THE END OF A JOURNEY
They were three very weary travellers who alighted from the
automobile which had driven them the seven miles from the largest and
nearest town to the Chateau St. Michel. It was quite dark when at
length these three, Hermione, Iza, and Frank Daneham, stood outside
the front door and the latter rang the bell. For the driver had not
known his way to this more or less lonely part of the coast, and the
three travellers were unable to help him.
Were they in time or were they not? That was the question which had
rung ceaselessly in Hermione's thoughts during the latter part of the
journey. And if they were, what was going to happen? What would be
the result?
Frank Daneham had put his foot down against a journey by air, for
neither of the two women had ever tried that experience, and, in
Hermione's nervous state, he wisely thought that it would be
better--for her--to arrive late than in a state of collapse through
air sickness, as was more than likely to happen in her case.
Moreover, he did not think they would be too late, for even if the
boat arrived that evening, it was a hundred chances to one that they
would not set out on a return journey until the following morning.
Anyway, they were here, and apparently likely to be kept waiting on
the doorstep indefinitely, for he had rung twice and still there was
no answer to their summons.
"I expect that young smuggler man is afraid we are the police," was
Iza's comment. "Why the deuce don't he have a peep from one of those
windows? No one in their senses would take me for a policeman,
surely."
"It would certainly be difficult," replied Frank, smiling.
And then the door was opened, a light overhead flashed on, and a
manservant stood in the opening.
"Monsieur desire?" he began, casting a quick glance over the three.
"I believe Monsieur Dubosc lives here," said Frank Daneham. "If I am
right, would you take these three cards and ask him if he will see us
on a matter of great importance?"
As he spoke, he held out his own, Hermione's and Iza's cards, and on
that of Hermione the name Rodenberg had been crossed out and that of
Arden substituted.
The man looked at them and hesitated.
"You are from England?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, my good man," struck in Iza, who spoke French fluently. "We
are from England and come over specially to see Monsieur Dubosc on a
very grave and urgent matter. Will you also mention the fact that it
is a private matter--between friends, you understand."
A look of intense relief came to the man's face at the last words.
"I will tell Madame, the master is out," he replied, and once more
closed the door.
"One cannot blame such caution, in the circumstances," commented Iza
Marsh. "Buck up, my dear child. If your boy had gone there wouldn't
be all this fuss and precaution."
"That's my opinion, too," agreed Frank. But Hermione only smiled at
them, anxiety had long ago rendered her beyond speech.
Five minutes passed, an interminable five minutes, and then the door
swung violently open, but this time it was not the servant who stood
there, but a dark-haired, white-faced and very excited woman. She
gave one look at Hermione's face.
"Ah! _Mon Dieu!_" she cried, for it was the face she had seen so
many times on an old faded photograph. "It is she at last! _Entre,
mesdames, enter, monsieur_, I ask your pardon for the delay, but, no
doubt you will understand that it is sometimes a necessity, and
Monsieur Dubosc, he is not here at the moment."
As she spoke she drew aside for the others to enter, and directly
they had done so she slammed to the door.
Frank Daneham turned to her instantly.
"Madame Dubosc," he said, sharply. "Tell me quickly, is there a man
called Bessington here, Colonel Bessington? I know he was coming
here, so we hurried off to try and intercept him."
"Ah, _mais non_," she cried. "The Colonel he has been here, but he
is here no longer. He has departed these two hours or more."
And at that there was a cry from Hermione, who put her hand to her
face and swayed suddenly.
"No, no!" she cried brokenly. "Not that! Don't tell me he has gone!"
The Frenchwoman, quick of understanding, put an arm about her.
"Imbecile that I am!" she cried, a great compassion in her voice.
"He has gone, but he has gone alone, Madame Arden. He has gone--so
my--my husband tells me, to the South of France for a long stay, and
because he has no wish to return to his country just now. There is
nothing to fear. Your husband he is with us, quite--quite safe."
"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" cried Hermione, and she took Leonie's
hand in hers and held it. "Tell me about it, Madame Dubosc. You
guessed we were coming? You knew about everything?"
"All there is to know, madame," was the reply. "And I did indeed
think that perhaps you might come, or that other who was with the
Colonel when they caught my--husband. For he told me that he was
much distressed, that one, at what his friend was doing. But the
good God knows that I am glad it is you, madame; who have come--at
last."
"It's not her fault, Madame Dubosc," put in Iza, quickly, "that she
was not here eight years ago. But to me, the whole thing is a
complete mystery, and if you know all about it, then all I can say is
that we are not so lucky. There's a good deal we want to know and
have come here to find out."
"All in good time, madame," replied Leonie, with a friendly smile.
"I understand how you feel, and probably what you think, which is, no
doubt, very far from the truth. But now that you are here we can
explain everything."
"Ah, but you don't understand," cried Hermione, eagerly. "You don't
know everything either. I only heard that he was alive and where he
lived two days ago. Until then I had believed him dead. And then
when I heard the truth and knew that Colonel Bessington had come for
him, I was nearly mad with fear. Are you sure, quite sure that he
has gone? That my husband is safe?"
"Not only that he has gone, but that he has gone for good," replied
Leonie. "After what he found here he said there was nothing more for
him to do, but that he would not return to his country. Perhaps you,
madame, may guess why. So, there is nothing to fear and nothing to
reproach yourself with. For if you did not know, then you could not
have come."
"But since Dominic Arden is alive," here interrupted Frank Daneham,
"and apparently living in luxury and contentment with good friends,
surely it is strange that he did not even write to his wife who was
mourning him for dead. Surely it is strange that he did not make any
attempt to find her."
"Surely it seems so," replied the Frenchwoman, with a queer smile on
her face, "very strange, and will remain strange until you understand
why. Remember that Colonel Bessington came here to take him back to
punishment and what he called justice. And when he had seen him--he
goes away alone. Perhaps that is also what Madame his wife will do
when she sees him, and if she does, _ma foi!_ he will not reproach
her."
"What do you mean?" There was a note of sudden terror in Hermione's
voice, and she clutched Leonie's arm. "What has happened? Tell me
at once. Remember that I am his wife, and that I love him, just as I
loved him when he left me nine years ago. You are terrifying me,
madame. Tell me, I implore you."
"_Pauvre enfant._" The elder woman took the clutching hand and
patted it gently. "I did not understand. But you will have to know,
and it is best for you to know from me. That poor boy, who still
worships you in his heart, and to whom life without you is one long
torment, remains here with us, apart from you, not only because he
fears to return to his own country, and so involve you in his
troubles, but because he will not spoil your life by being tied to a
blind husband. That is why, madame."
"Blind!" Hermione repeated the word as though some invisible hand
were strangling her throat. "My boy blind! Dominic blind! Oh, my
God!" She put her hands to her head and swayed suddenly, and the
next instant Frank Daneham had an arm about her and had lowered her
into a chair.
"_La pauvre petite!_" said Leonie, compassionately. "It is a very
terrible thing, I know, but surely, madame, it is better than that he
is dead."
"Oh no. Not for him! I am only thinking of him--not my self," cried
Hermione, bitterly. "He loved life so. He loved everything that he
saw, sound was nothing to him. Sight everything. Tell me, madame,
how is it that he is blind?"
"For seven years he has been so. One day, perhaps, he will tell you,
but he has forbidden us to speak of it, and so I cannot do so, it is
understood."
"But I don't understand, madame," exclaimed Daneham. "He was
reported dead, his body was found. How was it that the mistake
happened?"
"Ah, that was simple, and so easy to happen in a war of such horrors.
When he went out of the cottage after killing that man--for which I
do not blame him, I--he meant to die, to be killed. But, as often
happens when one wants to die on the battlefield, one remains alive,
or one is merely wounded. It is those who do not wish to die who are
killed. So it was with him. He was wounded, and he knew that meant
that he would be shot when he recovered. He was alone at the time,
lost I think, and he tumbled over a dead body. The man was of his
own build, but the head--Ah, _mon Dieu_! There was no head,
monsieur. He, Dominic, was dazed, sick, but he kept his senses, and
it was then that the idea arrived. That if he could not die, he
might change places with one who had more fortunately achieved death.
He changed into the dead man's uniform and everything that could
identify him. After which he had little strength left, but enough to
crawl away--as he thought--to his own lines. But what he did was to
crawl instead into a German prison camp, and the rest you know. From
the first I took to him as to a brother. _Enfin_, my friends, he
recovered his health, and he is now a writer of some distinction.
That is his one happiness. He dictates his stories and I write them
down--a ray of light in his darkness. He is becoming famous, but he
hides his fame under another name. But he will tell you all that
when you see him. And then it will be for you, madame, to write for
him--and for me--ah! _mon Dieu_! To regret that I can no longer make
my poor hands ache for him. That I can no longer be his eyes--"
There were great tears in her own now, and the next instant Hermione
had folded her in her arms.
Frank Daneham and Iza turned and walked abruptly to the window where
the plump woman stood dabbing her eyes and seeing nothing. But
outside on the lighted terrace, Frank saw two figures, both those of
young men, though the hair of one of them was grey at the temples.
They were talking together, one seeming to be arguing, the other
protesting; finally, the one who argued appeared to gain his point,
for he took the arm of the grey-haired man and turning, drew him
towards the door. And once more, after nine long years, Frank
Daneham looked upon the face of Dominic Arden, and a burning lump
welled up into his throat as he saw the unmistakeable signs of
suffering on his worn face.
They came slowly along the terrace, and presently their steps sounded
in the outer hall. Then Leonie put Hermione gently from her, and
walking briskly up to Daneham and Iza, took them each by an arm.
"This way, if you please, madame and monsieur," she said, leading
them towards a door. "There is much that I would tell you and show
you, though I trust that you will make a long stay with us. Come."
And that is why there were none to hear the man's cry as he stood
alone in the great hall, and none to see the look of pity, love, and
joy that came to the woman's eyes as she saw him.
"Hermione!" The cry was that of a child calling to the one being in
all the world whom he knows will help him, the cry of a lost soul to
its mate. And the next instant the two were locked in each other's
arms.
* * * * *
"It has," said Antoine Dubosc, as he walked slowly beside Frank
Daneham, "been a task of the most arduous since the moment we knew
his wife was here, to persuade him to go back with her to his home.
These unselfish people, you know, _mon cher_, are very selfish after
all. But finally I persuaded him, I--Antoine Dubosc--for I have a
way of persuasion which is not to be resisted."
"Not, I trust, in the same manner that you persuaded me to keep quiet
on that most memorable night, Monsieur Dubosc?" said Daneham, with a
smile.
The young man flung up his head and burst into a gay laugh.
"Ah, to be sure, no, monsieur, I did not drug him with dope, but with
the genius of my tongue, my words of infinite wisdom. And neither
will it be necessary to drug anyone else for the same reason, for I,
monsieur, have done with contraband. The final cargo of contraband
that I shall do myself the honour to take to your country and dump
there will be my poor friend and his most beautiful wife. And in
future years, monsieur, my boat shall only be used for conveying
Leonie and myself to my friend's home, which will be on occasions of
the most frequent.
"But enough of that. I am glad you reminded me, monsieur, of what I
did to you, for recognizing you when I saw you again, I had not the
face--you call it--to refer to the subject, or to apologize as I
should have liked. But to show you that I am penitent, permit that I
offer you the same brandy that you drank that night. And to show
that you, in turn, bear no malice, be brave enough, monsieur, to do
me the honour of drinking it."
"I'm hanged if I won't risk it," said Frank Daneham, with a hearty
laugh.
But as they turned towards the dining-room, Frank Daneham put a
question to his companion.
"You told me," he said, "that Colonel Bessington, when he saw the
true state of affairs, remembered that he was an Englishman and a
gentleman and took himself off. You also told me that he was not
returning to England. Do you know where he has gone?"
"_Helas, mon ami_," was the reply, which was accompanied by an
expressive shrug. "I am not in a position to tell you where exactly
he has gone, though, perhaps, without much strain on my imagination,
I might guess. _Enfin_, he has gone upon a long journey, having--so
I understood--nothing for which to return to his own country. He has
no relations I take it?"
"A brother, I believe, in India."
"Ah! A brother. Perhaps he goes to join him, perhaps not. But in
any case he will, you understand, be no more trouble to us."
"But when he returns, what then? Crosby will make no trouble, of
course, for I shall explain everything to him at once. But what of
Bessington, when he returns?"
"Ah! When--or if--he returns!" Again the young man shrugged. "I,
for one, monsieur, do not think he will, and the wish, you
understand, is father to the thought." And here, once more, he drew
his long fingers caressingly round his neck.
THE END