The Avenger Part 30

Wrayson's companion, tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily bearded, was busy filling a pipe from a pouch by his side. His features were unmistakably Saxon, and his cheeks were tanned, as though by much exposure to all sorts of weathers. He was still apparently on the right side of middle age, but his manners were grave, almost reserved.

"I was in the neighbourhood many years ago," he answered. "I had a fancy to revisit the place. And you?"

"I discovered it entirely by accident," Wrayson admitted. "I walked out from Chourville this morning, stayed here for some luncheon, and was so delighted that I took a room and went straight back for my bag. There isn't an emperor in Europe who has so beautiful a dining-room as this!"

Together they looked across the valley, a wonderful panorama of vine-clad slopes and meadows, starred with many-coloured wild flowers, through which the river wound its way, now hidden, now visible, a thin line of gleaming quicksilver. Tall poplars fringed its banks, and there were white cottages and farmhouses, mostly built in the shelter of the vine-covered cliffs. To the left a rolling ma.s.s of woods was pierced by one long green avenue, at the summit of which stretched the grey front and towers of the Chateau de St. etarpe. Wrayson looked long at the fertile and beautiful country, which seemed to fade so softly away in the horizon; but he looked longest at the chateau amongst the woods.

"I wonder who lives there," he remarked. "I meant to have asked the waiter."

"I can tell you," the stranger said. "The chateau belongs to the Baroness de Sturm."

"A Frenchwoman?" Wrayson asked.

"Half French, half Belgian. She has estates in both countries, I believe," his companion answered. "As a matter of fact, I believe that this chateau is hers in her own right as a daughter of the etarpes. She married a Belgian n.o.bleman."

"You seem well acquainted with the neighbourhood," Wrayson remarked.

"I have been here before," was the somewhat short answer.

Wrayson produced his card-case.

"As we seem likely to see something of one another during the next few days, _nolens volens_," he remarked, "may I introduce myself? My name is Wrayson, Herbert Wrayson, and I come from London."

The stranger took the card a little doubtfully.

"I am much obliged," he said. "I do not carry a card-case, but my name is Duncan."

"An Englishman, of course?" Wrayson remarked smiling.

"I am English," Mr. Duncan answered, "but I have not been in England for many years."

There was something about his manner which forbade any further questioning on Wrayson's part. The two men sat together in silence, and Wrayson, although not of a curious turn of mind, began to feel more than an ordinary interest in his companion. One thing he noticed in particular. Although, as the sun sank lower, the beauties of the landscape below increased, Duncan's eyes scarcely for a moment rested upon them. He had turned his chair a little, and he sat directly facing the chateau. The golden cornfields, the stained-gla.s.s windows of the grey church rising like a cathedral, as it were, in the midst of the daffodil-starred meadows, caught now with the flood of the dying sunlight mingled so harmoniously with their own time-mellowed richness, the increasing perfume of the flowers by which they were surrounded,--none of these things seemed for one moment to distract his attention. Steadily and fixedly he gazed up that deep green avenue, empty indeed of any moving object, and yet seemingly not empty to him. For he had the air of one who sees beyond the world of visible objects, of one who sees things dimmed to those of only natural powers. With what figures, Wrayson wondered, idly, was he peopling that empty avenue, what were the fancies which had crept out from his brain and held him spellbound? He had admitted a more or less intimate acquaintance with the place: was he, perhaps, a former lover of the Baroness, when she had been simply Amy de St. etarpe? Wrayson forgot, for a while, his own affairs, in following out these mild speculations. The soft twilight stole down upon them; here and there little patches of grey mist came curling up the valley. A bat came flying about their heads, and Wrayson at last rose.

"I shall take a stroll." he remarked, "and turn in. Good night, if I don't see you again!"

The man named Duncan turned his head.

"Good night!" he said, mechanically.

Wrayson walked down the garden and pa.s.sed through a wicket-gate into the broad white road. Setting his back to the village, he came, in a few minutes, to the great entrance gate of the chateau, hung from ma.s.sive stone pillars of great age, and themselves fashioned of intricate and curiously wrought ironwork. The gates themselves were closed fast, and the smaller ones on either side, intended for pedestrians, were fastened with a padlock. Wrayson stood for a moment looking through the bars into the park. The drive ran for half a mile perfectly straight, and then, taking an abrupt bend, pa.s.sed upwards into the woods, amongst which was the chateau.

"What do you want?" an abrupt voice demanded.

Wrayson looked round in surprise. A man in gamekeeper's clothes had issued from the lodge, carrying a gun.

"Good evening!" Wrayson said. "Is it permitted for the public to enter the park?"

"By no means," was the surly answer. "Cannot monsieur see that the gates are locked?"

"I understood from the landlord of the _Lion d'Or_" Wrayson said, "that the villagers were allowed the privilege of walking in the park."

The man looked at him suspiciously.

"You are not of the village," he said.

"I am staying there," Wrayson answered.

"It makes nothing. For the present, villagers and every one are forbidden to enter. There are visitors at the chateau."

Wrayson turned away.

"Very well," he said. "Good night!"

The man did not answer him. Wrayson continued to climb the hill which skirted the park. He did not turn round, but he heard the gates open, and he was convinced that he was being watched, if he was not followed. He kept on, however, until he came to some more iron gates, from which stretched the gra.s.s avenue which led straight to the gardens of the chateau. Dimly, through the gathering dusk, he caught a view of it, which was little more than an impression; silver grey and quiet with the peace which the centuries can bring, it seemed to him, with its fantastic towers, and imperfectly visible outline, like a palace of dreams rather than a dwelling house, however magnificent, of material stone and brick.

An owl flew out from the trees a few yards to the left of him, and drifted slowly over his head, with much flapping of wings, and a weird, soft call, faintly answered in the distance by his mate; from far away down in the valley came the slow ringing of a single evening bell. Save for these things, a silence almost wonderful reigned. Gradually Wrayson began to feel that sense of soothed nerves, of inexpressible relief, which Nature alone dispenses--her one unequalled drug! All the agitation and turmoil of the last few months seemed to fall away from him. He felt that he had been living in a world of false proportions; that the maze of doubts and fears through which he had wandered was, after all, no part of life itself, merely a tissue of irrelevant issues, to which his distorted imagination had affixed a purely fict.i.tious importance. What concern of his was it how Morris Barnes had lived or died? And who was Bentham that his fate should ever disturb him? The secrets of other people were theirs to keep. His own secret was more wonderful by far. Alone, from amidst the tangle of his other emotions, he felt its survival--more than its survival, its absolute conquest of all other feelings and considerations.

It was truth, he knew, that men sought after in the quiet places, and it was the truth which he had found. If he could but see her coming down the avenue, coming to him across the daisy-strewn gra.s.s, beneath the shadow of the stately poplars! The very thought set his heart beating like a boy's. He felt the blood singing in his veins, the love-music swelling in his heart. He shook the gates. They, too, were padlocked. Then he listened. There was no sound of any footfall in the road. He moved a few steps higher up, and, making use of the pillars of the gate, he climbed on to the wall. It was a six-foot drop, but he came down noiselessly into a bed of moss. Once more he paused to listen. There was no sound save the burring of some night insect over his head. Stealthily, and keeping in the shadow of the trees, he began to climb the gra.s.sy avenue towards the chateau.

CHAPTER XXIII

A Pa.s.sIONATE PILGRIM

It seemed to Wrayson, as by and by he began to make bolder and more rapid progress, that it was an actual fairy world into which he was pa.s.sing with beating heart and this strange new sense of delicious excitement. As he drew nearer, the round Norman towers and immense grey front of the chateau began to take to themselves more definite shape.

The gardens began to spread themselves out; terraced lawns, from whose flower-beds, now a blurred chaos so far as colour was concerned, waves of perfume came stealing down to him; statuary appeared, white and ghostly in the half light, and here and there startlingly lifelike; there were trimmed shrubs, and a long wall of roses trailed down from the high stone balcony. But, as yet, there was no sound or sign of human life! That was to come.

Wrayson came to a pause at last. He had pa.s.sed from the shelter of the woods into a laurel walk, but further than this he could not go without being plainly visible to any one in the chateau. So he waited and watched. There were lights, he could see now, behind many of the ground floor windows of the chateau, and more than once he fancied that he could catch the sound of music. He tried to fancy in which room she was, to project his pa.s.sionate will through the twilight, so that she should come to him. But the curtains remained undrawn, and the windows closed. Still Wrayson waited!

Then at last Providence intervened. Above the top of the woods, over on the other side of the chateau, came first a faint lightening in the sky, which gradually deepened into a glow. Slowly the rim of the moon crept up, and very soon the spectral twilight was at an end. The shadowy landscape became real and vivid. It was a new splendour creeping softly into the night. Wrayson moved a little further back into his shelter, and even as he did so one of the lower windows of the chateau was thrown open, and two women, followed by a man, stepped out. Their appearance was so sudden that Wrayson felt his breath almost taken away. He leaned a little forward and watched them eagerly.

The woman, who was foremost of the little group, was a stranger to him, although her features, and a somewhat peculiar headdress which she wore, seemed in a sense familiar. She was tall and dark, and she carried herself with the easy dignity of a woman of rank. Her face was thoughtful and her expression sweet; if she was not actually beautiful, she was at least a woman whom it was impossible to ignore. But Wrayson glanced at her only for a minute. It was Louise who stood by her side!--the music of her voice came floating down to him. Heavens! had he ever realized how beautiful she was? He devoured her with his eyes, he strained his nerves to hear what they were saying. He was ridiculously relieved to see that the man who stood by their side was grey-headed. He was beginning to realize what love was. Jealousy would be intolerable.

They moved about the terrace. He scarcely knew whether he hoped or feared the more that they would descend and come nearer to him. After all, it was cruelly tantalizing. He dared not disobey the Baroness, or he would have stepped boldly from his hiding-place and gone up to them. But that, by the terms of his promise, was impossible. He was to make his presence known to Louise only if he could do so secretly. He was not to accost her in the presence of any other person. It might be days or weeks before the opportunity came--or it might--it might be minutes! For, almost without warning, she was alone. The others had left her, with farewells, if any, of the briefest. She came forward to the grey stone parapet, and, with her head resting upon her hand, looked out towards the woods.

His heart began to beat faster--his brain was confused. Was there any chance that she would descend into the gardens--dare he make a signal to her? Her head and shoulders were bare, and a slight breeze had sprung up during the last few minutes. Perhaps she would feel the cold and go in! Perhaps--

He watched her breathlessly. She had abandoned her thoughtful att.i.tude and was standing upright, looking around her. She looked once at the window. She was apparently undecided whether to go in or not. Wrayson prayed then, if he had never prayed before. He didn't know to whom! He was simply conscious of an intense desire, which seemed somehow formulated into an appeal. Before he was fully conscious of it, she was coming down the steps. She stood on the edge of the lawn for a moment, as though considering; then, carefully raising her skirts in both hands, she picked her way amongst the flower-beds, coming almost directly towards him. Glancing round, he saw her objective--a rustic seat under a dark cedar tree, and he saw, too, that she must pa.s.s within a few feet of where he stood. She walked as one dreaming, or whose thoughts are far distant, her head thrown back, her eyes half closed. The awakening, when it came, was sudden enough.

"Louise," he called to her softly, "Louise!"

She dropped her skirts. For a moment he feared that she was going to cry out.

"Who is that?" she asked sharply.

"It is I, Herbert Wrayson," he answered. "Don't be afraid. Shall I come out to you, or will you come down the laurel path?"

"You!" she murmured. "You!"