part to do that. I wanted to keep trouble from you. Now I see my own
foolishness. It couldn't be done, Lady Delayne. The whole place is
talking of the affair; you were bound to hear of it. But I did my best,
because I wanted to be your friend."
She knew that it was true, and his frankness disarmed her. The irony of
life had left her with but one friend in the world, and he a man she had
seen for the first time a week ago. It needed some resolution to keep
her courage in the face of that.
"It was not friendship to deceive me," she said, against her
convictions; "so much might have happened. I am grateful to you, none
the less. Will you now tell me all you know?"
She sat upon a sofa near to him, a lamp behind her, and her face in
shadow. He perceived that she breathed heavily; but there was no other
overt testimony either of fear or grief.
"I'll tell you willingly, every word," he rejoined. "There's no doubt
that Bothand and Co. got out a warrant in England against Sir Luton, and
that the Swiss police, acting on instructions from Scotland Yard, traced
him here. They sent an officer, Eugene Gaillarde, from Martigny, to
ascertain if their man was at Vermala; he watched your husband for a
couple of days. I think he may have followed him over from Grindelwald,
but I do not know for sure. If they had established his identity, word
would have been sent to London; most likely they would have arrested
him, and applied for extradition. Anyway, it seems clear that Sir Luton
knew he was being followed, and that he resented the fact just in the
way such a man would resent it. As bad luck would have it, he seems to
have met Gaillarde face to face on the plateau below the hotel. There
were words passed between them, and then blows. What precisely befell
we shall never know, but I make no doubt that Gaillarde lost his footing
and was thrown over. He must have fallen about thirty-five feet and
struck the clump of trees at the foot. I saw him there myself, lying
stone dead, and that's how I came to warn your husband. If Sir Luton
hadn't gone away, it would have been a murder charge. We may avoid that
if they don't trace him, and time will put the affair in another light.
It would be manslaughter at the worst--though I can't keep it from you
that, whichever it is, it's bad enough in a country like this. What you
and I have to do is to keep the thing black dark while we can. I've
sent Sir Luton where no police will find him, and if he's wise he will
stay there until the worst has blown over. Then he ought to go to the
East for a couple of years. We can tell a tale in the English papers if
the truth ever does come out, and he won't want sympathisers. We hate
bureaucrats in our country, and there's many who will understand just
what happened in his case. It would be otherwise if they had taken him
and brought the trial on immediately. I had to stop that at any
cost--that's why I sent him into Italy. The same reason lay behind my
idea that you should go to England. You are a danger to him here, Lady
Delayne, so it seems to me. You are a danger every hour you remain, and
if you would save him, you won't lose an hour in going away. I'm glad
that I can tell you so freely, for I couldn't this morning, much as I
wanted to--"
He paused, a little afraid of his own eloquence. What impression he had
made he did not know; but one thing was plain, and that was the woman's
courage. There was no hysterical outburst now, no expression of a vain
regret--nothing but a quiet determination which astonished him.
"I could never forget my obligation to you," she began; "that must be
lifelong. You say that I should return to England to save my husband;
but surely it would be the wiser thing to remain. If they do not know
all the facts, why should they seek Sir Luton Delayne? May we not hope
that this question of identity will protect him to the end? Indeed, I
am beginning to believe that my first duty is to him, to go to him, Mr.
Benson, and to forget! If he were really guilty of a monstrous crime,
it would be another thing. But can we believe that he is?--unless
passion itself be such a crime. I cannot say that; his sins have been
greatly punished, and am I to judge him at such an hour? Not so,
surely. I will go to Italy whatever the cost. I feel it is my duty."
He was amazed to hear her. His primitive knowledge of woman had
prepared him for an issue so very different. She would have been
humbled utterly by the disclosure, he thought, overwhelmed and incapable
of any clear purpose. And here she was prepared for an act of madness
which, whatever its sublimity, must bring down the house of his hopes
with a crash. Let her go to Italy and the end might be at hand. Which
is to say, that he doubted his own hypothesis, and put little faith in
identity as an ally. Had not Sir Luton been followed from Grindelwald?
Why, there would be twenty ready to bear witness.
"My dear lady," he said, hardly knowing how to put it to her, "your wish
does you great credit, but do not forget that if you are followed from
here to Locarno, it will not take the authorities very long to guess
what is going on. Perhaps I was wrong to advise a journey at all. The
Swiss police are no fools. They will remember that this English lady
came to spend some weeks at Andana; she took a chalet; she appeared to
have settled down. Then she goes without warning. Suppose, upon the
top of that, they remember that a certain Sir Luton Delayne left
Grindelwald in a hurry--don't you think they are capable of getting at
the truth? Why, he might be arrested in the next four-and-twenty hours;
and if he were, God help him. No, it would be madness to go--madness to
think of it. He's safe where he is, and there will be just two people
in all Europe who share this secret. Let us leave well alone--we have
done our best and can do no more."
She saw the reason of it, but her distress was very great. All that she
had suffered at her husband's hands went for nothing in the hour of
cataclysm. In a way the defects of his character made a new appeal to
her: his life might have been so very different; his intellect might
have led him so far. And here he was, a veritable outcast, despised by
all, a fugitive to be named with contempt, even by the vulgar.
"I know that you have done your best," she said, after some moments of
silence, "but what have I done? Can I justify the story of my own life
since I left him--can a woman ever justify herself for leaving a man in
the hour of his misfortunes? While the world went well with him, I
suffered in silence. Is it possible for me to forget that he is alone,
without friends or help? The world would say that his own acts justify
me. Should a woman be guided by the world, or by her own conscience?
No, indeed, I cannot agree with you; and yet your advice is wise. If
they know, there is the end of it. I can do nothing; I must wait and
hope. My gratitude to you remains--it will never be told truly, Mr.
Benson; it could not be."
He shrank from this expression as strong men ever shrink from a verbal
recognition of their friendship. It may be that he perceived how much
she really suffered, and what it cost her to hide the truth. The danger
hovered about them both, and put a spell of its constraint upon their
intercourse. In a spirited endeavour to make light of it, he told her
that men would not judge Sir Luton hardly; and then he dwelt upon the
security of his retreat in a villa upon the shore of Lake Maggiore.
Though near to Locarno, its situation was one of some isolation, and it
would serve their purpose beyond contention. The old woman who kept it
had little English, and no curiosities. Generally speaking, he thought
it as safe a haven as they were likely to find anywhere on the
Continent, and, as he said, Sir Luton himself would use his eyes, and if
there were danger, he would not fail to meet it. In brief, if things
fell out as they had been planned, the secret need never pass the doors
of the chalet.
She agreed with this, though it was plain that her thoughts centred
rather upon her own conception of duty than upon the peril of the
situation. Insensibly she turned to the man where a man's work was to
be done, and Benny encouraged her with a pride that burned. Yes, he
would be the agent in the matter, if she would but leave it to him. He
had no fear of the issue; let him enjoy her confidence and the rest was
easy.
"We must keep his identity out of it," he repeated; "all depends upon
that. There is a little gendarme here--the brother of the man who was
killed, and he is to be watched. Trust me to do so. I have had my eye
on him from the start, and I shall not sleep much until he is on his way
to Martigny again. If you see him, beware of the man: a little
pale-faced fellow, with a serious air and a mincing manner--not the sort
of man you suspect, but one who could be very dangerous. I would say
nothing to him--not that he is likely to think of you; but you might
meet him accidentally. When he's done with, the rest will be easy. We
shall keep Sir Luton at the shanty for a month; then send him down to
Monte Carlo. If they don't suspect him, the trouble will be over pretty
quickly. I hope to God it will be!"
His optimism was splendid, and fearing a new note, he ended the
interview upon it. She might rely upon him to bring her all the news,
and meanwhile courage was necessary. When he left her, it was just a
quarter-past ten, and he could hear the music at the Palace floating up
the mountain-side in a dreamy rhythm which seemed in odd contrast with
the secrecy and the fears of that interview. How bravely she had
suffered it, and what big promises he had made! If they were not
justified, what of it? He had done his best, and she had thanked him.
He could almost feel the pressure of her fingers in his great hand now.
He was alone upon the mountain-side and all the glory of the night about
him. A flux of stars marked the Palace Hotel, every window of which
paid tribute of warm light to the sheen of the spotless snow. Higher up
there twinkled the minor constellations of Vermala; while away to the
west arc-lamps marked the path to the Park and the slopes whereon the
beginners kept carnival. These were the human aspects of the scene, but
the majesty and solitude of the mountains remained impregnable, even in
the half-lights; and looking out upon them, the man recalled his
ambitions, the task he had set himself, and the hope which had deluded
him. Would he find inspiration anew because of this thing which had
come into his life?
He turned with a sigh, and went on to his own house. A light burned in
the workshop, and he discovered Jack and the abbe still at work there,
but they put down their tools immediately and watched him with eager
eyes. Had the woman spoken? Had she remembered her promise? They were
all agog, and their desire to know would not be restrained.
"Well, Benny, and what did she say, my boy?"
"Oh, we had a little talk about everything. What did you expect her to
say, Jack?"
"Then she didn't mention the prize?"
He opened his eyes wide.
"Why should she mention it?"
"Well, you see, she promised to. She wants you to win it. We sent you
down there on purpose. Do you mean to say she forgot all about it? How
like a woman! And you thought she was interested; eh, Benny? you could
have sworn she was."
The abbe nodded his head sagely; then he sighed and resumed his work.
Benny continued to look at them with wonder. A conspiracy. And she was
interested and had forgotten. Well, after all, that was very natural in
the circumstances--but if she had remembered!
He did not answer Jack directly; but declaring that he was very tired,
went off to bed. When he was gone, the abbe confessed to Jack that "it
was finished," and he also laid down his tools.
"We waste our time," he said. "Your brother has lost interest. It is a
pity, for he might have been one of the greatest men of our time."
Jack thought so too. He would have given a good deal to have heard that
this high and mighty lady was about to quit Andana.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*HERALDS OF GREAT TIDINGS*
Bob Otway and Dick Fenton were coming down the Vermala slopes together,
when they espied the "little widow" on the path below the hotel. Her
appearance reminded them that more than a week had passed since they had
seen her at the chalet, and that it had been a time of events never to
be forgotten. To be candid, the boys had changed very much during these
wonder-working days. They had even come, as Bob admitted ruefully, to
speak of such mysteries as drainage and water supply. The realities
were gripping them and romance already cried out.
"Why, it's Lady Delayne, Bob--don't you see her? We really ought to
pull up and tell her what has happened."
Bob agreed, and, as a testimony to his approval, did a wonderful
telemarque which came near to dashing out his brains against a tree. It
was just twelve o'clock of a glorious day, and both the boys hungering
for lunch.
But they could not pass by Lily Delayne, even at the bidding of a
mountain appetite, and so they shot down wildly to the path and
confronted her, as two loping bears emerging suddenly upon their prey.
Lily was dressed in black, and wore a wide motor hat and a heavy veil.
For an instant she smiled kindly upon the boys, then relapsed to that
pensive air which seemed inseparable from her natural mood.
"Why," she said, "here are the truants. Let me see, ten days, yes, just
ten days since the embassy, is it not, Mr. Otway? And black silence all
this time; now, really, is not that ingratitude?"
Bob admitted that it was; Dick hung his head and looked sheepish.
"You see," said the former, "we found it was all right, and so we didn't
want to trouble you. It's a beastly thing to have to speak about money,
and I wouldn't have any girl believe that it's her money I want. When I
heard from Mrs. Rider that Nellie had three hundred a year, I knew we
could just rub along, and what more does any fellow want? Of course, we
can't keep a motor on that, and I shall have to play golf once a week,
instead of twice. But it's something to be able to pay your way these
hard times, and the fellow who can't give up something for the sake of a
pretty girl isn't much good."
Dick was more explicit.
"I'm rather sorry Marjory has the money," he said with conviction. "I
don't believe marriages are made in heaven, or that sort of nonsense;
but I do believe that young people should be content to start in a small
way, and that if a man is to get on, his own brains should push him. It
can't be helped, of course, and Mrs. Rider is so pleased about it that I
believe she'd double their allowance for a nod. She's flirting like one
o'clock with old Gordon Snagg, and it wouldn't astound me if she married
him."
"And struck another!" interposed Bob, whose alternations of melancholy
and gladness were a delight to hear. Lily was so much amused by them
that she encouraged him to talk; and saying that she, also, was
returning to lunch, they all set off down the mountain together.
"We're going to live out at Hampstead to begin with," Bob explained,
cheerily. "I suppose it must be flats, for it won't run to a house.
Dick thinks we might share a big one, but I know the girls would
quarrel, and when sisters do quarrel, then you hear things. I shall go
into a motor-car business, and open a garage somewhere. Dick is going
to write books when he can afford the paper--and I'm sorry for Thackeray
and those fellows. Perhaps you'll come and see us when we're settled
down, though I say it's the settling up that's the trouble. Hampstead's
not a bad place, and they don't charge anything for the empty
ginger-beer bottles on the Heath. I wonder if you really would come,
Lady Delayne?"
Lily said it would be a pleasure to do so, though her secret doubt as to
the establishment of this particular _menage_ remained unspoken.
Concerning Dick, however, she had no afterthought. He had grown
sentimental in an hour, and saw nothing but a vision of Marjory in his
brightest heaven.
"I've always wanted to write a book," he said, "but a man needs a spur.
It's impossible for a fellow to do anything when he's a bachelor and men
are coming in every five minutes to look over his shoulder. I could have
finished a play last year, if it hadn't been for the Scratch Medal at
Neasden, but I was so keen to win it that I never got further than the
prologue. Now, however, I mean to take my coat off."
"And to fly--like Benny, the wonderful Benny," Bob added. He was
surprised to learn that her ladyship had heard nothing of this. Did she
not know that a regular mob was expected at the Palace to-morrow to see
that amazing hero, Mr. Benjamin Benson, try for the great prize offered
by the _Daily Recorder_ of London? Well, it was so. They were even
making up beds on the billiard table, and what sort of a game was a man
expected to play on a mattress?
"It's the most amazing get-back I ever heard of," he ran on, delighted
to interest her so much. "Benny's the last man in Switzerland we should
have looked to for this, and here he is, cock-a-whoop in the papers, and
as famous as a prize-fighter. In London they're talking of nothing
else. He's invented a new kind of aeroplane, and one which must be the
machine of the future, so they say. That's why he didn't come into the
hotel. We thought him a secret kind of bird, and all the time he was
just working away to bag the L10,000 offered by the London editor. If
he gets it, it will be an eye-opener; but old Gordon Snagg, who has been
hanging about the chalet, declares he will get it, and that he deserves
to. Don't you see, Lady Delayne, that Benny has been the ghost? It was
his machine over the Zaat which scared the people so. Fancy, old
Benny--mustn't he have a head, and didn't he think a lot when he heard
us talking about him?"
Dick took a more serious view of it.
"Benny is a genius," was his testimony. "He's just one of those born
strong men you can't keep back. If we had more of him in England, there
wouldn't be all this talk about decadence. We're just falling behind as
pioneers, and that's the whole truth. If you speak to the manufacturers
about it, they say it doesn't matter, because we can always imitate the
foreigners when they have invented things. I'm sure that's all
nonsense. The same brains which lead the way will hold it in the long
run. Look how long it took us to overtake the French in the motor-car
business; have we done it even now? Benny is one of our national
assets, and if he succeeds, no honour is too big for him."
"Then you think he will succeed, Mr. Fenton?"
Dick shook his head.
"Bob knows more about machinery--he'll tell you. If it depends on the
man and not on a bag of tricks, I'm sure he will succeed. That remains
to be seen: we shall know to-morrow, anyway."
"And make a night of it if our man wins," Bob added with conviction.
More than that he was reticent to say. Whatever were the secrets of
Benny's aeroplane, they had been guarded closely.
"He must be the cleverest chap alive," he continued. "Not a soul at
Andana had an idea of it. He's been flying about here for weeks, and all
the time we thought him a good-natured crank, to be chaffed and rotted
as much as we pleased. Now he looks like becoming one of the most
famous men in the world. Sir Gordon says he will, and he's had his eye
to the keyhole. Perhaps he wants to float Benny as a company; I
shouldn't be surprised. If his machine is what he claims it to be,
there'll not be a rival in the market in a month. Sir Gordon is sure of
it."
"Then it is a very wonderful machine, Mr. Otway?"
"So wonderful that you could pack it up in a hair-trunk, they tell me.
The engine's a gem--just like a toy. The frame looks like a
torpedo--it's as light as feathers. We shall see something to-morrow,
Lady Delayne, and I'm jolly glad I'm at Andana, anyway. They start from
the slope before the Park at nine o'clock. Benny has to fly right over
Mont Blanc, then to Zermatt, and back across the Weisshorn. He should
be here before dark to win. If he does it--well, I hope the Palace will
not catch fire; but I shouldn't wonder if it did. You'll be coming, of
course. We shall see you there in the morning?"
She answered, "Certainly." She would not miss it on any account. The
news had surprised her very much; she did not add that, although she had
seen Benny every day, he had said no word to her. This was for her own
thoughts, which now engrossed her so that she was very glad when they
came down to her chalet and she could say "Good-bye." Even there it was
possible to remark the number of the sleighs now driving up the valley
from Sierre. And the flags and the bunting! She had been blind to them
hitherto. But now they spoke eloquently of a man who had befriended her
beyond any she had known. And to his hopes and ambitions she had hardly
given a thought during that long week of watching and waiting! This was
the truth, and it was not unaccompanied by regret. She remembered her
promise to Brother Jack and wondered that she could have broken it.
To be sure, there had been excuse enough. Long days of a terrible doubt
had left her at the last almost beyond the influence of fear or hope.
Luton himself had not written to her--she was glad of his silence. All
the tidings that Benny had was a brief note from him in which he
described his arrival at Locarno, and his occupation of the shanty. The
threatened inquisition upon the part of the Swiss police had not become
a reality. The crime at Vermala appeared to be already forgotten by the
authorities, as it had ceased to interest the visitors. Probably most
people now believed that it had been an accident. Lily could almost
persuade herself that this view was right. Luton would remain a little
while at the lakeside, and then go South. The accusing hours, when the
truth would not be hidden, were to be combatted with new courage in the
face of this unexpected respite.
It was a quarter to two when she entered the chalet and nearly half an
hour later when the post arrived from Sierre; to her great surprise
there was a letter from Italy--the only letter that day--and she
perceived immediately that it was in Luton's handwriting. Letters from
him during recent years had been rare events and coincided with his
pecuniary needs; but she had not read many lines of this particular
epistle before she detected a new note. Here was an _apologia pro vita
sua_; she knew not at first whether to believe it serious or a jest.
He spoke of his departure from Andana, and of the terrible circumstance
of it. Like all men who fall foul of the world, he was eloquent in
self-defence and could make out a pretty case.
What he seemed to feel acutely was the degradation of the tragedy. Had
it been different, an affair in which honour had been compromised, it
would have been defensible; but this poor devil of a soldier, against
whom he had no possible grudge, that was humiliation enough. From which
he passed on to deplore his heritage of character, naming himself as a
man predestined to the enmity of his fellows, and without that power of
will which alone could have saved him.
Did not Lily understand this? Had she never taken it into account upon
a day of reckoning? He saw himself as the sport of the Almighty--mocked
by his inheritance. All that he had done he must do again if he began
life anew under the same set of circumstances. He had been without a
friend, misunderstood always, even by her who had been at no pains to
understand him. Did she think she had done her duty toward him--had she
stood by him as a true wife should have done? Then came incoherent
rhapsodies of love from which she shrank. He swore to God that there
had never been but one woman in the story of his life. She knew it to
be true. And here he was, an outcast among men and alone, while she had
money enough and to spare. His poverty had brought him to this. Did
she think upon reflection that none of the responsibility was hers?
As to the actual position at the moment, he confessed himself in some
danger. He thought it possible that the Swiss police would trace him,
but he declared that he would face the matter lightly enough if she were
with him. Would she come to Locarno and help him? He wanted courage,
the power to understand the meaning of his own life, some hope for the
future which she might inspire. She was a clever woman, but had never
used her cleverness on his behalf. He implored her to hear him and have
pity.