"I quite understand," I said politely, "even a day with this paper is
quite enough, but it is not a bog and you can reach it quite easily. You
see where I point? Simply follow that field in that direction for half a
mile, perhaps, and you will come to a road. Turn to your right, and after
three miles you will see a house, the first house you will meet, in fact.
It has a gambrel roof and overlooks the river. Simply knock on the door
so--one knock, a pause, and three in succession. It will be understood.
You have a horse?"
"What is left of him," he replied, "though the good God knows how he has
carried me along this far. Yes, he is attached to a post. Well, we are
off, and may the paper stay still till we get it. You wait here?"
"In case we are followed," I said.
He pointed straight before him.
"I have been hearing noises over there, breaking of branches and shouts."
"Then in the name of heaven ride on," I said, and added as an
afterthought, "and turn out to the side if you see anyone coming."
The pleasure I took in seeing him leave was not entirely unalloyed. As I
walked to the oak thicket where Mademoiselle was waiting, I even had some
vague idea of calling him back, for I do not believe in doing anyone a
turn that is worse than necessary. Yet there was only one other way I
could think of to keep him silent, besides sending him where he was
going. She was feeding the horse handfuls of grass.
"It is quite all right, Mademoiselle," I said. "Let us move to the house.
It may be more comfortable in the doorway."
We stood silently for a while, listening to the wind and the dull
monotonous roar of the surf, while the night grew blacker. I listened
attentively, but there was no sound. Surely he was coming.
"Tell me, Monsieur," said Mademoiselle, "what sort of woman was
your mother?"
Unbidden, a picture of her came before me, that seemed strangely
out of place.
"She was very beautiful," I said.
She sighed.
"And very proud," said Mademoiselle.
"Yes, very proud. Why did she call him a thief, Monsieur?"
But I did not answer.
"You are certain your father is coming?" she asked finally.
"I think there is no doubt," I told her. "I have seen him ride,
Mademoiselle. It would take more than a dozen men to lay hands on him.
They should have known better than let him leave the house. Listen,
Mademoiselle! I believe you can hear him now."
My ears were quicker in those days. For a minute we listened in silence,
and then on the wind I heard more distinctly still the regular thud of a
galloping horse. So he was coming, as I knew he would. I knew he would be
methodical and accurate.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," I continued, "my father has many accomplishments,
but this time even he may be surprised. Who knows, Mademoiselle? Pray
step back inside the doorway until I call you."
But she did not move.
"No," said Mademoiselle, "I prefer to stay where I am. I have seen too
much of you and your father to leave you alone together."
"But surely, Mademoiselle," I protested, "you forget why we have come."
"Yes," she answered quickly, "yes, you are right. I do forget. I have
seen too much of this, too much of utter useless folly--too many men
dying, too many suffering for a hopeless cause. I have seen three men
lying dead in our hall, and as many more wounded. I have seen a strong
man turned into a blackguard. I have seen a son turned against his
father, and all for a bit of paper which should never have been written.
I hate it--do you hear me?--and if I forget it, it is because I choose. I
forget it because--" She seemed about to tell me more, and then to think
better of it. "Surely you see, surely you see you cannot. He is your
father, Monsieur, the man who is coming here."
"Mademoiselle," I replied, "you are far too kind. I hardly think he or I
have much reason to hold our lives of any particular value, but as you
have said, my father was a gentleman once, and gentlemen very seldom kill
their sons, nor gentlemen's sons their fathers. Pray rest assured,
Mademoiselle, it will be a quiet interview. I beg you, be silent, for he
is almost here."
I was not mistaken. A horse was on the path we followed, running hard,
and crashing recklessly through the bushes. Before I had sight of him I
heard my father's voice.
"Ives!" he called sharply. "Where the devil are you?"
And in an instant he was at the door, his horse breathing in hard,
sobbing breaths, and he had swung from the saddle as I went forward
to meet him.
"Here," he said, "take it, and be off. Those fools have run me over half
the state. In fact," he continued in the calm tones I remember best, "in
fact, I have seldom had a more interesting evening. I was fired on before
I had passed the gate, and chased as though I carried the treasures of
the Raj. I have your word never to tell where you got it. Never mind my
reasons, or the thanks either. Take it Ives. It has saved me so many a
dull day that it has quite repaid my trouble."
There he was, half a pace away, and yet he did not know me. I think it
was that, more than anything else, which robbed me of my elation. To him
the whole thing seemed an ordinary piece of business. I saw him test his
girth, preparatory to mounting again, saw him slowly readjust his cloak,
and then I took the paper he handed me and buttoned it carefully in my
inside pocket. He turned to his horse again and laid a hand on his
withers, but still he did not mount. I think he was staring into the
night before him and listening, as I had been. Then he turned again
slowly, and half faced me. On the wind, far off still, but nevertheless
distinct, was the sound of voices.
"It is time we were going," said my father. "I only gave them the slip
five minutes back. It was closer work than I had expected."
And then he started, and looked at me more intently through the darkness.
"Name of the devil!" said my father. "How did you get here?"
But that was all. He never even started. His hand still rested tranquilly
on the reins and he still half faced me. Had it been so on that other
night long ago, when his world crumbled to ruins about him? Did he always
win and lose with the same passive acquiescence? Did nothing ever
astonish him? There was a moment's silence, and I felt his eyes on me,
and suddenly became very cautious. I knew well enough he would not let it
finish in such a manner, but what could he do? The game was in my hands.
"Quite simply," I told him. "My horse was in the stable."
When he spoke again his voice was still pleasantly conversational.
"And Brutus?" he asked. "Where the devil was Brutus? Surely the age of
miracles is past. Or do I see before me--" he bowed with all his old
courtesy--"another David?"
"Brutus," I replied, "jumped through a second story window."
"Indeed?" he said. "He always was most agile."
"He was," I replied. "Not five minutes after you left, Uncle Jason
arrived."
My father removed his hand from the reins and looped them through his
arm.
"Indeed?" he said. "He came in heels first, I trust?"
"No," I said, "he is alive and well."
"The devil!" said my father, and sighed. "I am growing old, my son. I
know my horse spoiled my aim, and yet he fell, and I rode over him. I
had hoped to be finished with your Uncle Jason. You say he entered
the house?"
"And told me to stop," I said.
"And you did not?"
"No," I replied. "I succeeded in getting out of a window also."
And then, although I could not see him, I knew he had undergone a
change, and I knew that I was facing a different man.
His hand fell on my shoulder, and to my surprise, it was trembling.
"God!" he cried, in a voice that was suddenly harsh and forbidding. "Do
you mean to tell me you left Mademoiselle, and never struck a blow? You
left her there?"
"Not entirely," I replied.
My father became very gentle.
"Will you be done with this?" he said, "The lady, where is she now?"
And then, half to himself he added.
"How was I to know they would break in the house after I had gone?"
"Mademoiselle," I replied, "is not fifteen feet away."
His hand went up to the clasp of his cloak, and again his voice became
pleasantly conversational.
"Ah, that is better," said my father. "And so you got the paper after
all. Yes, I am growing old, my son. I appear to have bungled badly. Do
you hope to keep the paper?"
In the distance I heard a voice again, raised in a shout. Surely he
understood.
"They are coming," I said. "Yes, I intend to keep the paper."
"Indeed?" said my father. "Perhaps you will explain how, my son. I have
had an active evening, but you--I confess you go quite ahead of me."
"Because," I said, "you are not anxious to go back to France, father, and
you are almost on your way there."
"No, not to France," he answered, and I knew he saw my meaning.
"And yet they are coming to take you. If you so much as offer to touch me
again, I shall call them, father, and we shall go back together. Your
horse is tired. He cannot go much further."
He was silent for a moment, and I prudently stepped back.
"You might shoot me, of course," I added, "but a pistol shot would be
equally good. Listen! I can hear them on the road."
But oddly enough, he was not disturbed.
"On the road, to be sure," said my father. "You are right, Henry, you may
keep the paper. But tell me one thing more. Was there no one here when
you arrived?"
"There was," I said, "but I sent him away--to our house, father."
He sighed and smoothed his cloak thoughtfully.
"I fear that I have become quite hopeless. As you say, if I fire a
pistol, they will come, and now I can hardly see any reason to keep them
away. So you sent him to the house, my son? And Jason is still alive? And
you have got the paper? Can it be that I have failed in everything?
Strange how the cards fall even if we stack the deck. Ah, well, then it
is the pistols after all."
There was a blinding flash and the roar of a weapon close beside me, and
I heard Mademoiselle scream. My father turned to quiet his horse.
"Do not be alarmed, Mademoiselle," he said gently, "we are not killing
each other. I am merely using a somewhat rigorous method of bringing my
son to his senses."
He paused, reached under his cloak, drew a second pistol and fired again.
From the road there came a sound that seemed to ring pleasantly to my
father's ears.
"Nearer than I thought," he said brightly. "They should be here in three
minutes at the outside. Shall we sit a while and talk, my son? It is
gloomy here, I admit, but still, it has its advantages. They thought my
rendezvous was ten miles to the north. Lord, what fools they were!
Lawton bit at the letter I let him seize as though it were pork. Ah, if
it had not been for Jason! Well, everything must have an ending."
He threw his bridle over his arm, and was walking toward the doorstep,
lightly buoyant, as though some weight were lifted from his mind. Hastily
I seized his arm.
"Stop!" I cried. "What is to become of Mademoiselle? We cannot leave her
here like this. Have you forgotten she is with us?"
Seemingly still unhurried, he paused, and glanced toward the road, and
then back at me, and then for the first time he laughed, and his
laughter, genuine and care-free, gave me a start which the sound of his
pistol had not. The incongruity of it set my nerves on edge. Was there
nothing that would give him genuine concern?
"Good God, sir!" I shouted furiously. "There's nothing to laugh about!
Don't you hear them coming?"
"Ah," said my father, "I thought that would fetch you. So you have come
to your senses then, and we can go on together? Untie your horse, Henry,
while I charge the pistols."
My hand was on the bridle rein, when a shout close by us made me loosen
the knot more quickly than I intended. I could make out the black form of
a horseman moving towards us at full gallop.
"It must be Lawton," observed my father evenly. "He is well mounted, and
quite reckless. I suppose we had better be going. I shall help
Mademoiselle, if she will permit. No, it is not Lawton. I am sorry."
He raised his arm and fired. My horse started at the sound of his
shot, and as I tried to quiet him, I saw my father lift Mademoiselle
to the saddle.
"Yes," he said again, "I think it is time to be going. These men seem to
have a most commendable determination. Ha! There are two more of them.
Put your horse to the gallop, my son. The tide is out, and we can manage
the marsh."
"The marsh!" I exclaimed.
"Quite," he replied tranquilly. "If Brutus is alive, he will have a boat
near the dunes opposite. It seems as though we might be obliged to take
an ocean voyage."
It seemed to me he had gone quite mad. The marsh, he knew as well as I,
was as full of holes as a piece of cheese. Even in the daytime one could
hardly ride across it. And then I knew that what he said was true, that
he would stop at nothing; and suddenly a fear came over me. For the first
time I feared the quiet, pleasant man who rode beside my bridle rein, as
though we were traversing the main street of our town.
"Ah," said my father, "it is pleasant to have a little exercise. Give him
the spurs Henry. We shall either get across or we shall not. There is no
use being cautious."
I put my horse over a ditch, and straight ahead, I may have ridden four
hundred yards with the even beating of his horse behind me, before what I
feared happened. My horse stumbled, and the pull of my bridle barely got
him up again. I gave him the spur, but he was failing. In a quarter of a
minute he had fallen again, and this time the bridle did not raise him. I
sprang free of him before he had entirely slipped down in the soft sea
mud. He was lashing about desperately, nor could I get him to answer when
I pulled at the bridle. My father reined up beside me and dismounted.
"His leg is broken," he said. "It is inopportune. Ah, they are still
after us." And he turned to look behind him.
"Why are you waiting?" I cried. "Ride on, sir!"
"And leave you here with the paper in your pocket?" said my father. "The
fall has quite got the better of you. The other pistol, Mademoiselle, if
you have finished loading it. Here they come, to be sure. Would you not
think the fools would realize I can hit them?"
He fired into the darkness and a riderless horse ran almost on top of us.
With a snort of fright, he reared and wheeled, and a second shot answered
my father's.
"Ah," said my father, "they always will shoot before they can see. The
pistol from the holster, if you please, Mademoiselle."
They had not realized we had halted, for the last rider charged past us
before he could check himself. I had a glimpse of his face, white against
the night, and I saw him tug furiously at his bit--an unfortunate matter,
so it happened, for the footing beneath the marsh grass was bad, and his
horse slewed and fell on top of him.
"Pah!" exclaimed my father. "It is almost sad to watch them. Let us go,
Henry. He is knocked even more senseless than he was before. Keep the
saddle, Mademoiselle, and we will lead you across. I fancy that is the
last of them for a moment."
So we tumbled through the mud at a walk, slipping noisily at every step,
but my father was correct in his prophecy. Only the noise of our
progress interrupted us. The sand dunes were becoming something more than
a shadow. My father walked in tranquil silence at the bridle, while I
trudged beside him.
"Are you hurt, Captain?" Mademoiselle demanded.
"Indeed not," he replied. "What was there to hurt me? I was thinking.
That is all; but why do you ask, my lady?"
"Only," said Mademoiselle, "because you have been silent for the past
five minutes, and you never are more gay than when you embark on an
adventure. I never heard you say two words, Captain, until that night on
the Loire."
"Let us forget the Loire," replied my father. "Shall I be quite frank
with you, Mademoiselle?"
"It would be amusing," she admitted, leaning from the saddle towards him,
"if it were only possible," she added.
"Then listen, Mademoiselle," he continued, "and I shall be very frank
indeed. It must be the sea air which makes me so. I seldom talk unless I
feel that my days for talking are nearly over, and at present they seem
to stretch before me most interminably. In a moment we shall see the
boat, and in a moment the _Sea Tern_. I fear I have been very foolish."
"Father," I inquired, "will you answer me a question?"
"Perhaps," said my father.
"What has my uncle to do with the paper?"
"My son," said my father, "may I ask you a question?"
"Perhaps," I replied.
"How much money did your mother leave you at her death?"
"She had none to leave," I replied quickly.
"Ah," said my father, "have you ever wondered why?"
"You should be able to tell me," I answered coldly.
"Indeed," said my father. "But here we are at the dunes. The boat, my
son, do you see it?"
I scrambled up ahead through the sand and beach grass, and the white line
of the beach, which even the darkest night can never hide, lay clear
before me. A high surf was running, and beyond it I could see three
lights, blinking fitfully in the black and nearer on the white sand was
the shadow of a fishing boat, pulled just above the tide mark. A minute
later Brutus came running toward us.
My father was evidently used to such small matters. Indeed, the whole
affair seemed such a part of his daily life as to demand nothing unusual.
He glanced casually at the waves and the boat, tossed off his cloak on
the sand, carefully wrapped his pistols inside it, and placed the bundle
carefully beneath a thwart.
"The rocket, Brutus," said my father. "If you will get in, Mademoiselle,
we will contrive to push you through the breakers. Best take your coat
off, my son, and place it over the pistols."