his enthusiasm for a child's game had waned. Excusing himself to Bess,
who promised him lasting displeasure, he went off to the little French
secretary, Ardlot, to discover, if he could, what that worthy knew about
it. Ardlot was as dumb as a drum with a hole in it, and fearing the
consequences of a premature disclosure, the doctor retired to his own
room to think of it. Of course, he knew the "little widow" now. She
was Lady Delayne, and he could well understand that she was ashamed of
her name. At the same time he foresaw how difficult her position in the
hotel must become, and he wondered that she had sought the critical
society of Andana when a city would have shielded her more successfully.
Benny's problem was of a different kind altogether. He, too, knew the
"little widow" now, and knowing her, a hundred castles came tumbling
down with a crash and threatened to leave a brave heart sadly crushed
beneath their ruins. Benny would have admitted nothing of the kind to
himself; but such was the truth.
Meanwhile, he could but stare after the retreating figure of the
baronet, and when that had disappeared from his view, he trudged back
heavily toward the chalet, quite forgetful that he carried in his hand a
fur tippet which Madame Lily had left behind her that afternoon of
blessed memory.
Benny was a good philosopher and in part a historian, so that it was
quite easy for him to sum up the events of the last few hours and to
carry a clear impression of them in his mind. Yesterday he had seen a
beautiful woman for the first time, and for the sake of her
unforgettable eyes he had rolled over and over on the slopes of the Zaat
last night, and had been dragged out headlong by a miracle of a priest,
the Abbe Villari. Had not one of the patients at the Sanatorium
providentially fallen ill during the small hours, the abbe would not
have been on the mountain road at all, and he, Benny, would now be
making the best he could of a new and unfamiliar world. But the priest
had saved him--and, more wonderful to tell, had confessed, as they came
down the mountain-side together, that he also had dabbled in this new
and wonderful science of aviation, and often delighted the monastery
with the model of a "Bleriot" which would fly. To all of which the
wounded man had listened indifferently, for what was the meaning of all
this eloquence to him, who had lost the whole world an hour ago on the
slopes of the Zaat?
The priest, however, persisted and, word by word, he dragged Benny's
story from him. The Englishman, he said, would be competing for the
great prize offered by the English editor. It was a fine ambition, and
one to deserve a blessing. Let him not despair because the machine was
broken. There were clever lads at the monastery, and he, Felix Villari,
was no mean mechanic. He would guard the secrets as his own, and pledge
his word that the machine should be ready. Grown almost angry at his
optimism, and deriding his pretensions, Benny lifted his bruised arm and
asked for what kind of a prize that would fly. It was idle to speak of
flight to such a man at such a time.
Here was the state of the game when Benny met Luton Delayne upon the
mountain road, and stood gaping at "the ghost." His first idea was to
get away from the place altogether, to cut Andana, and to forget both
his disappointment and the source of it. Then a better spirit came to
his aid, and he began to remember the many stories which Holmswell had
told of the baronet, and to wonder how many of them were true. Lily
Delayne was quite alone in this place; she herself had told him that she
had no friends. He knew that his own good-will might be worth something
to her; but for quite a long time he had no courage to pursue the idea.
A sense of finality attended this amazing discovery as a sense of
finality had been associated with his mishap in the earlier hours of the
day.
Had Benny's mind been absolutely commonplace, and had he been hide-bound
by the conventions, perchance the matter would have ended there and
then. An early train would have carried him from Sierre to London, and
he might very well have lived out his life as a very ordinary mechanic
in a very ordinary workshop. In this way has the story of hundreds of
good fellows, blessed with no common measure of talent, been written;
and this might have been his own fate but for a certain hardening of
determination which failure provoked.
The great prize was lost for a certainty, the new and dazzling hope
which had come into his life yesterday had been shattered beyond all
belief: and yet, when he had communed with himself for the best part of
an hour on the narrow road which led up to the chalet, he took a sudden
resolution and acted upon it without an instant's delay. He would see
Lily Delayne immediately and hear from her own lips any story she might
have to tell him. That she would have a story he firmly believed, and
quickened by the pleasing idea of a friendship which must be beyond all
question altruistic, he returned at once to the hotel and sent up a
message to her. Five minutes later he was in her room, and he perceived
at a glance that she had been weeping.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Kennaird," he said, "but I think you left this
at the chalet?"
Lily took the tippet without a word. Her heart was beating fast, and
the colour had returned as upon a freshet of understanding to her
cheeks. A woman's sure instinct told her why he had come to the room.
He knew that she had lied to him, and he understood the reason.
Benny handed over the fur, but showed no intention to go. She thought
that he had changed very much since they had parted an hour ago, and he
wore a certain dignity of manhood which was sure, but indefinable. When
he spoke, the note of cringing banter had left him, and he had a man's
tone, encouraging and not a little masterful.
"I thought I would bring the thing down," he said, with a kindly smile,
"I shan't be in to dinner to-night, and you might want it. The doctor
says I oughtn't to be out at all; but it doesn't do to listen overmuch
to the medicine men. You see, I had a pretty bad spill, and the muscles
of my arm are playing tricks. It wouldn't matter in an ordinary way, but
just now--"
She looked up quickly.
"You had a fall on skis, had you not?" she asked.
Benny laughed.
"You can keep a secret, can't you, Mrs. Kennaird? Well, I'm going to
tell you one; I fell out of an aeroplane--that's the truth!"
"You fell out of an aeroplane!--then you were the ghost, Mr. Benson?"
He nodded his head.
"Yes, I'm the ghost, but I don't want anyone to know it just yet.
There's a prize of ten thousand offered for a flight down the Simplon
Valley and over the big mountains. My machine would have won it if I
hadn't come down last night. There's where luck figures. I don't think
I can be ready now, and I suppose Paulhan or Bleriot will get it. But I
wanted an Englishman to win, and I believe I have the machine. It's not
like anybody else's--something different altogether. They tell me I
look just like a double-headed eagle when I'm up. That's true, I
suppose, for my machine is a bit of a curiosity in its way. You
wouldn't understand, perhaps, but if you will come to the chalet
sometime, I'll show you. You ought to come just to see an extraordinary
thing--and that's a priest with his cassock tucked up, working like one
of the best. I left him there when I came along; and, just by the way,
I met a man I knew outside the hotel door--Sir Luton Delayne, of
Holmswell. We were talking about him last night, you'll remember?"
She flushed scarlet.
"Yes," she said in a low voice, "he is my husband--he has been here
to-night."
Benny drew a little nearer still.
"You will forgive me for what I said last night, Lady Delayne. I ought
to have known; my good sense should have told me. What I really came
here for was not to excuse myself, but to ask your forgiveness. A man
should never speak all that is in his mind to anybody except himself.
When he begins to judge other people, he is putting a fool's cap on his
head. I am old enough to have learned that lesson, and I think shame to
have forgotten it. Will you let me say as much to-night?"
She answered him with wondering eyes which declared her perplexity.
There is an elementary simplicity of thought and character which women
find irresistible, and Benny was the possessor of it. To such a man,
women impart strange confidences. Lily needed all her self-control.
"There is no need to say anything," she rejoined with an effort, "men
will be judged when they invite judgment. I am sure you meant no harm,
and intention is all that matters."
And then, with a shrug of her shoulders and a want of sequence entirely
feminine, she exclaimed:
"Women have few real friends, Mr. Benson; they make no mistake when they
discover one."
"Ah!" he said, "I was hoping you would know that. It's very true, Lady
Delayne--perhaps the truest thing in life. Women make few friends--men
forbid them to do so. But they need friends sometimes, need them very
badly. Some day you might care to remember it. I would give a great
deal to be at Andana should that day come--that is, if you are staying
here?"
She did not attempt to disguise the meaning of the question.
"I must stay some days yet; but not in this hotel, I think. It may be
impossible for me to do so; in which case I must imitate you and take a
chalet. Do you know if there is one to let?"
He was delighted to become her confidant.
"There's the very place for you, just by the Park Hotel. I looked over
it, but it was too dear for me. They've left the servants--you can have
it to-morrow, if you like. I'm sure you'd be very comfortable there."
"You are very good," she said. "We shall be meeting in the morning.
May I tell you then?"
Benny would have permitted her to tell him at any hour of the
twenty-four, any season of the year, or any century which might find him
alive. He left her room like a schoolboy who has dared an ordeal and
returned triumphant. The stars had never shone so brightly over Andana
as they shone that night; the moon had never looked down so gloriously
upon the majesty of the mountains. He had become her confidant; he
shared her secret; he was permitted to be her friend!
And all this at the nadir of his fortunes--when the great machine had
been wrecked utterly, and the master-key of his ambitions lost beyond
hope. Yesternight, he believed that his name was about to go out to the
world as one of its pioneers; the name of a man who had dared and had
achieved. To-day, he doubted if such an hour would ever come. Others
would win the great prize; he might preach to them the wonders of his
own inventions, but few would listen. The gates of success lay far from
him, and the lantern which burned above them had become but a star upon
his horizon.
And yet all sadness had left him. Jack stared open-eyed when Benny
entered the chalet and began to caper about like a boy. The little abbe
himself, understanding nothing, shook his head reproachfully, and
complained of the delay.
"The hours are precious," he said; "we cannot work unless you direct us.
What has kept you, monsieur?"
"A lady's tippet," retorted Benny, delighted at the childish sally--and
then, as one inspired, he began to tell them what to do.
There was just a chance by the Lord Harry! It came to Benny as he stood
there that the thing might yet be done--the machine made good, the
flight achieved. Long hours of unremitting toil would be necessary; but
what of that? Ten thousand pounds would recreate the world for him, and
change the course of his life as surely as though he were born again.
And for that gentle lady also--
But here Benny felt himself upon difficult ground and, turning aside, he
contented himself with that wholly uplifting thought, that even now, at
the eleventh hour, he might achieve the victory!
*CHAPTER IX*
*IN WHICH WE BAG A BRACE*
The weekly paper-chase upon skis took place upon the third day after
Luton Delayne's visit to the Palace Hotel, and was not wanting in the
customary excitements.
Youths, garbed in heavy sweaters and the monstrous boots which are
necessary to a delightful accomplishment, hailed each other uproariously
from their bedroom windows about the hour of nine o'clock and declared
emphatically that the outlook was "rotten." Young ladies of ages
varying from eighteen to two-and-fifty, hobbled about the precincts
crying for John, the porter, to "come and strap them on." The cooks in
the kitchen, not less busy, carved sandwiches with amazing dexterity and
packed mysterious lengths of sausage as though they were well hidden
from the human eye. Few thought of anything but the weather, and all
the talk turned upon that well-worn topic.
The morning had broken with some promise, but the mists were heavy, and
now the whole of the great valley of the Simplon was filled by cloud.
Standing upon the plateau before the Palace Hotel, a stranger might have
imagined himself upon the brink of an inland sea, whose feathery waves
rolled noiselessly to his feet. Nothing could be seen of the panorama
below, not a vineyard, nor a cottage; and while the Weisshorn reared
itself majestically from the white fog, the lesser peaks were wreathed
about as by trailing pillars of smoke.
In one hour or in two, said the experts, this sea of mist would drift up
and envelop the heights. It might also be relied upon to obscure the
fleeting forms of "the hares," and to play subtle tricks with the
panting hounds--a prospect which was full of terror to the majority, but
of great interest: (1) to a certain Bob Otway, who had persuaded Nellie
Rider to be his partner in the promise of the day; and (2) to his
friend, Dick Fenton, who had promised to fly with her sister Marjory, if
not to the ends of the earth, at least to the chalet where lunch would
be found at one o'clock precisely.
Fenton, as will be gathered from the foregoing, had been chosen for a
hare, sharing the honour with Keith Rivers and that engaging performer,
Miss Marjory Rider. Allowed five minutes' grace, these three, who wore
fine scarlet sashes, set out at nine o'clock precisely, and quickly
disappeared in the direction of the Park Hotel. Immediately they were
gone, the concourse of indifferents, tempered by a few such experts as
Bob Otway, lined up before the porch of the hotel, and prepared to carry
itself with what grace it could. The light of it, conversationally
considered, was Miss Bess Bethune, who, moving like a sprite amidst the
company, assured each and all that something dreadful was about to
happen at the Palace, and that the night would bear witness. When she
had thus breakfasted upon horrors, she sought out Dr. Orange, and
attached herself firmly to him, until she discovered that he preferred
the seclusion of the skating rink, where he might hold out the tails of
his threes to the delight of the elect. Bess hated him in the instant
of that avowal; and, oh! the malignity of Fate, she was left to enjoy
the society of Sir Gordon Snagg, who insisted upon treating her as a
child, despite her thirteen years.
Perhaps Bess would have captured Bob Otway, but for the expert tactics
of his _vis-a-vis_, Nellie Rider. Three seasons had Miss Nellie (and her
sister) pirouetted vainly at Andana, and she was determined that the
fourth should pay for all. The gossip of chosen friends, feeding upon
the inflated estimates of rumour, declared that Master Bob had just come
into a fortune of fifteen hundred a year--a tale, by the way, told also
of his friend, Dick Fenton--and this sum being clearly in her mind and
sweet romance, as it were, jangling the silver bells upon the neck of
that good horse, Matrimony, she attached herself to Bob with the
tenacious grip of an octopus (the words were Bess's), and so led him
instanter to the heights, as to the place of execution duly appointed.
To be sure, they cared little for the paper-chase. Both were experts,
and the delight of climbing could not be marred by any thought of
direction or rendezvous. Sufficient to know that they were mounting far
above the mists, winning their way steadily to the entrancing slopes and
the golden fields of unbroken sunshine. When, at last, Bob discovered
that they were lost, he added the intimation that it was a good thing
too!
"We should have old Gordon Snagg on our backs if we'd stayed down
there," he said. "I know the old bounder well--he always stops to tell
you some yarn about his brother, the brewer, and falls down in the
middle of it. He got me yesterday. That nut, Major Boodle, was with
him and the lady, of course. Lady Coral-Smith's a pretty good weight
when she's round your neck, but I'd sooner see her round the major's.
Did you hear her trying to tell something about the 'little widow' this
morning? Beastly shame, I call it--the little thing's all alone, and
worth about two hundred of the rest of them. Now don't you think so
yourself, Nellie?"
He had not called her Nellie before, and she remarked the circumstance,
and pronounced it to be of good omen. Fearing no possible rival in the
"little widow," Nellie could afford to be generous.
"She is very pretty, and very nice," she said. "I am sorry for her,
because she has lost her husband--at least I should be, if I knew what
kind of a husband he was. It's all guess-work with widows; you never
quite know whether to be sorry or glad."
Bob laughed loudly.
"They're saying in the hotel that she hasn't lost him. Bess Bethune
hints that he wouldn't be lost. That's a new sort of game, I suppose:
trying to lose a husband and counting points against yourself when he
turns up! Do you think you would like to play it when you are married?"
She was horribly shocked. The word "husband" was sacrosanct, and such
trifling seemed to her next door to a sacrilege.
"Oh, do let's talk of something sensible," she exclaimed petulantly.
"Wherever there is a pretty woman, there will people tell untruths about
her. What is it to us? We don't care, do we?"
Bob shook his head; he liked to pose as a man of the world.
"I think we ought to stand by her," he said. "Suppose you had been in
the case, Nellie; wouldn't you expect me to stand by you?"
"Of course I should--but you wouldn't do it; you would begin to talk
about widows instead. I'm quite sorry I came with you--"
He looked up appealingly.
"But we're having such a jolly time together. You don't mean to say you
would sooner have been with old Gordon Snagg?"
"I would sooner be with somebody who talked about sensible things, so
there! Are you going to stand here all day looking down at nothing? I
didn't come out for that; I came to ski. Perhaps you would like to go
back to the paper-chase?"
Bob hastened to say that he hoped the paper-chase might be swallowed up
by an avalanche before he overtook it. Having insisted upon the point,
he seized her hand without so much as a by-your-leave or any other
unnecessary absurdity, and began to run down the slope with her. Here
was something to live for; they were as two who had conquered the world
and returned its proud heights upon wings of azure.
Down, down, the skis hissing in the splendid snow, the keen air bringing
hot blood to their cheeks, the speed surpassing dreams of flight--so
toward the woods which would hide them again, and permit them to forget
that towns and hamlets, to say nothing of the inhabitants thereof,
existed. Both were gasping for breath as they sailed down the last of
the steeps and swung to the left at the bottom. Both were too sensible
of the obvious fitness of things to utter one complaint when Miss Nellie
tripped and fell right into Master Bob's arms upon the very verge of the
wood. Is not the left an unlucky turn to make at any time? But who
believes in luck when a pretty girl tumbles headlong into his arms and
refuses to budge an inch?
"I say, Nellie, I wish you'd do that every day. Now, don't get
angry--you know you rather like it."
She sat up and tried to push him from her.
"Whatever do you mean, Bob? It was your fault; you pushed me down."
"Of course I did. Let's lie here a month, just as we are--only I should
like your arms a little closer round my neck. Never mind about your
skis--I'll take them off."
He was as good as his word, unbuckling the straps and regretted that the
monstrous boots forbade him to admire her pretty ankles. When he had
removed his own impedimenta, he coolly put his arms about her waist, and
lifted her from the deep snow.
"Let's sit down a bit and talk over things," he said. "There's a grand
view from here, Nellie--I could see Brigue, if it wasn't for the cloud."
"Do you want to see Brigue, Bob?"
"Do I want to see Brigue?--when I can look at you! I say, Nellie, how
silky your hair is--and I do believe your lips are cold. Well, that
ought to warm them anyway! Shall I do it again? I will if you like!"
She shook her head; but her colour was high, and her heart beat fast.
"Why do you treat me like this, Bob?"
"Because I love you, Nellie."
"Do you mean it--every word of it?"
"I'll swear a thousand oaths if you like."
"And you'll never love anyone else?"
She put both her hands upon his shoulders, and looked straight into his
eyes.
Bob admitted in confidence to his friend Dick, whom he met presently,
that it was the look which did it.
"I'll never love anybody else, if I live to two hundred, Nellie. You'll
just be my little girl, and when we're married--"
He paused abruptly, wondering what he had said. Nellie, however, sealed
the compact instantly. She gave him a smacking kiss on his lips, and
held him so tightly that he could not utter a single word.
"I'll have to tell mother, Bob--I'll have to tell her when we get back.
I'm sure she'll be kind about it. I know she likes you. Wasn't it
lucky we came up here to-day? Wouldn't it have been dreadful to have
gone with all those people? Oh, why didn't we bring our lunch--I'm sure
I ought to have thought of it. Now, I suppose, we'll have to go down."
Bob shook his head. It really was very nice to be kissed like that, and
he didn't mind how long the process continued. The future became as
misty as the wraith of cloud floating over Mont Blanc. After all,
things might be fixed up somehow, and his two hundred a year would be
all right if they didn't get married until he got something to do.
"Anyway," he said, upon reflection, "we needn't move just yet,
Nellie--let's stop up here and talk. Perhaps we shall see the hares. I
wonder what Marjory will say when we tell her. You know Dick Fenton's
awfully gone on her. It would be a game if he had proposed, wouldn't
it?"
Nellie didn't like the flippant tone, and looked a little serious. Her
keen eyes were roving the valley below; but not a sign either of hares
or hounds did they detect. What she did see was a man walking to and
fro upon the narrow bridle-track, near Vermala, and another man who
dodged upon his heels, but took good care not to be discovered. The
pantomime was so engaging that she pointed it out to Bob, despite her
desire to pursue that singularly interesting subject, matrimony and its
preliminaries.
"Look at that man," she exclaimed in her surprise. "He's being followed
by the soldier. I'm quite sure of it. Bob, look at him!"
Bob had no particular curiosity in the matter--so he put his arm about
her waist, and peeped over the steep as she desired. Sure enough, the
play was going on just as she had indicated. A man walked leisurely
upon the path, while another dodged him in the security of the woods.
Such a game of hide-and-seek carried its own explanations. There were
two who played it, and one spied upon the other.
"Why, it's a gendarme from Sierre!" exclaimed Bob presently. "I should
know the fellow anywhere. What's he up to, I wonder; and who's the man?
It must be one of the Vermala people--and look, he's dropped to it
now--he knows what's going on!"
It really was vastly curious. The man who had been spied upon detected
his enemy suddenly and stood quite still, as though meditating a plan.
Presently he turned about, and began to climb the height in a direction
which would have carried him to the very wood which now sheltered the
lovers. This manoeuvre, closely observed by the gendarme, was not
immediately answered by him; but presently he turned about and set off
as though to return to the hotel at Vermala. So he became lost to view,
and the wood hiding the other, the little comedy terminated abruptly.
"That's a queer game," Bob remarked presently.