Part 2

‘True or false, I cannot waste words with you.—Sir Geoffrey, I hold you to your promise.—Enid, you shall keep your word.’

‘We are not in the habit of bestowing the daughters of our house upon adventurers,’ Sir Geoffrey replied. ‘I am sure your natural good sense and a little calm reflection will show you the folly of your demand.’

‘My father has spoken for me,’ Enid said. ‘I have nothing to add.’

Le Gautier stepped across the room to her. She rose to her feet in alarm. Lucrece stood between the two, and grasping Enid by the wrist, and laying her hand upon the Frenchman’s shoulder, held him back. ‘Are you mad that you ask this thing?’ she asked.

‘And wherefore? How does it concern you?’

She looked him steadily in the face as she replied: ‘Then I must refresh your memory;’ and raising her voice, till it rang through the lofty room, ‘because you have a wife already!’

Le Gautier staggered back; but he was not beaten yet. ‘Another of your little fabrications,’ he said mockingly.

‘Look at him!’ Lucrece exclaimed, turning to the others, and pointing at the detected man with infinite scorn. ‘Look into his face—mark his dejected air, though he braves it out well, and tell me if I am wrong.’

‘Your word is doubtless a good one; but there is something better than words, and that is proof. Do you not think I can see through this paltry conspiracy which has been got up against me? But you have the wrong man to deal with in me for that. I will have the compact fulfilled; my power is not over yet; and, Sir Geoffrey, I give you one more chance. Refuse at your peril.’

‘I do refuse,’ Sir Geoffrey answered icily. ‘Do your worst.’

‘That is your decision?—And now, as to these groundless accusations you have brought against me. You have made them; prove them.’ He turned to Lucrece with a gesture which was almost noble, all the actor’s instinct aroused in him now. There was one desperate chance for him yet.

‘You had best take, care, if I accept you at your word.’

‘I wish to be taken at my word. I demand your proofs!’

‘And you shall have them!’ Saying these words, Lucrece glided swiftly from the room.

An awkward silence fell upon the group. Le Gautier was the first to speak. There was a kind of moisture in his eye, and an air of resigned melancholy on his face. ‘You have misjudged me,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Some day, you will be ashamed of this.—Sir Geoffrey, you are the victim of a designing woman, who seeks, for some reason, to traduce my fair fame. If I have a wife, let them bring me face to face with her here.’

‘You have your wish, Hector, for I am here!’

Le Gautier bounded forward like a man who has received a mortal hurt, and gazed at the speaker with glaring eyes. Valerie was standing before him, not without agitation herself. A low cry burst from his lips, and he drew his shaking hand down his white damp face. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked, his voice sounding strangely to his own ears, as if it came from far away. ‘Woman! why do you come here now, to destroy me utterly?’

She shrank back—an eloquent gesture to the onlookers—a gesture seven years’ freedom from thraldom had not obliterated. ‘You wished to see me. Lo! I am here! Turn round to your friends now, and deny that I am your lawful wife—deny again that you have ever seen me before, and put me to the proof.—Why do you not speak? Why do you not show a little of that manhood you used to have? Strike me, as you have done often in the times gone by—anything better than standing there, a poor, pitiful, detected swindler—a miserable hound indeed!’

There was a dead silence now, only broken by Le Gautier’s heavy breathing, and the rustle of his sleeve as he wiped the perspiration from his face.

‘There is the proof you demanded,’ Lucrece said at length. ‘We are waiting for you to deny the witness of your eyes.’

But still Le Gautier did not speak, standing there like some stone figure, his limbs almost powerless. He raised his head a moment, then lowered it again swiftly. He tried to articulate a few words, but his tongue refused its office.

Sir Geoffrey laid his hand upon the bell. ‘Have you nothing to say?’ he asked.

‘I—I—— Let me go out—the place is choking me!’

Sir Geoffrey rang the bell sharply. ‘Then this interview had better close. It has already been too long, and degrading.—James, show Monsieur le Gautier out, if you please.—I have the honour to wish you good-morning; and if we do meet again,’ he added in a stern undertone, ‘remember, it is as strangers.’

Le Gautier, without another word or look, left the room, Lucrece following a moment later, and leading Valerie away. Isodore stepped out from her hiding-place, her face alternately scornful and tender.

‘We owe you a heavy debt of gratitude indeed!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed warmly. ‘It is extremely good of you to take all this trouble for mere strangers. Accept my most sincere thanks!’

‘We are not quite strangers,’ Isodore replied, turning to Enid. ‘Lucrece told you who she was; let me tell you who I am. I have never met you, though once I hoped to do so. I am Genevieve Visci!’

‘What! Signor Visci’s sister—the girl who—who’——

‘Do not hesitate to say it. Yes, Isodore and Genevieve are one. Out of recollection of old times, when you were so kind to my dear brother, I have not forgotten you, knowing Le Gautier so well.’

‘But Lucrece, your sister, to come here as my maid. And Le Gautier—how did you know? I am all at sea yet.’

‘It is a long sad story, and some day, when I know you better, I will tell you all, but not now. But one thing, please, remember, that come what will, Le Gautier cannot harm you now. He may threaten, but he is powerless. I have only to hold up my hand’——

‘And Frederick—Mr Maxwell?’

‘Do not be impatient. You will see him to-morrow; for this evening I have need of him. You have not the slightest grounds for anxiety. Le Gautier will never harm any one more.’

‘How strangely, sternly, you speak,’ Enid replied.

Isodore smiled. ‘Do I? Well, you heard what Lucrece said, and I may have planned a little retaliation of my own. The eastern eagle flies slowly, but his flight is sure. Trust me, and fear not.’

Enid was bewildered. But the time was near when she was to understand.

* * * * *

With baffled fury and revenge raging in his heart, Le Gautier turned away in the direction of his lodgings, anywhere to get away from himself for a time, nothing left to him now but to wreak his vengeance upon Sir Geoffrey in the most diabolical way his fiendish ingenuity could contrive—and Isodore. By this time, Maxwell was no more; there was some grain of satisfaction in that; and he had Marie St Jean to fall back upon.

He sat brooding in his rooms till nearly nine—time to attend the meeting of the League, the last one he determined that should ever see his face. Had he known how fatally true this was, he would have faced a thousand dangers rather than gone to Gray’s Inn Road that night. It was nearly ten when he lowered his gas, and struck off across the side streets in the direction of Holborn. When he reached his destination, he walked up-stairs, the only arrival as yet. Had he been less preoccupied, he would not have failed to notice the glance bestowed upon him by the custodian. He lingered about the room till one by one the company came in.

They were not long in commencing business. Le Gautier did not occupy the chair on this occasion; the proceedings of the evening were important, and a Supreme Councillor was present. He greeted each man coldly. To Le Gautier his manner was stern to the last degree. The routine commenced, and was conducted quietly for some time in the briefest, dryest fashion. Then the president for the evening rose, and taking from his pocket the gold moidore, commanded every one there to throw his upon the table. Presently, nine golden coins glittered on the green baize. ‘One short,’ the president said sternly. ‘Whose?’

They looked round, each waiting for the other to speak.

‘It is mine,’ Le Gautier exclaimed. ‘I did not think it necessary.’

‘You have no right to think; it is not in your province. If you have in any way parted with it’—— He stopped significantly, and Le Gautier hastily intervened.

‘I humbly beg your pardon. I will fetch it immediately. I have not far to go; I can return at once. In justice to myself, I am sure you will permit me to fetch it.’

‘No!’ thundered the Chief Councillor with a glance in Le Gautier’s face that made his heart beat thick and fast. ‘And as to justice, you shall have it presently, to the uttermost scruple.—Gentlemen, there is a traitor present!’

With one accord they sprang to their feet, suspicion and alarm in every eye.

‘Who is it?’ they cried. ‘Death to the traitor!’

‘Look round among yourselves, and see if you can discover him.—No? Then he wears a good mask who has a hard conscience.—Stand up, traitor!—ay, the most despicable; stand up, and look us in the face! Who is the man who has enjoyed our deepest confidences—the man we have to thank Isodore for discovering?—Stand up, I say! Rise, Hector le Gautier!’

The Frenchman knew his last hour had come; he knew that such a bold accusation as this could not be made without the most convincing proof. But despite his failings, he was not the man to cower before such a great danger. He braced his nerves till they were like steel; there was no particle of fear in his face as he turned at bay.

‘I had expected something like this,’ he said. ‘It is not likely that my promotion should pass by without incurring some jealousy. I will say nothing about my long services, the years I have spent in the service of the League. My accuser, and your proof!’

A murmur of applause ran round the table at this sentiment. There was no appearance of guilt here.

‘Isodore is your accuser—the proofs she holds. You are charged with conspiracy to overthrow the League, in conjunction with another person. Your companion is one Marie St Jean.’

Even with his iron nerves under control as they were, Le Gautier could not repress a start, which was not lost upon the Councillor.

‘Marie St Jean,’ he continued, ‘received from you certain papers for the purpose of handing them over to the police. The information contained therein is complete. Do you deny your handwriting?’

He threw a bundle of papers across the table to Le Gautier. As he read them, his white face became corpse-like in its livid hue. But he was fighting for his life now, and summoned all his self-command to his aid, knowing full well that if he was condemned, he would never leave that room alive. His calm air came back to him.

‘I admit the handwriting—private memoranda stolen from my apartments. I am still waiting for your proof. Besides, Marie St Jean is a member of the League; she restored to me’——

‘Your insignia, which you had the temerity to stake upon the colour at Homburg.—Salvarini, I call upon you to say if this is not so?’

‘I would rather say nothing about this,’ Salvarini said. Le Gautier noticed how distressed and agitated he was. ‘I fear—I much fear you have too much proof, without calling upon me.’

‘You stand by a friend, Luigi!’ Le Gautier said bitterly. ‘Do not think of me now. Every man must look to himself!’

‘Sufficient of this,’ the president interrupted. ‘My proofs are overpowering. You are charged with packing the cards, to force the Brother Maxwell upon a dangerous mission.’

‘Enough!’ the prisoner exclaimed; ‘confront me with my accuser!’

‘You shall see her.—Isodore!’

As he raised his voice, a breathless hush fell upon the assembly. Presently, a woman entered; for a moment she looked at the group, and then raising her veil, showed her beautiful face.

‘Marie!’ A deep, bitter cry, following this word, burst from Le Gautier’s lips, and he fell forward upon the table, his head upon his hands. There was no escape now, he knew full well. And the woman he thought had loved him—the woman who knew all his plans to the letter, was the Princess of the League, the most dangerous member, Isodore herself! Salvarini looked into her face for a moment, and then whispered one word—Genevieve; but she heard it, and smiled at him, pleased that one man should remember—heard the little word which struck a womanly chord in her heart, and was thankful. Then she made him a sign to be silent.

Stunned by the crushing force and suddenness of the blow, Le Gautier half lay there, with his head resting upon the table, no sound breaking the solemn silence. The president addressed the wretched man, asking him if he had anything to say.

He raised his head and looked dazedly around, then down again. ‘I? No! I have nothing to say. My doom is sealed!’

‘Bind him!’

Rough hands were laid upon the doomed wretch, and fastened him in his chair securely, taking care to make his bonds too tight for escape. Le Gautier did not resist; he knew now that there was no escape in all the wide world for him. They left him thus, trooping in to an adjoining room to go through the mockery of the trial which the orders of the League demanded.

When Le Gautier looked up, he was alone, save for Isodore. ‘You are satisfied with your work now?’

‘Yes, I am satisfied now,’ Isodore echoed. ‘So you thought to play me off against Enid Charteris, poor fool! Hector le Gautier, I am going to tax your memory. Do you remember one evening in the Mattio woods when you abandoned a lonely trusting girl, the sister of your friend? Do you remember laughing at a vow of vengeance five years ago? Justice is slow, but it is sure. Do you remember?’

‘Yes. Is it possible that you can be?’——

‘Yes, it is possible, for I am Genevieve Visci! It is my turn now.’ And without another word she left him.

Presently, a desire to live took the place of his dull despair. In an agony he tugged and turned, cutting his wrists with the keen rope till the blood ran down his hands. He could hear the low monotonous voices from the adjoining room, the hurrying footsteps in the road below; and only that thin wall between himself and safety. Even the window leading from the iron staircase was open, and the evening breeze fanned his white despairing face. He struggled again till his heart nearly burst, and then, worn out, broke into tears.

‘Hector!’

He turned round, hardly certain whether it was a voice or a fancy. Gradually out of the mists a figure emerged, and creeping stealthily across the bare floor, came to his side. It was Valerie.

‘So you have come to gloat over my misery too,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Go, or, manacled as I am, I shall do you a mischief.’

For answer, she drew a knife from her pocket, and commenced, with trembling fingers, to sever his bonds. One by one the sharp knife cut through them, till at length he stood a free man. One grudging, grateful glance at the woman, and he disappeared.

CHRISTMAS IN A DÂK BUNGALOW.

I have spent Christmas Day in England and abroad, in my own family, in mess, and with three commanding officers; but till the year 1883, I had never spent one absolutely alone. I had on this occasion another opportunity of spending the day in mess, for I was in India at the time; but I came to the conclusion that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; and three days’ leave for certain is better than a fortnight’s in prospect; and having had rather a trying share of work for some time before Christmas, I decided to forego the usual ‘going round the men’s dinners,’ with its concomitant drinking of curious and, I hope, rare liquors, eating pieces of Christmas pudding, and subsequently getting through the day in a manner more Sunday-like than actually amusing. So, on the 23d December I found myself about seven P.M. in the dâk bungalow of a river-side station in the Punjab, to which I had been recommended by a messmate as a good spot for a few days’ duck-shooting. My servant, a Madrassi, rejoicing in the name of Zacharias—the ‘Madras-man every time liking Christian name, sah’—had preceded me, and had got the principal agent for my three days’ shooting in the shape of a shikaree, who bore the very unchristian name of Rukkum (Rook’em) Deen, in attendance to make arrangements for the morrow.

Now, I am not going to enter into a discussion on the subject of duck-shooting, for many reasons, of which I will mention, first, that I might have conducted such operations on any other three days of the year, if I could have got leave; second, that I am not very proud of my own prowess with a gun; third, that I didn’t get much, though I saw a great deal; and fourth, that the subject of wildfowl shooting is not one to enter into in a light and frivolous spirit, but must be approached with awe, and with a due appreciation of nice distinctions of weights and measures, and a ready desire to hear all manner of extraordinary asseverations, however fond of truth the listener may be. Mine is a true story, and is only a collection of jottings and thoughts. After this explanation, I can safely skip over my doings on the 24th, which were confined solely to the region of the river and the somewhat distant society of the wildfowl.

Christmas Day opened fine and clear. That is a matter not of much note in India, where the weather is remarkable for its succession of fine clear days; but in England, Christmas Day—if my recollection serves me true—does not always open fine and clear. I was called at half-past six A.M.; and by eight had put my cartridges together, dispensed with a tub, had breakfast, and started for the river again. Outside the dâk bungalow, as luck would have it, I met an Englishman—a terrible thing on the continent, I know; but somehow in India we are not so painfully exclusive. I wished him good-morning and the compliments of the season; he returned the sentiments; and that was all the conversation I had with a fellow-countryman on that day. I was on the river from half-past eight till four; but skip that period for the third of my reasons for making this no wildfowler’s story. Soon after getting in, cleaning my gun, having my tub, and generally assuming a more civilised appearance, I heard the church bells ringing; and hurried off to find a children’s service being conducted by a very nice, benevolent-looking clergyman, who had for his congregation about twenty children and a round dozen of adults, parents and so on. The reverend gentleman was giving the children a simple address as I entered, and I felt at home and happy. The little voices joined in singing hymns and saying prayers; and when the lines, ‘Guard the sailors tossing on the deep blue sea,’ were sung, I let my thoughts wander over a good many leagues of land and sea to where others were, as I felt sure, thinking of me in the midst of their Christmas doings.

On my return to the bungalow, I found that there was an Englishman living under the same roof, and felt that I should very much like to have a companion at my dinner. I accordingly sent Zacharias to find out who the Englishman was and what he was doing here; for I did not want to bore him with an invitation if he had come here for the express purpose of being alone with his thoughts. I imagine my faithful valet found the inquiry difficult of prosecution, or, what is more likely, that he gave it up in favour of seeing ‘master’s Christmas dinner’ being properly cooked. Anyway, it was not till Zacharias brought me my soup that he brought the intelligence that ‘the English gentleman having joint;’ so my intentions were frustrated, and the only attention I could pay the mysterious stranger was to send him the following note:

DÂK BUNGALOW, _Christmas Day_.

DEAR SIR—I should be very proud if you would accept a glass of wine from my bottle, which I send by bearer, and drink with me to Absent Friends. I am very sorry I did not find out till too late that there was an Englishman in the bungalow, or I would have done myself the pleasure of asking if you would care to dine with a fellow-countryman on this occasion. Hoping you will excuse my intrusion, I am, sir, with all the compliments of the season, yours truly,

H. S.

I sent him at the same time an open bottle of ‘Sparkling Wine,’ and soon after received my bottle back, with but very little gone, and at the same time the following answer:

DEAR SIR—Thanks very many. A merry Christmas to you. I drink your health.—Yours sincerely,

——.

I am very sorry I cannot put in the name of an eminent politician or other dignitary, by way of completing the story; but as I couldn’t read it, my curiosity must remain for ever unsatisfied, and the mysterious stranger of Christmas Day, 1883, will remain wrapped up in his mystery, unless he chances to peruse these lines, and, remembering the incident, discloses himself.

As for my Christmas dinner, I must say it was as good as any government establishment, and much better than most dâk bungalows could produce. The hand of Zacharias was betrayed in potato chips and cunning sauces. I can here fairly bring in that I had a duck of my own shooting, and the only thing wanting was bread. The forgetful _khansamah_ or housekeeper had not warned the native baker, and I had to make the best I could of _chupatties_, a poor substitute; and I am convinced that its permanent institution on the English diet table would soon reduce us to a very low ebb indeed. But being in a properly Christmas frame of mind, good-will to all men, &c., I determined to make the best of a bad business, and toasted them before a wood-fire, thus giving myself an opportunity of introducing to Zacharias’ notice, à la Mr Barlow, of _Sandford and Merton_ fame, ‘The Story of King Alfred and the Chupattie, or the Indigent Monarch and the Haughty Swineherd’s Wife.’ Wishing to be understood, I endeavoured to put the simple narrative in a somewhat Indianised language, and the following was the result:

‘One time in Englishman’s place, one King Alfred living.—Do you understand “king?” _Mr_ Queen _subse burra rajah_’ (the biggest swell of all).

_Zacharias._ Yes, sah.

‘One time Alfred Sahib young man, and wanting to study how the newly franchised ones would vote.—No; I mean liking to see how his people’s getting on _mallum_.—Do you understand?’

_Zach._ Yes, sah.

‘Very well; he went to house of one man looking after pigs (_Suir ke kubberdarwallah_). That right?’

_Zach._ Yes, sah.