Luton's temper got the better of him, and there would have been the
devil to pay if he had not cleared off. I don't want you to be troubled
about it, and so I say: Go back to England at once. I shall be stopping
on here, and I can put matters right if anything is said. Don't you
think I am wise, Lady Delayne; now, really, don't you think so?"
"I think you are kind, very kind, to interest yourself in those who are
comparative strangers to you. And if it was but a fracas as you say--"
He laughed it off, clenching his hands and pursing his lips to the
boldest lie he had ever told in all his life:
"Just a vulgar row and nothing more. We should laugh at it in England,
but they've other notions here. I don't want you to be bothered about
it, and so I'm all for the journey to Sierre and the Simplon to-night.
Give me leave, and I'll telephone for tickets right away. You'd be wise
to do that, Lady Delayne--I'm sure you'd be wise--"
"But, my dear Mr. Benson, I have friends coming from Caux this
afternoon. I could not go away in such a hurry; it would be too
ridiculous in the circumstances."
Benny did not know what to say. His anxiety for her had become almost
pitiful. Perhaps he would have betrayed himself altogether, but for the
sudden appearance of the gendarme, Philip, who emerged from the wood
upon their left hand, and sauntered down toward them with his eyes
searching the ground and his hands crossed behind his back. This was a
ghost to stem the flood of eloquence suddenly. Benny turned pale when
he saw Philip, and his agitation was not to be hidden from his
companion.
"Who is that?" she asked him with awakened curiosity. He shook his
head.
"One of the gendarmes from Martigny. I saw him at the station last
night."
"Then why do you see him with displeasure this morning?"
"He may be here on our affair. I've told you what I think. They'll be
questioning you about it if you stay."
"But, surely, I shall be able to answer them! Is a woman responsible
for her husband's follies--even in Switzerland? I do not think so, Mr.
Benson; you are not quite honest with me--there is something yet to
come?"
He shook his head.
"I have told you what I think, Lady Delayne. It's for you to decide. I
can quite understand that you may not be able to go away this afternoon,
but to-morrow, or the next day, perhaps? Will you think it over, and
let me know? I shall be round this way after dinner to-night, and I'll
look in, with your-permission. Now I must run away, for I see the abbe
throwing his arms about up yonder, and that's to say the lunch is on the
table. Isn't it wonderful that a man cannot go three or four hours
without food and remain in his right senses? It's true, though, so, you
see, I'll just run away. But you'll think of what I've said, won't
you?--and you'll know that I'm your friend, come what may!"
He held put his hand to her with an awkward gesture, and felt her soft
fingers lying for an instant in his own. The look which she gave him
was a reward beyond his expectations; he returned to the chalet with the
step of a boy, and was hoping and believing a hundred good things when
he met the gendarme, Philip, almost at his own door.
"Ah, my lad, I am glad to see you again," he said. "Were you not at
Sierre last night with the valet of my friend, Mr. Faikes?"
Philip looked up quickly.
"Of your friend, Sir--?"
Benny did not appear to notice it.
"The Englishman staying at Vermala," he persisted; and then he asked:
"Do you know him also?"
Philip answered as quickly.
"Yes, I know this Englishman, sir; he killed my brother, Eugene. Am I
to understand that he is a friend of yours?"
Benny grabbed the man by the arm, and began to walk him to and fro upon
the narrow path. He was acting now with all the art he could command.
Yes, he had seen the Englishman several times; was he the man who struck
the officer, Eugene Gaillarde, on the hillside? Who would have thought
it? But then, to be sure, no one knew the fellow very well: a
sour-tempered bully, who had come from Cannes, and gone, they said, to
Paris. Had Monsieur Philip heard that the Englishman had gone to Paris?
Well, it was so, and he, Benny, had seen him at the station--indeed, he
had driven him some way on the road. It would be useful to remember
that. Perhaps Monsieur Philip would be glad of the information?
The young man heard the strange tale to the end, but he expressed
neither surprise nor gratitude. He had come to Andana to learn what he
could, and when his work was done he would know the Englishman's story
and where to seek him. "And then, monsieur," he added with almost
savage conviction, "I shall arrest him with my own hands."
Benny did not argue with him; he saw that this idea obsessed him, and
that words were vain. His own acting, clever as it was, appeared to
have made no impression whatsoever upon the gendarme, and when the man
left him, it was to go on with the same quiet step and unchanging
resolution, up toward the height where his brother had perished. Benny,
however, stood for a little while at the door of the chalet looking down
toward Lily's house. Did she believe the story he had told her with
such poor wit?
He knew not what to think. It was hardly a week ago she had come to
Andana; but the days had changed his own life beyond all knowledge, and
had left him with but one ambition in the world. He would lift the
burden from her shoulders if he could--the burden of shame which
threatened to overwhelm her utterly.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*THE CORTEGE*
The siesta at Andana is an event of the day and differs from other
siestas chiefly in the fact that no one goes to sleep.
Visiting the plateau before the Palace Hotel upon an afternoon of
February a stranger will discover the arts, the professions and the
industries of Great Britain in some disorder and not a little comfort.
Accrediting the best chairs to generals and colonels, whom a gracious
King employs no longer upon active service, mere lawyers and persons who
write will be found in accommodating attitudes which a diversity of
luges, camp-stools and even rugs make possible; while commerce,
stiff-backed and upright, flirts amiably in amatory markets and appears
to think little of Protection.
Everyone has done something during the morning, and this make-believe of
a siesta is the due reward. Here upon the brink of the valley
topographers yawn and discover mountains; matrons remember their
complexions; mere youth its volatility.
All bask in a wonderful sunshine and are tolerant of evil. There is no
protest upon the projectile aimed erringly and discovering unsought
targets. The prettiest girls do not always show the prettiest ankles,
nor the middle-aged ladies the least desirable qualities. There is
flippancy of talk and act, a craving for ease not always gratified, and
a worship of the glories of Switzerland as honest as any article in the
social creed. If a subject be chosen and pursued, it is haltingly and
at intervals. Men yawn upon other men's _bons-mots_--they have quick
ears chiefly for the whispers.
They were discussing Lily Delayne upon the afternoon of this particular
day, and not without that charity which remembered her as a baronet's
wife. Led by Bess Bethune--whose father had known Sir Frederick
Kennaird--and kept in order by Dr. Orange, who was a man of the world
with good perceptions, it was unanimously resolved by the meeting that
her ladyship had been foolish to go to the chalet and would be more
foolish if she remained there. Had she not been a baronet's wife, the
assembly might have arrived with justice at another conclusion; but the
daughter of Burnham Priory was a desirable acquisition, and as Lady
Coral-Smith remarked: "Not in any way responsible for the vices of an
irresponsible man." So the meeting carried the resolution _nem. con._,
and having carried it, settled down to remember all the "good things"
about Sir Luton which ready tongues and readier newspapers had recorded
these ten years.
Dr. Orange said very little, except to admit that Lady Delayne was a
very charming person, and to express his surprise that she had not
divorced the baronet long ago. This remark escaped him at a moment when
Bess Bethune had deserted the study of social jurisprudence for that of
the velocity of snow when obstructed by the bald head of a choleric
sleeper. When the young lady returned from her occupation, Lady
Coral-Smith took up the running with the observation that the measure of
a woman's endurance is often the measure of her intellect, and that bad
men should certainly marry fools. This remark, directed to the dull
understanding of Major Boodle, pleased that worthy mightily, and he
echoed it with a succession of "Eh, what's," which trilled like the
warblings of an asthmatic bird.
Thereafter silence fell and endured until the major thought that he
remembered a good story concerning the Delaynes, and was about to tell
it, when what should happen but that her ladyship appeared suddenly
among the company, and brought the men to their feet as though a
bombshell had fallen amongst them.
Social credulity is a curious thing, and is apt to become incredulity on
next to no provocation at all. The man or woman, whom all discuss,
remains just the man, or the woman, when introduced to the company. All
the stories concerning him or her seem to be forgotten in a moment;
nothing is remembered but the personality of the intruder, and should
that be satisfying, the recording finger ceases to write. So, at Andana,
this little company would now have been prepared to swear in any court
that none but the most flattering observations concerning her ladyship
had fallen from its lips, and that it was ready to welcome this charming
lady with the cordiality her position (and her father's money) demanded.
To this happy state of things Lily's own charm contributed not a little.
She was, for some of these good middle-class folk, as an ambassador from
another kingdom, and one which they might not hope to enter. Her
unaffected manner, her gentleness, conquered the men, and did not
provoke the women. Had she been of their own sphere, they would have
envied her beauty and complained of it. But being of a race apart, even
the mayor's relict could grant her some natural "advantages." As for
homely Mrs. Rider, particularly honoured by her ladyship's attentions,
she, good soul, was in the seventh heaven. This would make a fine story
in Bayswater when she got back. "My friend, Lady Delayne, travelling
incognito"--how well it sounded. Her lips were already prepared for
that delicacy.
Lily drew a chair close to the prospective mother of "the boys," and
began to talk to her in low tones. Sir Gordon, after a vain attempt to
join in, had the wit to perceive that he was making no impression, and
turned his attention to "the little savage," as he called Mistress Bess.
When he was gone, Lily approached the dangerous topic of Messrs. Robert
Otway and Richard Fenton. She thought that they were pleasant young men
and would start in life with some pecuniary advantages.
Had Mrs. Rider known them long--were they very old friends? To which
that good lady replied with warmth that this was her third season at
Andana, and that the boys had been there on each occasion. Then, with
an aside of some moment, she hastened to confess that it was
embarrassing to be the mother of two grown-up daughters at her age: "For
I am but nine-and-thirty, Mrs. Kennaird, and my poor husband has been
dead these five years."
Lily expressed her sympathy in a kindly way and led the good soul
insensibly to other confessions. Each of the girls had three hundred a
year in her own right, and, naturally, their mother would like to see
them happily married. She, herself, was not too old to resign "all the
pleasures of life," as she put it naively; but what could she do with
these great grown-up girls and their perpetual activities? Men
naturally thought a woman as old as her children believed her to be; and
young people nowadays have such strange notions about years.
As to the young men, she liked them well enough. They were noisy, to be
sure; but, then, might not others say the same with justice of Nell and
Marjory?
"I'm ashamed of their boisterousness sometimes," the good lady admitted.
"I'm sure I was never like that when I was a girl, and what happiness
they can find in it, I don't know. Believe me, Mrs. Kennaird, they
never are at rest. When it's not skating and sliding, it's golf and
hockey. If you ask them to read a book, they think you want to do them
an injury. I gave Marjory the 'Pilgrim's Progress' on her last birthday,
and all she said was that 'Christian won on the last green.' There's
levity for you--there's improper behaviour. Oh, I shall be sorry to
lose them, but sorrier still for the man who marries them--indeed I
shall. You couldn't understand it yourself, for you have no daughters
of your own, they tell me; but I've a mother's heart, and they wound it
every day that I live. Oh, yes, I shall be sorry for the man who
marries them."
Lily smiled, but did not comment upon the grammar of the observation, or
its suggestions. The situation was now quite plain to her. Here was a
good woman who would enter the holy bonds for the second time, one who
found a serious obstacle in the presence of these hoydens who proclaimed
their mother's age _urbi et orbi_. Little it mattered to her whether
the worldly prospects of likely suitors were good or ill. Lily
perceived that the boys were already married, so far as Mrs. Rider was
concerned, and she determined to push the suggestion no further. So she
led the conversation to more general topics, and finally turned to Dr.
Orange, who had been waiting for an opportunity to speak to her.
Lily confessed to the doctor that she had come out with the intention of
doing a little shopping in the village of Andana, and he, with ready
gallantry, offered to accompany her thither. His art in mundane affairs
was considerable, and no one who overheard their talk would have guessed
that he knew this lady's story to the last line. Not until the narrow
path carried them to the heart of the wood by the Sanatorium did he
begin to speak of intimate affairs at all, and then in so general a way
that it was impossible not to be frank with him.
"By the way," he said--joining her after the passage of a bob sleigh
steered by that dashing pilot, Keith Rivers, who rarely broke his
collar-bone more than twice in any season--"by the way, do you know a
person of the name of Paul Lecroix--I think he is a gentleman's servant,
and has been staying at Andana, recently--do you know anything of him?"
Lily guessed the object of the question and would not fence with it.
"Yes," she said in a low voice, "he was my husband's valet; what of him,
Dr. Orange?"
The doctor continued as though it were an ordinary affair.
"He has been recently in the employment of a Mr. Faikes, also staying at
Vermala. The fellow has a long tongue, and is not to be encouraged. I
fear he has said many things in the hotel here which you would not wish
him to have said. They make no difference to any of us, of course, it
goes without saying; but should you be perplexed by them, I hope you
will give the credit where it is due."
"You mean, that people know my real name--the name under which I choose
not to travel?"
The doctor was surprised by her candour.
"Yes," he said slowly, "that is what I wanted to say. Your incognito is
an incognito no longer--if it concerns you that it should not be. Most
possibly it does not. I have often taken a _nom de voyage_ myself and
found it useful. I can understand that it might be helpful to a lady,
especially to the daughter of one so influential as Sir Frederick
Kennaird. If you wish it to be respected at Andana, you have but to say
the word. Perhaps, however, you will think that it has served its
purpose in Egypt and the Balkans. I was almost expecting you to tell me
so when I first mentioned it."
This was subtly put, and it pleased her. He expected her to say that it
mattered no longer whether anyone called her Lady Delayne or Mrs.
Kennaird, and she met him as readily. It was a matter of indifference
to her. In any case, she did not expect to be many days in Andana, and
would be returning almost immediately to London. Perhaps the doctor
would come and see her in town?
"I am on the north side of the Park, and that is quite reprehensible,"
she said with a smile. "My address is Upper Gloucester Place, but I
will give you a card. Doctors find themselves in strange places, and
cultivate an uncritical attitude, I suppose. But I shall be very glad to
see you, if you care to come, and perhaps some of my Italian curiosities
will interest you."
He admitted an interest: it would have been the same had she said that
the golden gods of Burma were her hobby; and when he had informed her
that he was now living at Hastings, which proposed shortly to indulge in
the luxury of a pageant, they came to the little village of Andana and
to its bazaar.
The latter was situated picturesquely enough at the summit of the narrow
winding street, and was itself a gabled chalet which would have served
for a picture book. An ancient dame, whose English ran to half a dozen
inaccurate phrases, here vended grotesque knick-knacks at prices still
more grotesque. There were post cards embracing every possible view of
Andana at every possible season; fabulous distortions of the Matterhorn;
panoramas showing the whole of the Rhone Valley, and portraits of
peasants, who seemed to have dressed themselves especially for the stage
of the Gaiety Theatre. Elsewhere, the stock was hardly more attractive.
Cheap jewellery from Birmingham; cheap glass from Italy; German
ingenuity vended for "two francs-fifty," lay cheek by jowl with skis to
be sold for twice their market value, and luges upon which a child could
sit with difficulty. The carved wooden trifles alone represented the
genius of Switzerland, and were to be valued. Lily bought some half a
dozen of them as an excuse--her real object had been the quest of
writing-paper--and then remembering that it was growing dark, she paid
her bill hastily, and set out to return to her chalet.
The night falls swiftly and often with bitter cold in the Rhone Valley.
It had been twilight when they entered the shop; it was quite dark when
they emerged. The village street, usually the resort of gossips, now
welcomed men of more serious aspect, who were clustered round three
sleighs about to go down to Sierre. Lily delighted in these sleighs, as
a rule, in the music of their bells, and the primitive caparison of
their long-suffering horses; and when she came thus face to face with an
unexpected _cortege_, she stopped, despite the cold, to remark upon it.
Hardly had the words been spoken when she regretted them. This was no
common spectacle. She perceived in a moment that it was the harbinger
of death.
"Oh," she had exclaimed, "how very picturesque," and then with the truth
of it arresting her, she turned upon the doctor inquiring eyes.
"What are they doing, Doctor Orange? Why are they here?"
He answered as frankly that he did not know.
"Have you heard of any death in Andana? Has there been any illness?"
He shook his head.
"It would be a soldier's funeral. There have been rumours in the hotel
about an accident up at Vermala. I will speak to them, if you like--"
He crossed over to one of the officers and exchanged a few words with
him. Other gendarmes emerged from the little cafe, carrying lanterns.
A captain, whose sword jangled upon the flags, uttered an order in a
commanding tone, and sent some of his men to the horses' heads. He also
exchanged a brusque word with the doctor, and saluted Madame when he
passed her. The bells swung musically as the procession set out and
disappeared slowly round the bend upon its way to the valley.
Dr. Orange meanwhile had returned to Lily's side, and ignorant that his
news had any meaning for her, he hastened to tell her what had been told
to him.
"They say that a gendarme from Martigny has been killed up on the Zaat.
I heard something about it this morning, but did not pay much attention.
The officer was not very communicative. We shall have to wait until we
get to the Palace before we hear the whole story. Perhaps it will not
be very exciting after all. These accidents are not so common as
English people believe. Five or six bodies of men who have been lost on
the heights are discovered under the snow every spring, when the great
thaw comes. The Alpine chasseurs, too, have a good deal of trouble with
some of the rogues who haunt the passes. Shall we walk on? I am sure
you must be feeling the cold."
Lily had not stirred from the spot; but now, with a determination which
surprised her, she set out for her house, and did not betray even by a
word the tumultuous thoughts which afflicted her.
As for the doctor, he dismissed the affair almost immediately, and
continued to gossip of lighter things. There would be a dance at the
Palace that night; would she care to come down? Or perhaps she would
like him to make up a rubber at bridge? Old Gordon Snagg played well,
but parsimoniously, and Lady Coral-Smith was the terror in petticoats.
Failing that, there would be some passable music in the drawing-room--he
confessed that he himself played, but did not tell her what a very fine
pianist he really was--nor did he notice her indifference and the effort
it cost her to answer him at all. When they parted it was at the door
of her own chalet, where he stood a moment to light a cigarette in the
shelter of the porch. And there for the first time a suggestion of the
truth flashed upon him from the darkness, and spoke both of the living
and of the dead in one instant, of utter bewilderment.
Lily had entered her house and gone straight to the sitting-room upon
the right-hand side of the door. There she switched on the electric
light, and the blinds being drawn up, the doctor saw the whole room
quite plainly, and the figure of the woman as she laid aside her cloak
and threw back her head to unpin her hat. Attracted by the grace of her
attitudes, and perplexed by the extraordinary pallor of her face, he
continued to stand until she turned about suddenly, and pressing both
her hands to her forehead, sank suddenly into a chair, and burst into a
passionate flood of weeping. Then he understood, and fearing to be
detected, set off instantly toward the hotel.
"By God!" he said as he went, "Luton Delayne is the man!"
*CHAPTER XVI*
*TWO OPINIONS*
Benny arrived at the chalet at a quarter to nine, and was shown
immediately into the sitting-room. There he found Lily seated before
her writing-table; but she had written no letters, and the note-paper
was covered by meaningless hieroglyphics which her pen inscribed
ceaselessly.
Men are rarely observant when it is a question of knowing whether a
woman is well or ill, and this good-natured engineer was no exception to
a common rule. Had anyone called his attention to the extraordinary
pallor of Lily's face, he would have admitted its significance; but, as
it was, his desire to resume their conversation of the morning blinded
him to the truth. He had come to know if she were ready to return to
England; he found her determined upon another purpose altogether.
"I thought you'd have done dinner by this time, Lady Delayne," he
explained, "and so I ventured to come in. It's a fine night outside,
and good for walking. I half expected you to be down with the Palace
people. They're dancing to-night, and they tried to run me in. But I'm
too old to prance round with yearlings, and so I told them. I'd sooner
drive an airship across the Mediterranean than steer some of the
heavy-weights down yonder--yes, a hundred times. But I thought it might
be different in your case."
She did not smile; her manner arrested his words, and was an omen of her
answer. Benny watched her rising from her chair as he would have
watched an accusing figure about to approach him. She had discovered
the truth--he was sure of it.
"Mr. Benson," she said slowly, "why did you not deal more generously
with me this morning?"
He did not shrink from it. The question appealed to his manhood, and
resolution made him strong. He was glad, moreover, that the hour of
suspense had passed; he would keep nothing from her now.