DORMER COLVILLE IS BLIND
It was late when Dormer Colville reached the quiet sea-coast village of
Royan on the evening of his return to the west. He did not seek Mrs. St.
Pierre Lawrence until the luncheon hour next morning, when he was
informed that she was away from home.
"Madame has gone to Paris," the man said, who, with his wife, was left in
charge of the empty house. "It was a sudden resolution, one must
conclude," he added, darkly, "but Madame took no one into her confidence.
She received news by post, which must have brought about this sudden
decision."
Colville was intimately acquainted with his cousin's affairs; many
hazarded an opinion that, without the help of Madame St. Pierre Lawrence,
this rolling stone would have been bare enough. She had gone to Paris for
one of two reasons, he concluded. Either she had expected him to return
thither from London, and had gone to meet him with the intention of
coming to some arrangement as to the disposal of the vast sum of money
now in Turner's hands awaiting further developments, or some hitch had
occurred with respect to John Turner himself.
Dormer Colville returned, thoughtfully, to his lodging, and in the
evening set out for Paris.
He himself had not seen Turner since that morning in the banker's office
in the Rue Lafayette, when they had parted so unceremoniously, in a
somewhat heated spirit. But, on reflection, Colville, who had sought to
reassure himself with regard to one whose name stood for the incarnation
of gastronomy and mental density in the Anglo-French clubs of Paris, had
come to the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by forcing a quarrel
upon Turner. It was impossible to bring home to him an accusation of
complicity in an outrage which had been carried through with remarkable
skill. And when it is impossible to force home an accusation, a wise man
will hold his tongue.
Colville could not prove that Turner had known Barebone to be in the
carriage waiting in the courtyard, and his own action in the matter had
been limited to the interposition of his own clumsy person between
Colville and the window; which might, after all, have been due to
stupidity. This, as a matter of fact, was Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's
theory on the subject. For that lady, resting cheerfully on the firm
basis of a self-confidence which the possession of money nearly always
confers on women, had laughed at Turner all her life, and now proposed to
continue that course of treatment.
"Take my word," she had assured Colville, "he was only acting in his
usual dense way, and probably thinks now that you are subject to brief
fits of mental aberration. I am not afraid of him or anything that he can
do. Leave him to me, and devote all your attention to finding Loo
Barebone again."
Upon which advice Colville had been content to act. He had a faith in
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's wit which was almost as great as her own; and
thought, perhaps rightly enough, that if any one were a match for John
Turner it was his sprightly and capable client. For there are two ways of
getting on in this world: one is to get credit for being cleverer than
you are, and the other to be cleverer than your neighbour suspects. But
the latter plan is seldom followed, for the satisfaction it provides must
necessarily be shared with no confidant.
Colville knew where to look for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence in Paris, where
she always took an apartment in a quiet and old-fashioned hotel rejoicing
in a select Royalist clientèle on the Place Vendôme. On arriving at the
capital, he hurried thither, and was told that the lady he sought had
gone out a few minutes earlier. "But Madame's maid," the porter added,
"is no doubt within."
Colville was conducted to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's room, and was hardly
there before the lady's French maid came hurrying in with upraised hands.
"A just Heaven has assuredly sent Monsieur at this moment!" she
exclaimed. "Madame only quitted this room ten minutes ago, and she was
agitated--she, who is usually so calm. She would tell me nothing; but I
know--I, who have done Madame's hair these ten years! And there is only
one thing that could cause her anxiety--except, of course, any mishap to
Monsieur; that would touch the heart--yes!"
"You are very kind, Catherine," said Colville, with a laugh, "to think me
so important. Is that letter for me?" And he pointed to a note in the
woman's hand.
"But--yes!" was the reply, and she gave up the letter, somewhat
reluctantly. "There is only one thing, and that is money," she concluded,
watching him tear open the envelope.
"I am going to John Turner's office," Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence wrote.
"If, by some lucky chance, you should pass through Paris, and happen to
call this morning, follow me to the Rue Lafayette. M. St. P. L."
It was plain enough. Colville reflected that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had
heard of the success of his mission to England and the safe return to
Gemosac of Loo Barebone. For the moment, he could not think how the news
could have reached her. She might have heard it from Miriam Liston; for
their journey hack to Gemosac had occupied nearly a week. On learning the
good news, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had promptly grasped the situation;
for she was very quick in thought and deed. The money would be wanted at
once. She had gone to Turner's office to withdraw it in person.
Dormer Colville bought a flower in a shop in the Rue de la Paix, and had
it affixed to his buttonhole by the handmaid of Flora, who made it her
business to linger over the office with a gentle familiarity no doubt
pleasing enough to the majority of her clients.
Colville was absent-minded as he drove, in a hired carriage, to the Rue
Lafayette. He was wondering whether Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's maid had
any grounds for stating that a mishap to him would touch her mistress's
heart. He was a man of unbounded enterprise; but, like many who are
gamblers at heart, he was superstitious. He had never dared to try his
luck with Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. She was so hard, so worldly, so
infinitely capable of managing her own affairs and regulating her own
life, that to offer her his hand and heart in exchange for her fortune
had hitherto been dismissed from his mind as a last expedient, only to be
faced when ruin awaited him.
She had only been a widow three years. She had never been a sentimental
woman, and now her liberty and her wealth were obviously so dear to her
that, in common sense, he could scarcely, with any prospect of success,
ask her outright to part with them. Moreover, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence
knew all about Dormer Colville, as men say. Which is only a saying; for
no human being knows all about another human being, nor one-half, nor
one-tenth of what there is to know. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence knew enough,
at all events, Colville reflected, rather ruefully, to disillusionise a
schoolgirl, much more a woman of the world, knowing good and evil.
He had not lived forty years in the world, and twenty years in that world
of French culture which digs and digs into human nature, without having
heard philosophers opine that, in matters of the heart, women have no
illusions at all, and that it is only men who go blindfold into the
tortuous ways of love. But he was too practical a man to build up a false
hope on so frail a basis as a theory applied to a woman's heart.
He bought a flower for his buttonhole then, and squared his shoulders,
without any definite design. It was a mere habit--the habit acquired by
twenty years of unsuccessful enterprise, and renewed effort and deferred
hope--of leaving no stone unturned.
His cab wheeled into the Rue Lafayette, and the man drove more slowly,
reading the numbers on the houses. Then he stopped altogether, and turned
round in his seat.
"Citizen," he said, "there is a great crowd at the house you named. It
extends half across the street. I will go no further. It is not I who
care about publicity."
Colville stood up and looked in the direction indicated by his driver's
whip. The man had scarcely exaggerated. A number of people were waiting
their turn on the pavement and out into the roadway, while two gendarmes
held the door. Dormer Colville paid his cabman and walked into that
crowd, with a sinking heart.
"It is the great English banker," explained an on-looker, even before he
was asked, "who has failed."
Colville had never found any difficulty in making his way through a
crowd--a useful accomplishment in Paris at all times, where government is
conducted, thrones are raised and toppled over, provinces are won and
lost again, by the mob. He had that air of distinction which, if wielded
good-naturedly, is the surest passport in any concourse. Some, no doubt,
recognised him as an Englishman. One after another made way for him.
Persons unknown to him commanded others to step aside and let him pass;
for the busybody we have always with us.
In a few minutes he was at the top of the stairs, and there elbowed his
way into the office, where the five clerks sat bent up over their
ledgers. The space on the hither side of the counter was crammed with
men, who whispered impatiently together. If any one raised his voice, the
clerk whose business it was lifted his head and looked at the speaker
with a mute surprise.
One after another these white-faced applicants leant over the counter.
"_Voyons_, Monsieur!" they urged; "tell me this or inform me of that."
But the clerk only smiled and shook his head.
"Patience, Monsieur," he answered. "I cannot tell you yet. We are
awaiting advices from London."
"But when will you receive them?" inquired several, at once.
"It may be to-morrow. It may not be for several days."
"But can one see Mr. Turner?" inquired one, more daring than the rest.
"He is engaged."
Colville caught the eye of the clerk, and by a gesture made it known that
he must be allowed to pass on into the inner room. Once more his air of
the great world, his good clothes, his flower in the buttonhole, gave him
the advantage over others; and the clerk got down from his stool.
"Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence is with him, I know," whispered Colville. "I
come by appointment to meet her here."
He was shown in without further trouble, and found Mrs. St. Pierre
Lawrence sitting, white-faced and voluble, in the visitors' chair.
John Turner had his usual air of dense placidity, but the narrow black
tie he always tied in a bow was inclined slightly to one side; his hair
was ruffled, and, although the weather was not warm, his face wore a
shiny look. Any banker, with his clients clamouring on the stairs and out
into the street, might look as John Turner looked.
"You have heard the news?" asked Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, turning
sharply in her chair and looking at Colville with an expression of sudden
relief. She carried a handkerchief in her hand, but her eyes were dry.
She was, after all, only a forerunner of those who now propose to manage
human affairs. And even in these later days of their great advance, they
have not left their pocket-handkerchiefs behind them.
"I was told by one of the crowd," replied Colville, with a side smile
full of sympathy for Turner, "that the--er--bank had come to grief."
"Was just telling Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence," said Turner, imperturbably,
"that it is too early in the day to throw up the sponge and cry out that
all is lost."
"All!" echoed Colville, angrily. "But do you mean to say--Why, surely,
there is generally something left."
Turner shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence, gnawing the middle
joint of his thumb.
"But I must have the money!" cried Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence. "It is most
important, and I must have it at once. I withdraw it all. See, I brought
my cheque-book with me. And I know that there are over a hundred thousand
pounds in my account. As well as that, you hold securities for two
hundred and fifty thousand more--my whole fortune. The money is not
yours: it is mine. I draw it all out, and I insist on having it."
Turner continued to bite his thumb, and glanced at her without speaking.
"Now, damn it all, Turner!" said Colville, in a voice suddenly hoarse;
"hand it over, man."
"I tell you it is gone," was the answer.
"What? Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds? Then you are a rogue! You
are a fraudulent trustee! I always thought you were a damned scoundrel,
Turner, and now I know it. I'll get you to the galleys for the rest of
your life, I promise you that."
"You will gain nothing by that," returned the banker, staring at the
date-card in front of him. "And you will lose any chance there is of
recovering something from the wreck. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had better
take the advice of her lawyer--in preference to yours."
"Then I am ruined!" said that lady, rising, with an air of resolution.
She was brave, at all events.
"At the present moment, it looks like it," admitted Turner, without
meeting her eye.
"What am I to do?" murmured Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, looking helplessly
round the room and finally at the banker's stolid face.
"Like the rest of us, I suppose," he admitted. "Begin the world afresh.
Perhaps your friends will come forward."
And he looked calmly toward Colville. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's face
suddenly flushed, and she turned away toward the door. Turner rose,
laboriously, and opened it.
"There is another staircase through this side door," he said, opening a
second door, which had the appearance of a cupboard. "You can avoid the
crowd."
They passed out together, and Turner, having closed the door behind them,
crossed the room to where a small mirror was suspended. He set his tie
straight and smoothed his hair, and then returned to his chair, with a
vague smile on his face.
Colville took the vacant seat in Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's brougham. She
still held a handkerchief in her hand.
"I do not mind for myself," she exclaimed, suddenly, when the carriage
moved out of the court-yard. "It is only for your sake, Dormer."
She turned and glanced at him with eyes that shone, but not with tears.
"Oh! Don't you understand?" she asked, in a whisper. "Don't you see,
Dormer?"
"A way out of it?" he answered, hurriedly, almost interrupting her. He
withdrew his hand, upon which she had laid her own; withdrew it
sympathetically, almost tenderly. "See a way out of it?" he repeated, in
a reflective and business-like voice. "No, I am afraid, for the moment, I
don't."
He sat stroking his moustache, looking out of the window, while she
looked out of the other, resolutely blinking back her tears. They drove
back to her hotel without speaking.