"Mademoiselle has sent for me?" Bienville kissed the hand that Miss
Grimston, without rising from her comfortable chair before the fire,
lifted toward him. The hand-screen with which she shielded her face
protected her not only from the blaze, but from his scrutiny. In the
same way, the winter gloaming, with its uncertain light, nerved her
against her fear of self-betrayal, giving her that assurance of being
mistress of herself which she lacked when he was near.
"I did send for you. I wanted to see you. Won't you sit down?"
"I've been expecting the summons," he said, significantly, taking the
seat on the other side of the hearth.
"Indeed? Why?"
"I thought the day would come when you would be more just to me."
"You thought I'd--hear things?"
"Perhaps."
"I have. That's why I asked you to come."
During the brief silence before she spoke again he was able to
congratulate himself on his diplomacy. He had checked his first impulse
to come to her with his great news immediately on his return from
Lakefield. He had seen how relatively ineffective the information would
be were it to proceed bluntly from himself. He had even restrained Mrs.
Bayford's enthusiasm, in order to let the intelligence filter gently
through the neutral agencies of common gossip. In this way it would seem
to Miss Grimston a discovery of her own, and appeal to her as an
indirect corroboration of his word. He had the less scruple in taking
these precautions in that he believed Diane to have justified anything
he might have said of her. It was no small relief to a man of honor to
know he had not been guilty of a gratuitous slander, even though it was
only on a woman. He awaited Miss Grimston's next words with complacent
expectancy, but when they came they surprised him.
"I wondered a little why you should have been at Lakefield."
"I'm afraid you'll think it was for a very foolish reason," he laughed,
"but I'll tell you, if you want to know. I went because I thought you
were there."
"I? At three o'clock in the morning?"
"It was like this," he went on. "You'll pardon me if I say anything to
give you offence, but you'll understand the reason why. On the day when
we all lunched together at the Restaurant Blitz--you, Madame your aunt,
your friend Monsieur Reggie Bradford, and I--I was a little jealous of
some understanding between you two, in which I was not included. You
spoke together in whispers, and exchanged glances in such a way that all
my fears were aroused. Afterward you went away with him. That evening,
at the Stuyvesant Club, I heard a strange rumor. It was whispered from
one to another until it reached me. Your friend Monsieur Bradford is not
a silent person, and what he knows is sure to become common property.
The rumor--which I grant you was an absurd one--was to the effect that
he had persuaded you to run away and marry him; and that you had
actually been seen on the way to Lakefield in his car."
"I was in his car. That's quite true."
"Ah? Then there was some foundation for the report. Madame your aunt
will have told you how I hurried here, about eleven o'clock that night.
You had disappeared, leaving nothing behind but an enigmatic note saying
you would explain your absence in the morning. What was I to think,
Mademoiselle? I was afraid to think. I didn't stop to think. I
determined to follow you. It was too late for any train, so I took an
auto. I reached the Bay Tree Inn--and saw what I saw. _Voilà_!"
A smile of amusement flickered over her grave features, but she made no
remark.
"If I was guilty of an indiscretion in following you, Mademoiselle," he
pursued, "it was because of my great love for you. If you had chosen to
marry some one else, I couldn't have kept you from it; but at least I
was determined to try. Though I thought it incredible that you should
take a step like that, in secrecy and flight, yet I find so many strange
ways of marrying in America that I must be pardoned for my fear. As it
is, I cannot regret it, since, by a miracle, it gave me proof of that
which you have found it so difficult to believe. It has grieved me more
than I could ever make you understand to know that during all these
months you have doubted me."
"I'm sure of that," she said, softly, gazing into the fire. "But haven't
you wondered where I was that night when you followed me to Lakefield?"
"If I have, I shouldn't presume to inquire."
"It's a secret; but I should like to tell it to you. I know you'll guard
it sacredly, because it concerns--a woman's honor."
Though she did not look up, she felt the startled toss of the head,
characteristic of his moments of alarm.
"If Mademoiselle is pleased to be satirical--"
"No. There's no reason why I should be satirical. If, in spite of
everything, my confidence in you wasn't absolute, I shouldn't risk a
name I hold so dear as that of Dorothea Pruyn."
"_Tiens!_" he exclaimed, under his breath.
"Miss Pruyn is a charming girl, but she's been very foolish. What she
did was not quite so bad in American eyes as it would be in French ones,
but it was certainly very wilful. If you heard rumors of an elopement,
it was hers."
"_Mon Dieu!_ With the big Monsieur Reggie?"
"Not quite. I needn't tell you the young man's name; it will be enough
to say that the big Monsieur Reggie, as you call him, was in his
confidence. It was Reggie who undertook to convey Dorothea to Lakefield,
where she was to meet the bridegroom-elect and marry him."
"And then?"
"Then Reggie told me. It was silly of any one to intrust him with a
mission of the kind, for he couldn't possibly keep it to himself. He
told me while we were lunching at the Blitz. That's what he was
whispering. That's why I went away with him after lunch and left you
with my aunt. I saw you were annoyed, but I couldn't help it."
"You wanted to dissuade him?"
"I tried; but I saw it was too late for that. Reggie wouldn't desert his
friend at the last minute. The only concession I could wring from him
was that he should let me take his place in the motor."
"You?"
"I drive at least as well as Mr. Bradford. I made him see that in case
of accident it would make all the difference in the world to Miss
Pruyn's future life to be with a woman, rather than a man."
"Did you make her see it, too?"
"I didn't try. The arrangements these wise young people had made
rendered the substitution easy. Dorothea had apparently considered it
part of the romance not to know with whom she was going, or where she
was being taken. At the time and place appointed she found an
automobile, driven by a person in a big fur coat, a cap, and goggles. It
was agreed that she should enter and ask no questions."
"And did she?"
"She fulfilled her engagement to the letter. As soon as she was seated I
drove away; and for six hours I didn't hear a sound from her."
"Six hours? Did it take you all that time to reach Lakefield?"
"I didn't go to Lakefield. I took her to Philadelphia. My one object was
to keep her from meeting the young man that night; but perhaps that's
where I made my mistake."
"But why? It was better for her that she shouldn't."
"For her, perhaps; but not for every one else. You see, I lost my way
two or three times; though, as I had been over the ground twice already,
I was always able to right myself after a while. Near Trenton, Dorothea
got frightened, and when I peeped inside I could see she was crying. As
all danger was over then, I stopped and let her see who I was."
"Was she angry?"
"Quite the contrary! The poor child was terrified at her own rashness,
and very much relieved to find she had been kept from being as foolish
as she had intended. I got in beside her, and let her have her cry out
in comfort. After that we ate some sandwiches and took heart. It was
weird work, in the dead of night and along the lonely roads; but we
pushed on, and crept into Philadelphia between one and two in the
morning."
"That was a very brave, act, Mademoiselle." Bienville's eyes glistened
and his face lighted up with an ardor that was not dampened by the
casual, almost listless, air with which she told her story.
"It might have been better if I had let the whole thing alone."
"Why so?"
"You can rarely interfere in other people's affairs without doing more
harm than good. If I had let them go their own way, Diane Eveleth
wouldn't have been put in a false position."
"Ah?"
"That's the other part of the story. If I had known, I should have left
the matter in her hands. She would have managed it better than I. As it
was, she made my bit of help superfluous."
"I should find it hard to credit that," he said, twisting his fingers
nervously.
"You won't when I tell you."
In the quiet, unaccentuated manner in which she had given her own share
in the action she gave Diane's. Shading her eyes with the hand-screen,
she was able to watch his play of feature, and note how the first forced
smile of bravado faded into an expression of crestfallen gravity.
"You see," she concluded, "they were frantic at Dorothea's failure to
appear. When you arrived they naturally thought it was she; and if Derek
Pruyn hadn't lost his head when he saw you, he wouldn't have tried to
thrust her out of sight as though she were caught in a crime. It was so
like a man to do it; a woman would have had a dozen ways of disarming
your suspicion, while he did the very thing to arouse it. I don't blame
you for thinking what you did--not in the least. I don't even blame you
for telling it, since it would seem to bear out--what you said before. I
should only blame you--"
"Yes, Mademoiselle? You would only blame me--?"
"I should only blame you if--now that you know the truth--you didn't
correct the impression you have given."
"Are you going to begin on that again?" he asked, in a tone of
disappointment.
"I'm not beginning again, because I've never ceased. If I say anything
new on the subject, it is this--that it's time the final word was
spoken."
"I agree with you there; it _is_ time for that word; but you must speak
it."
There was a ring of energy in his voice which caused her to turn from
her contemplation of the fire and look at him. When she did he had taken
on a new air of resolution.
"I think it's time we came to a definite understanding," he went on,
"and that you should see how the matter looks from my point of view. You
speak of doing right, Mademoiselle, as if it were an easy thing. You
don't realize that, for me, it would have to be the last act but one in
life."
In spite of the shock, she ignored his implied confession, going on to
speak in the tone of ordinary conversation.
"The last act but one? I don't understand you."
"Really? I'm surprised at that. You're so good a sportsman that I should
think you'd see that if I do what you ask there will be only one more
thing left for me."
For a few minutes she looked at him silently, with fixed gaze, taking in
the full measure of his meaning.
"That's folly," she said at last.
"Is it? Not for me. It might be for some people, but--not for me. You
must remember who I am. I'm a Frenchman. I'm an aristocrat. I'm a
Bienville. I'm a member of a class, of a clan, that lives and breathes
on--honor. I can do without almost everything in the world but that. I
can do without money, I can do without morals, I can do without most
kinds of common honesty, I can do without nearly all the Christian
virtues, and still keep my place among my friends; but I can't do
without that particular shade of conduct which they and I understand by
the word honor."
"But aren't you doing without it as it is?"
"No; because there again our code is special to ourselves. With us the
crime is not in suspicion or supposition; it isn't even in detection.
It's in admission. It's in confession. All sorts of things may be
thought of you, and said of you, and even known of you, and you can
bluff them out; but when you have acknowledged them--you're doomed."
"Even so, isn't it better to acknowledge them--and _be_ doomed?"
"That's the question. That's what I have to decide. That's where you
must help me decide. If you had allowed me, I should have made up my own
mind, on my own responsibility; but you won't let me. Now that the
incident at Lakefield is no good as evidence, I see that you will never
rest until we come to the plainest of plain speech. The problem I've had
to solve is this: Is Diane Eveleth to be happy, or am I? Is she to rise
while I go under, or shall I keep her down and stay on the surface?
Since it's her life or mine, which is it to be? The alternative may be a
brutal one, but there it is."
"And you've decided in your own favor?"
"So far. I've been actuated by the instinct of self-preservation."
"And are you going to persist in it?"
"That's for you to tell me. But I should like to remind you first of
this, that if I don't--I go."
"And what if--if I went with you?"
"You couldn't. The journey would be too long."
"But you needn't go so far if I'm there."
"I couldn't take you with me. You must understand that. I once knew an
American girl who married a man who cheated at cards, and buried herself
alive with him. I wouldn't let a woman do that for me."
"But if she wanted to?"
"In that case she ought to be protected from herself. There's no use in
ruining two lives where one will do."
"There's such a thing as losing your life to find it."
"If so, it's something for me to do--alone."
"Isn't it a kind of moral cowardice to say that?"
"I don't think so. To me it seems only looking things squarely in the
face. I'm not the sort of man for whom there's any possibility of
beginning life anew. A man like me can't live things down. When once, by
his own confession, he has lost his honor, there's no rehabilitation
that can make him a man again. Like Cain, he has got to go out from the
presence of the Lord; only, unlike Cain, there's no land of Nod waiting
to receive him. There's no place for him anywhere on earth. A few years
ago, when I was motoring in the Black Forest with the d'Aubignys, we
dropped into a little hole of an inn as nearly out of the world as
anything could be. As we approached the door a man got up from a bench
and shambled away. When he had got to what he considered a safe distance
he turned to look at us. I knew him. It was Jacques de la Tour de
Lorme."
"Really?"
"The poor wretch had hidden himself in that God-forsaken spot, where he
supposed no one would be able to track him down; but we had done it.
I've never forgotten his weary gait or the woe-begone look in his eyes.
It is what would come to me if I waited for it."
"I don't see why. There's no similarity between the cases. Jacques de La
Tour de Lorme did wrong he never could put right. You'd be doing the
very thing he found impossible." He shook his head. "It wouldn't make
any difference in my world. Nobody there would think of the right or the
wrong; they'd only consider what I'd owned to. It's the confession that
would ruin me."
"Surely you exaggerate. You could do it quietly. No one need
know--outside Derek Pruyn and two or three more of us."
"I don't do
things in that way," he said, with an odd return of his old-time pride.
"If I put the woman right, it shall be in the eyes of the world. I don't
ask to have things made easy for me. If I do it at all, I shall do it
thoroughly. I'm not afraid of it or of anything it entails. It's a
curious thing that a man of my make-up is afraid of being ridiculed or
being given the cold shoulder, but he's not afraid to die."
Though he was looking straight at her, he was too deeply engrossed in
his own thoughts to see how proudly her head went up, or to note the
flash of splendid light in which her glance enveloped him.
"I was all ready to die," he pursued, in the same meditative tone, "that
morning in the Pré Catalan. George Eveleth could have had my life for
the asking. I'd never known him to miss his mark, and he wouldn't have
missed me--if he hadn't had another destination for his bullet. I've
regretted it more than once. I've had pretty nearly all that life could
give me--and I've made a mess of it."
"You haven't had--love," she ventured.
"Love?" he echoed, with a short laugh. "I've had every kind of love but
one; and that I'm not worthy of."
"We get a good many things we're not worthy of; but they help us just
the same."
"This wouldn't help me," he returned, speaking very slowly. "I shouldn't
know what to do with it. It would be as useless to me in my new
conditions as a chaplet of pearls to a slave in the galleys. So, what
would you do?"
"I'd do right at any cost."
She scarcely knew that the words were spoken, so intent was her thought
on the strange mixture of elements in his personality. It was not until
she had waited in vain for a response that she found the echo of her
speech still in her mental hearing and recognized its import. Her first
impulse was to cry out and take it back; but she restrained herself and
waited. It was an instant in which the love of daring, that was so
instinctive in her nature, blew, as it were, a trumpet-challenge to the
same passion in his own, while they sat staring at each other, wide-eyed
and speechless, in the dancing firelight.