THE MYSTERY ROAD
[Illustration: Gerald looked him over for a moment, unmoved but
intensely curious. FRONTISPIECE. _See page 82._]
THE MYSTERY ROAD
By
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
WITH FRONTISPIECE BY
F. VAUX WILSON
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1923
_Copyright, 1923_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published May, 1923
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
_To
the memory of_
_WINIFRED TOLTON_
_the most wonderful secretary and
dearest friend of my life I dedicate
this story which I dictated to her
and which she loved_
BOOK ONE
THE MYSTERY ROAD
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
Myrtile stood upon the crazy verandah, her eyes shaded by her hand,
gazing down the straight, narrow footpath, a sundering line across the
freshly ploughed field, which led to the village in the hollow below.
The mouldering white stone cottage from which she had issued was set
in a cleft of the pine-covered hills; it seemed to struggle against
its inborn ugliness and to succeed only because of the beauty of its
setting,--in the foreground the brown earth, with its neatly trained
vines and its quarter of an acre of fragrant violets; the orchard, pink
and white with masses of cherry blossom; beyond, a level stretch of
freshly turned brown earth, soon to become a delicate carpet of tender
green, and, by the time the vines should sprout, a sea of deep gold.
It was the typical homestead of the small French peasant proprietor.
Even the goat was not absent, the goat which came at that moment with
clanking chain to rub his nose against the girl’s knee.
Myrtile’s hand dropped to her side. The three figures were plainly
visible now. She remained quiescent, watching them with a mute tragedy
in her face which, to any one ignorant of the inner significance of
this approaching procession, must have seemed a little puzzling. For
there was nothing tragic about Jean Sargot--middle-aged, a typical
peasant of the district, with coarsened face and weather-beaten
skin--or about the companion who hung on his arm,--a plump, dark woman,
with black hair and eyes, vociferous and fluent of gesture, with a
high-pitched voice and apparently much to say. The third person, who
walked in the rear, seemed even less likely to incite apprehension. He
was more corpulent than his neighbour Jean Sargot, and he wore clothes
of a holiday type, ill suited to this quiet country promenade. His
coat was black and long, a garment, it appeared, of earlier years,
for it left a very broad gap to display a fancy waistcoat adorned by
a heavy gold chain. He wore a silk hat which had done duty at every
christening, marriage and funeral in the neighbourhood for the last
twenty years, and his whole appearance was one of discomfort. Yet the
girl’s eyes, as they rested upon him, were filled with terror.
They were near enough now for speech, and her stepfather, waving his
hand, called out to her:
“It is the Widow Dumay, little one, and our friend and neighbour,
Pierre Leschamps, who come to drink a glass of wine with us. Hurry with
the table and some chairs, and bring one--two bottles of last year’s
vintage. It is not so bad, that wine, neighbour Pierre, I can promise
you.”
“Any wine will be good after such a walk,” the widow declared, panting.
“Either the village lies too low, friend Jean, or your house too high.
It will be good to rest.”
They sank into the chairs which Myrtile had already placed upon the
verandah, Pierre Leschamps laying his hat upon a handkerchief in a safe
corner. There were beads of perspiration upon his forehead, for, unlike
his friend and host, he was unused to exercise. He kept the little
café in the village, and the strip of land which went with it he let
to others. His pale cheeks and flabby limbs told their own story. Jean
Sargot looked about him with the pride of the proprietor.
“Not so bad, this little dwelling, eh?” he exclaimed. “Four rooms, all
well-furnished, a bed such as one seldom sees, and a wardrobe made by
my own grandfather, Jacques Sargot, the carpenter. It pleases thee,
Marie?”
The widow looked around her with a little sniff.
“It might be worse,” she conceded, “but there are the children.”
“Three only,” Sargot replied, “and in a year or so they will all be in
the fields. Think what that may mean. We can sell the timber from the
strip behind and plant more vines. Children are not so bad when they
are strong.”
“The little ones are well enough,” Madame Dumay admitted, “but thy
eldest--Myrtile--she has not the air of health.”
They all looked up at the girl, who was approaching them at this
moment with wine and glasses. She was of medium height and slim. Her
complexion was creamily pale; even the skin about her neck and arms
had little of the peasant’s brown. Her neatly braided hair was of the
darkest shade of brown, with here and there some glints of a lighter
colour. Her eyes, silkily fringed, were of a wonderful shade of deep
blue, her mouth tremulous and beautiful. There was something a little
exotic about her appearance, although no actual indication of ill
health. The widow looked at her critically; Pierre, the innkeeper, with
unpleasant things in his black, beady eyes.
“Pooh! she is well enough,” her stepfather declared. “Never a doctor
has crossed this threshold since her mother died many years ago.”
Myrtile welcomed her father’s guests pleasantly but timidly. Then,
after she had filled the glasses, she would have slipped back into the
house but Jean Sargot grasped her by the arm.
“To-night, my child,” he insisted, “you must leave your books alone.
You must drink a glass of wine with us. It is an occasion, this.”
Myrtile looked from one to the other of the two visitors. She had for a
moment the air of a trapped animal. Madame Dumay made a little grimace,
but Pierre only laughed. She was a flower, this Myrtile, not like other
girls. Even the young men complained of her aloofness. He knew well how
to deal with such modesty.
“Behold,” her stepfather continued, “our two best friends! Here is good
Madame Dumay. A nice little income she makes at the shop, and a tidy
sum in her stocking.”
“Oh, là, là!” the widow interrupted. “What has that to do with thee, my
friend?”
“And also,” Jean Sargot went on, without taking heed of the
interruption, “the brave Pierre Leschamps. Oh, a gay dog, that
Leschamps! A man of property, mark you, child. And listen! Why do you
think these friends of mine are here?”
“I cannot tell,” Myrtile faltered.
“Madame Dumay will become my wife. It is what we need here. And Pierre
Leschamps--hear this, little one--he seeks a wife. He has chosen you.
I have given my consent.”
Leschamps had risen to his feet. Myrtile shrank back against the wall.
The terror had leaped now into life.
“I will not marry Monsieur Leschamps,” she declared. “The other--is
your affair. But as for me, I will not marry!”
Jean Sargot leaned back in his chair and drank his wine. His two guests
followed his example.
“Ho, ho!” he laughed. “Come, that is good! You were always a shy child,
Myrtile. Pierre shall woo you into a different humour.”
“Ay, indeed!” the innkeeper assented, leering across at the girl with
covetous eyes. “We shall understand one another presently, little one.
You need have no fear. Marriage is a pleasant thing. You will find it
so like all the others.”
“It is an institution to be toasted,” Jean Sargot declared, filling the
glasses and glancing amorously towards the widow. “Trouble not about
Myrtile, my friend Pierre. She is thine. We shall drink this glass of
wine to Marriage. It will be a festival, that, eh, Marie?”
Myrtile slipped through the open doorway. Her prospective husband
looked after her for a moment and half rose. Then he looked back at the
wine, flowing into his glass. Myrtile would keep,--wine by the side of
Jean Sargot, never! He resumed his seat. In a minute or two he would
follow her,--as soon as the second bottle was empty.
Across the stone-flagged floor, out through the little garden and
along the cypress avenue to the road, Myrtile fled. She was like a
terrified young fawn in the half-light, her hair flying behind her,
her large eyes filled with fear. Her feet seemed scarcely to touch the
grass-grown track. She fled as one who leaves behind evil things. Only
once she looked over her shoulder. No one was stirring, no one seemed
to have thought of pursuit. She reached the gate which led out on to
the road and clung to it for a moment, as though for protection. On the
other side was freedom. Her eyes filled with passionate desire. If only
she knew how to gain it!
They were singing now down at the cottage. She heard Jean Sargot’s
strident voice in some country song of harvest and vintage and what
they called love. As she stood there in the quiet of the evening, there
seemed suddenly to leap into life a very furnace of revolt. She was
weary of her monotonous tasks,--the abuse of her stepfather, generally
at night the worse for sour wine and fiery brandy; the care of those
motherless children, not of her own stock yet dependent upon her; the
grey tedium of a life unbeautiful and hopeless. And now this fresh
terror! Her fingers tore at the rough splinters of the gate. Her eyes
travelled hungrily along that great stretch of road, passing here and
there through the forests, rising in the far distance to the top of the
brown hillside, and disappearing in mystery. At the other end of the
road one might find happiness!