man's quick breathing, his crouching gesture, the strange light in his
eyes, betrayed him beyond recall. He was about to spring upon her, to
crush out her life with iron fingers. He would have done so but for an
intervention which one night, and perhaps one only in the story of
Andana, made possible. A sleigh was coming up the mountainside; the
bells rang out musically; the voices of men were to be heard. They
brought the valet to his senses instantly. He did not reason that the
sleigh would pass and that his opportunity would recur. Crime had not
been in his thoughts when he entered the chalet; he shivered at its near
approach, and, drawing back, he waited for her to speak.
"Take this," she said; "if you have any sense of honour, leave Andana
immediately. I have friends here, and I shall acquaint them with what
has occurred. Now go."
He went without a word, striding through the sitting-room and turning
into the little hall. She heard the front door shut after him, then the
echo of light steps upon the snow. Her first thought was to wake the
maid, Louise, and to send her for help, but she corrected that
immediately, and set to work to bolt and bar the place to the limit of
its resources. When that was done, she returned to the desk which the
man had been about to rifle and examined its contents closely. Luton's
letter was untouched. It lay at the bottom of the drawer, and it was
unlikely that the man had seen it.
But granting that he had not, what then? She knew something of the
story of blackmail as society has written it, and she perceived her
danger. This man would return; or, if he did not return, he would send
his agents.
The false step, if it were a false step, could never be retrieved. Upon
the other side stood the hard truth that, had she not refused him, the
whole story would have been made public to-morrow. She was sure of it.
The Swiss police would have been told that Sir Luton Delayne had
murdered Eugene Gaillarde and had not gone to Paris. All her hope lay
in the belief that Paul Lacroix knew nothing more than this. If he did
know more, the end was at hand.
She slept no more that night, for now an ordered imagination could tell
her just what would happen in case the worst should befall. They would
arrest Luton and bring him across the pass. Every paper in Europe would
tell the sordid story of his life. Tried by an alien jury, he would be
convicted, and the extreme penalty might follow conviction. For
herself, there would be the contemptuous sympathy of the world. Her life
would have been lived, and what a life! Had she known one hour of true
happiness since her childhood? Even her wedding trip had been a story
of disillusion. A lover's kisses were still warm upon her lips when she
had awakened to the truth that she could never love him. Thereafter her
existence had been that almost of a recluse. The magnificent gifts with
which her father dowered her had been squandered with the mad profligacy
of the born gambler. She had descended the ladder of humiliation step
by step--to this!
What would Paul Lacroix do? This was a question engrossing above any
other. If he held his tongue, how long would it be before he returned
to Andana?
She perceived that she must go away--must not delay an hour. She
resolved to set out for Sierre as soon as she could make her
arrangements and travel thence to Milan. It would be time enough
afterwards to decide whether she should or should not go on to Locarno.
Paul Lacroix, meanwhile, had left the chalet and returned to the village
of Andana, where he shared a room in the little cafe with the gendarme
Philip. The influx of visitors kept this rude cabaret open all night
upon the eve of the flight, and Lacroix came and went without
observation. He found the lad Philip in bed, but not asleep; and when
he had shut the door of their room carefully he blurted out his tidings.
"It is well, my friend; I have done what you wished."
Philip sat up and stared at him with dreamy eyes.
"You know where he is, Monsieur Paul?"
The valet seated himself upon the edge of the bed, and regarded the
young man's face closely.
"For what will this reward be paid?" he asked without premise. Philip
opened his eyes.
"For intelligence which will lead to the arrest of the Englishman," he
said.
Paul thought upon it.
"It would make no difference whether he were arrested by the Swiss
police or the Italian?"
Philip agreed.
"A reward of two thousand francs is offered by the Government--another
two thousand will be paid by the English soldier, the Captain Barton,
who is now at Grindelwald. That would make four thousand francs
altogether."
"Which will be earned by the man who gives the information. Very well,
Monsieur Philip, we understand each other. I am going to Paris
to-morrow--you will go to this address. You will find Sir Luton Delayne
in the house which is named."
He searched out a piece of paper from many scraps in his pocket, and
wrote down the address carefully. Then he stuck a pin through it, and
affixed it to the bare wooden dressing-table where all could see it.
"You will claim the reward, and will pay me one-half, Monsieur Philip?
I am generous, for I could go myself to Martigny and get the money. But
I have some business in Paris, so I leave it to you. This is between
men of honour--you will pay me my share?"
Philip merely nodded his head. He was staring at the paper as though
afraid of it. But Paul Lacroix undressed himself quickly and got into
bed.
There would not be much more to be got out of Lady Delayne, he thought.
He knew women well enough to foresee that she would tell her friends
to-morrow--most probably the black-haired engineer about whom the people
were making such a fuss. And he was a man to be avoided. Paul Lacroix
was already resolved to remove himself as soon as might be from any
possibility of a reckoning with this fellow.
*CHAPTER XX*
*THE FLIGHT IS BEGUN*
Benny had dreamed that he fell in the Val d'Herens after an ignoble
start from the plateau of Andana. He woke upon this to find it was but a
dream, and that the little abbe stood by his bedside with a steaming
bowl of coffee in his hand. Here was a man who had been up all night,
and who would not sleep until the issue were known. Never was there
such an enthusiast.
"It is nothing," he said apologetically. "I have often watched for
thirty hours at the Hospice when there has been a storm. We make little
difference between night and day up there. The poor people who fall in
the snow would not thank us if we did."
Benny laughed, and sitting up in bed, he drank his coffee willingly.
"What time is it, Abbe?"
"It is half-past six o'clock; you have two hours yet. Your brother is
already dressed; you will find him in the shed."
Benny put on his engineer's overalls and went down. He felt a little
excited; perhaps he was actually nervous, but no one would have guessed
as much. Whistling a few bars of an ancient waltz almost in as many keys
as there were notes, he went out to the shed and set to work to help his
brother. It was still black dark, and the great arc lamp shone out
weirdly at such an hour of the morning.
Jack Benson carried an electric torch in one hand and an oil-can in the
other. He said that all was well. He had been over the "ship" from stem
to stern--there was not a nut which a spanner could tighten a
hair's-breadth, not a wire that was not taut. The machine itself seemed
to bear witness to the truth of this. Benny himself admitted that she
was a picture, while a stranger would have likened her to a great steel
bird, with the head of a snout-faced whale and the fins of a ravening
shark. Another image would have made of her a shining torpedo, with
great wings thrust out on either side and a monster propeller large
enough to have moved a steamship at her stern. It seemed ridiculous
that those slight stays, those ridiculous bicycle wheels supported her
as she stood. Yet that was the truth, for she was light to the point of
miracle.
"Shall we run the engine now, Jack?"
Jack thought that they might.
"I'm not too sure of that union we made yesterday, Benny. You'd look
handsome if the petrol gave out. Let's run her, and see if it's leaking.
You've a good hour yet before you need go up. There's breakfast,
too--you'll have to let the Abbe fill you up, for he's cook this
morning. Are you ready, old boy? Then let her rip."
He switched off the magnet, gave a few sharp turns to the propeller, and
the engine started. Had not the machine been anchored, she would have
glided off at once, but, being anchored, she heaved and tossed as a ship
at sea. Jack was satisfied with the union, and declared that it was not
leaking, upon which Benny announced his intention to take a short flight
as a final precaution.
They ran the machine out of the shed, and he climbed into his seat, to
which a light steel door in the side of the torpedo-like body admitted
him. Once again Jack started the engine. Benny glided swiftly over the
snow for some thirty yards, then rose swiftly and circled the Park
Hotel. There was no wind and it was bitter cold. Of all the visitors,
he did not espy a single one upon the slopes beneath him. An intense
silence prevailed--a silence that was almost ominous.
They sat to breakfast upon his return, and the abbe served an excellent
omelet and some eggs which he had captured in the village last night.
If their talk was a little constrained and nervous, the circumstances
more than justified it. Here they were, with their eyes upon a goal so
distant that its attainment seemed impossible. All the dangers, the
risks, the difficulties of such an emprise stared them in the face, and
would be remembered. A man's life might be the price of success.
Secretly in his heart, Jack wondered if he were speaking to his beloved
brother for the last time. It might be that.
Benny, upon his part, said very little. He had a map of the Pennine
Alps on the white cloth before him and he studied it closely. His
questions concerned the arrangements and the names of the committee of
the Aero Club of England, who would be present. He understood that his
flight was to be checked at Chamonix and again in the Val d'Anniviers as
he returned. There were to be watchers at Zermatt and at the Weisshorn
hut, if it could be reached. Twice he was permitted to land for petrol.
He made it out that they were sixty-three miles from Mont Blanc as the
crow flies, and that would be his first halting-place.
"Marfan and Collot from Paris are to be there," he said, "I had a letter
from them. I hope there will be good landing somewhere near the
hotel--it wouldn't do to mow down the crowd. I've got a spot in my
mind, but they may not have in theirs. The petrol, of course, will be
all right. Emile is seeing to that, and he's a man to trust."
Jack agreed to it. Emile was the cleverest airman he knew.
"If you want anything at all, Benny, it may be a couple of plugs. Mind
you see they don't blow. The oil's gone through from London, and I had
an advice from Chamonix yesterday saying they had stored it. Mind you
keep alive in the valley from the Matterhorn, and remember to come up
pretty far before you swing and drop. The wind looks like being an
easter; you'll have to take care in the last hour."
He agreed, and consented under compulsion to eat his breakfast. Day had
broken now at the far end of the Rhone Valley, and the higher peaks were
shaping above the mists to pinnacles of rose and silver and many shades
of purple. Clouds drifted toward Sion and the west; the great chasm
below them was so filled by the rolling white vapour that it might have
been a sea of downy billows; but the day promised warm sunshine and
little wind despite Jack's prophecy. Benny liked the look of it
altogether; and when, without warning, strains of ridiculous music were
to be heard on the path below the chalet, he pushed on his hat and went
out.
All the world about him was astir now and eager for the day. Hatless
men had emerged from the Palace Hotel, and were darting hither and
thither on skis, or crying the news to girls hidden at their bedroom
windows. Caterers for an expected multitude flocked towards the booths
they had erected on the mountain-side, and prepared to set out their
wares. A perpetual going and coming, the jangling of sleigh bells and
the neighing of horses spoke of unusual activity at the stables.
Higher up on the slope whence the actual start was to be made, a little
throng had already gathered. It surveyed the ground, and looked
wonderingly toward distant Mont Blanc veiled in the mists. Was it
possible that this mad Englishman would attempt to fly as far as that?
Incredible! A thing undreamed of--perhaps an affront to the Almighty,
who had created the mountains to speak of His power and dominion.
Benny saw these people as he wheeled his aeroplane out of the shed at
eight o'clock, and began to push it up toward the plateau. He thought
very little of them, and remembered few of his friends at Andana. A
certain pleasure at the interest he had awakened was mingled already
with the desire to hear if Lily Delayne would be present at the start.
He knew not quite why it was, but his desire that she should be there
became rather a superstition than a sentiment. He blamed her no longer
for the indifference she had displayed during the week, for that was
natural to the circumstance; but he associated her presence with the
success of his attempt, and was almost ready to say that it would not
succeed if she failed him.
Of Lily, however, there was no sign at present. He had to be content
with the gossip of Bess Bethune, who was early on the scene, and ready
with a thousand questions. Bess promised to tell her uncle, the Cabinet
Minister, all about the wonderful machine; and, as she said, "Of course,
the Government will buy thousands, especially if you don't do it,
because Governments always buy things which fall down." When this offer
failed to excite the stolid engineer as much as it might have done, she
turned to Dr. Orange, and asked him if he were not going to lend Mr.
Benson his surgical instruments? Her chatter was not unmusical, and her
presence welcome amid the gloom which now fell upon the company.
Perhaps many shared the child's fears. This Englishman was going to his
death--there could hardly be a doubt about it.
Benny moved in and out among the people, exchanging a word here,
bestowing a nod there. He was wrapped up like an Arctic explorer, and
resembled a shaggy bear more than a man; but his black eyes were very
bright, and his pale cheeks carried a flush of colour foreign to them.
Chiefly, perhaps, his attention centred upon the narrow path by which
Lily Delayne must come up from her chalet, if she came at all; and he
searched it at brief intervals, even pushing his way through the press
of the people that he might inspect it more surely, but always to his
disappointment. Of Lily herself there was not a sign, the very blinds
of her sitting-room were drawn down. He fell to wondering if she had
left Andana altogether, and he might have rested upon his opinion but
for a message brought to him from the chalet just five minutes before
the signal to start was given. This was nothing less than a little
horse-shoe carved out of wood and set with silver nails. To it was
attached a card with the simple words, "Good Luck," and then the
initials, "L. C." Benny resolved immediately to make it his "mascot,"
and he affixed it to the prow of his machine without a word to anyone.
Such an offering at the altar of superstition set other friends busy,
and mascots were offered by many hands. Teddy-bears, brought in haste
from the bazaar, squatted upon the aluminium shell of the aeroplane;
pigs and elephants from the same merchant were tied by willing hands
wherever a lodgment could be found. The occupation found the company in
better mood, and as the moment drew near many who had been silent became
eloquent enough and forgot their apprehensions. It was almost with
impatience that the people heard the long-winded speech of the president
for the day. Words would not help Benjamin Benson across the Pennine
Alps, they remembered, and some of them did not hesitate to say so
aloud. Fortunately, the address came to an end just when the patience
of the malcontents was quite exhausted; and then, with a last salute and
a word of good cheer to Brother Jack and the Abbe, Benny climbed to his
seat and roared to them to let go.
In a sense, it was an undramatic start, and pleased the excitable
Frenchmen but little. Their tastes would have dictated a flourish of
trumpets or a salute of twenty-one guns; whereas, in fact, there was no
music whatever at this particular moment, and the solitary gun which
denoted the start boomed heavily and almost with menace. Its echoes had
hardly died away in the heights above Vermala when the roar of Benny's
engine was to be heard, and immediately upon that the machine, flashing
silver in the sunshine, soared above the plateau, and was gone in an
instant straight across the mighty chasm of the Rhone Valley. Five
minutes later the same machine was but a speck against the azure of the
sky.
Benny had made a good ascent, and was pleased enough with the way his
engine ran. The exhaust was firm and regular; he knew the firing to be
even; while, as for the lifting power, he was off the ground in twenty
yards and had mounted five hundred feet the very first time he circled
above the spectators. This gave him confidence, and sent him straight
across the valley without further preliminary. To be sure, he cast down
one quick glance at the black ring of spectators upon the plateau before
the Palace Hotel, searched out for an instant Lily's chalet and tried to
believe that the figure in the garden was that of a woman who had
inspired him to this day's work; but his reward was a vague impression
of a blurred scene, and it gave place almost immediately to the wonder
and ecstasy of the flight itself, and to that desire of a goal which
burned him as a fever.
His course lay almost directly to the southwest. Upon his left hand were
the tremendous precipices of the Janus-faced Weisshorn, the gentler
arrete of the Rothhorn, and, behind that again, the black rocks of the
Matterhorn. More directly before him were the Becs de Bossons, and the
black defile of the lower Valley; while the Aiguilles Rouges, clear and
sharp, stood to his right at the moment of departure. Heading for a
while down the Valley of the Rhone, he saw the range of the Pennine Alps
opening away to the south to disclose Mont Blanc and the triple domes,
now lightly veiled by cloud, but plainly to be discerned at the altitude
he had chosen. Here Nature seemed a little kinder, showing him low,
rounded mountains upon either side of the valley and great woods of the
pines which were but black scars upon the sheer rock. Deeper down lay
the heart of the chasm, the towns, which were but so many dots upon a
sepia ground, the silver thread of the Rhone itself, and Sion with its
puny heights whereon proud bishops had built their palaces. Over these
he passed at a tremendous speed, watched from below by thousands who
were invisible to him. He felt already that he was the master even of
this majesty--that man had conquered, and to him henceforth must be the
dominion.
The day had broken fine, and the sun shone gloriously when he crossed
the actual valley and began to fly high above the mountains upon the
other side. Warned that height would be his salvation, he now soared to
a great altitude that he might be sure of stable currents and not be
drawn down by any of those eddies in which aeroplanes founder so
quickly. Of the latter he had a momentary experience at the mouth of the
Black Valley, where the cross winds caught him and turned him completely
about before he could recover control, so that he was facing Brigue
again and looking toward Italy and not toward France. This salutary
warning found him more watchful afterwards; and when he had put the
machine straight he mounted still higher, and found a dead calm, wherein
he ignored the bitter cold and quickly left the valley behind him.
Now for the first time Lake Leman was visible to the northwest. He
could see its waters shining in the sun and thought he could locate the
heights of Caux; but of this he was not sure, and his knowledge of the
Alps being very limited, he but guessed at his precise environment. Of
Mont Blanc, however, he never lost a clear vision, and heading his ship
for that, had eyes for little else.
There were glaciers shaping at this point of the journey, and the sun
showed him desolate fields of snow slashed with the jagged bands of ice
and often cut by the black rocks of some fearsome arrete. The
loneliness of his situation was emphasised by this vision of a world
apart; of ravines which the foot of man had never trodden; of heights
which the foot of man had never conquered. Descending a little, he
searched out the dark places with curious eyes, tried to make villages
of the tracery below him; said that the zig-zags stood for vines upon
the hillside and the black lines for railways. When he heard quite
distinctly the whistle of a locomotive upon its way to Martigny, the
message appeared to come out of the unknown, a voice from a house of his
dreams. It recalled him to a sense of his own situation, to the
possibilities of failure and of death. He remembered that he was very
cold, and wondered if he would have the physical strength to continue.
It was an unhappy foreboding, and he shook it off as well as he could
and tried to remember the speed at which he was flying and the hour at
which it would bring him to the Valley of Chamonix. The mighty shape of
Mont Blanc had begun to emerge more plainly from the mists at this time,
and to show its sloping summit, with the attendant needles very
distinctly to be seen. He knew that he must pass right across the great
mountain, and then find what landing he could in the valley, and the
desire to do this with credit put other thoughts from his head. The Val
d'Hauderes was behind him at this time, and the head of his ship pointed
almost directly to the Aiguilles Rouges, beyond which lay the Valley of
Chamonix. When he looked at the chronometer, fixed upon the right-hand
side of the frame, he learned that he had already been flying for one
hour and twenty minutes; but of his actual direction he could glean
nothing by the compass, which swung to every point as the ship sagged
and recovered in the varying currents. This mattered little while the
weather remained clear; and when, almost with the swiftness of a vision,
the valley came into view he believed his object to be already attained.
What a glorious revelation was that--the revelation of countless spires
and needles of rock, all dwarfed by his altitude, and seeming but a
magic forest rising from the eternal snows. Had he been a mountaineer,
he would have named many of them, and before all others the Aiguille du
Geant, with its numberless satellites. But he had no knowledge of the
valley, and all his interest centred upon Mont Blanc. Viewed at such a
height, the mighty monarch appeared rather a great mound of snow above
diverging rivers of ice than the proud mountain of the school-day
fables; but such was the truth; and when he looked down upon the grand
plateau, that spreading field of snow where so many have perished, it
reminded him of nothing so much as the plateau at Andana, where his
friends awaited him. Benny thought of them with a smile as he headed
the ship right over the mountain. It seemed impossible to believe that
he had left them just an hour and a half ago.