THE REASON WHY
The Chateau de St. Michel came into sight long before the sturdy and
swift-racing motor-boat drew up alongside the private landing-stage.
It was a modern structure, built after the style of an old French
castle, with its many towers and turrets, standing about fifty yards
from the cliff edge down whose precipitous face a winding path had
been cut leading to the landing-stage.
Richard Bessington and his erstwhile prisoner and present host were
standing on the upper deck watching the ever-nearing coastline. It
was late afternoon and some forty hours since they had left the
Scottish shore and set out upon their journey. Bessington had found
Antoine Dubosc a most congenial host and companion, and the hours
which must inevitably have dragged in less pleasing company, had
passed quickly and enjoyably enough. The young man had treated his
rather saturnine guest to a frank and completely unvarnished history
of this far from blameless life, never, however, mentioning the name
of Dominic Arden once during the whole of the narrative.
"And here," he said, gaily pointing with a wave of the hand to the
nearing scene before them, "is my home, the ancient citadel of the
Duboscs, who were _grand seigneurs_ of the land when the Britons
still dressed themselves in woad, and which was--in short, _mon
ami_--built according to my instructions about two years ago, and
occupied by one Antoine Dubosc, who adopted the name on entering into
his domain of St. Michel, and who is happy in the possession of a
mistress--I mean _chatelaine, bien entendu_, who adores him and who
will greet him on his arrival shortly. _Non_, M'sieur le Boss, I
have never entangled myself with a wife. My trade--if I may
dishonour such a calling by such a bourgeois title--is too full of
risks to permit of the harrowing of wifely feelings and affections,
and the making of unnecessary widows. Besides, we are too fond of
each other to wish to, or to make it necessary to marry. It is human
nature to resent interference with one's liberty. Tie the knot of
matrimony and, hey presto! you at once create a sensation of
restraint, and with it comes, of necessity, the desire for freedom.
That is why there are so many divorces to read about in the papers.
Why--_Mon Dieu_! I ask you, why will people marry? Tell me that,
monsieur."
"Ask me something simpler, Monsieur Dubosc," was the reply. "I
refuse to be drawn into any such complex argument. Tell me," he went
on, "how do you manage about the Customs? The authorities must know
that you have this boat and this landing-stage. Is there no
difficulty?"
"None whatever, monsieur. When I leave here I leave as the _grand
seigneur_ in his pleasure-boat in broad daylight. But I call at
certain lonely spots of which I have knowledge and then my small boat
goes forth and returns heavier than she started. If this continues
at intervals throughout the night, it is surely easy to suppose that
by morning I may continue on my pleasure trip with my hold stored
full of merchandise, and no one the wiser. It is simple, though one
has, it is understood, to know the ropes and take precautions. And
yet, for one who is careful and also lucky, it is always simple.
Indeed, my dear Leonie she has said very often: 'It is surely too
simple, my Antoine, one day you will be caught.' And _helas!_ she is
right, for one day I am caught, and you, M'sieur le Boss, have the
honour to be the one who catches. Ah! Life, it is very funny
sometimes, but it is also very pleasant when it is as easy to make a
bargain with the one who catches as I, monsieur, have made with you.
"But come. We have arrived and we will now ascend to my chateau.
And as my word is my bond, as you have seen, I have given orders that
this boat shall remain here for the departure of M'sieur le Boss with
his companion whom he is to conduct either to Madame his wife or
Monsieur the hangman as soon as possible. And if the latter, how
very grateful should your Government be that you avoid for them the
tedium and expense of extradition. Voila, monsieur. Allow me to
welcome you to France, the home of those who do things that are
considered not British."
And, with a low bow, he sprang on to the jetty, swept off his felt
hat and stood with a hand held out, offering assistance to
Bessington, who followed.
A moment later they were climbing the steep path up the cliff's side,
on the outer edge of which was a stout iron railing, and five minutes
more brought them to the top where in front of them was a formal
garden, consisting of terraces of flower-beds and a path which led to
the chateau itself.
In silence they traversed the fifty yards, Bessington finding speech
difficult and not quite sure as to how he was meant to take Dubosc's
last words, which sounded to him like a jibe of contempt. And yet
the man had been willing enough to sacrifice his friend on the altar
of his own liberty, and that was surely far more worthy of contempt
than what he, Bessington, was doing--namely--his duty in taking a
criminal back to justice, or a husband to his wife. Better, however,
to say nothing and leave the matter alone. He did not pretend to
understand Antoine Dubosc, and people and things that he did not
understand were usually left severely alone.
They arrived at length at the chateau. The bell was rung and a
manservant opened the door. He glanced inquiringly at the stranger
for a moment and then turned a beaming countenance on his master.
"Madame, she is in? Or has she gone out?" asked Dubosc, as he
motioned his guest inside and followed.
"Madame is in the library with monsieur," was the reply. "She was
not expecting you so soon."
"_Non, mon vieux_, and neither was I. I am even a surprise to
myself. But, _enfin_, I am here and that, I think, is all that
matters. Come, M'sieur le Boss, a word in your ear." He drew
Bessington aside while the servant disappeared through a door at the
end of the large entrance hall. "We shall enter the library
noiselessly, so as not to disturb them, for they are at work, Leonie
and my friend. And I wish you to see him before you speak, after
which I leave the rest to your British chivalry. Come."
So saying, he led the way across the hall and paused at a door,
turned the handle noiselessly and, opening it gently, motioned with
his hand to Bessington to stand near the aperture while he himself
stood aside.
Bessington, greatly wondering at all this, obeyed, even suspecting a
trap or a hoax that was being played on him but never for one instant
guessing the truth.
Then he looked into the room.
At a desk, her head bent, her hand busy with a pen, sat a woman whose
face he could not see, while in the centre of the room, which was
strangely bare of furniture, a tall slim man was standing, pausing
for a moment in his pacing to and fro, and which a second later he
began again.
Bessington recognized that tall slim figure, the dark hair, strangely
grey about the temples, the thin ascetic face and nervous hands of
Dominic Arden, but a Dominic Arden nine years older than when he had
last seen him, and with lines of suffering and time upon his face
that belonged rather to a man of fifty than to a youth of
twenty-nine. Also, there was another difference which at first the
looker-on could not explain or fathom. He was speaking in fluent
French, evidently dictating to the woman at the desk, while his
nervous hands moved convulsively every now and then, and though his
eyes stared straight into Bessington's own, yet he gave no sign of
recognition, or fear, or any emotion whatsoever. He came slowly
nearer, pausing only a yard away, then turned and retraced his steps,
stopped again and suddenly flung out a hand.
"Oh, this is abominable," he cried, still in French. "I am indeed a
selfish brute. You have sat there for an hour while I--I have been
pouring out my soul, forgetting that your poor hand must be dead with
cramp, and otherwise behaving like the mere male creature that I am.
Stop, Leonie, my angel, and kick me round the room as I deserve."
"Foolish one," replied the woman, raising her head and exhibiting to
the watching and now completely-puzzled Bessington a face of singular
attraction, without in any way being beautiful. For there was not a
feature that was exactly right. The nose was too short, the mouth
too large, the shape of the face too wide, the colour too pale; but
in the eyes, deep with a wonderful compassion, there was beauty, and
as they looked at the distress in the good-looking face of the man,
that expression of pity, of compassion, deepened.
"Silly boy that you are," she said, her tones low and rather husky.
"As if I tire ever when seeing you happy. Do I not know that this is
the one bright spot of light in your poor darkened life? And would I
not work my hands to the bone to see happiness come to you as you
weave your wonderful stories and forget your own troubles in the
weaving? _Alons, cheri_, enough of this about me. March, my friend,
march. Are we not in the very middle of the _denouement_ when the
wife returns and will soon be in her husband's arms? For such a
state of things to happen we must not pause an instant. Now, I am
ready once more."
But the young man did not commence with his dictation at once.
Instead, he walked slowly and rather unsteadily towards where she
sat, stretching out his hands, feeling first the desk, then her hand;
finally one of his own rested on her head in a mute caress.
"God bless you, Leonie," he said, huskily. And at that Bessington
felt the Frenchman's hand on his arm and found himself gently, but
firmly, impelled backwards into the hall. Then the door was silently
closed and Dubosc spoke.
"_Enfin, mon brave_, you have seen? You are satisfied now that he
had reason in staying here? And I suppose that you, as a
kind-hearted Briton, are still ready to conduct my friend to the
hangman?"
"Good God! The man's blind!" said Bessington hoarsely.
"Yes, M'sieur le Boss, he is, as you say, blind; has, in effect, been
blind for nearly seven years. That, you understand, is the reason
why he has never returned to his own country to seek his wife. Not
only because he could not do so alone and was afraid of what might
happen to him, but also because he preferred that the woman he loved
should rather believe him dead than feel herself tied to a helpless
creature like himself. That, monsieur, in effect, is why he has not
been brave enough to deliver himself to your hangman--because, you
see, we who loved him did not--strange as it may seem to you--we did
not offer our help in that direction, and without it he could not go.
For a blind man is a very helpless man, monsieur. A heinous offence,
no doubt, on our part, seeing that it is one's duty to help in
bringing the wrongdoer to justice. But I and my Leonie have no shame
in what we have done and, _nom de Dieu!_ I do not think it is because
the Almighty is not British that He will not pardon us."
"Be silent, please," exclaimed Bessington, goaded at last beyond
endurance at the other's gibing voice, which now he could understand
and, in seeing the justice of which, feel the greater irritation.
"Tell me about this. How did he lose his sight? When? Where?"
"He lost it, my friend, in the prison camp of our one time enemies.
Never mind how--I will not go into that, since it is over and we are
at peace again, and recriminations--as you have it in your
vernacular--get us nowhere. Also, there are some things it is better
not to know; one sleeps the easier for not knowing them. Enough that
his sight is gone, never to return. For, believe me, we have taken
him to the very greatest specialists, and all give but the one
opinion. For me, if I had been in his place, I should have ended it
long ago--for to lose one's sight is to lose everything. And it does
not make it any better to know that he is only one among hundreds of
young men who lost theirs in the War. But he is brave, that one, and
my Leonie, bless her heart, she helps him to be brave, and lightens
his dark hours, which, believe me, monsieur, number twenty-three out
of twenty-four."
"But he should be happy with such good friends?" protested
Bessington, who had not yet adjusted his mind to this new and
altogether complicated state of affairs.
"Happy? _Mais non_, is he not for ever thinking of the wife he has
lost? Of the wife who, for all he knows, has forgotten him? Do you
think we read to him the account of her marriage? But give us credit
for some little feeling, monsieur. Of course, we did not. So that
he knows nothing of her, not even of where she lives, or if she is
married again or even dead."
"But did you not know that she had bought Ardenmore? Surely that
would convey something to you of her feelings towards him?"
"No, I did not know. I saw nothing of it in the papers except one
paragraph in which it was stated that Ardenmore was once again to
change hands and was to be bought by a person of great wealth. It
was then that he insisted that I take him across in my boat, I who
already had gone so many times to the tower, the secret of which he
had told me long ago. It was I who stole the pictures and books for
him because--the poor thing--he could not see to steal them for
himself."
"And he knows nothing about what you are doing, what use you are
making of the secret he told you?"
"Nothing. But nothing at all. Why, _mon Dieu_, if he thinks me an
honourable fellow, should I make him unhappy by telling him that I am
not? There would be no sense in it. For he is not likely to
discover it for himself. So I take a leaf from your book of wise
sayings, and I repeat to myself--'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis
folly to be wise.' Wisdom, my friend, does not always make for
happiness."
"I see." Bessington spoke slowly, his eyes fixed on vacancy. "I
see," he repeated again.
"And now what is to happen?" demanded Antoine Dubosc, regarding his
companion out of suddenly narrowed eyelids.
Richard Bessington was silent for a moment. This, of course,
explained why the Frenchman had been so ready to take him to see
young Arden; he was sure of what would be the result engendered by
compassion for a blind man. What would be his action should this
result not be forthcoming and Bessington insist on taking his friend
back to England? Would he stand by his bargain? Or would things
become nasty and dangerous for Richard Bessington? For the moment it
was obvious that he must temporize, play for time in which to think.
"You will, of course, give me time in which to consider this matter?"
he said at last. Dubosc raised his eyebrows.
"To consider?" he repeated. "But is there, then, anything to
consider? Is it possible to suppose that I should have taken you to
see my friend if I had not thought that, having seen him, you would
be satisfied that there was only one thing left to do, and that to go
home--alone?"
And then doubt came to Bessington as to whether he had been wise in
trusting himself alone there. Whatever he chose to do, could he
trust this man? If his word of honour did not bind him, was that
guarantee in the shape of Crosby, who was to go to the police in four
days' time should Bessington not return, of sufficiently deterring
effect as to hold the Frenchman's hand if he thought fit to raise it
against him? He looked quickly into the dark face, fear and doubt in
his own eyes, and the steely-eyed crook was quick to see and to
understand, and he suddenly laughed.
"Ah, you mistrust me," he said. "You doubt the word of a thief and a
smuggler. But you need have no fear. When I agreed to bring you
here it was in exchange for my liberty. Had I not brought you I
should now have been in gaol. It is for you and my friend to decide
between you, that was our bargain, and a bargain is still a bargain,
monsieur, even if made between an English gentleman and a French
crook. If I am disappointed in you, that is my affair, but it is
not, _mon Dieu_, a reason for--murder. Come, monsieur, I await your
answer. What do you mean to do? My boat is waiting; my men, who are
also my comrades, are awaiting my orders. I cannot ask them to wait
forever."
"I know. And yet this is a matter which requires consideration,"
repeated Bessington. Which was true, for the fact of Dominic Arden's
helpless state did alter things considerably. It made it certain
that did Hermione hear of it she would be lost to
him--Bessington--forever--a thing impossible to contemplate. As for
his idea of taking this man back to justice, there would be no
justice. There would, instead, be a lot of sickly sentiment towards
a blind man, and he would probably get off scot free, if, indeed, he
was ever tried, which was doubtful indeed. If he took him back to
England, he would be taking him straight into the arms of his wife
and ruining his own chances of happiness. And if he left him here,
Hermione might in some way discover the truth. He could not leave
him here, for Crosby knew the address, and Crosby, with his sickly
ideas, might be very dangerous.
And here was where this blindness might be of immense help. There
were possibilities--the possibility of a false step made by the blind
man on board the motor-boat. A stifled cry in the night, a splash,
and, later, an entirely plausible story to Hermione, either of a
search for Dominic Arden and a failure to find any such person alive;
or that sooner than return to her he had, through fear of what should
happen to him, gone off somewhere, no one knew where. Nothing could
ever be proved, whichever course he chose to adopt. The Frenchman
for his own sake dare not expose him, and he did not credit him with
any fine feelings of self-sacrifice for the sake of Dominic Arden.
Also, and this had seriously to be considered now--there was the
possibility of eliminating the Frenchman--who might prove
troublesome--from the picture altogether. He could provoke a
quarrel, from which would ensue a duel, and who had ever stood up
against Richard Bessington's marksmanship and come off best yet?
Yes, certainly things were shaping, only it would take thinking out.
He must go warily.
"Well, M'sieur le Boss." The Frenchman's voice brought him back to
realities with a start. "You have made up your mind?"
"I must see the man himself first, before I can say anything," he
replied. "I told you that my actions would be guided more or less by
his own decision."
"That is true," replied Dubosc, that queer glitter in his usually
laughing eyes. "Have you any doubt as to what he will decide?
Though, indeed, he may even decide that it would be preferable to
return in the custody of police officers than with you, monsieur."
"You mean that if I saw fit to take him and he refused to accompany
me, it would be a matter for extradition?"
"That, more or less, is what I mean," was the reply. "At least, it
will do," and Bessington failed to hear the irony in the tone.
"And I take it that you will not oppose me whatever happens?
Whatever I consider it my duty to do?"
"Monsieur, I do not want your fat friend to put the police on my
track, that is understood," was the reply. "Rest assured that I will
not oppose you in any way. What you do, you do. And what my friend
decides, he decides; I am ready to fall in, you call it, with your
plans. That is understood."
"Very well, then, if you will bring Mr. Arden here I will see him."
Antoine Dubosc strode towards the library without another word.