From what seemed an infinite distance, Vanderlyn awoke the next morning
to hear the suave voice of his servant, Poulain, murmuring in his ear,
"The automobile is here to take Monsieur for a drive in the country. I
did not wish to wake Monsieur, but the chauffeur declared that Monsieur
desired the automobile to be here at nine."
Poulain's master sat up in bed and stared at Poulain. Then suddenly he
remembered everything that had happened to him the evening before. In a
flash he even lived once more the wakeful hours of the night which had
had so awful a beginning; only at four o'clock had he found sleep.
"Yes?" he said. Then again, "Yes, Poulain. I wished to start at nine
o'clock. Say that I shall be down in a quarter of an hour."
"And then, while Monsieur is dressing, my wife will be preparing his
little breakfast--unless, indeed, Monsieur would rather wait, and have
his little breakfast in bed?"
"No," said Vanderlyn, quickly, "I shall not have time to wait for
coffee."
* * * * *
The keen morning air, the swift easy motion of the large car revived
Vanderlyn and steadied his nerves. He elected to sit in front by the
side of Pargeter's silent English chauffeur. At this early hour the
Paris streets were comparatively clear, and a few moments brought them
to the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. There, half way down was Tom
Pargeter's splendid villa; as they passed it in a flash, Vanderlyn
averted his head. To his morbid fancy it suddenly assumed the aspect of
a great marble tomb.
The car swung on through the now deserted Bois; soon it was rushing up
the steep countrified streets of St. Cloud, and then, settling down to a
high speed, they found themselves in the broad silent alleys of those
splendid royal woods which form so noble a girdle about western Paris.
They sped through sunlit avenues of fresh green foliage, past old houses
which had seen the splendid pageant of Louis the Fifteenth and his Court
sweep by on their way to Marly-le-Roi, and so till they gained the lofty
ridge which dominates the wide valley of the Seine.
Suddenly the chauffeur turned to Vanderlyn, and spoke for the first
time: "Would you like to slow down a bit, sir? Mrs. Pargeter generally
stops the car here to have a look at the view."
"No," said Vanderlyn hoarsely, "we haven't time to-day; we've got to get
back to Paris in time for Mr. and Mrs. Pargeter to catch, if possible,
the twelve-twenty o'clock train."
He leant back--a feeling of horror and self-contempt possessed him. His
life was now one long lie; even when speaking to a servant, he was
compelled to imply what he knew to be untrue.
They ran down into the quaint little town which has scarcely altered
since the days when Madame du Barry was dragged hence, screaming and
wringing her hands, to Paris, to prison, and to the guillotine.
Vanderlyn's distraught imagination saw something sinister in the
profound quietude of the place; it was full of shuttered villas, for
through the winter each village in the neighbourhood of Paris
hibernates, those whom the peasants style les bourgeois still regarding
country life as essentially a summer pastime.
They now came to a high blank wall, broken by an iron gate. "This is the
house, sir," said the chauffeur abruptly.
Vanderlyn jumped out, and rang a primitive bell; he waited some minutes
and then rang again. At last he heard the sound of steps hurrying along
a gravel path; and the gate was opened by an old woman.
"You have come to the wrong house," she said curtly, "this is Madame de
Léra's villa." Then, as she caught sight of the Pargeters' chauffeur, a
more amiable look stole over her wizened face,--"Pardon, perhaps
Monsieur has brought a letter from Madame Pargeter?" She wiped her hand
on her apron and held it out.
Vanderlyn remained silent a moment; he knew that now had come the moment
for him to utter an exclamation of surprise, to explain that he had
thought to find Mrs. Pargeter here,--but his soul revolted from the lie.
"Yes, I have come to see Madame de Léra," he said in a low voice.
"Kindly give her my card, and ask her if she will be good enough to
receive me?"
The old woman turned on her heel; she led Vanderlyn into the silent
house, and showed him into a large sitting-room where the furniture was
still swathed in the rough sheeting with which the careful French
housewife drapes her household goods when leaving them for the winter.
"I will light the fire," said the servant, apologetically; "Madame does
not use this room when we are here alone."
"I am quite warm," said Vanderlyn quickly. "Besides, I shall only be
here a very few moments."
The woman gave him a curious, rather suspicious look, and went to find
her mistress.
Vanderlyn, in spite of the words he had just uttered, suddenly told
himself that, he felt cold--cold and dizzy. He moved over to the window.
It overhung a wooded precipice, below which sparkled the Seine,--that
same river into whose dark depths he had gazed so despairingly the night
before. Here, looking at the sunlit panorama of wood, water, and sky
spread out before him, Peggy must often have stood. For the first time
since the terrible moment when he had watched the train bearing her dead
body disappear into the darkness, Vanderlyn thought of her as living; he
seemed to feel her soft, warm presence in this place which she had
loved, and where she had spent peaceful, happy hours.
He heard the door open and shut, and, turning round, found himself face
to face with the Frenchwoman whom he knew to have been Margaret
Pargeter's devoted friend. Although he was well aware that Madame de
Léra had never liked or trusted him, he, on his side, had always admired
and appreciated her serenity and simple dignity of demeanour. As she
came forward, clad in the austere dress of a French widow, he noted the
expression of constraint, of surprise, on her worn face.
"Mr. Vanderlyn?" she said, interrogatively; and, as she waited for an
explanation of the American's presence, surprise gave way to a look of
great sternness and severity, almost of dislike. Nay more, Madame de
Léra's attitude was instinct with protest--the protest of an honest
woman drawn unwillingly into what she feels to be an atmosphere of
untruth and intrigue. She was telling herself that she owed the fact of
Vanderlyn's visit to some slight hitch in the plan in which she had been
persuaded to play the part of an accomplice; she felt that Margaret
Pargeter ought not to have subjected her to an interview with her lover.
Vanderlyn reddened. He felt suddenly angered. Madame de Léra's manner
was insulting, not only to him, but--but to Mrs. Pargeter, to his poor
dead love. Any thought of telling Madame de Léra the truth, or even part
of the truth, left him.
"You must forgive my intrusion," he said, coldly; "I have come with a
message from Mr. Pargeter. He believes his wife to be here, and he
wishes her to be informed that her son, little Jasper, has had an
accident. When the news arrived last night, it was too late to
telegraph, and so he asked me to come here this morning in his motor in
order to bring Mrs. Pargeter back to Paris. He proposes that she should
accompany him to England to-day by the twelve o'clock train."
An expression of deep bewilderment crossed Madame de Léra's face. For
the first time since she had glanced at Vanderlyn, she became aware that
she was in the presence of a man who was suffering under some keen
stress of feeling. She became oppressed with a great misgiving. What did
his presence here this morning, his strange unreal words, signify? What
was the inward meaning of this sinister comedy? It was of course clear
that the secret elopement had not taken place. But then, where _was_
Mrs. Pargeter?
She cast a long searching look at Laurence Vanderlyn. The American's
face had become expressionless. He seemed tired, like a man who had not
slept, but the look she thought she had surprised,--that look telling of
the suppression of deep feeling, of hidden anguish,--had gone. The fact
that she did not know how much Vanderlyn knew she knew added to Madame
de Léra's perplexity. She was determined at all costs not to betray her
friend.
"I regret to inform you," she said, quietly, "that Mrs. Pargeter is not
here. It is true that I was expecting her to come yesterday. But she
disappointed me--she did not come. Does no one know where she is?" She
threw as great an emphasis as was possible in the impassive French
language into her question.
Vanderlyn avoided her perplexed, questioning glance. "Since yesterday
evening," he answered, "all trace of Margaret Pargeter has been lost.
She seems to have left her house about six o'clock, and then to have
disappeared--utterly. The servants believed," he added, after a pause,
"that she was coming straight to you; she had, it seems, taken some
luggage to the station the day before, and seen personally to its
despatch."
There was a pause; neither spoke for some moments, and Madame de Léra
noticed that Vanderlyn had not asked her if Peggy's luggage had arrived
at her house.
"Then, Monsieur, it is surely clear," she exclaimed at last, "that there
has been an accident, a terrible accident to our poor friend! I mean on
her way to--to the station. But doubtless that thought has also occurred
to you--if not to Mr. Pargeter--and you have already made all necessary
enquiries?"
Vanderlyn, from being pale, flushed deeply. "No," he said, "I am afraid
nothing of the kind has been done--yet. You see, Pargeter believes her
to be here."
The words "But you--_you_ knew she was not here!" trembled on Madame de
Léra's lips, but she did not utter them. She felt as if she were walking
amid quicksands; she told herself that there was far more danger in
saying a word too much than a word too little.
"I regret," she said, "that you have made a useless journey, Mr.
Vanderlyn. I must request you to go back and tell Mr. Pargeter that his
wife is not here, and I beg, I entreat, you to inform the police that
she is missing! For all we know,"--she looked at him with indignant
severity,--"she may be lying ill, mortally injured, in one of our
terrible Paris hospitals!"
As he made no assent to her imploring words, a look of anger came into
Madame de Léra's eyes.
"I will ask you to allow me to return with you to Paris," she said,
quickly. "I cannot rest inactive here in the face of the possibility,
nay, the probability, I have indicated. If you, Mr. Vanderlyn, do not
feel justified in making the enquiries I have suggested, no such scruple
need restrain _me_."
She turned away, making no effort to mask her displeasure, almost her
contempt, for the man who seemed to be so little moved by the mysterious
disappearance of the woman he loved.
A few moments later Madame de Léra came back dressed for the drive. As
they walked through into the hall of the villa, she suddenly turned, and
with a strange gentleness asked her silent companion a question, "Mr.
Vanderlyn, you look very tired; have you had any breakfast?"
He looked at her without answering, and she repeated her words.
"Yes," said Vanderlyn,--"that is, no, I have not. I was up late last
night,--there was no time this morning," he spoke hurriedly, confusedly;
the sudden kindness in her tone had brought scalding tears to his eyes,
and he felt a nervous fear that he was about to break down. Madame de
Léra took his arm; she opened a door and pushed him through into the
kitchen, just now the one bright, warm, cheerful room in the house.
"My good Catherine," she said, "give this gentleman a cup of
coffee--quickly!"
The presence of the old servant steadied Vanderlyn's nerves; with a
muttered word of thanks he drank what was put before him, and then they
went out, across the dewy lawn, to the gate.
Vanderlyn placed his companion in the back of the car, and himself took
the vacant seat next to Pargeter's phlegmatic chauffeur, for he wished
to remain silent. Madame de Léra's alteration of manner, her gentleness,
her implied sympathy, frightened him. He would rather have endured her
cold air of protest, of dislike.
And yet, as they drove swiftly back to Paris, taking, however, rather
longer on the return journey, for the country roads were now full of
animation and movement, Vanderlyn felt himself leaning, as against a
wall, on Madame de Léra's strong upright nature. She might dislike,
disapprove, even despise him,--but in this matter they would be one in
their desire to shield Peggy's fair name. He would have given much to be
able to still her evident anxiety, but that course was, so he felt,
forbidden to him; he had no right to share with another human being the
burden of his knowledge, of his awful grief. With a pang he reminded
himself that even Madame de Léra's state of suspense was preferable to a
knowledge of the truth.
At last they turned into the Bois de Boulogne, rushing through the leafy
roads at a high speed; a few moments more would see them in the
beautiful avenue where stood, isolated from its neighbours, the Villa
Pargeter, instinct with flamboyant luxury and that perfection only
achieved by the lavish use of money.
Tom Pargeter had a supreme contempt for the careless way in which the
French millionaires of his acquaintance conducted their lives. He liked
to get the full value of his money, and was proud of boasting to his
intimates that he kept the people who worked for him up to the top mark.
So it was that the sanded garden, even now blazing with flowers, which
surrounded the square marble villa, and separated it from the carriage
road and tan gallop, looked like a set piece, a vivid bit of scene
painting, in the bright morning sunlight.
When they came within sight of the wrought bronze gates of the villa,
Madame de Léra stood up in the car and leant over the front. She touched
Vanderlyn on the shoulder. "Then if we find that Mr. Pargeter is still
without any knowledge of his wife, I am to say that I know nothing--that
I was expecting her yesterday evening, and that she never arrived?"
"Yes," he answered, "that is, Madame, what I expect to hear you say. It
will then be for Mr. Pargeter to take what steps he judges proper."
As the powerful car swung through the gates, Vanderlyn saw that the
front-door was wide open, and that the English butler was waiting to
receive them; when the man saw that his mistress was not in the car, a
look of perplexity came over his impassive face.
"Mr. Pargeter has been awaiting you, sir, for the last half hour," he
said, "he is very anxious to catch the twelve o'clock express. The
luggage has already gone on to the station. Mr. Pargeter wished the car
to wait,--but--but is it to wait, sir?" he asked, helplessly.
"Yes," said Vanderlyn, shortly, "the car had better wait. Where is Mr.
Pargeter?"
"He's not down yet, sir; he is breakfasting in his dressing-room. All
the arrangements were made last night, but I will let him know you have
arrived, sir." He looked doubtfully at Madame de Léra, too well trained
to ask any question, and yet sufficiently human not to be able to
conceal his astonishment at Mrs. Pargeter's non-appearance. Then,
preceding the two visitors upstairs, he led them through the suite of
large reception-rooms into a small octagon boudoir which was habitually
used by Margaret Pargeter as her sitting-room.
There he left them, and, standing amid surroundings which all spoke to
them, to the woman, of her friend, to the man of his love,--from the
hooded chair where Peggy generally sat to the little writing-table where
she had written so many notes to them both,--Madame de Léra and Laurence
Vanderlyn felt overwhelmed with a common feeling of shame, of guilt. In
silence they waited for Tom Pargeter, avoiding each other's eyes; and
the Frenchwoman's fine austere face grew rigid--this was the first time
in her long life that she had been connected with an intrigue. She felt
humiliated, horrified at the part she now found herself compelled to
play.
In spite of its costly luxury, and its wonderful beauty of
decoration,--an exquisite Nattier was let into a panel above the
fireplace, and a row of eighteenth-century pastels hung on the light
grey walls,--the octagon apartment lacked the restful charm which
belongs to many a shabby little sitting-room. The architect of the villa
had sacrificed everything to the great reception-rooms, and in the
boudoir were far too many doors.
One of these, which Vanderlyn had never noticed before, was now suddenly
flung open, and, outlined against a narrow winding staircase, stood a
figure which appeared at once grotesque and menacing to the man and
woman who stood staring at the unexpected apparition. It was Tom
Pargeter, clad in a bright yellow dressing-gown, and holding a fork in
his left hand.
"I say, Peggy, look sharp,--there's no time to be lost! I told Plimmer
to pack some of your things--not that there's any reason why you should
come if you don't want to--for there's nothing much the matter with the
boy, and he'll probably get well all the quicker if you----"
The speaker suddenly broke short the quick sentences; he stared round
the little room, and then, catching sight of Madame de Léra who had been
partly concealed by a screen, "Damn!" he said, and turning, scampered
heavily up the staircase, leaving the door behind him open.
Vanderlyn and his companion looked at each other uncomfortably. Madame
de Léra was not perhaps quite so shocked, either by Pargeter's
appearance or by his one exclamation apparently addressed to herself, as
the punctilious American supposed her to be. She knew no word of the
English language, and in her heart regarded all foreigners as
barbarians.
They waited,--it seemed a long, long time, but as a matter of fact it
was but a very few minutes after Pargeter's abrupt entrance and exit,
when his short quick steps were heard resounding down the long suite of
reception-rooms. As he walked into the boudoir, the master of the
house--this time dressed in a suit of the large checks he generally
wore--bowed awkwardly to Madame de Léra, and then went over and shut the
door giving access to the winding staircase, that which in his hurry he
had omitted to close behind him. Then, and not till then, he turned to
Laurence Vanderlyn.
"Well?" he said, "what's happened to Peggy? I'm told she's not here. Is
she ill?"
"Peggy never arrived at Marly-le-Roi," said Vanderlyn.
To himself his very voice seemed changed, his words charged with
terrible significance; but to Pargeter, the answer given to his question
sounded disagreeably indifferent and matter-of-fact.
"Never arrived?" he echoed. "Where is she then? You don't mean to say
she's lost?"
"Madame de Léra," said Vanderlyn, still in the same quiet, emotionless
voice, "thinks that she's met with an accident,"--he looked imploringly
at the Frenchwoman; surely it was time that she should come to his help.
"I am telling Mr. Pargeter," he said to her in French, "that you fear
she has met with an accident"
"Yes!" she exclaimed, eagerly turning to Pargeter, "how can it be
otherwise, Monsieur?" She hesitated, looked at Vanderlyn, then quickly
withdrew her eyes from his face. His eyes were full of agony. She felt
as if she had peered through a secret window of another's soul.
"That is why I have come back to Paris," she went on, addressing Peggy's
husband, "for I feel that not a moment should be lost in making
enquiries. There are certain places where they take those who meet with
accidents in our streets--accidents, alas! more and more frequent every
day. Let us start at once and make enquiries."
Tom Pargeter heard her out with obvious impatience. But still his
varnish of good breeding so far lasted that he muttered a word or two of
gratitude for the trouble she had taken. Then he turned to Laurence
Vanderlyn.
"Surely _you_ don't think anything has happened to her, Grid?" he asked,
nervously. "Now I come to think of it, she was a fool not to take one of
the cars. Then we should have had none of this worry. I've always said
the Paris cabs weren't safe. What d'ye think we had better do? We can't
start out and make a round of all the hospitals--the idea's absurd!"
Waiting a moment, he added dismally, "It's clear I can't take that
twelve-twenty train."
He walked over to one of the windows, and drummed with his fingers on
the pane.
Although Madame de Léra did not understand a word he said, Pargeter's
attitude was eloquent of how he had taken the astounding news, and she
looked at him with angry perplexity and pain. She said something in a
low voice to Vanderlyn; as a result he walked up to Pargeter and touched
him on the shoulder.
"Tom," he said, "I'm afraid something ought to be done, and done
quickly. Madame de Léra suggests that we go to the Prefecture of Police;
every serious accident is, of course, always reported there at once."
The other turned--"All right," he said, sullenly, "just as you like! But
I bet you anything that after we have taken all that trouble, we shall
come back to find Peggy, or news of her, here. You don't know her as
well as I do! I don't believe she's had an accident; I daresay you'll
laugh at me, Grid, but all I can say is that I don't _feel_ she's had an
accident. Take my word for it, old man, there's nothing to be frightened
about. Why, you look quite pale!"
There came the distant sound of a telephone bell. "There!" he cried, "I
expect that _is_ Peggy, or news of her. What a bore it is having three
telephones in a house!" He left the room, and a moment later they heard
him shouting to his butler.
Vanderlyn turned to Madame de Léra. "He doesn't believe that Mrs.
Pargeter has had an accident," he said, quietly, "you must not judge him
too harshly." He added, after a moment, "I think you must know, Madame
de Léra, that Mrs. Pargeter's husband has always been lacking in
imagination."
Her only answer was a shrug of her shoulders.