The Tremendous Event Part 22

She was silent, with her eyes still fixed upon Simon's and her grave face animated by an expression of mingled defiance and fear. Suddenly Simon seized her hand:

"But then . . . but then you knew the truth! Ever since this morning, you have known that they went along the river-bank. . . . Look . . .

over there . . . you can see their tracks leading eastward. . . . And you never told me! Worse than that. . . . Why, yes . . . it was you who called my attention to the cable. . . . It was you who set me going in a southerly direction . . . towards France. . . . And it is through you that we have lost nearly a whole day!"

Standing close up to her, with his eyes plumbing hers, holding her fingers in his, he resumed:

"Why did you do that? It was an unspeakable piece of treachery. . . .

Tell me, why? You know that I love Miss Bakefield, that she is in the most terrible danger and that to her one day lost may mean dishonour . . . and death. . . . Then why did you do it?"

He said no more. He felt that, in spite of her appearance, which was impa.s.sive as usual, the girl was overcome with emotion and that he was dominating her with all the power of his manhood. Dolores' knees were giving way beneath her. There was nothing in her now but submissiveness and gentleness; and, since, in their exceptional position, no reserve could restrain her confession or check her impulsiveness, she whispered:

"Forgive me. . . . I wasn't thinking . . . or rather I thought of no one but you . . . you and myself. . . . Yes, from the first moment of our meeting, the other day, I was swept off my feet by a feeling stronger than anything in this world. . . . I don't know why. . . . It was your way of doing things . . . your delicacy, when you threw your coat over my shoulders. . . . I'm not used to being treated like that.

. . . You seemed to me different from the others. . . . That night, at the Casino, your triumph intoxicated me. . . . And since then my whole life has been centred on you. . . . I have never felt like this before. . . . Men . . . men are brutal to me . . . violent . . .

terrible. . . . They run after me like brutes . . . I loathe them.

. . . You . . . you . . . you're different. . . . With you I feel a slave. . . . I want to please you. . . . Your every movement delights me. . . . With you I am happier than I've ever been in my life. . . ."

She stood drooping before him, with lowered head. Simon was bewildered at the expression of this spontaneous love, which to him was so completely unforeseen, which was at once so humble and so pa.s.sionate.

It wounded him in his love for Isabel, as though he had committed an offence in listening to the girl's avowal. Yet she spoke so gently; and it was so strange to see this proud and beautiful creature bowing before him with such reverence that he could not but experience a certain emotion.

"I love another woman," he repeated, to set up definitely the obstacle of this love, "and nothing can come between us."

"Yes," she said. "Nevertheless I hoped . . . I don't know what. . . .

I had no object in view. . . . I only wanted us to be alone together, just the two of us, as long as possible. It's over now. I swear it.

. . . We shall find Miss Bakefield. . . . Let me take you to her: I think I shall be better able than you. . . ."

Was she sincere? How could he reconcile this offer of devotion with the pa.s.sion to which she had confessed?

"What proof have you?" asked Simon.

"What proof of my loyalty? The absolute acknowledgement of the wrong which I have done and which I wish to repair. This morning, when I came here alone, I looked all over the ground to see if there was anything that might give us a clue and I ended by discovering on the edge of this rock a sc.r.a.p of paper with some writing on it. . . ."

"Have you it?" cried Simon, sharply. "Has she written? Miss Bakefield, I mean?"

"Yes."

"It's for me, of course?" continued Simon, with increasing excitement.

"It's not addressed. But of course it was written for you just as yesterday's message was. Here it is. . . ."

She held out a piece of paper, moist and crumpled, on which he read the following words, hastily scribbled in Isabel's hand:

"No longer making for Dieppe. They have heard a rumour of a fountain of gold . . . a real, gushing spring, it seems. We are going in that direction. No immediate cause for anxiety."

And Dolores added:

"They left before daybreak, going up the river. If this river is really the Somme, we must suppose that they have crossed it somewhere, which will have delayed them. So we shall find them, Simon."

CHAPTER III

SIDE BY SIDE

The jaded horse was incapable of further service. They had to abandon it, after emptying the saddle-bags and removing the rug, which Dolores wrapped about her like a soldier's cloak.

They set out again. Henceforth the girl directed the pursuit. Simon, rea.s.sured by Isabel's letter, allowed Dolores to lead the way and twenty times over had occasion to remark her perspicacity and the accuracy of her judgment or intuition.

Then, less anxious, feeling that she understood, he became more talkative and abandoned himself, as on the previous day, to the burst of enthusiasm which the miracle of this new world awakened in him. The still unsettled coast-line, the irresolute river, the changing hues of the water, the ever-varying forms of the heights and valleys, the contours of the landscape, hardly more definite as yet than those of an infant's face: all of this, for an hour or two, was to him a source of wonder and exaltation.

"Look, look!" he cried. "It is as though the landscape were amazed at showing itself in the light of day! Crushed until now beneath the weight of the waters, buried in darkness, it seems embarra.s.sed by the light. Each detail has to learn how to hold itself, to win a place for itself, to adapt itself to new conditions of existence, to obey other laws, to shape itself in accordance with other purposes, in short, to live its life as a thing of earth. It will grow acquainted with the wind, the rain, the frost; with winter and spring; with the sun, the beautiful, glorious sun, which will fertilize it and draw from it all the appearance, colour, service, pleasure and beauty which it is capable of yielding. A world is being created before our eyes."

Dolores listened with a charmed expression that spoke of the delight which she felt when Simon spoke for her benefit. And he, all unawares, meanwhile became kindlier and more attentive. The companion with whom chance had a.s.sociated him was a.s.suming more and more the semblance of a woman. Sometimes he reflected upon the love which she had revealed to him and asked himself whether, in professing her readiness to devote herself, she was not seeking above all to remain by his side and to profit by the circ.u.mstances which brought them together. But he was so sure of his own strength and so well protected by Isabel that he took little pains to fathom the secrets of this mysterious soul.

Three times they witnessed murderous conflicts among the swarm of vagabonds who were checked by the barrier of the river. Two men and a woman fell, but Simon made no attempt to defend them or to punish the criminals:

"It is the law of the strongest," he said. "No police! No judges! No executioners! No guillotine! So why trouble ourselves? All social and moral acquisitions, all the subtleties of civilization, all these melt away in a moment. What remains? The primordial instincts, which are to abuse your strength, to take what isn't yours and, in a moment of anger or greed, to kill your fellows. What does it matter? We are back in the troglodyte age! Let each man look to himself!"

The sound of singing reached them from somewhere ahead, as though the river had transmitted its loud echo. They listened: it was a French rustic ditty, sung in a drawling voice to a tuneful air. The sound drew nearer. From the curtain of mist a large open boat came into view, laden with men, women and children, with baskets and articles of furniture, and impelled by the powerful effort of six oars. The men were emigrant sailors, in quest of new sh.o.r.es on which to rebuild their homes.

"France?" cried Simon, when they pa.s.sed.

"Cayeux-sur-Mer," replied one of the singers.

"Then this river is the Somme?"

"It's the Somme."

"But it's flowing north!"

"Yes, but there's a sharp bend a few miles from here."

"You must have pa.s.sed a party of men carrying off an old man and a girl bound to two horses."

"Haven't seen anything of that sort," declared the man.

He resumed his singing. Women's voices joined in the chorus; and the boat moved on.

"Rolleston must have branched off towards France," Simon concluded.

"He can't have done that," objected Dolores, "since his present objective is the fountain of gold which some one mentioned to him."

"In that case what has become of them?"

The reply to this question was vouchsafed after an hour's difficult walking over a ground composed of millions upon millions of those broken sea-sh.e.l.ls which the patient centuries use in kneading and shaping of the tallest cliffs. It all crackled under their feet and sometimes they sank into it above their ankles. Some tracts, hundreds of yards wide, were covered with a layer of dead fish on which they were compelled to trudge and which formed a ma.s.s of decomposing flesh with an intolerable stench to it.

But a slope of hard, firm ground led them to a more rugged promontory overhanging the river. Here a dozen men, grey before their time, clothed in rags and repulsively filthy, with evil faces and brutal gestures, were cutting up the carca.s.s of a horse and grilling the pieces over a scanty fire fed with sodden planks. They seemed to be a gang of tramps who had joined forces for looting on a larger scale.

They had a sheep-dog with them. One of them stated that he had that morning seen a party of armed men crossing the Somme, making use of a big wreck which lay stranded in the middle of the river and which they had reached by a frail, hastily-constructed bridge.