THE END OF THE INTERVIEW
The declaration, although no news to Alexia, was, coming as it did,
startlingly unexpected. It was, moreover, as she instinctively
realized, a cunning move which forced her into an embarrassing
position. But she gave no sign that she was already aware of the
crucial fact. “Yours?” she exclaimed in a tone of horror which was not
altogether affected. “You killed Captain Martindale?”
Gastineau nodded. His face bore a look almost of sympathetic amusement
at her concern. “By what was practically an accident,” he answered;
“although it might be hard to prove that. It is due to myself now to
tell you exactly how it happened. Do sit down,” he continued, with an
easy smile, as he pushed a chair towards her. “You need not be afraid
of me; on the contrary, it is I who might fear you.”
He moved away from her chair, and she sat down.
“Of course,” he began, “you remember the night of the Vaux House ball,
and, perhaps, what had passed between us just before. I will not
inflict upon you a description of my state of mind at that time, except
to say that I was mad for love of you. I have nothing if not strength
of will, yet it all shrivelled to naught where you were concerned;
strive as I would, I could not overcome the love which tortured me a
million times more than, as I felt to my shame and grief, it troubled
and offended you.”
He spoke, urged by present rather than past passion; eagerly as he was
watching for it, he could detect no sign that his burning words touched
her.
“I went,” he continued, “to Vaux House that night desperately
determined to make one last effort for--no, not for your love, that
I knew to be a miracle beyond that night’s working--but for your
toleration; for a kind look, a smile, a dance, the touch of your hand,
the sound of your voice; just a crumb, even to the mocking of my
hunger.”
He paused. Alexia sat with averted face, motionless as a statue, yet
with the suggestion of being keenly attentive. If he expected her
to speak, her attitude never flattered him that she would break her
silence.
“I little knew,” he resumed, “to what fate I was going. That the
racking torture I suffered could be heightened was inconceivable. Ah!
I never imagined then the depths of despair, and worse, to which love
can lead a man. Up to the moment I entered Vaux House I had suffered,
Heaven knows how greatly, from your coldness, from your rejection of
all my advances, from, as I flattered myself, your misjudgment of me,
but, except negatively, I had been free from the hell’s torture of
jealousy. Now you can comprehend something of my mind on that fateful
night?”
She made, almost indifferently, a slight inclination of the head; not
looking towards him, or giving any further sign of sympathy.
He proceeded. “My story shall not be long now. I saw you, and watched
you dancing, watched you enviously, longingly. Still there was just a
spark left in the ashes of my hopes, which at our first meeting had
blazed up so brightly. I was awaiting my opportunity, and presently
it seemed to have come. I had seen you leave the ball-room; I slipped
out by another door intending to make my way round and meet you;
anticipating, hoping that, by biding my time, I might find you alone.
Accordingly I worked my way round by the outer suite of rooms till I
came to the point where I calculated we might meet. I was not wrong.
I saw you in the room beyond with two men, one of whom was Captain
Martindale. The other man went away; you and Martindale spoke together,
and then, evidently at his suggestion, you and he strolled towards an
inner room, a flirtation corner. You remember?”
Again she nodded gravely, speaking no word. “You did not notice me,”
Gastineau resumed. “Your talk with Martindale was too engrossing;
confidential enough to make me burn with jealousy. At the door of
the inner room you hesitated. It was natural, having regard to your
partner’s reputation. He laid his hand upon your arm, urging you to
go in. You shook off his grasp--there was a thrill of satisfaction to
me in that,--he went on a pace, persuading you to follow. I watched
anxiously for the result, meaning to accost you should you turn back.
But he prevailed, and you went slowly after him into the room. Ah!
how I hated him! How I tried to think the worse of you for yielding.
I quietly crossed the room to the doorway through which you had
disappeared, my mad jealousy making me careless of what I did. At the
door I stopped and listened. I could hear your voices in the room
beyond, but not your words. Making a slight change in my position, my
foot touched something hard on the carpet. It was the little jewelled
sword, the hair ornament. Instantly I recognized it as yours; you may
be sure that every detail of your appearance was familiar to me. I took
it up eagerly. At last, Countess, you have the solution of that element
in the mystery.”
“Yes.” The monosyllable sounded cold, almost resentful.
“Chance,” he continued, as coolly now as though he were opening a case
in Court, “had given me an excuse for breaking in upon your flirtation,
of spoiling Martindale’s opportunity, but jealousy kept me back; hurry
would spoil my chance of appearing at the critical moment. I tried
to catch a glimpse of you, but could not; to have passed through the
doorway would have meant to show myself. But I saw in my difficulty
that there seemed to be another entrance to the room. If I could get
round that way I might hear what Martindale was saying. The thought
uppermost in my mind was to protect you from him, a man of notoriously
bad principles where women were concerned; you may believe me,
Countess, when I say that jealousy did not altogether account for my
resolve to intervene. It was bad enough to fail to win you; to lose
you to a man of Martindale’s character was not to be endured. I went
quickly back and through another room which I knew must lead from that
in which you stayed. I opened the communicating door quietly; as luck
would have it a portière hung beyond it; behind this I could stand, in
the room, yet unseen. I am telling you everything, Countess, exactly as
it happened; palliating nothing, excusing nothing, save on the ground
of the devouring love that had possession of me.”
If he looked for a softening of her attitude, none was visible; it
was simply attentive without a sign of feeling. “I stood there,” he
resumed, as though now desirous to make an end quickly, “listening with
jealous ears. Your voices were so low that I could hear little of your
talk, which was all the worse for my state of mind. But presently a
word reached my ears like a stab. It stung me out of my restraint. I
pulled aside the curtain and looked into the room. I saw--the kiss.”
“Without knowing what led up to it.” Alexia spoke in a level voice, as
though forced to suggest in her justification another than the obvious
reason.
Gastineau continued. “You left him then quickly; and, to my surprise,
he did not follow. I could just see the self-satisfied look on his face
as he stood looking after you. It was that look that kept me there
till he noticed me. I suppose he gathered from my expression what I
had heard and seen; anyhow he began to abuse and insult me--after the
manner of an empty-headed Guardsman who had been caught playing a
disreputable game. I replied hotly enough; my rage and jealous hate
were beyond restraint; as to being an eavesdropper, I had as much
right there as he; he, a dishonourable Philander, had everything to
be ashamed of; I nothing. I waited for a break in the somewhat sharp
sarcasm with which he assailed me, and then began, in the most stinging
language my profession had taught me, to paint his character, his
reputation as I then saw it. I dare say he had never before had such
taunts flung at him. I stung him into a state of speechless rage; the
few retorts he had attempted were feeble and simply furnished me with
fresh turns of recrimination. As his temper rose, mine fell; for I
began to enjoy the castigation I was giving him. At last the cutting
slashes of my tongue whipped him beyond endurance.
“‘You----!’ he cried, choking with rage. ‘I’ll teach you to insult me;
I’ll show you the difference between a soldier and a wretched limb of
the law; I’ll shake the miserable life out of you.’
“He came up and took me by the throat. I am not a physically weak man,
and he found me stronger than he had imagined. I released myself from
his grip without much difficulty. This enraged him still more; he was
one of those stupid men who cannot bear to have their self-constituted
superiority put in question. With insulting words, he attacked me
again, but our first encounter had brought to my recollection that I
still held in my hand your little sword. I had no wish for a further
contest, so retreated a few steps as he advanced upon me.”
“‘Keep off, you great bully!’ I said. ‘If you lay hands on me again it
will be the worse for you. A pity you cannot behave yourself towards
either women or men.’
“Following me up with a vicious look in his eyes, Martindale made a
sudden rush forward and seized me again by the throat, this time with
both hands. ‘I’ll teach you to spy upon me, you skunk: I’ll spoil
your game before you get the chance of spoiling mine again.’ His big,
strong hands encircled my throat, one from the front and the other from
behind; the clutch became so vicious that I could not breathe; the man
was, I knew, mad with rage; honestly I thought he would strangle me.
Against the terrible grip I could do nothing; all power was leaving
me with my breath; the agony became intense, it was that of death; my
mind became suddenly clear as a dying man’s, and, with the sudden
flash of hyper-consciousness, I remembered again the little weapon I
still clutched. On the instant I struck out at him with it, in a last
despairing effort, with all the strength that was left me. So little
did I count on the effectiveness of the stroke, that it was with
surprise I felt the grip round my throat almost simultaneously relax.
Martindale gave a kind of choking sigh, and fell forward upon me.
Reeling with faintness, I had just strength enough to break his fall to
the floor; he slid down through my arms and lay there, dead. That is
all; the rest is known to the world. It is good of you to have listened
so patiently to my long story. But I owe it to myself, if not to you,
to convince you that I am not quite a murderer, and at the same time to
give you the true account of how Martindale came by his death.”
He waited for her response. “Yes,” she said, breaking at last the
tenseness of her attitude; “I am glad to know how it really happened.”
For the first time she let her eyes rest on his face, but, though his
own seemed to search for it, there was no suggestion of tenderness or
invitation in them.
He took a step towards her. “I hope,” he said, “it may make all the
difference in our relations to each other.”
The grey eyes hardened now. “If you mean that we should be more than
comparative strangers, that cannot be.”
She spoke boldly, and he wondered whether her spirit could be as brave
as her words.
“Indeed,” he returned, with a smile of underlying resolve, “we must be
more than that.”
“Must?” She repeated the word with a little scornful laugh. Then with
more dignity, “You surely forget yourself to say that to me.”
“Shall I tell you,” he spoke more humbly, “why I used the word?”
Her only answer was a shrug of impatience, indifference.
“It was,” he continued, “because I feel certain, am absolutely
convinced that you and I, united, would be a great power in this world
of ours. That there are no two people living to-day whose alliance
would lead to a more splendid position. When I speak of power, I mean
intellectual, social, political; a power in everything that could work
for the good we should choose; in a very few years our influence would
be unbounded, our wealth and position more than sufficient for every
aim. This is not the mere vapouring of a man’s vanity. I know and feel
my power, it would be absurd affectation to shut my eyes to what I
have already accomplished. Take but one instance. When lately I was
lying half-dead on a couch from which I never thought to rise, I made
another man’s career, young Herriard’s; pushed him, without an effort,
in a whim of mere gratitude for a slight service rendered me, pushed
him into a brilliant position, as easily as I could move a piece on a
chess-board. You know that?”
“Yes; I understand that,” she answered, almost mechanically.
“So I am justified,” Gastineau resumed, his pleading growing more
urgent, “in saying that, now my health is restored, nothing can stop
me; the force that drives me through the throng of my fellows is
irresistible. If only you were by my side, the world would be at our
feet; since, allied, we should represent the great forces that have
ever moved, will ever move it. Countess--Alexia, forgive my boldness
when I tell you that we, you and I, have no right, it would be an act
of short-sighted folly, to throw ourselves away on inferior mates. You
must know this, you who are so clever, who can read men and the world;
I cannot imagine that you can be blind to the hideous mistake you would
commit in allying yourself to a mere puppet, a weakling, the simulacrum
of a man, such as Geoffrey Herriard.”
“Mr. Gastineau,” Alexia interrupted him with scarcely restrained
indignation. “I can listen to this language no longer.”
“But you must, Countess,” he returned insistently. “I am bound to
put the question, the chance of your future with its unparalleled
prospects, before you plainly, even at the risk of offence. I have in
this touched only on the worldly reasons for our alliance, intruding no
word of love; of mine which fills my whole being, making me your slave,
your adoring worshipper; of yours which I feel in my heart will come
to be mine one day. Countess, can you reject me now? Have I not been
frank, and laid bare my heart and very soul and the terrible secret
of my life before you? Alexia, put away all these vain fancies and
prejudices; accept the power, the empire which I cast at your feet, and
tell me you will be my wife.” As the note of passion deepened he tried,
making a swift approach, to clasp her in his arms, but she drew herself
up proudly and repulsed him.
“Alexia,” he urged, desperately intent, “I will give you power beyond
every other woman in the kingdom, I will raise you to a height more
dazzling than you dream of. It shall be my one object in life, I swear
it. Don’t, don’t reject me. Think what you refuse. Oh,” he cried,
almost savagely, as her attitude grew even more repelling, “tell me
what it is that makes you hate me so. Have I not confessed the truth to
you, and purged the taint of blood-guiltiness from my soul? Alexia,” he
demanded, with passionate fierceness, “tell me! You shall tell me.”
But she gave no sign of faltering before the tempest of his insistence.
“Mr. Gastineau,” she said, as coldly as the situation permitted, and
with more than a touch of decision, “this interview has lasted long
enough, too long. Let it come to an end now. No good purpose can be
served by my listening to you any longer. Understand once, and for all
time, that under no circumstances can I accept your proposal, which is
made dishonourable by the very fact of my engagement to Mr. Herriard.
That is all I have to say to you. Please go.”
Gastineau’s face had been dark with a strong man’s repressed anger;
now it lightened strangely as with the anticipation of a premeditated
stroke. “Then you reject my offer, Countess, absolutely?” he demanded
quietly.
“Absolutely.” The grey eyes met his steadily, without a sign of
compromise. And in his there was no acceptance of defeat, but rather a
challenge.
“I have asked you to do nothing dishonourable, Countess,” he said
calmly, “knowing, as I do, that your engagement with Herriard will come
to nothing.”
More than a challenge now; it was a threat.
“I cannot discuss that with you,” Alexia returned.
“If,” he said, with a cold deliberateness that was significant of a
purpose, “you have any regard for Geoffrey Herriard, you will best show
it by accepting me.”
“You have had my answer,” she said, moving towards the bell.
“Given in ignorance,” he retorted, “in wilful blindness as to what the
future may hold for you.” He moved nearer to her, his face resolute and
threatening. “If Herriard is not already dead, he will never live to be
your husband.”
She gave an instant’s upward glance at the face, whose expression
of sinister power beat back the contempt she tried to show in hers.
Without a word she put her hand to the bell. Before, however, she could
ring, the door opened, and the butler came in with a telegram. Alexia
took it, and turned as though to dismiss Gastineau.
“You had better open it, Countess,” he said quietly, “before I go. It
probably confirms my news of Herriard.”
Alexia was in two minds; but in her desire above all things not to show
fear, she tore open the telegram.
“Yes,” she said, with a supreme effort to hide her sickening terror,
“it confirms what you have told me. Good-night.”