Chapter XXI: The Reason Why

The Chateau de St. Michel came into sight long before the sturdy and swift-racing motor-boat drew up alongside the private landing-stage. It was a modern structure, built after the style of an old French castle, with its many towers and turrets, standing about fifty yards from the cliff edge down whose precipitous face a winding path had been cut leading to the landing-stage.

Richard Bessington and his erstwhile prisoner and present host were standing on the upper deck watching the ever-nearing coastline. It was late afternoon and some forty hours since they had left the Scottish shore and set out upon their journey. Bessington had found Antoine Dubosc a most congenial host and companion, and the hours which must inevitably have dragged in less pleasing company, had passed quickly and enjoyably enough. The young man had treated his rather saturnine guest to a frank and completely unvarnished history of this far from blameless life, never, however, mentioning the name of Dominic Arden once during the whole of the narrative.

"And here," he said, gaily pointing with a wave of the hand to the nearing scene before them, "is my home, the ancient citadel of the Duboscs, who were _grand seigneurs_ of the land when the Britons still dressed themselves in woad, and which was--in short, _mon ami_--built according to my instructions about two years ago, and occupied by one Antoine Dubosc, who adopted the name on entering into his domain of St. Michel, and who is happy in the possession of a mistress--I mean _chatelaine, bien entendu_, who adores him and who will greet him on his arrival shortly. _Non_, M'sieur le Boss, I have never entangled myself with a wife. My trade--if I may dishonour such a calling by such a bourgeois title--is too full of risks to permit of the harrowing of wifely feelings and affections, and the making of unnecessary widows. Besides, we are too fond of each other to wish to, or to make it necessary to marry. It is human nature to resent interference with one's liberty. Tie the knot of matrimony and, hey presto! you at once create a sensation of restraint, and with it comes, of necessity, the desire for freedom. That is why there are so many divorces to read about in the papers. Why--_Mon Dieu_! I ask you, why will people marry? Tell me that, monsieur."

"Ask me something simpler, Monsieur Dubosc," was the reply. "I refuse to be drawn into any such complex argument. Tell me," he went on, "how do you manage about the Customs? The authorities must know that you have this boat and this landing-stage. Is there no difficulty?"

"None whatever, monsieur. When I leave here I leave as the _grand seigneur_ in his pleasure-boat in broad daylight. But I call at certain lonely spots of which I have knowledge and then my small boat goes forth and returns heavier than she started. If this continues at intervals throughout the night, it is surely easy to suppose that by morning I may continue on my pleasure trip with my hold stored full of merchandise, and no one the wiser. It is simple, though one has, it is understood, to know the ropes and take precautions. And yet, for one who is careful and also lucky, it is always simple. Indeed, my dear Leonie she has said very often: 'It is surely too simple, my Antoine, one day you will be caught.' And _helas!_ she is right, for one day I am caught, and you, M'sieur le Boss, have the honour to be the one who catches. Ah! Life, it is very funny sometimes, but it is also very pleasant when it is as easy to make a bargain with the one who catches as I, monsieur, have made with you.

"But come. We have arrived and we will now ascend to my chateau. And as my word is my bond, as you have seen, I have given orders that this boat shall remain here for the departure of M'sieur le Boss with his companion whom he is to conduct either to Madame his wife or Monsieur the hangman as soon as possible. And if the latter, how very grateful should your Government be that you avoid for them the tedium and expense of extradition. Voila, monsieur. Allow me to welcome you to France, the home of those who do things that are considered not British."

And, with a low bow, he sprang on to the jetty, swept off his felt hat and stood with a hand held out, offering assistance to Bessington, who followed.

A moment later they were climbing the steep path up the cliff's side, on the outer edge of which was a stout iron railing, and five minutes more brought them to the top where in front of them was a formal garden, consisting of terraces of flower-beds and a path which led to the chateau itself.

In silence they traversed the fifty yards, Bessington finding speech difficult and not quite sure as to how he was meant to take Dubosc's last words, which sounded to him like a jibe of contempt. And yet the man had been willing enough to sacrifice his friend on the altar of his own liberty, and that was surely far more worthy of contempt than what he, Bessington, was doing--namely--his duty in taking a criminal back to justice, or a husband to his wife. Better, however, to say nothing and leave the matter alone. He did not pretend to understand Antoine Dubosc, and people and things that he did not understand were usually left severely alone.

They arrived at length at the chateau. The bell was rung and a manservant opened the door. He glanced inquiringly at the stranger for a moment and then turned a beaming countenance on his master.

"Madame, she is in? Or has she gone out?" asked Dubosc, as he motioned his guest inside and followed.

"Madame is in the library with monsieur," was the reply. "She was not expecting you so soon."

"_Non, mon vieux_, and neither was I. I am even a surprise to myself. But, _enfin_, I am here and that, I think, is all that matters. Come, M'sieur le Boss, a word in your ear." He drew Bessington aside while the servant disappeared through a door at the end of the large entrance hall. "We shall enter the library noiselessly, so as not to disturb them, for they are at work, Leonie and my friend. And I wish you to see him before you speak, after which I leave the rest to your British chivalry. Come."

So saying, he led the way across the hall and paused at a door, turned the handle noiselessly and, opening it gently, motioned with his hand to Bessington to stand near the aperture while he himself stood aside.

Bessington, greatly wondering at all this, obeyed, even suspecting a trap or a hoax that was being played on him but never for one instant guessing the truth.

Then he looked into the room.

At a desk, her head bent, her hand busy with a pen, sat a woman whose face he could not see, while in the centre of the room, which was strangely bare of furniture, a tall slim man was standing, pausing for a moment in his pacing to and fro, and which a second later he began again.

Bessington recognized that tall slim figure, the dark hair, strangely grey about the temples, the thin ascetic face and nervous hands of Dominic Arden, but a Dominic Arden nine years older than when he had last seen him, and with lines of suffering and time upon his face that belonged rather to a man of fifty than to a youth of twenty-nine. Also, there was another difference which at first the looker-on could not explain or fathom. He was speaking in fluent French, evidently dictating to the woman at the desk, while his nervous hands moved convulsively every now and then, and though his eyes stared straight into Bessington's own, yet he gave no sign of recognition, or fear, or any emotion whatsoever. He came slowly nearer, pausing only a yard away, then turned and retraced his steps, stopped again and suddenly flung out a hand.

"Oh, this is abominable," he cried, still in French. "I am indeed a selfish brute. You have sat there for an hour while I--I have been pouring out my soul, forgetting that your poor hand must be dead with cramp, and otherwise behaving like the mere male creature that I am. Stop, Leonie, my angel, and kick me round the room as I deserve."

"Foolish one," replied the woman, raising her head and exhibiting to the watching and now completely-puzzled Bessington a face of singular attraction, without in any way being beautiful. For there was not a feature that was exactly right. The nose was too short, the mouth too large, the shape of the face too wide, the colour too pale; but in the eyes, deep with a wonderful compassion, there was beauty, and as they looked at the distress in the good-looking face of the man, that expression of pity, of compassion, deepened.

"Silly boy that you are," she said, her tones low and rather husky. "As if I tire ever when seeing you happy. Do I not know that this is the one bright spot of light in your poor darkened life? And would I not work my hands to the bone to see happiness come to you as you weave your wonderful stories and forget your own troubles in the weaving? _Alons, cheri_, enough of this about me. March, my friend, march. Are we not in the very middle of the _denouement_ when the wife returns and will soon be in her husband's arms? For such a state of things to happen we must not pause an instant. Now, I am ready once more."

But the young man did not commence with his dictation at once. Instead, he walked slowly and rather unsteadily towards where she sat, stretching out his hands, feeling first the desk, then her hand; finally one of his own rested on her head in a mute caress.

"God bless you, Leonie," he said, huskily. And at that Bessington felt the Frenchman's hand on his arm and found himself gently, but firmly, impelled backwards into the hall. Then the door was silently closed and Dubosc spoke.

"_Enfin, mon brave_, you have seen? You are satisfied now that he had reason in staying here? And I suppose that you, as a kind-hearted Briton, are still ready to conduct my friend to the hangman?"

"Good God! The man's blind!" said Bessington hoarsely.

"Yes, M'sieur le Boss, he is, as you say, blind; has, in effect, been blind for nearly seven years. That, you understand, is the reason why he has never returned to his own country to seek his wife. Not only because he could not do so alone and was afraid of what might happen to him, but also because he preferred that the woman he loved should rather believe him dead than feel herself tied to a helpless creature like himself. That, monsieur, in effect, is why he has not been brave enough to deliver himself to your hangman--because, you see, we who loved him did not--strange as it may seem to you--we did not offer our help in that direction, and without it he could not go. For a blind man is a very helpless man, monsieur. A heinous offence, no doubt, on our part, seeing that it is one's duty to help in bringing the wrongdoer to justice. But I and my Leonie have no shame in what we have done and, _nom de Dieu!_ I do not think it is because the Almighty is not British that He will not pardon us."

"Be silent, please," exclaimed Bessington, goaded at last beyond endurance at the other's gibing voice, which now he could understand and, in seeing the justice of which, feel the greater irritation. "Tell me about this. How did he lose his sight? When? Where?"

"He lost it, my friend, in the prison camp of our one time enemies. Never mind how--I will not go into that, since it is over and we are at peace again, and recriminations--as you have it in your vernacular--get us nowhere. Also, there are some things it is better not to know; one sleeps the easier for not knowing them. Enough that his sight is gone, never to return. For, believe me, we have taken him to the very greatest specialists, and all give but the one opinion. For me, if I had been in his place, I should have ended it long ago--for to lose one's sight is to lose everything. And it does not make it any better to know that he is only one among hundreds of young men who lost theirs in the War. But he is brave, that one, and my Leonie, bless her heart, she helps him to be brave, and lightens his dark hours, which, believe me, monsieur, number twenty-three out of twenty-four."

"But he should be happy with such good friends?" protested Bessington, who had not yet adjusted his mind to this new and altogether complicated state of affairs.

"Happy? _Mais non_, is he not for ever thinking of the wife he has lost? Of the wife who, for all he knows, has forgotten him? Do you think we read to him the account of her marriage? But give us credit for some little feeling, monsieur. Of course, we did not. So that he knows nothing of her, not even of where she lives, or if she is married again or even dead."

"But did you not know that she had bought Ardenmore? Surely that would convey something to you of her feelings towards him?"

"No, I did not know. I saw nothing of it in the papers except one paragraph in which it was stated that Ardenmore was once again to change hands and was to be bought by a person of great wealth. It was then that he insisted that I take him across in my boat, I who already had gone so many times to the tower, the secret of which he had told me long ago. It was I who stole the pictures and books for him because--the poor thing--he could not see to steal them for himself."

"And he knows nothing about what you are doing, what use you are making of the secret he told you?"

"Nothing. But nothing at all. Why, _mon Dieu_, if he thinks me an honourable fellow, should I make him unhappy by telling him that I am not? There would be no sense in it. For he is not likely to discover it for himself. So I take a leaf from your book of wise sayings, and I repeat to myself--'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' Wisdom, my friend, does not always make for happiness."

"I see." Bessington spoke slowly, his eyes fixed on vacancy. "I see," he repeated again.

"And now what is to happen?" demanded Antoine Dubosc, regarding his companion out of suddenly narrowed eyelids.

Richard Bessington was silent for a moment. This, of course, explained why the Frenchman had been so ready to take him to see young Arden; he was sure of what would be the result engendered by compassion for a blind man. What would be his action should this result not be forthcoming and Bessington insist on taking his friend back to England? Would he stand by his bargain? Or would things become nasty and dangerous for Richard Bessington? For the moment it was obvious that he must temporize, play for time in which to think.

"You will, of course, give me time in which to consider this matter?" he said at last. Dubosc raised his eyebrows.

"To consider?" he repeated. "But is there, then, anything to consider? Is it possible to suppose that I should have taken you to see my friend if I had not thought that, having seen him, you would be satisfied that there was only one thing left to do, and that to go home--alone?"

And then doubt came to Bessington as to whether he had been wise in trusting himself alone there. Whatever he chose to do, could he trust this man? If his word of honour did not bind him, was that guarantee in the shape of Crosby, who was to go to the police in four days' time should Bessington not return, of sufficiently deterring effect as to hold the Frenchman's hand if he thought fit to raise it against him? He looked quickly into the dark face, fear and doubt in his own eyes, and the steely-eyed crook was quick to see and to understand, and he suddenly laughed.

"Ah, you mistrust me," he said. "You doubt the word of a thief and a smuggler. But you need have no fear. When I agreed to bring you here it was in exchange for my liberty. Had I not brought you I should now have been in gaol. It is for you and my friend to decide between you, that was our bargain, and a bargain is still a bargain, monsieur, even if made between an English gentleman and a French crook. If I am disappointed in you, that is my affair, but it is not, _mon Dieu_, a reason for--murder. Come, monsieur, I await your answer. What do you mean to do? My boat is waiting; my men, who are also my comrades, are awaiting my orders. I cannot ask them to wait forever."

"I know. And yet this is a matter which requires consideration," repeated Bessington. Which was true, for the fact of Dominic Arden's helpless state did alter things considerably. It made it certain that did Hermione hear of it she would be lost to him--Bessington--forever--a thing impossible to contemplate. As for his idea of taking this man back to justice, there would be no justice. There would, instead, be a lot of sickly sentiment towards a blind man, and he would probably get off scot free, if, indeed, he was ever tried, which was doubtful indeed. If he took him back to England, he would be taking him straight into the arms of his wife and ruining his own chances of happiness. And if he left him here, Hermione might in some way discover the truth. He could not leave him here, for Crosby knew the address, and Crosby, with his sickly ideas, might be very dangerous.

And here was where this blindness might be of immense help. There were possibilities--the possibility of a false step made by the blind man on board the motor-boat. A stifled cry in the night, a splash, and, later, an entirely plausible story to Hermione, either of a search for Dominic Arden and a failure to find any such person alive; or that sooner than return to her he had, through fear of what should happen to him, gone off somewhere, no one knew where. Nothing could ever be proved, whichever course he chose to adopt. The Frenchman for his own sake dare not expose him, and he did not credit him with any fine feelings of self-sacrifice for the sake of Dominic Arden.

Also, and this had seriously to be considered now--there was the possibility of eliminating the Frenchman--who might prove troublesome--from the picture altogether. He could provoke a quarrel, from which would ensue a duel, and who had ever stood up against Richard Bessington's marksmanship and come off best yet? Yes, certainly things were shaping, only it would take thinking out. He must go warily.

"Well, M'sieur le Boss." The Frenchman's voice brought him back to realities with a start. "You have made up your mind?"

"I must see the man himself first, before I can say anything," he replied. "I told you that my actions would be guided more or less by his own decision."

"That is true," replied Dubosc, that queer glitter in his usually laughing eyes. "Have you any doubt as to what he will decide? Though, indeed, he may even decide that it would be preferable to return in the custody of police officers than with you, monsieur."

"You mean that if I saw fit to take him and he refused to accompany me, it would be a matter for extradition?"

"That, more or less, is what I mean," was the reply. "At least, it will do," and Bessington failed to hear the irony in the tone.

"And I take it that you will not oppose me whatever happens? Whatever I consider it my duty to do?"

"Monsieur, I do not want your fat friend to put the police on my track, that is understood," was the reply. "Rest assured that I will not oppose you in any way. What you do, you do. And what my friend decides, he decides; I am ready to fall in, you call it, with your plans. That is understood."

"Very well, then, if you will bring Mr. Arden here I will see him."

Antoine Dubosc strode towards the library without another word.