Andana, an excitement which might be permitted to postpone for a day the
necessary operations of skating, ski-ing and curling. But when the
flight had been accomplished, the little colony returned with what zest
it could to its pleasures. These, unhappily, were pursued but sadly on
the day following the great event. A cold bitter wind blew up the
valley from Visp, and the snow fell incessantly during the morning and
again at night, as has been told.
Benny was not sorry that things should turn out so. He dreaded a new
invasion of the chalet, and had very much to do before he could leave
the country. It was true, as Harry Clavering had said, that splendid
offers had been made to him by his own people, but there were other
offers both from France and from Switzerland, and he spent a good deal
of his morning trying to plan out a campaign which should satisfy all
concerned. A little later on Dr. Orange came in as though by accident,
and when Brother Jack had gone upstairs to begin the packing, the doctor
broached a private affair in which he presupposed a mutual interest.
"By the way," he said, "you know that Lady Delayne has left here?"
Benny, who was in the act of lighting his pipe, threw the match into the
fireplace and looked at the doctor sharply.
"Gone to London, hasn't she?"
The doctor thought not.
"No," he said, "they tell me it is to Italy. Her husband is there, you
know."
Benny made no attempt to evade it.
"Yes," he said, "I do know he's there. The question is, how did you
find out, Doctor?"
"Oh, doctors hear everything. To begin with, I recognised Luton Delayne
outside the Palace Hotel just as you did. He must have come to us after
the affair at Grindelwald. Directly his wife arrived here I thought her
face very familiar. I remember meeting them at a dinner party in Onslow
Square--it must be three or four years ago. She's a woman you could not
forget. We all think that."
Benny did not say that he thought it. A shrewd judge of men, he
believed that a spirit of friendship had sent the doctor to the chalet,
and he was grateful to him.
"Why, yes," he enjoined. "I guess the whole place would be about
unanimous if that lady were in the case. But you haven't answered my
question, Doctor; you haven't told me how you knew she was going into
Italy. I'm curious, for I knew nothing about it. In fact, I didn't
quite expect her to go at all."
The doctor took a cigarette from his case and lighted it carefully. His
eyes had a curious trick of looking first to the right of him and then
to the left, as though seeking inspiration from the carpet, and he
twisted his shadow of a moustache quite fiercely while he pondered a
reply.
"Well," he said, "I think that our objects are quite the same. Suppose
I say that it was the gendarme here, the man they call Philip Gaillarde;
would you be astonished at that?"
"I should be astonished at nothing in Luton Delayne's case. When did
you get the news?"
"Oh, in the cafe this morning. There is a girl there named Susette; the
young man is interested, it appears, and she is one of my patients. I
have been attending her some days for a little hysteria--nothing
serious, but quite alarming to the love-sick swain. Somehow she learned
that he is going away, and is in a great state about it. She thinks he
is in danger."
"Of what?"
"Of never returning to Andana--which is to say that she knows--"
He looked at his friend shrewdly, and seemed to be waiting for the
fuller confession to come from him. Benny debated it an instant, his
teeth gnawing the stem of his pipe. Then he spoke.
"You mean to say that Philip Gaillarde has gone into Italy to arrest Sir
Luton?"
"That is exactly how I would put it."
"And that he knows the whole story?"
"I don't think there's any doubt about it. He has been told that Luton
Delayne was the man, and he has obtained permission to go to Locarno and
to help the police there. It is his own idea--though the local police
should be very well able to help themselves. The question for us is one
of social jurisprudence. Is it good for the other English, for the
people who come here every year, to have this scandal to their
discredit? I would go further, and ask, is it at any time wise to push
such a case against such a family as the Delaynes? Speaking for myself,
I don't think it is. Luton Delayne is a modern type; I suppose in New
York they would understand him very well; but here we are educated
slowly. The Swiss police are a little more ignorant than ourselves. I
have had a chat with Ardlot, the French secretary at the hotel, and he
tells me that they will be merciless if they succeed in arresting the
man. We know what that means; perhaps we are interested enough to ask
how others might take it."
Benny pulled heavily at his pipe. When he removed it from his lips it
was to say:
"Wouldn't the singular number be better, Doctor? Shouldn't we say 'one
other'?"
"If you like it so, by all means. But, let me tell you, I am talking
quite in the dark; I don't know where Gaillarde speaks the truth; I am
quite unaware if Delayne is in Italy, or no. That's why I came to
you--"
"Then you believe that I know?"
"I am sure you do."
For a spell the two men sat looking at each other in silence. Benny
neither denied nor affirmed the charge. His eyes searched the
flickering fire as though for an inspiration. The problem was clear
enough; he wondered if the doctor knew how much it meant to him.
"I guess you're a bit of a thought reader, Doctor," he exclaimed of a
sudden, taking up the conversation exactly as it was left. "I do know
where Luton Delayne is, and that's a fact. Let me be as plain with you.
What you came here to do was to warn me. You wish me to know that the
police are inquiring after him. Don't you think it's a little late for
that? Gaillarde will be half-way to Brigue by this time. He'll be in
Milan before we've done our second breakfast. What's the good of all
this then, knowing what we do? Isn't it a bit foolish?"
Orange hardly understood him.
"My dear fellow," he protested, "I was not thinking anything of the
kind. Will not the telegraph serve our purpose just as well?"
Benny shook his head.
"Look all round it, and then decide," he said quietly. "This lad has
heard that Delayne is in Italy. Does he know where he is? If he does
not, we may be right enough. If he does, a telegram may be the thing,
or it may not. I'll have to calculate the chances. Before I can do that
I must see this girl, Susette. Would she be still at the cafe, do you
think? Should I find her there if I went down this afternoon? If so,
I'll see her and let you know. There's time enough anyway; we can't run
after the morning train to Milan, and I don't suppose either of us is
going to try. What I would say before all is that I like the friendship
which sent you here, Doctor. I shan't forget that, nor will Lady
Delayne, when she hears about it. Did you say, by the way, that she has
gone across the frontier? Don't I remember something about that?"
"It is quite true, or will be true. She was at Sierre last night
waiting for an opportunity. I should not wonder if she went this
morning by the same train as Gaillarde. Ardlot told me how it was; he
saw her at the Terminus, and heard what she was doing."
"Then she certainly will have gone through this morning. I am very much
obliged to you. Whatever is done, shall be done after a talk with you.
It would be about half-past two or three, I suppose?"
They assented, and parted upon it, the doctor returning to the Palace,
Benny calling Brother Jack and the abbe down to lunch. When the repast
was finished he made some excuse, and taking his rough sweater and snow
helmet, he set off for the village of Andana and the cafe where the
girl, Susette, was to be found. It was a little after two o'clock, and
the plateau quite deserted. He remembered that the guests at the Palace
would hardly have finished their coffee, and hurried on with an anxiety
very foreign to his nature.
Where did his duty lie, and to whom? It was true that the gendarme,
Philip, had spoken of this visit to Italy on the eve of the flight; but
it had been a tentative proposal, and depended upon the permission of
his superiors. Then, as now, Benny perceived that if the lad did not
know the whereabouts of the shanty, there would be no risk whatever, and
Philip might be less dangerous at Milan than at Andana. If, on the
other hand, the story of the shanty were known, then that was the end of
it. Why, Sir Luton might be arrested that very night. And if he were,
Lily Delayne must be a free woman before many weeks had passed. Benny
shuddered a little when he remembered this, and walked on the faster.
The victor's laurel suited him but ill, and many a poor wretch by the
wayside might have pitied him.
She would be a free woman! He repeated the words often, dwelling upon
them with an interest which frightened him. Not for the first time did
he understand how little victory meant to him, and how bitter were the
fruits of success. He must lead a lonely life, whatever the honour of
it. He saw himself slaving in study or workshop, a man without a
definite goal, one whose interest had no corner-stone. And it were idle
to say that there was a woman who could change all this and breathe anew
upon a dead inspiration. His ideas were old and built upon an ancient
faith. Fate had set a barrier between Lily and himself, and none but
Almighty God could remove it.
She would be a free woman! Yes, surely, that could be brought about
easily enough. He had but to forbear, to return to his house as he had
come, or simpler, just to whisper a word or two to the Chief of Police
at Sierre, and there would be no difficulty about the matter. When he
thought of this he laughed aloud because he had dared to think of it. In
the same mood the best of men have asked themselves what would happen if
they committed murder or robbed a bank or began to starve their
children.
It was less easy to deal with the subtle question of what could or could
not be done. How if it were impossible to stop this mad youth, who
would avenge his brother? It might be so; the chances were that Philip
was already on the way to Locarno, and would do his work before any
could interfere. Benny thought of this, and hurried on to the cafe.
The girl, Susette, would help him--he was quite confident about it.
Here luck favoured him, for old Maitre Rousset, the proprietor of the
cafe, declared that his daughter had just gone down to the post-office,
and would be back inside five minutes. He was delighted to welcome
Monsieur Benson, the great Englishman, to his house; and he began to ask
him a thousand questions about his art and achievement. Like many
others, he had devised a flying machine twenty years ago, and he called
for a glass of vermouth while he unfolded its wings, so to speak, and
drew, with the stem of a brier pipe, a plan upon the table before him.
When Susette came in, it needed all Benny's ingenuity to get a word with
her; but he managed it at last by sending her father upon an errand to
the telephone, and promising him that he should see the machine if he
came up to the chalet later on.
Susette was a brunette, with the figure of a woman and the face of a
child. Her skin was very white, her cheeks inordinately red, when she
returned from her errand down the village street. It was plain that she
had been running in her eagerness to return. Someone had told her that
the hero of the day was at the cafe, and knowing him to be the friend of
her lover, Philip, she ran all the way from the post-office that she
might not miss him. A few kindly words upon Benny's part put her quite
at her ease. Oh, yes, she knew that Monsieur Philip had gone into
Italy; he would be back in three or four days at the most, for that was
his promise.
"He has gone to Locarno, Monsieur. I am quite sure of it. He went by
the first train this morning, and should reach his destination to-night.
I have just posted a letter to him, which he will receive to-morrow. It
is lonely to be so far away from us all. I do not think he has any
friends in Italy."
"Then you do not know why he has gone there, Susette?"
Susette opened her black eyes.
"Of course, I know, Monsieur; it is to arrest the Englishman who killed
his brother on the Zaat!"
"Do you think he will be able to find the fellow?"
Susette peeped through the door to be sure that no one heard her, and
then drew a little nearer.
"I am glad that you came, Monsieur. You are a brave gentleman, and will
tell me truly. There was a servant here, a Monsieur Paul Lacroix. He
gave my Philip an address upon a piece of paper--one he got from the
chalet where the English lady was staying. I have never liked Paul
Lacroix; I do not think he means well to Philip. That is what makes me
so anxious. I think he has been serving his own purpose, and that he
feared to do the work himself. So he has sent my Philip. You will tell
me truly, Monsieur, if that was right or just?"
Benny had no idea how to answer her. Her news astonished him beyond any
he had expected to hear. It was as though the whole of the plot had been
revealed in an instant, and being revealed, her news said that all was
lost.
"I will see what we can do," he rejoined, evading it in despair.
"Perhaps I shall be visiting Italy myself. Your father has gone to the
telephone to book a place for me to-night. We will think about what is
to be done directly we hear where Monsieur Philip is. Meanwhile, don't
you fret about it, Susette. Your boy is all right, and I will bring him
back to you."
She began to cry at this; it is the office of friendship to provoke the
tears which are hidden from the unsympathetic. When old Rousset
returned, he found the Englishman pacing the room like a caged lion,
while Susette dried her tears on the corner of a far from clean apron.
His rebuke to her was harsh and commanding; she slunk from the room as
though fearing a new humiliation.
"That girl is becoming a nuisance to me," the old man said. "I shall
have to send her to England to work, as her sisters are doing. It is
the loneliness of the mountains, Monsieur; even I suffer from that
sometimes. You English people stay here such a little while; you do not
know what it is to see those great white walls shutting out the world
always. Well, well, Susette will be better in England; and I, perhaps,
may go to Paris and remember that I have been young."
He laughed, and looked at the paper in his hand. The trains to
Italy--had he not been sent to inquire about them? Well, there were no
trains. There had been an accident beyond Brigue, and it was doubtful
when the line would be cleared.
"I am quite sure about it, Monsieur, for the chief answered me himself.
You cannot go to-night; it is out of the question."
Benny stood for an instant rocking upon his heels. His cheeks had
flushed suddenly, and his fists were clenched almost convulsively.
"When did this accident happen?"
"At midday, I think."
"Do you know if the morning train got through to Milan?"
"I am able to say so; it was mentioned by the superintendent, and the
last train to reach Italy, I believe."
"Ah, then, that is all, Maitre Rousset. Thank you very much. I shall
see you later on."
He waited for no reply, but hurried from the cafe like one possessed.
So swiftly did he walk, that he had almost passed the door of the Palace
Hotel before he remembered his promise to the doctor and the necessity
of keeping it. The hour was favourable to that, for the players were
out on the mountains again, and the doctor entertained a little company
in the drawing-room, where he played one of Chopin's nocturnes with an
exquisite touch and a feeling for the music of it quite beyond ordinary.
Nor would Benny interrupt him. The haunting melody lingered as a memory
of children's voices; the pathos of life stood expressed in it; the
hope, and fear, and dread which afflicted his mind at this very moment.
Such chords were struck by the Master of human destiny when the souls of
men were offered upon the altars of life. Benny trembled while he heard
them, and, trembling, he saw the woman's face as in a vision.
Dr. Orange came out presently and heard his news with interest. The
story of the mishap at Brigue had not entered into his calculations. It
seemed to say that nothing could be done to further their ends, unless
they sent a telegram to the shanty in the hope that it would be in time.
On the other hand, there was a possibility that Susette might not have
been correctly informed, and that the gendarme, Philip, had but a vague
idea of Delayne's whereabouts. If this were the case, it would be
madness to employ the telegraph, open as it was to the scrutiny of the
police. In the end the doctor agreed that it would be wiser to wait; and
then he asked if it would not be possible to drive across the pass?
"You might be at Locarno to-morrow night," he suggested, and bethought
him in the same breath that the trains would be running through the
tunnel from the point where the accident had happened. This suggested
another course. Why not take the train to Brigue, and learn just what
had happened? To which Benny responded in his quiet way that it was
neck or nothing. Either Philip knew, or he did not know. If he knew,
Sir Luton would be in a prison before nightfall, and England would have
the story to-morrow!
"Unless a man can buy a magic carpet," he remarked with a shrug,
"there's nothing further to be said. I'd drive across the pass
willingly if I thought it would do any good. You know that it won't.
Doctor, and that's the end of it."
"Then there is no other way?"
"None at all, unless I run out my machine, and get there over the
mountains."
"You could do it, Benson; I think you would do it if your own wife or
sister were concerned. Have you thought about it? I see the wind has
dropped. It would not take you very long, would it now? Well, I must
leave it to you. It's for you to decide, and you know what can be done
so much better than I do. If I see Lady Delayne, I shall not forget to
tell her how much trouble you took. She is the kind of woman who
remembers."
Benny said he thought that she was, but they had no other chance to
speak of it, for the Rider girls came galloping into the conservatory at
that moment and carried off the doctor triumphantly. It was about three
o'clock then, and already growing dark. Benny perceived that the wind
had fallen, and that a dead calm had come down. There would be an
interval merely of hours, he thought, before it began to blow again. He
must make up his mind immediately. The weather would have nothing to do
with argument.
He must go and warn Luton Delayne, and must warn him for Lily's sake.
If he did not go, she might be a free woman before the summer came, and
it might lie no longer against his conscience that he loved her.
Permitting his thoughts to run on, he would say that by such a woman's
love would his future be assured. He saw himself working for her,
devoting all his genius to her service and raising himself above the
class into which he had been born. The world knew his name already; but
that was merely the beginning of things. He had worshipped the very
ground this woman trod, and she must be the guiding star of his life to
the end. What then carried him to Locarno--what paradox of duty or
service? He could not answer the question, but the vision remained and
haunted him.
To cross the Simplon Valley and descend to Italy. It was a child's task
for a man who had circled the great Pennine chain. True, the storm
might come down again, and if it did come down, the unfortunate who was
caught aloft in it would lose his life! Well, and what had life in
store on this side? Again, the voice said, she will be a free woman.
He stood at the chalet which had been her home, and looked across toward
Brigue and the mountains. They jutted out in bold relief, showing their
whitened domes clearly in the still air, and catching waning rays of the
sinking sun. Beyond them lay Italy and the lake. Perchance--but of
that he had no sure knowledge--Lily was already with her husband; she
would witness his shame and be, in a sense, a partner of it. He
remembered her as he had seen her at the door of the chalet--a woman
without a friend. Had she not called herself that? He turned away at
the remembrance, and went on toward his own house.
The mechanics were waiting to pack the aeroplane and send it through to
Paris. Benny went in among them and began to speak of delay.
*CHAPTER XXV*
*THE LIGHTS OF MAGADINO*
The cold was less as he began to descend amid the gentle mountains of
the Ticino, and he knew that the night was won.
Behind him, far away where the white caps marked the encircling
mountains of the Simplon, the storm must be raging furiously, he
thought. More than once a gust of the wind, tearing through a breach of
the southern spurs, had flung him headlong, as a leaf is whirled by the
winter blast. There had been a time when all sensation left him, when
hands and feet were stiff and powerless; when the very skin of his face
was as dried parchment. He made light of that, for the kindlier country
lay before him, and if he gained it, this were not too high a price to
pay.
His landmarks were few. He had set off from Sierre while the twilight
remained and had crossed the pass above Brigue at a great height and
remote from danger of the peaks. He turned thence a little to the
southward, and saw the smiling country for an instant as the sun sank
finally, and the night crept about him. For an hour afterwards there
had been the black darkness, the biting cold, the anger of the winds.
Then a spell of silence intervened. He seemed to be lost in the
shadows, gone from the world, drifted to the eternal darkness. But he
held on resolutely, praying for the light.
When the light came at last, no panorama of a splendid imagination could
have surpassed the wonder of it. It was as though an unseen hand cleft
a wall before him and showed him a magic city. Countless stars glowed
beneath a panoply of mountains. To the right, to the left, look where
he would, the lamps shone a welcome--here in clusters to speak of a
town; there apart to tell of a high road. And Benny knew that they were
lights about Lake Maggiore, and that the battle was won.
Such good fortune as this had been in his mind from the outset, and he
reckoned upon the chance. Let him espy the lights of the lake from a
sufficient altitude, and his own skill would do the rest. The shanty
lay almost opposite to Magadino, and if a man could not name Magadino
when the lake lay illuminated far beneath him, then was he no fit pilot
for an airship.
Benny placed the town at once, working up from the southward, past the
islands of the Borromeos to Locarno and the mountains. He thought that
he could have dropped a stone upon the very shanty--and laughed at
himself for the boast.
There was a great acetylene lamp at the prow of his ship, and it burned
brightly enough as he began to sweep down toward the lake. Long
afterwards the simple folk were to tell how a star had fallen from the
north and shone gloriously above the Virgin's Church at Ascona. Others
would have it that a fireball, monstrous beyond any of the fables, had
come down and settled a while upon the slope of the mountain opposite
Magadino. The whole country round about was golden with the flame of
it, they said, while the sounds attending it were unlike anything
earthly. But one old fellow, and he a fisherman of Losone, actually saw
the machine descend; he believed that the veritable dragon, which the
saint slew, had come to life again, and he ran headlong.
Benny landed about a third of a mile from the chalet. He chose a gentle
slope of the hill, and came down without much damage--but he could not
help the reflection that the flight might cost him a good deal of money
before he had done with it, and that it would be no light undertaking to
get the machine across the pass again. This, however, was the thought
of an instant, and when he had seen to his engine, turned off the
petrol, and done what he could to make things ship-shape, he went on to
the shanty without further delay, and was at its garden gate in less
than twenty minutes from the time of his descent.