. He replied, in a firm, clear voice.
“In Heaven, my man. You’ll never see him more.” There was silence for a moment, a murmur, then a faint burst of applause. Presently John Cawley, the landlord of “The Whisk o’ Barley,” made towards Gaston. Gaston greeted him, and inquired after his wife. He was told that she was very ill, and had sent her husband to beg Gaston to come. Gaston had dreaded this hour, though he knew it would come one day. A woman on a death-bed has a right to ask for and get the truth. He had forborne telling her of her son; and she, whenever she had seen him, had contented herself with asking general questions, dreading in her heart that Jock had died a dreadful or shameful death, or else this gentleman would, voluntarily, say more. But, herself on her way out of the world, as she feared, wished the truth, whatever it might be.
Gaston told Cawley that he would drive over at once, and then asked who it was had called out at him. A drunken, poaching fellow, he was told, who in all the years since Jock had gone, had never passed the inn without stopping to say: “Where’s my old chum, Jock Lawson?” In the past he and Jock had been in more than one scrape together. He had learned from Mrs. Cawley that Gaston had known Jock in Canada.
When Cawley had gone, Gaston turned to the other gentlemen present.
“An original speech, upon my word, Belward,” said Captain Maudsley.
Mr. Warren Gasgoyne came.
“You are expected to lunch or something to-morrow, Belward, you remember? Devil of a speech that! But, if you will ‘allow me to speak, me noble lord,’ you are the rankest Conservative of us all.”
“Don’t you know that the easiest constitutional step is from a republic to an autocracy, and vice versa?”
“I don’t know it, and I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Make them think as you do.”
He waved his hand to the departing crowd.
“I don’t. I try to think as they do. I am always in touch with the primitive mind.”
“You ought to do great things here, Belward,” said the other seriously. “You have the trick; and we need wisdom at Westminster.”
“Don’t be mistaken; I am only adaptable. There’s frank confession.”
At this point Mr. Babbs came up and said good-night in a large, self-conscious way. Gaston hoped that his campaign would not be wasted, and the fluffy gentleman retired. When he got out of earshot in the shadows, he turned and shook his fist towards Gaston, saying: “Half-breed upstart!” Then he refreshed his spirits by swearing at his coachman.
Gaston and Jacques drove quickly over to “The Whisk o’ Barley.” Gaston was now intent to tell the whole truth. He wished that he had done it before; but his motives had been good—it was not to save himself. Yet he shrank. Presently he thought:
“What is the matter with me? Before I came here, if I had an idea I stuck to it, and didn’t have any nonsense when I knew I was right. I am getting sensitive—the thing I find everywhere in this country: fear of feeling or giving pain; as though the bad tooth out isn’t better than the bad tooth in. When I really get sentimental I’ll fold my Arab tent—so help me, ye seventy Gods of Yath!”
A little while after he was at Mrs. Cawley’s bed, the landlord handing him a glass of hot grog, Jock’s mother eyeing him feverishly from the quilt. Gaston quietly felt her wrist, counting the pulse-beats; then told Cawley to wet a cloth and hand it to him. He put it gently on the woman’s head. The eyes of the woman followed him anxiously. He sat down again, and in response to her questioning gaze, began the story of Jock’s life as he knew it.
Cawley stood leaning on the foot-board; the woman’s face was cowled in the quilt with hungry eyes; and Gaston’s voice went on in a low monotone, to the ticking of the great clock in the next room. Gaston watched her face, and there came to him like an inspiration little things Jock did, which would mean more to his mother than large adventures. Her lips moved now and again, even a smile flickered. At last Gaston came to his father’s own death and the years that followed; then the events in Labrador.
He approached this with unusual delicacy: it needed bravery to look into the mother’s eyes, and tell the story. He did not know how dramatically he told it—how he etched it without a waste word. When he came to that scene in the Fort, the three men sitting, targets for his bullets,—he softened the details greatly. He did not tell it as he told it at the Court, but the simpler, sparser language made it tragically clear. There was no sound from the bed, none from the foot-board, but he heard a door open and shut without, and footsteps somewhere near.
How he put the body in the tree, and prayed over it and left it there, was all told; and then he paused. He turned a little sick as he saw the white face before him. She drew herself up, her fingers caught away the night-dress at her throat; she stared hard at him for a moment, and then, with a wild, moaning voice, cried out:
“You killed my boy! You killed my boy! You killed my boy!”
Gaston was about to take her hand, when he heard a shuffle and a rush behind him. He rose, turned swiftly, saw a bottle swinging, threw up his hand... and fell backwards against the bed.
The woman caught his bleeding head to her breast and hugged it.
“My Jock, my poor boy!” she cried in delirium now. Cawley had thrown his arms about the struggling, drunken assailant—Jock’s poaching friend.
The mother now called out to the pinioned man, as she had done to Gaston:
“You have killed my boy!” She kissed Gaston’s bloody face.
A messenger was soon on the way to Ridley Court, and in a little upper room Jacques was caring for his master.
Gaston lay for many days at “The Whisk o’ Barley.” During that time the inn was not open to customers. The woman also for two days hung at the point of death, and then rallied. She remembered the events of the painful night, and often asked after Gaston. Somehow, her horror of her son’s death at his hands was met by the injury done him now. She vaguely felt that there had been justice and punishment. She knew that in the room at Labrador Gaston Belward had been scarcely less mad than her son.
Gaston, as soon as he became conscious, said that his assailant must be got out of the way of the police, and to that end bade Jacques send for Mr. Warren Gasgoyne. Mr. Gasgoyne and Sir William arrived at the same time, but Gaston was unconscious again. Jacques, however, told them what his master’s wishes were, and they were carried out; Jock’s friend secretly left England forever. Sir William and Mr. Gasgoyne got the whole tale from the landlord, whom they asked to say nothing publicly.
Lady Belward drove down each day, and sat beside him for a couple of hours-silent, solicitous, smoothing his pillow or his wasting hand. The brain had been injured, and recovery could not be immediate. Hovey the housekeeper had so begged to be installed as nurse, that her wish was granted, and she was with him night and day. Now she shook her head at him sadly, now talked in broken sentences to herself, now bustled about silently, a tyrant to the other servants sent down from the Court. Every day also the headgroom and the huntsman came, and in the village Gaston’s humble friends discussed the mystery, stoutly defending him when some one said it was “more nor gabble, that theer saying o’ the poacher at the meetin.’”
But the landlord and his wife kept silence, the officers of the law took no action, and the town and country newspapers could do no more than speak of “A vicious assault upon the heir of Ridley Court.” It had become the custom now to leave Ian out of that question. But the wonder died as all wonders do, and Gaston made his fight for health.
The day before he was removed to the Court, Mrs. Cawley was helped up-stairs to see him. She was gaunt and hollow-eyed. Lady Belward and Mrs. Gasgoyne were present. The woman made her respects, and then stood at Gaston’s bedside. He looked up with a painful smile.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked. “I’ve almost paid!”
He touched his bandaged head.
“It ain’t for mothers to forgi’e the thing,” she replied, in a steady voice, “but I can forgi’e the man. ‘Twere done i’ madness—there beant the will workin’ i’ such. ‘Twere a comfort that he’d a prayin’ over un.”
Gaston took the gnarled fingers in his. It had never struck him how dreadful a thing it was—so used had he been to death in many forms—till he had told the story to this mother.
“Mrs. Cawley,” he said, “I can’t make up to you what Jock would have been; but I can do for you in one way as much as Jock. This house is yours from to-day.”
He drew a deed from the coverlet, and handed it to her. He had got it from Sir William that morning. The poor and the crude in mind can only understand an objective emotion, and the counters for these are this world’s goods. Here was a balm in Gilead. The love of her child was real, but the consolation was so practical to Mrs. Cawley that the lips which might have cursed, said:
“Ah, sir, the wind do be fittin’ the shore lamb! I’ the last Judgen, I’ll no speak agen ‘ee. I be sore fretted harm come to ‘ee.”
At this Mrs. Gasgoyne rose, and in her bustling way dismissed the grateful peasant, who fondled the deed and called eagerly down the stairs to her husband as she went.
Mrs. Gasgoyne then came back, sat down, and said: “Now you needn’t fret about that any longer—barbarian!” she added, shaking a finger. “Didn’t I say that you would get into trouble? that you would set the country talking? Here you were, in the dead of night, telling ghost stories, and raking up your sins, with no cause whatever, instead of in your bed. You were to have lunched with us the next day—I had asked Lady Harriet to meet you, too!—and you didn’t; and you have wretched patches where your hair ought to be. How can you promise that you’ll not make a madder sensation some day?”
Gaston smiled up at her. Her fresh honesty, under the guise of banter, was always grateful to him. He shook his head, smiled, and said nothing.
She went on.
“I want a promise that you will do what your godfather and godmother will swear for you.”
She acted on him like wine.
“Of course, anything. Who are my godfather and godmother?”
She looked him steadily, warmly in the eyes: “Warren and myself.”
Now he understood: his promise to his grandmother and grandfather. So, they had spoken! He was sure that Mrs. Gasgoyne had objected. He knew that behind her playful treatment of the subject there was real scepticism of himself. It put him on his mettle, and yet he knew she read him deeper than any one else, and flattered him least.
He put out his hand, and took hers.
“You take large responsibilities,” he said, “but I will try and justify you—honestly, yes.”
In her hearty way, she kissed him on the cheek. “There,” she responded, “if you and Delia do make up your minds, see that you treat her well. And you are to come, just as soon as you are able, to stay at Peppingham. Delia, silly child, is anxious, and can’t see why she mustn’t call with me now.”
In his room at the Court that night, Gaston inquired of Jacques about Alice Wingfield, and was told that on the day of the accident she had left with her grandfather for the Continent. He was not sorry. For his own sake he could have wished an understanding between them. But now he was on the way to marriage, and it was as well that there should be no new situations. The girl could not wish the thing known. There would be left him, in this case, to befriend her should it ever be needed. He remembered the spring of pleasure he felt when he first saw other faces like his father’s—his grandfather’s, his grandmother’s. But this girl’s was so different to him; having the tragedy of the lawless, that unconscious suffering stamped by the mother upon the child. There was, however, nothing to be done. He must wait.
Two days later Lady Dargan called to inquire after him. He was lying in his study with a book, and Lady Belward sent to ask him if he would care to see her and Lord Dargan’s nephew, Cluny Vosse. Lady Belward did not come; Sir William brought them. Lady Dargan came softly to him, smiled more with her eyes than her lips, and told him how sorry she had been to hear of his illness. Some months before Gaston had met Cluny Vosse, who at once was his admirer. Gaston liked the youth. He was fresh, high-minded, extravagant, idle; but he had no vices, and no particular vanity save for his personal appearance. His face was ever radiant with health, shining with satisfaction. People liked him, and did not discount it by saying that he had nothing in him. Gaston liked him most because he was so wholly himself, without guile, beautifully honest.
Now Cluny sat down, tapped the crown of his hat, looked at him cheerily, and said:
“Got in a cracker, didn’t he?”
Gaston nodded, amused.
“The fellows at Brooke’s had a talkee-talkee, and they’d twenty different stories. Of course it was rot. We were all cut up though and hoped you’d pull through. Of course there couldn’t be any doubt of that—you’ve been through too many, eh?”
Cluny always assumed that Gaston had had numberless tragical adventures which, if told, must make Dumas turn in his grave with envy.
Gaston smiled, and laid a hand upon the other’s knee. “I’m not shell-proof, Vosse, and it was rather a narrow squeak, I’m told. But I’m kept, you see, for a worse fate and a sadder.”
“I say, Belward, you don’t mean that! Your eyes go so queer sometimes, that a chap doesn’t know what to think. You ought to live to a hundred. You’ll have to. You’ve got it all—”
“Oh no, my boy, I haven’t got anything.” He waved his hand pleasantly towards his grandfather. “I’m on the knees of the gods merely.”
Cluny turned on Sir William.
“It isn’t any secret, is it, sir? He gets the lot, doesn’t he?”
Sir William’s occasional smile came.
“I fancy there’s some condition about the plate, the pictures, and the title; but I do not suppose that matters meanwhile.”
He spoke half-musingly and with a little unconscious irony, and the boy, vaguely knowing that there was a cross-current somewhere, drifted.
“No, of course not; he can have fun enough without them, can’t he?”
Lady Dargan here soothingly broke in, inquiring about Gaston’s illness, and showing a tactful concern. But the nephew persisted:
“I say, Belward, Aunt Sophie was cut up no end when she heard of it. She wouldn’t go out to dinner that night at Lord Dunfolly’s, and, of course, I didn’t go. And I wanted to; for Delia Gasgoyne was to be there, and she’s ripping.”
Lady Dargan, in spite of herself, blushed, but without confusion, and Gaston adroitly led the conversation otherwhere. Presently she said that they were to be at their villa in France during the late summer, and if he chanced to be abroad would he come? He said that he intended to visit his uncle in Paris, but that afterwards he would be glad to visit them for a short time.
She looked astonished. “With your uncle Ian!”
“Yes. He is to show me art-life, and all that.”
She looked troubled. He saw that she wished to say something.
“Yes, Lady Dargan?” he asked.
She spoke with fluttering seriousness.
“I asked you once to come to me if you ever needed a friend. I do not wait for that. I ask you not to go to your uncle.”
“Why?”
He was thinking that, despite social artifice and worldliness, she was sentimental.
“Because there will be trouble. I can see it. You may trust a woman’s instinct; and I know that man!” He did not reply at once, but presently said:
“I fancy I must keep my promise.”
“What is the book you are reading?” she said, changing the subject, for Sir William was listening.
He opened it, and smiled musingly.
“It is called Affairs of Some Consequence in the Reign of Charles I. In reading it I seemed to feel that it was incorrect, and my mind kept wandering away into patches of things—incidents, scenes, bits of talk—as I fancied they really were, not apocryphal or ‘edited’ as here.”
“I say,” said Cluny, “that’s rum, isn’t it?”
“For instance,” Gaston continued, “this tale of King Charles and Buckingham.” He read it. “Now here is the scene as I picture it.” In quick elliptical phrases he gave the tale from a different stand-point.
Sir William stared curiously at Gaston, then felt for some keys in his pocket. He got up and rang the bell. Gaston was still talking. He gave the keys to Falby with a whispered word. In a few moments Falby placed a small leather box beside Sir William, and retired at a nod. Sir William presently said: “Where did you read those things?”
“I do not know that I ever read them.”
“Did your father tell you them?”
“I do not remember so, though he may have.”
“Did you ever see this box?”
“Never before.”
“You do not know what is in it?”
“Not in the least.”
“And you have never seen this key?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“It is very strange.” He opened the box. “Now, here are private papers of Sir Gaston Belward, more than two hundred years old, found almost fifty years ago by myself in the office of our family solicitor. Listen.”
He then began to read from the faded manuscript. A mysterious feeling pervaded the room. Once or twice Cluny gave a dry nervous kind of laugh. Much of what Gaston had said was here in stately old-fashioned language. At a certain point the MS. ran:
“I drew back and said, ‘As your grace will have it, then—“’
Here Gaston came to a sitting posture, and interrupted.
“Wait, wait!”
He rose, caught one of two swords that were crossed on the wall, and stood out.
“This is how it was. ‘As your grace will have it, then, to no waste of time!’ We fell to. First he came carefully and made strange feints, learned at King Louis’s Court, to try my temper. But I had had these tricks of my cousin Secord, and I returned his sport upon him. Then he came swiftly, and forced me back upon the garden wall. I gave to him foot by foot, for he was uncommon swift and dexterous. He pinched me sorely once under the knee, and I returned him one upon the wrist, which sent a devilish fire into his eyes. At that his play became so delicate and confusing that I felt I should go dizzy if it stayed; so I tried the one great trick cousin Secord taught me, making to run him through, as a last effort. The thing went wrong, but checking off my blunder he blundered too,—out of sheer wonder, perhaps, at my bungling,—and I disarmed him. So droll was it that I laughed outright, and he, as quick in humour as in temper, stood hand on hip, and presently came to a smile. With that my cousin Secord cried: ‘The king! the king!’ I got me up quickly—”
Here Gaston, who had in a kind of dream acted the whole scene, swayed with faintness, and Cluny caught him, saving him from a fall. Cluny’s colour was all gone. Lady Dargan had sat dazed, and Sir William’s face was anxious, puzzled.
A few hours later Sir William was alone with Gaston, who was recovered and cool.
“Gaston,” he said, “I really do not understand this faculty of memory, or whatever it is. Have you any idea how you come by it?”
“Have we any idea how life comes and goes, sir?”
“I confess not. I confess not, really.”
“Well, I’m in the dark about it too; but I sometimes fancy that I’m mixed up with that other Gaston.”
“It sounds fantastic.”
“It is fantastic. Now, here is this manuscript, and here is a letter I wrote this morning. Put them together.”
Sir William did so.
“The handwriting is singularly like.”
“Well,” continued Gaston, smiling whimsically, “suppose that I am Sir Gaston Belward, Baronet, who is thought to lie in the church yonder, the title is mine, isn’t it?”
Sir William smiled also.
“The evidence is scarce enough to establish succession.”
“But there would be no succession. A previous holder of the title isn’t dead: ergo, the present holder, has no right.”
Gaston had shaded his eyes with his hand, and he was watching Sir William’s face closely, out of curiosity chiefly. Sir William regarded the thing with hesitating humour.
“Well, well, suppose so. The property was in the hands of a younger branch of the family then. There was no entail, as now.”
“Wasn’t there?” said Gaston enigmatically.
He was thinking of some phrases in a manuscript which he had found in this box.
“Perhaps where these papers came from there are others,” he added.
Sir William lifted his eyebrows ironically. “I hardly think so.”
Gaston laughed, not wishing him to take the thing at all seriously. He continued airily:
“It would be amusing if the property went with the title after all, wouldn’t it, sir?”
Sir William got to his feet and said testily: “That should never be while I lived!”
“Of course not, sir.”
Sir William saw the bull, and laughed, heartily for him.
They bade each other good-night.
“I’ll have a look in the solicitor’s office all the same,” said Gaston to himself.
A few days afterwards Gaston joined a small party at Peppingham. Without any accent life was made easy for him. He was alone much, and yet, to himself, he seemed to have enough of company.
The situation did not impose itself conspicuously. Delia gave him no especial reason to be vain. She had not an exceeding wit, but she had charm, and her talk was interesting to Gaston, who had come, for the first time, into somewhat intimate relations with an English girl. He was struck with her conventional delicacy and honour on one side, and the limitation of her ideas on the other. But with it all she had some slight touch of temperament which lifted her from the usual level. And just now her sprightliness was more marked than it had ever been.
Her great hour seemed come to her. She knew that there had been talk among the elders, and what was meant by Gaston’s visit. Still, they were not much alone together. Gaston saw her mostly with others. Even a woman with a tender strain for a man knows what will serve for her ascendancy: the graciousness of her disposition, the occasional flash of her mother’s temper, and her sense of being superior to a situation—the gift of every well-bred English girl.
Cluny Vosse was also at the house, and his devotion was divided between Delia and Gaston. Cluny was a great favourite, and Agatha Gasgoyne, who had a wild sense of humour, egged him on with her sister, which gave Delia enough to do. At last Cluny, in a burst of confidence, declared that he meant to propose to Delia. Agatha then became serious, and said that Delia was at least four years older than himself, that he was just her—Agatha’s—age, and that the other match would be very unsuitable. This put Cluny on Delia’s defence, and he praised her youth, and hinted at his own elderliness. He had lived, he had seen It (Cluny called the world and all therein “It”), he was aged; he was in the large eye of experience; he had outlived the vices and the virtues of his time, which, told in his own naive staccato phrases, made Agatha hug herself. She advised him to go and ask Mr. Belward’s advice; begged him not to act until he had done so. And Cluny, who was blind as a bat when a woman mocked him, went to Gaston and said:
“See, old chap,—I know you don’t mind my calling you that—I’ve come for advice. Agatha said I’d better. A fellow comes to a time when he says, ‘Here, I want a shop of my own,’ doesn’t he? He’s seen It, he’s had It all colours, he’s ready for family duties, and the rest. That’s so, isn’t it?”
Gaston choked back a laugh, and, purposely putting himself on the wrong scent, said:
“And does Agatha agree?”
“Agatha? Come, Belward, that youngster! Agatha’s only in on a sisterly-brotherly basis. Now, see I’ve got a little load of L s. d., and I’m to get more, especially if Uncle Dick keeps on thinking I am artless. Well, why shouldn’t I marry?”
“No reason against it, if husband and father in you yearn for bibs and petticoats.”
“I say, Belward, don’t laugh!”
“I never was more serious. Who is the girl?”
“She looks up to you as I do-of course that’s natural; and if it comes off, no one’ll have a jollier corner chez nous. It’s Delia.”
“Delia? Delia who?”
“Why, Delia Gasgoyne. I haven’t done the thing quite regular, I know. I ought to have gone to her people first; but they know all about me, and so does Delia, and I’m on the spot, and it wouldn’t look well to be taking advantage of that with her father and mother-they’d feel bound to be hospitable. So I’ve just gone on my own tack, and I’ve come to Agatha and you. Agatha said to ask you if I’d better speak to Delia now.”
“My dear Cluny, are you very much in love?”
“That sounds religious, doesn’t it—a kind of Nonconformist business? I think she’s the very finest. A fellow’d hold himself up, ‘d be a deuce of a swell—and, hang it all, I hate breakfasting alone!”
“Yes, yes, Cluny; but what about a pew in church, with regular attendance, and a justice of the peace, and little Cluny Vosses on the carpet?”
Cluny’s face went crimson.
“I say, Belward, I’ve seen It all, of course; I know It backwards, and I’m not squeamish, but that sounds—flippant-that, with her.”
Gaston reached out and caught the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t do it, Cluny. Spare yourself. It couldn’t come off. Agatha knows that, I fancy. She is a little sportsman. I might let you go and speak; but I think my chances are better than yours, Cluny. Hadn’t you better let me try first? Then, if I fail, your chances are still the same, eh?”
Cluny gasped. His warm face went pale, then shot to purple, and finally settled into a grey ruddiness. “Belward,” he said at last, “I didn’t know; upon my soul, I didn’t know, or I’d have cut off my head first.”
“My dear Cluny, you shall have your chance; but let me go first, I’m older.”
“Belward, don’t take me for a fool. Why, my trying what you go to do is like—is like—”
Cluny’s similes failed to come.
“Like a fox and a deer on the same trail?”
“I don’t understand that. Like a yeomanry steeplechase to Sandown—is that it? Belward, I’m sorry. Playing it so low on a chap you like!”
“Don’t say a word, Cluny; and, believe me, you haven’t yet seen all of It. There’s plenty of time. When you really have had It, you will learn to say of a woman, not that she’s the very finest, and that you hate breakfasting alone, but something that’ll turn your hair white, or keep you looking forty when you’re sixty.”
That evening Gaston dressed with unusual care. When he entered the drawing-room, he looked as handsome as a man need in this world. His illness had refined his features and form, and touched off his cheerfulness with a fine melancholy. Delia glowed as she saw the admiring glances sent his way, but burned with anger when she also saw that he was to take in Lady Gravesend to dinner; for Lady Gravesend had spoken slightingly of Gaston—had, indeed, referred to his “nigger blood!” And now her mother had sent her in to dinner on his arm, she affable, too affable by a great deal. Had she heard the dry and subtle suggestion of Gaston’s talk, she would, however, have justified her mother.
About half past nine Delia was in the doorway, talking to one of the guests, who, at the call of some one else, suddenly left her. She heard a voice behind her. “Will you not sing?”
She thrilled, and turned to say: “What shall I sing, Mr. Belward?”
“The song I taught you the other day—‘The Waking of the Fire.’”
“But I’ve never sung it before anybody.”
“Do I not count?—But, there, that’s unfair! Believe me, you sing it very well.”
She lifted her eyes to his:
“You do not pay compliments, and I believe you. Your ‘very well’ means much. If you say so, I will do my best.”
“I say so. You are amenable. Is that your mood to-night?” He smiled brightly.
Her eyes flashed with a sweet malice.
“I am not at all sure. It depends on how your command to sing is justified.”
“You cannot help but sing well.”
“Why?”
“Because I will help you—make you.”
This startled her ever so little. Was there some fibre of cruelty in him, some evil in this influence he had over her? She shrank, and yet again she said that she would rather have his cruelty than another man’s tenderness, so long as she knew that she had his—She paused, and did not say the word. She met his eyes steadily—their concentration dazed her—then she said almost coldly, her voice sounding far away:
“How, make me?”
“How fine, how proud!” he said to himself, then added:
“I meant ‘make’ in the helpful sense. I know the song: I’ve heard it sung, I’ve sung it; I’ve taught you; my mind will act on yours, and you will sing it well.”
“Won’t you sing it yourself? Do, please.”
“No; to-night I wish to hear you.”
“Why?”
“I will tell you later. Can you play the accompaniment? If not, I—”
“Oh, will you? I could sing it then, I think. You played it so beautifully the other day—with all those strange chords.”
He smiled.
“It is one of the few things that I can play. I always had a taste for music; and up in one of the forts there was an old melodeon, so I hammered away for years. I had to learn difficult things at the start, or none at all, or else those I improvised; and that’s how I can play one or two of Beethoven’s symphonies pretty well, and this song, and a few others, and go a cropper with a waltz. Will you come?”
They moved to the piano. No one at first noticed them. When he sat down, he said:
“You remember the words?”
“Yes, I learned them by heart.”
“Good!”
He gently struck the chords. His gentleness had, however, a firmness, a deep persuasiveness, which drew every face like a call. A few chords waving, as it were, over the piano, and then he whispered:
“Now.”
“Please go on for a minute longer,” she begged.
“My throat feels dry all at once.”
“Face away from the rest, towards me,” he said gently.
She did so. His voice took a note softly, and held it. Presently her voice as softly joined it, his stopped, and hers went on: