THE BEGINNING OF A JOURNEY
For a quarter of an hour Richard Bessington paced the hall alone,
glad of the interval of quiet in which he could think out his future
plan of action. And after much hard thinking the one dominant
decision he arrived at was that on no account whatever must Dominic
Arden be allowed to remain here, nor, when once on the way home, must
he be permitted to land.
During that voyage, therefore, something had got to happen. But as
the voyage would take practically forty-eight hours to accomplish,
there was ample time in which to arrange what that happening should
be. The immediate present was his great concern. He had stipulated
with Dubosc that Arden should be given his choice of returning to his
wife or being dealt with by himself. Either course must be, in the
Frenchman's mind, equally dangerous, for he would not take into
consideration the probable immunity of the young man on account of
his blindness.
What would happen, therefore, if he, Bessington, insisted on the
agreement being carried out--as he must should Arden refuse to go
back to his wife, which he undoubtedly would, since he had done so
for seven years, and now that his presence was discovered and action
likely to be taken, had even greater reason for doing.
Dubosc, up to now, had seemed reasonable. But reasonable or not,
Dubosc, in any case, was in the way. Dubosc, therefore, must be got
out of the way. If, by any means, he could be induced to accompany
his friend on the boat, there would be a very easy way of getting rid
of him, and by the simple means of provoking a duel, and not even his
own comrades on the boat would associate an honourable duel with
murder.
If, on the other hand, Dubosc suggested going himself, so much the
better, and if he contemplated anything in the nature of foul play,
he, Bessington, would have got his own stunt into action long before
the other could do anything.
This, then, was the decision he had arrived at when at length the
library door opened and the two men came in.
No doubt something, if not all, of the truth had been explained to
Arden and to the woman Leonie, for Antoine Dubosc looked oddly
excited, in strange and vivid contrast to the other, whose arm he
held and whose white face showed a deadly calm. But not even the
sight of this helpless creature caused a momentary twinge of pity
from the stern, vindictive avenger, for the glaring fact that this
same helpless creature stood between himself and happiness, between
himself and nine long years of unrequited and hopeless passion,
killed all thoughts of pity. Pity! Faugh! It was unthinkable that
anything so sickly should possess him for a moment.
"Permit me," said Dubosc, as the two came slowly towards Bessington,
"to make you known to one another. Colonel Bessington--my friend Mr.
Arden. I have, it is understood, already made the facts known to my
friend. It is, therefore, for you two to arrange matters between
you. Allow me to observe, though"--here he glanced at his
watch--"that the sooner you arrive at a complete understanding, the
better. Here is a chair, _mon ami_, sit down."
"Thanks, old man," said Dominic, his voice very quiet and steady.
"I'd sooner stand, but I'd like you to stay--if you don't mind."
"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the other. "I had no intention of going."
And seating himself in a comfortable arm-chair, he stretched out his
legs and proceeded to light a cigarette.
"The matter should be quite easily settled," observed Bessington,
with a quick and rather uneasy glance at the seated figure. He could
have very well done without his presence, but wisely made no protest.
"Quite easily," agreed Dominic, his sightless eyes turned in
Bessington's direction, and so uncannily fixed upon the other's face
that the elder man felt it almost impossible to believe that Arden
could not see him.
"You understand why I am here, Arden?" he asked sternly.
"My friend has explained the situation fully, sir," was the reply.
"And as there could have been no question in your mind as to my
voluntary return to my own country, either to my wife or to anyone,
there is only one reason for your presence here."
"I suppose you understand that if you agree to go to your wife, I
will take no further action against you," went on Bessington, who
could afford to fulfil his bargain to the letter knowing well what
would be the result.
"Thanks," replied the young man, with a laugh full of bitterness.
"You know as well as I do that I can't return to my own country
again, and that I would rather die than ask my wife to share my
exile. I have kept away from her all these years in order to spare
her the hell of being involved in my troubles and also of being tied
for her life to a blind man. There is no reason why I should alter
my decision and I have no intention of doing so."
"Very well. Monsieur Dubosc, you hear this?"
"I am not deaf, M'sieur le Boss. I hear well enough, and I am glad
that we are both honourable men. _Allons, continuez, mon brave._"
The Frenchman lay back in his chair and half-closed his eyes.
"As you have refused the conditions offered you," proceeded
Bessington, turning again to Dominic, "I have no choice but to ask
you to accompany me back to England where you will have to stand your
trial on a charge of murder. The murder of my great friend and
superior officer, Colonel Grimshawe, on the evening of the third of
December, nineteen-seventeen."
"Very well," the steady voice had not a quiver in it, the steady eyes
remained fixed.
"And do you deny or admit the charge?"
"Come, come," here interposed Dubosc quickly. "That is not a
question for you to ask, my friend. It is out of your province
altogether. Admit nothing, Dominic, my son."
"Why not?" he asked. "I can't deny it, I don't deny it. I killed
him, and I meant to. There is nothing more to be said."
"_Sacre milles tonnerres_! But there is," exclaimed the other. "You
may have knocked him down, but that is not to say that you meant to
kill him. There is no proof of that, _mordieu_!"
"Unfortunately there is," interposed Bessington, quietly. "Two
soldiers in the next room heard Arden say that he meant to kill him."
"It's true that I said that," admitted Dominic, calmly. "After what
he said I had no intention of allowing him to say anything again,
therefore I killed him."
Dubosc laughed harshly. "You drive nails into a coffin, my friend,"
he said with a glance at Bessington. "Well, have it your own way.
If you wish to hang, you must hang."
"Do you not think it would be better if you left us to do the
talking, Monsieur Dubosc?" inquired Bessington, coldly.
"You may think so, certainly, which does not mean that I do."
"Better let it alone, old man," said Dominic. "I'd rather you did.
After all, there's really nothing to be said, so what's the use of
saying anything?"
"All right, as you will," replied the Frenchman.
"Having admitted so much, then I suppose you have no objection to
accompanying me back to England?" asked Bessington, turning once more
to Dominic.
"I would prefer to stay and await extradition," was the quiet reply.
"Why so? It would make no difference and be far worse and more
unpleasant for you. For then I should have to make a charge to the
police here and you would be kept in custody over here until the
formalities were through."
"I should prefer it, sir," repeated Dominic. There was a strange
dignity about him that impressed even Bessington. Dubosc was not
looking at him, he appeared to be absorbed in the process of blowing
rings into the still air.
"I'm afraid I can't agree to that," said Bessington. "I prefer to
take you back myself, and since you neither deny the charge, nor
offer any objection to being taken back, I consider that I have
fulfilled my contract made to you, Monsieur Dubosc, and that the
matter is, in short, ended."
"It certainly seems so," replied the Frenchman, still blowing rings.
"Have you anything to say to that?" asked Bessington, again turning
to Dominic. The young man shrugged slightly.
"Except that I would prefer to be taken back by the police, I have
nothing to say," was the quiet reply.
"But, _mon cher_," here interposed Dubosc. "That is surely
unreasonable. Of course, it is true that everyone has his own taste,
but for myself I am not so enamoured with the police. If you must
go, then at least go in comfort, which you would not do if in the
charge of two of your police. Also, it would mean that our own
police would pay me a visit here, and they are the last visitors that
I desire, _bien entendu_. But, of course, you please yourself. I
have no wish to interfere."
Dominic was silent for a moment.
"Yes," he said at last. "I hadn't thought of that. After what you
told me about that wretched smuggling business, of course they can't
come here. Good God! If I'd only known! But I'm not blaming you,
old man, or in any way for what has happened now. I am to blame in
ever having given away that secret. But it's done now, and it's of
no use kicking."
"Then if that is so," observed Bessington, "I take it that you will
consider yourself in my charge from now."
"Very well," replied Dominic. "I'm afraid I must, and after all, the
sooner it's over the better."
Bessington regarded the calm impassive face for a moment, and then he
walked a few steps towards him.
"I suppose you fully understand the situation," he said. "I mean
that it will not be a question of the boat returning to Scotland, but
to some other port in the south of England."
"Yes, I suppose so," replied Dominic, indifferently.
"That being the case," proceeded the other, "have you no desire to
ask any questions? Your wife, for instance?"
But at that the hot blood suddenly surged into the young man's pale
face, and it was easy to understand how the now dull eyes could have
glittered and blazed had there been a spark of life left in them.
"Be silent," he said, harshly. "And be good enough not to touch on
my private affairs. Get on with your duty, if that's what you call
it, but anything else is outside your province. I discuss my affairs
only with my friends, not with my gaoler."
"Ah! _Mon Dieu!_ such heat!" exclaimed Dubosc, suddenly springing
out of his chair and laying a hand on Dominic's shaking shoulder.
"And for what, _mon ami_? Say but the word and this Colonel
Bessington walks out of my house and into my boat for a lonely
passage home, and to hell with my honour, if it becomes necessary.
You do not think that I am willing for you to go, do you? And that
if it was not for this, my word of honour, which I gave him in
exchange for liberty, that I would let him take you, eh?
"You would have no choice, old man," was the reply. "It's not likely
I would let you suffer after--after all you have done for me. Why,
good God, man! Do you think I'd mind dying if it wasn't for leaving
you and Leonie? That's my only hell, now."
There was a look of such inexpressible misery on his drawn face as he
groped desperately for his friend's hands that even Bessington turned
away. And it was then that Dubosc seized the groping hands and
whispered hurriedly:
"Courage, _mon brave_, trust me, all will be well," and then, seeing
the look of puzzlement on the other's face, he turned abruptly to
Bessington.
"Monsieur le Colonel," he said, "you will, I suppose, have no
objection to my saying a few words to my friend in private?"
"On the contrary," was the reply. "I have every objection. Mr.
Arden is now in my custody, and if I were an officer of police I
should not leave his side for one moment. It would, after all, have
been simpler for me to have handed him over to the police. But as it
would undoubtedly inconvenience you, Monsieur Dubosc, to have those
gentleman in your house, and you have persuaded your friend to go
with me, I must ask you in common courtesy to respect my position as
lawful custodian of this man. Anything that you and he or anyone
else have to say will be said in my hearing."
"_Bien_, monsieur, I see your point, and I commend your astuteness
that will make capital out of my unfortunate position, with regards
to my own police," here he laughed. "As for what I would say to my
friend it is this, and M'sieur le Boss is welcome to hear it. Be
brave, _mon enfant_, and have courage. Things may not be so black as
they seem. And for your journey, I at least will be there to see
that you have comfort, for, always with the permission of Monsieur le
Colonel, I propose to accompany you."
"You please yourself about that," replied Bessington. "Personally, I
am very glad that you are coming." Which was perfectly true.
"And God knows I shall be grateful for you, old man," said Dominic.
"I suppose," he went on to Bessington, "you will have no objection to
my saying good-bye to Madame?"
"None whatever, provided it is also in my presence."
"_Bien_," said Dubosc, with a grin. "You are indeed wise, monsieur,
to take no risks. I will go and fetch her."
He left the hall abruptly, and as the library door closed behind him
Bessington turned and watched his prisoner as he stood in the centre
of the large bare apartment, motionless, and apparently absorbed in
his own thoughts. And as he considered his absolute helplessness, he
reflected that it would be an easy matter for that "something" to
happen on board the boat before the English shores were reached. A
blind man is easy prey for anyone.
There came a sudden movement from Dominic, a quick upward turn of the
head.
"Are you still there, Colonel Bessington?" he asked.
"Yes, of course I am here."
"I suppose it is useless to ask you to let me see Leonie alone? I am
unarmed, so I can't shoot myself but of course you can search me if
you don't believe that."
"I believe you all right," was the reply, "but I'm afraid I can't
possibly do as you ask, in the circumstances."
Dominic's reply was drowned in the sudden bursting open of the
library door, admitting a whirlwind in the shape of Leonie who swept
across the hall and flung her arms round his neck.
"Ah, _mon Dieu_! That ever I should live to see this day," she
cried, passionately. "I thought when Antoine told me about this
thing that you would arrive at an understanding, or for sure I should
have been here before to see to it. They shall not take you away, my
little one, no, they shall not! It is I, Leonie, who says it." Here
she turned angrily to Bessington. "Who are you, _ma foi_! that you
come here with your talk of duty. _Mon Dieu_! It is not duty, it is
a crime that you do, a crime that even your _sacre_ Government will
not countenance." Here her voice rose to a scream and she shook her
fist in his face. "You think to hang him and so to be rid of him,
but you will not and so I tell you, I who love him and who know that
he is no criminal, but a brave and honourable man who would not
listen to one who told a lie about his wife, but who very rightly
killed him who slandered and dishonoured her name. And for that he
is to be hanged! Ah no. _Ma foi_, no! And a thousand times no.
Antoine, he is a coward and a fool. If he was a man he would kill
you. But he is afraid for his own life, and I--I have not the
strength or it is with these hands that I--" but here a sob choked
her, and Dominic, who in vain had tried to interrupt her, at last
broke in.
"Don't, Leonie, _cherie_. For God's sake leave it alone, you only
make it worse for me. Say good-bye, dear, and let me go. I want to
thank you for what you have done and yet I can't, there are no
words--" but here she in her turn stopped him.
"No!" she cried. "I will not listen. There are no thanks between
you and me. If it was not that I feel things will go well with you
in the end, be sure that that man there--whatever Antoine
says--should not cake you. As it is I--I--spit in his face--"
But before she could put her words into practice Antoine Dubosc was
in the room and with gentle force had taken her by the shoulders and
urged her to the door.
"There, my little cabbage, enough, that will do. You make affairs no
better by this kind of thing, though I understand how you feel.
There, go now and wait with patience until my return." He pushed her
protesting through the door, closed it, and came back to Bessington.
"I apologize, M'sieur le Boss," he said with a shrug. "My Leonie she
is excitable, she has given me what you call hell but this moment
ago, but it is that she does not understand, honour is not to her
what it is to me. But she means no harm and one always makes
allowances for the ladies, that is understood."
"Naturally," replied Bessington. "I take it that we can start then?"
"At your convenience, monsieur. My servant has taken my friend's
suit-case to the boat, so let us march if you please. Though it has
formerly been my amiable task to help my friend in his walks, I now
relinquish that pleasure to you monsieur. You will be careful with
him down the steps."
But Bessington waved a hand.
"No," he said. "I prefer that you conduct him yourself. I will
follow behind." Indeed, to have contemplated a walk down the cliff
path with the Frenchman behind him was, in Richard Bessington's
opinion, to ask for trouble. Not until he had him safely covered
with his automatic would Richard Bessington feel really safe.
And as the three set off, he dropped a pace behind them, and, taking
the weapon from his pocket, held it ready in his hand.