upon the road when the storm overtook him--another hour brought him to a
hamlet, where the lights of a railway station shone warmly through the
blinding haze of snow. He inquired of the station-master, and learned
that a train would leave for Milan within the hour. Nothing could be
more opportune; he believed that he had succeeded in his task beyond all
hope, and that the story of the tragedy at Vermala would never be known
to the world.
"Go straight through to Domo d'Ossola without a word to anybody," he
said to Delayne. "I will telegraph instructions to the old woman at the
shanty to-morrow, and you can make your way there as soon as you please.
If there is any danger, I will warn you of it. That's my part of the
business: yours is to hold your tongue, whatever the consequences."
Sir Luton hardly answered him. A certain contempt for himself because
he had let this masterful personage persuade him to an ignominious
flight now took possession of him, and entirely banished any thought of
gratitude. The money which was thrust upon him he received with the air
of a master borrowing from a servant. Distance had dwarfed his
understanding of danger, and he had forgotten already his own platitudes
of defence. Was he not an Englishman, and what right had that d----d
fool to spy upon him? For two pins he would have returned to Sierre and
told the authorities as much.
Of this resolution he quickly repented, and, being bundled into the
train for Milan, condescended to offer his hand to the man who had saved
him. It chanced, however, that Benny had turned his back at this
particular moment, and thus missed the proffered grasp which was to be
the laurel upon his altruism. Five minutes later he set out through the
blinding storm for Sierre, where he arrived at the Terminus Hotel in
time for dinner. All thoughts of going up to Andana that night had now
been abandoned. He decided to sleep at the hotel, and to return as soon
as daylight would let him.
Perhaps such a change from his normal way of life was not unwelcome.
There is bustle of a kind at Sierre, where stranded tourists are wont to
gather and excited English folk to indulge in the platitudes of travel.
This pleasant little town, too, is honoured by the great Simplon
express, which calls after nine o'clock, and is to be stopped by the
station-master's whistle when there are passengers to take up. Benny
dined at his leisure, and having lighted a cigar, he strolled over to
the station and waited for the express to come in. The snow fell
heavily, and the wind moaned in the heights; but there was good shelter
here at the heart of the valley and a sense of sanctuary very welcome.
Benny knew that he had done as good a day's work as he would ever do;
and, perhaps, he began to think that after all he was not such an
unlucky mortal--for, surely, the greatest of good luck is the
possibility to help others.
Half an hour passed in optimistic reflections, and then the express from
Milan came in. There were three English passengers, and the
station-master ran out on the rails and blew a shrill whistle when the
great flaming headlights of the engine appeared round the bend. Then
the English folk were hauled up into a wagon-lit and the train went on,
scattering flaming sparks into the haze of snow. When all was silent in
the station, Benny returned toward the hotel, and had taken some twenty
steps across the courtyard when he came almost face to face with Paul,
the valet, who walked arm-in-arm with a diminutive gendarme, to whom he
was talking earnestly. Benny watched him as though he had seen a ghost.
Should not the fellow have been on his way to Paris three hours or more
ago!
He did not know what to do: whether to speak to the man or merely to
watch him. Delayne had spoken little of this servant, nor did Benny
know whether he were to be trusted or feared. On the face of it, the
latter opinion should have been preferred; for what had a valet to do
with the police, and how came it that this particular valet postponed
his visit to Paris to confab with one of them? Benny detected danger
and drew back into the shadows.
"They may take him at the frontier after all," he said.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*AFTER THE STORM*
Bob Otway was down very early upon the morning after the great storm,
and he was not a little surprised to find Dick Fenton waiting upon the
plateau before the hotel, whence he surveyed the newly-fallen snow with
greedy eyes. In truth, Dick was telling himself that he would take
Marjory up to the wood again, and compel her to confess that she loved
him; an unnecessary repetition of an ancient story, but pleasant enough
when white arms go with it.
Bob Otway was less sentimental. He confessed that he felt a little
down, and he added the information that the concierge was a "nut."
There had been great "events" last night after Dick went to bed to dream
of Marjory; much damage had been done. All this would be charged for
when the weekly bills were sent on, and as Bob asked ruefully: "What do
you think a 'cello's worth, Dick; is it worth thirty shillings?" By
which he implied the destruction of such an instrument and his own share
therein.
"It was Rivers who began it," he explained, as they strolled about arm
in arm, waiting for the bell to announce morning coffee: "He tried to
hang up the big clock in the hall with a drawing pin, and when the
concierge spotted him, Billy Godeyer was doing the same for the picture
of the Battle of Sedan. Then Rivers found that the band had left their
instruments behind in the drawing-room, and we had a concert. Never saw
such rot; I played the 'cello and all the hair came out of the bow
before I'd sawed out half a tune. They say we smashed five notes in the
piano, but I don't believe it. Old Gordon Snagg doesn't like noise, so
we played on his account; he'd pay the damage if he were a gentleman."
Dick agreed to that, but didn't much care to talk about music. The
night had brought pleasant dreams of Marjory. He really was rather
sorry that they had chosen the "little widow" for their ambassador.
"We were in too much of a hurry," he said, arguing in a philosophical if
amatory vein. "Why not let it run until we get back to England? It's
beastly to think about money in such a place as this, and I'm sure
Marjory would hate me for doing it. I'll speak to my uncle when I get
back, and he might do something for me. Perhaps he'll send me out to
Canada; there's lots of cash to be made there, and why shouldn't we make
some of it? Let's have some fun, Bob. You're such a gloomy beggar; you
always look at things in the worst light."
Bob retorted that it depended upon the age of the lady; a vague and
half-truthful remembrance of the havoc which the sun had played with the
otherwise peach-like skin of a nameless nymph. The morning found him in
a dubious-mood about Nellie, but less alarmed about the enormity of the
offence. She really was a "jolly little girl," and it had been quite
impossible not to propose to her in the circumstances. With good luck,
her views upon the final step of matrimony might be as distant as his
own. And who could say that something would not turn up?
"Mrs. Rider will make the devil of a row about it, and we shall have to
clear out," he said musingly. "I know she brought the girls here to get
'em off, but she won't think very much of the particular planks for this
particular plunge. I'm sorry, too, that we spoke to the 'little widow.'
It's rather jolly to be thought rich, though it wouldn't be honest to
the girls to leave them under that impression. I shall tell Nellie just
what I've got when we're up in the wood this morning. Two hundred a
year sounds all right when someone else is paying your hotel bill. It's
when you come to running a pug dog and a motor-car that you find where
the slice pinches."
"But one would begin in a small way, Bob."
Bob shook his head.
"That's what the modern girl tells you; she follows it up with the hint
that she'd like a flat overlooking the park, and really couldn't live in
Bayswater. It's a day of big ideas and little balances. I believe my
old guv'nor was right when he said that money was the greatest curse
that ever came into the world. There'd be a lot of happiness if it
wasn't for money, Dick. Think of it, if fashion wasn't so rotten, we
might camp out the first year, live in a tent for two, and sleep by the
roadside. I'm told it's healthy, and I know Mecredy did it. There'd be
no rent to pay, and we might sell our portraits as an advertisement for
a tonic. As it is, we've just got to own up that we're paupers; and if
the girls take pity on us--well, we'll feel smaller than ever."
Dick was not so sure of it. Ancient fables concerning the angelic
qualities of the sex still buoyed him up with youthful hopes.
"Oh," he said loftily, "that's all rot, Bob. Money's something, of
course, but lots of girls don't think much about it. Look at old Gordon
Snagg. He's supposed to be worth half a million; they say he paid ten
thousand for his knighthood; do you think Marjory would have had him if
he'd have proposed to her? Give sentiment half a chance. Surely, it is
possible to believe that the girl you're going to marry has some other
ideas but those of your bank balance?"
Bob would not give in.
"Wait until old Mrs. Rider gets going," he exclaimed sententiously. "We
shall hear some home truths then, old chap, and just when we were
beginning to enjoy ourselves. By Jove, isn't it a day! Look at the sun
on the old Rothhorn; isn't it splendid, Dick? and it rises upon our hour
of woe. Well, I suppose the ancient martyrs went through this kind of
thing; but I'm hanged if I wouldn't sooner go to the dentist any day.
What shall we say to the old girl? How shall we tell her that the
truth--?"
"I shall tell her for Marjory's sake. Why, I believe she's up at the
window there, and Nellie as well. Don't you see them, Bob?"
The girls were giggling behind the sun-blind of a third-floor window,
but they disappeared almost instantly when their object of attracting
attention had been achieved. It still wanted ten minutes to the first
breakfast-bell, and a few active folk had now appeared to enjoy the
sunshine, or to drag luges up the ice-run and have a "canter" down
before the coffee. The latter idea appealed to the boys; and getting
their luges from the hall, they went up to the starting-point. This was
the moment, however, when a little procession appeared upon the mountain
track above them; and being attracted by the novelty of the spectacle,
they stood to see it pass.
"They're soldiers, aren't they, Bob?"
"Looks very much like it. What can they be doing up here?"
"Would it be about the story? Surely, they can't have found the man?"
"I wouldn't wonder; why, here's our little Frenchman, who wanted to tell
us all about it yesterday. He'll know what's up; let's ask him."
"But he doesn't understand your French!"
Bob was not to be daunted. Walking across the snow to the edge of the
wood, he took off his hat to the Frenchman, and asked him the question:
"What are they doing up there, monsieur?"
The reply overwhelmed the young man by its velocity. He caught the word
_un mort_, or thought that he did; but so great was the stranger's
desire to tell him that a flood of terrible English followed upon the
outbreak. The soldiers had been searching the snow for the body of a
comrade, so much Bob made of it; and not only had they been searching,
but the quest had been successful. They were now carrying the dead man
down to Andana, whence the body would be conveyed in a sleigh to
Martigny. With which intimation, and some incoherent reflections upon
the whole tragedy, the Frenchman turned upon his heel and left them.
His own curiosity would take him some distance in the wake of the
procession. Like all his race, the psychology of crime fascinated him
beyond any other study.
The youths, in their turn, were not a little awed by this gruesome
spectacle, nor could they remain insensible to its romance. Down below,
upon the plateau, were the first of the merrymakers, the outposts of a
vigorous life, the careless creatures of laughter and the sunshine.
Here upon the height, beneath a tracery of silver, upon a path still in
shadow, were the emblems of death and eternal sleep. Stern figures,
whose footfalls fell soft upon the untrodden snow, moved with military
rhythm about the body of their comrade. None spoke, none paused, the
faces of all were hard set and expressionless. To-morrow the whole of
Switzerland would be talking of this crime; to-day it was but a muttered
whisper, which hardly echoed in the woods which harboured it.
But of this the lads knew nothing, and when the procession disappeared
from their view they went racing down to the Palace; where they arrived
at the precise moment of Miss Marjory and Miss Nellie Rider's
appearance, in virginal white.
The "girls" were dreadfully important people this morning. And how
little they thought of the married women!
*CHAPTER XIV*
*THE GENDARME PHILIP*
Lily was usually an early riser, but the night of storm had wearied her,
and it was nearly ten o'clock when she rang for her maid to bring her
coffee.
This was the hour of the day she preferred to any other in a general
way. Then she had letters from her English friends, and journals, often
long delayed upon their voyage, but none the less welcome. To open the
windows wide and breathe the air blowing straight into the room from the
glaciers of the Weisshorn, to sup tea at her leisure and hear of this
person and of that who groped their muggy way in London's chill
atmosphere, were pleasures of the day she would not readily forgo. Just
as the ascetic believes that the joy of the blessed is to rejoice upon
the sufferings of the damned, so did Lily realise her own opportunities
the better when contemplating the despair of the pilgrims she had
quitted. London was "awful," one woman said; "you could hardly see how
badly dressed the other women were."
The morning of the flight brought Louise to the room in a querulous
mood. She had quite expected that there would be gendarmes in the
kitchen, and was disappointed when none came. True, a postman had told
her strange things and had hinted at this and that in a way which
irritated her dull understanding; but of news she had none, save that
which Madame's letters implied--and, to be sure, it was a pity she could
not read them. Failing the opportunity, she banged them down on the bed
as an act of protest, and with the intimation that the sun would close
the skating rink at twelve, bounced out of the room with no more grace
than she had bounced in.
There were three letters for Lily, all addressed to Mrs. Kennaird; but
of the three, the handwriting of one alone arrested her immediate
attention. This was from her father, Sir Frederick Kennaird; a long and
rambling epistle, expressing all the petulance, the anger and the
selfishness of a rich man called upon to surrender a portion of his
riches.
Reciting the family story from the moment when she had married Luton
Delayne, his first charge concerned her choice of such a man, when it
ignored altogether the paternal satisfaction which the marriage had
awakened at the moment of its inception. These particular Delaynes, Sir
Frederick wrote, had been bad eggs since old General Delayne of
Huddlesmere played the knave in the American War, and was shot by a
Yankee whose house he had outraged. Nothing was to be hoped from such a
family; nor was anything more to be hoped from the writer, should a
further request on Luton's behalf be made.
As to Bothand and Co. and the alleged fraud, Sir Frederick had little
sympathy for the West-End jewellers, the majority of whom he declared to
be rascals who battened on the folly and the vanity of unfledged boys
and vulgar parvenues. Luton's hint that his wife's name had been used
was received with the derision which, perhaps, it deserved. It was a
device, he said, to extort money under a species of blackmail permitted
by the law. Should such an allegation be made seriously, it would be
met in a way which would surprise these people. Luton's debt was
another thing, and not to be taken lightly. The amount of it he
considered incredible; this firm must be nothing less than money-lenders
in disguise, and should be treated accordingly. Sir Frederick promised
to set his solicitors, Welis and Welis, to work to see what could be
done. At the same time, he concluded his reference to an unpleasant
affair by the assurance that his son-in-law would yet make a beggar of
him, and that Lily owed it to him to see that at his age some
consideration was shown for a man who had done so much for them both.
She did not fall to observe that her father said nothing upon the more
vital matter of her own unhappiness; nor did he invite her to Benham
Priory, whither he had taken his young American wife, Edna. Lily did not
need this oversight to assure her that the Priory had ceased to be her
home, and that of all the houses she knew, there would the coldest
welcome be offered her. These letters from Sir Frederick were so
stereotyped in their expressions that they provoked no longer those
bitter memories once associated with them, He had ceased to remember any
obligations toward his children save those which their importunities
thrust upon him; to write to him, who should have been her best friend,
had become a humiliation.
She crushed the letter in her hand, and pulling on her dressing gown,
she went to the window and looked out. The superb morning had sent a
merry throng to the skating rink, where Dr. Orange and Bess Bethune were
delighting an envious crowd by a sedate performance in the "English"
school; while upon the opposite side of the rink, Keith Rivers
pirouetted and pranced in the "International" fashion, to the
satisfaction of the inexpert, who thought the English manner dull. A
few beginners were in remote corners, and were as ungoverned ships upon
a crowded waterway; but they fell in solemn silence, for it is heresy
here to laugh at that ignorance which, even when firmly seated, is so
far from bliss.
Cheek by jowl with the skating rink lay the little lake whereon the
curlers performed. From this a babel of sounds arose; an awful jargon
from which the Esperanto school would have fled in terrified despair.
Generals of divisions here roared at soulless "stanes," as though their
salvation depended upon a besom. Cries of "bring her along," "up cows,"
"well sweepit," or "man, you're a curler," rent the air as the battle
cries of warriors. In the intervals of storm there fell the calm of
comedy. "Will ye crack an egg on this, Sandy, dear?" a Scotchman was
heard to remark; but when Sandy did not "crack an egg" upon it, his
compatriot roared: "Ah! ye red-headed little deevil, wait till I get
doun the rink and catch haud o' ye"--a threat which occasioned no
surprise, and hardly moved a member of the solemn-faced company to the
ghost of a sad smile.
Merry or solemn, it certainly was a scene to remember and to dwell upon.
All these healthy people might have been groping in the London fogs but
for those wonder-workers who rediscovered Switzerland some twenty years
ago. Some of them had been so groping perhaps but yesterday; and here
they were, basking in a sunshine hardly known to an English July, reborn
to energies they had forgotten, playing the fool in the finest spirit of
the Horatian precept. Lily said it was wonderful; and then it occurred
to her that she had no part or lot in it. The events of the night were
remembered in an instant of wonder that she could have forgotten them
even during this idle hour.
In one way the placid ebb and flow of the tides of recreation reassured
her. She feared no longer an aftermath of the fracas at Vermala--or,
verily, there would be some bruit of it at this early hour of the day.
It was impossible for her to believe that a tragedy of moment would be
attended in this remote place by no overt manifestation; and of that
there was not a sign. To-day, as yesterday, and all the days, the
pilgrims set out for the heights on skis; the skaters waltzed and
pirouetted to the strains of the tenth-rate orchestra generously
provided by the _proprietaire_; the curlers heaved the "stanes" and
complained of the sweltering sunshine. None of these suggested a
knowledge of drama, remote or intimate. One man alone, the little
gendarme, Philip, could have spoken, and he had already passed on toward
the Park Hotel. These were hours of respite for this gracious lady, and
her gratitude was not feigned.
As to Luton, she had grown accustomed to his habit of procrastination
and his incurable levity of life. Any excuse, however trivial, would
have kept him from her last night; and she had to admit that he might
have been physically unable to come, for this also was one of the
shameful secrets. In the latter case, he would visit her this morning;
and her imagination already depicted him, sitting in the chair by the
window, and pulling ceaselessly at his long red moustache, while he
asked her news and complained that it was not what he had expected.
Here, of course, she was at fault, and the only visitor who presented
himself at the chalet was Mr. Benjamin Benson, who, in the language of
seamen, had "cleaned himself" and donned a suit of clothes which
astonished both his brother and the abbe. To their many questions,
Benny replied that the storm kept him at Sierre, and that the "stuff"
had not come; and when this was said, he heard their tale about the
"little widow," and her desire to see him, and marched off to the chalet
without another word. He found her dressed rather prettily in a heavy
jacket of white wool and a violet hat which showed the many perfections
of her pale face, and did not hide the beauty of her eyes. Benny
thought her so beautiful that he was almost afraid to look her in the
face when he spoke to her; but he knew that he had a part to play, and
must play it bravely if he would succeed.
She met him at the gate of the chalet, but did not suggest that they
should return there. It seemed wicked, as both admitted, to be indoors
upon such a morning; and she fully believed that she could deliver his
brother's message as eloquently upon the hillside as in her own
drawing-room. Concerning his own absence she had little curiosity, for
she was unaware that he knew of the affair at Vermala, and would never
have associated it with his visit to Sierre. At the same time, she
thought that he might have some news of Luton, and was anxious to hear
it.
"So you were caught in the storm, Mr. Benson?"
He said that it was so, and then he asked a question in his turn.
"You'd never guess who went with me to Sierre, Lady Delayne."
"Why should I guess it?"
He looked round about him and turned deliberately toward the deserted
path which led to the Park Hotel.
"Let's go this way," he said evasively. "There are too many human
gramophones at Andana to my way of thinking, and some of them must have
known Ananias. Well, about Sierre? Sir Luton was my fellow
passenger--"
"My husband--then he--!"
She stood quite still, and her face had become waxen in its pallor.
Benny did not look at her, and recited his story to the woods upon his
right hand.
"Yes, Sir Luton. There was a bit of a row up at Vermala yesterday, and
his temper got the better of him. They tell me he struck one of the
gendarmes from Martigny; you can't do that sort of thing with impunity
hereabouts. If there's a fuss, he's better across the frontier, and so
I told him. That's what took him down to the town with me--I thought
the climate of the lakes would suit him better for a day or two--and
there he is as safe and sound as a bird in a nest. If you hear any
stories, don't you believe a word of them. It's my advice to you to
return to England to your father's house as soon as you can do it
conveniently. These foreigners make a rare hullaballoo if you lay a
finger on them. They'll ask you ten thousand questions if you'll let
them. Don't give them the opportunity, Lady Delayne--say your father
wants you back, and you are going. That's my advice, and it's good
common sense. I'll drive you down to Sierre this afternoon, if you
like. You could catch the Simplon to-night, and be in London to-morrow;
I hope you'll let me, for if they find out that Mr. Faikes is really Sir
Luton Delayne, then there'll be no end to the trouble. Now, will your
ladyship think of it?"
He spoke with unwonted earnestness, as though her case were his own, and
she really must be led to see the importance of it. If any other had
told her such a story, Lily would have disbelieved every word of it; but
here was a very apostle of candour, and who would doubt him?
"Do you mean to say that I am to return to England because my husband
has had a foolish quarrel with the authorities? Do you mean that, Mr.
Benson?"
He nodded his head almost savagely.