A sense of insecurity, of impending trouble, seemed to weigh upon us
all that evening--a physical depression, which the sea-wind brought
with its flying scud, wetting the window-panes like fine rain.
At intervals from across the moors came the deadened rolling of
insurgent drums, and in the sky a ruddy reflection of a fire
brightened and waned as the fog thickened or blew inland--an ominous
sign of disorder, possibly even a reflection from that unseen war
raging somewhere beyond the obscured horizon.
It may have been this indefinable foreboding that drew our little
company into a temporary intimacy; it may have been the immense
loneliness of the sea, thundering in thickening darkness, that stilled
our voices to whispers.
Eyre, ill at ease, walked from window to window, looking at the
luminous tints on the ragged edges of the clouds; Sylvia, over her
heavy embroidery, lifted her head gravely at moments, to glance after
him when he halted listless, preoccupied, staring at Speed and
Jacqueline, who were drawing pictures of Arthur and his knights by the
lamp-lit table.
I leaned in the embrasure of the southern window, gazing at my lighted
lanterns, which dangled from the halyards at Saint-Yssel. The soldier
Rolland had so far kept his word--three red lamps glimmered through a
driving mist; the white lanterns hung above, faintly shining.
Full in the firelight of the room sat the young Countess, lost in
reverie, hands clasping the gilt arms of her chair. At her feet dozed
Ange Pitou.
The dignity of a parvenu cat admitted for the first time to unknown
luxury is a lesson. I said this to the young Countess, who smiled
dreamily, watching the play of color over the drift-wood fire. A
ship's plank was burning there, tufted with golden-green flames.
Presently a blaze of purest carmine threw a deeper light into the
room.
"I wonder," she said, "what people sailed in that ship--and when?
Did they perish on this coast when their ship perished? A drift-wood
fire is beautiful, but a little sad, too." She looked up pensively
over her shoulder. "Will you bring a chair to the fire?" she asked.
"We are burning part of a great ship--for our pleasure, monsieur.
Tell me what ship it was; tell me a story to amuse me--not a
melancholy one, if you please."
I drew a chair to the blaze; the drift-wood burned gold and violet,
with scarcely a whisper of its velvet flames.
"I am afraid my story is not going to be very cheerful," I said,
"and I am also afraid that I must ask you to listen to it."
She met my eyes with composure, leaned a little toward me, and
waited.
And so, sitting there in the tinted glare, I told her of the death of
Delmont and of Tavernier, and of Buckhurst's share in the miserable
work.
I spoke in a whisper scarcely louder than the rustle of the flames,
watching the horror growing in her face.
I told her that the money she had intrusted to them for the Red Cross
was in my possession, and would be forwarded at the first chance; that
I hoped to bring Buckhurst to justice that very night.
"Madame, I am paining you," I said; "but I am going to cause you
even greater unhappiness."
"Tell me what is necessary," she said, forming the words with
tightened lips.
"Then I must tell you that it is necessary for Mademoiselle Elven to
leave Trécourt to-night."
She looked at me as though she had not heard.
"It is absolutely necessary," I repeated. "She must go secretly. She
must leave her effects; she must go in peasant's dress, on foot."
"Why?"
"It is better that I do not tell you, madame."
"Tell me. It is my right to know."
"Not now; later, if you insist."
The young Countess passed one hand over her eyes as though dazed.
"Does Sylvia know this?" she asked, in a shocked voice.
"Not yet."
"And you are going to tell her?"
"Yes, madame."
"This is dreadful," she muttered.... "If I did not know you,... if I
did not trust you so perfectly,... trust you with all my heart!... Oh,
are you certain she must go? It frightens me; it is so strange! I have
grown fond of her.... And now you say that she must go. I cannot
understand--I cannot."
"No, you cannot understand," I repeated, gently; "but she can. It is
a serious matter for Mademoiselle Elven; it could not easily be more
serious. It is even perhaps a question of life or death, madame."
"In Heaven's name, help her, then!" she said, scarcely controlling
the alarm that brought a pitiful break in her voice.
"I am trying to," I said. "And now I must consult Mademoiselle
Elven. Will you help me?"
"What can I do?" she asked, piteously.
"Stand by that window. Look, madame, can you see the lights on the
semaphore?"
"Yes."
"Count them aloud."
She counted the white lights for me, then the red ones.
"Now," I said, "if those lights change in number or color or
position, come instantly to me. I shall be with Mademoiselle Elven in
the little tea-room. But," I added, "I do not expect any change in
the lights; it is only a precaution."
I left her in the shadow of the curtains, and passed through the room
to Sylvia's side. She looked up quietly from her embroidery frame,
then, dropping the tinted silks and needles on the cloth, rose and
walked beside me past Eyre, who stood up as we came abreast of him.
Sylvia paused. "Monsieur Eyre," she said, "I have a question to ask
you ... some day," and passed on with a smile and a slight inclination
of her head, leaving Eyre looking after her with heavy eyes.
When we entered the little tea-room she passed on to the lounge and
seated herself on the padded arm; I turned, closed the door, and
walked straight toward her.
She glanced up at me curiously; something in my face appeared to sober
her, for the amused smile on her lips faded before I spoke.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I am sorry to tell you," I said--"sorry from my heart. You are not
very friendly to me, and that makes it harder for me to say what I
have to say."
She was watching me intently out of her pretty, intelligent eyes.
"What do you mean?" she asked, guardedly.
"I mean that you cannot stay here," I said. "And you know why."
The color flooded her face, and she stood up, confronting me,
exasperated, defiant.
"Will you explain this insult?" she asked, hotly.
"Yes. You are a German spy," I said, under my breath.
There was no color in her face now--nothing but a glitter in her blue
eyes and a glint from the small, white teeth biting her lower lip.
"French troops will land here to-night or to-morrow," I went on,
calmly. "You will see how dangerous your situation is certain to
become when Buckhurst is taken, and when it is understood _what use
you have made of the semaphore_."
She winced, then straightened and bent her steady gaze on me. Her
courage was admirable.
"I thank you for telling me," she said, simply. "Have I a chance to
reach the Spanish frontier?"
"I think you have," I replied. "Kelly Eyre is going with you
when--"
"He? No, no, he must not! Does he know what I am?" she broke in,
impetuously.
"Yes, mademoiselle; and he knows what happens to spies."
"Did he offer to go?" she asked, incredulously.
"Mademoiselle, he insists."
Her lip began to tremble. She turned toward the window, where the
sea-fog flew past in the rising wind, and stared out across the
immeasurable blackness of the ocean.
Without turning her head she said: "Does he know that it may mean his
death?"
"He has suffered worse for your sake!" I said, bitterly.
"What?" she flashed out, confronting me in an instant.
"You must know that," I said--"three years of hell--prison--utter
ruin! Do you dare deny you have been ignorant of this?"
For a space she stood there, struck speechless; then, "Call him!" she
cried. "Call him, I tell you! Bring him here--I want him here--here
before us both!" She sprang to the door, but I blocked her way.
"I will not have Madame de Vassart know what you did to him!" I said.
"If you want Kelly Eyre, I will call him." And I stepped into the
hallway.
Eyre, passing the long stone corridor, looked up as I beckoned; and
when he entered the tea-room, Sylvia, white as a ghost, met him face
to face.
"Monsieur," she said, harshly, "why did you not come to that
book-store?"
He was silent. His face was answer enough--a terrible answer.
"Monsieur Eyre, speak to me! Is it true? Did they--did you not know
that I made an error--that I _did_ go on Monday at the same hour?"
His haggard face lighted up; she saw it, and caught his hands in
hers.
"Did you think I knew?" she stammered. "Did you think I could do
that? They told me at the _usine_ that you had gone away--I thought
you had forgotten--that you did not care--"
"Care!" he groaned, and bowed his head, crushing her hands over his
face.
Then she broke down, breathless with terror and grief.
"I was not a spy then--truly I was not, Kelly. There was no harm in
me--I only--only asked for the sketches because--because--I cared for
you. I have them now; no soul save myself has ever seen them--even
afterward, when I drifted into intrigue at the Embassy--when everybody
knew that Bismarck meant to force war--everybody except the French
people--I never showed those little sketches! They were--were mine!
Kelly, they were all I had left when you went away--to a
fortress!--and I did not know!--I did not know!"
"Hush!" he groaned. "It is all right--it is all right now."
"Do you believe me?"
"Yes, yes. Don't cry--don't be unhappy--now."
She raised her head and fumbled in her corsage with shaking fingers,
and drew from her bosom a packet of papers.
"Here are the sketches," she sobbed; "they have cost you dear! Now
leave me--hate me! Let them come and take me--I do not want to live
any more. Oh, what punishment on earth!"
Her suffering was unendurable to the man who had suffered through her;
he turned on me, quivering in every limb.
"We must start," he said, hoarsely. "Give me your revolver."