CHAPTER XIII
THE WOMAN WHO KNEW
"Don't you sometimes grow weary for an abiding place?" Laura pulled off her gauntlets and laid her hot hands on the cool lichen-grown stones of the field-wall. The bridle-rein hung over her arm. Fitzgerald had drawn his through a stirrup. "Think of wandering here and there, with never a place to come back to."
"I have thought of it often in the few days I have been here. I have a home in New York, but I could not possibly afford to live in it; so I rent it; and when I want to go fishing there's enough under hand to pay the expenses. My poor old dad! He was always indorsing notes for his friends, or carrying stock for them; and nothing ever came back. I am afraid the disillusions broke his heart. And then, perhaps I was a bitter disappointment. I was expelled from college in my junior year. I had no head for figures other than that kind which inhabit the Louvre and the Vatican."
Her face became momentarily mirthful.
"So I couldn't take hold of the firm for him," he continued. "And I suppose the last straw was when I tried my hand at reporting on one of the newspapers. He knew that the gathering of riches, so far as I was concerned, was a closed door. But I found my level; the business was and is the only one that ever interested me or fused my energy with real work."
"But it is real work. You are one of those men who have done something. Most men these days rest on their fathers' laurels."
"It's the line of the least resistance. I never knew that the Jersey coast was so picturesque. What a sweep! Do you know, your house on that pine-grown crest reminds me of the Villa Serbelloni, only yonder is the sea instead of Como?"
"Como." Her eyes became dreamily half-shut. Recollection put on its seven-league boots and annihilated the space between the wall under her elbows and the gardens of Serbelloni. Fitzgerald half understood the thought. "Isn't Mr. Breitmann just a bit of a mystery to you?" she asked. The seven-league boots had returned at a bound.
"In some ways, yes." He rather resented the abrupt angle; it was not in poetic touch with the time being.
"He is inclined to be too much reserved. But last night Mr. Ferraud succeeded in tearing down some of it. If I could put in a book what all you men have seen and taken part in! Mr. Breitmann would be almost handsome but for those scars."
He kicked the turf at the foot of the wall. "In Germany they are considered beauty-spots."
"I am not in sympathy with that custom."
"Still, it requires courage of a kind."
"The noblest wounds are those that are carried unseen. Student scars are merely patches of vanity."
"He has others besides those. He was nearly killed in the Soudan." Fitzgerald was compelled to offer some defense for the absent. That Breitmann had lied to him, that his appearance here had been in the regular order of things, did not take away the fact that the Bavarian was a man and a brave one. Closely as he had watched, up to the present he had learned absolutely nothing; and to have shown Breitmann the telegram would have accomplished nothing further than to have put him wholly on guard.
"Have you no scars?" mischief in her eyes.
"Not yet;" and the force of his gaze turned hers aside. "Yet I must not forget my conscience; 'tis pretty well battered up."
She greeted this with laughter. She had heard men talk like this before. "You have probably never done a mean or petty thing in all your life."
"Mean and petty things never disturb a man's conscience. It's the big things that scar."
"That's a platitude."
"Then my end of the conversation is becoming flat."
"Confess that you are eager to return to the great highways once more."
"I shall confess nothing of the sort. I should like to stay here for a hundred years."
"You would miss us all very much then," merrily. "And Napoleon's treasure would have gone in and out of innumerable pockets!"
"Do you really and truly believe that we shall bring home a single franc of it?" facing her with incredulous eyes.
"Really and truly. And why not? Treasures have been found before.
Fie on you for a Doubting Thomas!"
"We sometimes go many miles to find, in the end, that the treasure was all the time under our very eyes."
"Hyperbole!" But she looked down at the lichen again and began pealing it off the stone. She thought of a duke she knew. At this instant he would have been telling her that she was the most beautiful woman since Helen. What a relief this man at her side was! She was perfectly aware that he admired her, but he veiled his tributes with half-smiles and flashes of humor. "What a gay little man that Mr. Ferraud is!"
"Lively as a cricket. Your father, I understand, is to take him as far as Marseilles. After to-night everything will be quite formal, I suppose. Honestly, I feel ill at ease in accepting your splendid hospitality. I'm an interloper. I haven't even the claim of an ordinary introduction. It has been very, very kind of you."
"You know Mrs. Coldfield. I will, if you wish it, ask her to present you to me."
"I am really serious."
"So am I."
"They will be here to-morrow?"
"Yes. And in four days we sail. Oh, it is all so beautiful! A real treasure hunt."
"It does not seem possible that I have been here a week. It has been a long time since I enjoyed myself so thoroughly. Have you ever wondered what has become of the other man?"
"The other man?"
"Yes; the other one in or outside the chimney. I've been thinking about him this long while. Hasn't it occurred to you that he may have other devices?"
"If he has he will find that he has waited too long. But I would like to know how he found out. You see," triumphantly, "he believed that there is one." She shook the rein, for the sleek mare was nozzling her shoulder and pawing slightly, "Let us be off."
She put her small booted foot on his palm and vaulted into the saddle, and he swung on to his mount. He stuffed his cap into a pocket, for he was no fair-weather horseman, but loved the tingle of the wind rushing through his hair; and the two cantered down the clear sandy road.
"En avant!" she cried joyously, with a light stroke of her whip.
For half a mile they ran and drew in at the fork in the road.
Exhilaration was in the eyes of both of them.
"There's nothing equal to it. You feel alive. And off there," with a wave of the whip toward the sea, "off there lies our fortunes. O happy day! to take part in a really truly adventure, without the assistance of a romancer!"
"I think you are one of the most charming women I have ever met," he replied.
"Some women would object to the modification, but I rather like it."
"I withdraw the modification." The smile on his lips was not reflected in his eyes.
The antithesis of the one expression to the other did not annoy her; rather she was sensitive to a tender exultance the recurrence of which, later in the day, subdued her: for Breitmann at tea turned a few phrases of a similar character. Fitzgerald was light-hearted and boyish, Breitmann was grave and dignified; but in the eyes of each there was a force she had encountered so seldom as to forget its being. Breitmann, in his capacity of secretary, was not so often in her company as Fitzgerald; nevertheless she was subtly attracted toward him. When he was of the mind he could invent a happy compliment with a felicity no less facile than Fitzgerald. And the puzzling thing of it all was, both men she knew from their histories had never been ornaments at garden-parties where compliments are current coin. She liked Fitzgerald, but she admired Breitmann, a differentiation which she had no inclination to resolve into first principles. That Breitmann was a secretary for hire drew no barrier in her mind. She had known many gentlemen of fine families who had served in like situations. There were no social distinctions. On the other hand, she never felt wholly comfortable with Breitmann. There was not the least mistrust in this feeling. It was rather because she instinctively felt that he was above his occupation. To sum it up briefly, Breitmann was difficult to understand and Fitzgerald wasn't.
Fitzgerald had an idea; boldly put, it was a grave suspicion. Not once had he forgotten the man in the chimney. Once the finger had pointed at Breitmann or some one with whom he was in understanding. This had proved to be groundless. But he kept turning over the incident and inspecting it from all sides. There were others a-treasure hunting; persons unknown; and a man might easily become desperate in the pursuit of two-million francs, almost half a million of American money, more, for some of these coins would be rare. He had thoroughly searched the ground outside the cellar-window, but the sea gravel held its secret with a tenacity as baffling as the mother-sea herself. There was a new under-groom, or rather there had been. He had left, and where he had gone no one knew. Fitzgerald dismissed the thought of him; at the most he could have been but an accomplice, one to unlock the cellar-window.
While Breitmann lingered near Laura, offering what signs of admiration he dared, and while the admiral chatted to his country neighbors who were gathered round the tea-table, Fitzgerald and M. Ferraud were braced against the terrace wall, a few yards farther on, and exchanged views on various peoples.
"America is a wonderful country," said M. Ferraud, when they had exhausted half a dozen topics. He spread out his hands, Frenchman-wise.
"So it is." Fitzgerald threw away his cigarette.
"And how foolish England was over a pound of tea."
"Something like that."
"But see what she lost!" with a second gesture.
"In one way it would not have mattered. She would patronize us as she still does."
"Do you not resent it, this patronizing attitude?"
"Oh, no—we are very proud to be patronized by England," cynically. "It's a fine thing to have a lord tell you that you wear your clothes jolly well."
"I wonder if you are serious or jesting."
"I am very serious at this moment," said Fitzgerald quietly catching the other by the wrist and turning the palm.
M. Ferraud looked into his face with an astonishment on his own, most genuine. But he did not struggle. "Why do you do that?"
"I am curious, Mr. Ferraud, when I see a hand like this. Would you mind letting me see the other?"
"Not in the least." M. Ferraud offered the other hand.
Fitzgerald let go. "What was your object?"
"Mon dieu! what object?"
Fitzgerald lowered his voice. "What was your object in digging holes in yonder chimney? Did you know what was there? And what do you propose to do now?"
M. Ferraud coolly, took off his spectacles and polished the lenses. It needed but a moment to adjust them. "What are you talking about?"
"You are really M. Ferraud?" said the young man coldly.
The Frenchman produced a wallet and took out a letter. It was written by the president of France, introducing M. Ferraud to the ambassador at Washington. Next, there was a passport, and far more important than either of these was the Legion of Honor. "Yes, I am Anatole Ferraud."
"That is all I desire to know."
"Shall we return to the ladies?" asked M. Ferraud, restoring his treasures.
"Since there is nothing more to be said at present. It seems strange to me that foreign politics should find its way here."
"Politics? I am only a butterfly hunter."
"There are varieties. But you are the man. I shall find out!"
"Possibly," returned M. Ferraud thinking hard.
"I give you fair warning that if anything is missing—"
"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!"
"I shall know where to look for it," with a smile which had no humor in it.
"Why not denounce me now?"
"Would it serve your purpose?"
"No," with deeper gravity. "It would be a great disaster; how great, I can not tell you."
"Then, I shall say nothing."
"About what?" dryly, even whimsically.
"About your being a secret agent from France."
This time M. Ferraud's glance proved that he was truly startled. Only three times in his career had his second life been questioned or suspected. He eyed his hands accusingly; they had betrayed him. This young man was clever, cleverer than he had thought. He had been too confident and had committed a blunder. Should he trust him? With that swift unerring instinct which makes the perfect student of character, he said: "You will do me a great favor not to impart this suspicion to any one else."
"Suspicion?"
"It is true: I am a secret agent;" and he said it proudly.
"You wish harm to none here?"
"Mon dieu! No. I am here for the very purpose of saving you all from heartaches and misfortune and disillusion. And had I set to work earlier I should have accomplished all this without a single one of you knowing it. Now the matter will have to go on to its end."
"Can you tell me anything?"
"Not now. I trust you; will you trust me?"
Fitzgerald hesitated for a space. "Yes."
"For that, thanks," and M. Ferraud put out a hand. "It is clean, Mr.
Fitzgerald, for all that the skin is broken."
"Of that I have no doubt."
"Before we reach Corsica you will know."
And so temporarily that ended the matter. But as Fitzgerald went over to the chair just vacated by the secretary, he found that there was a double zest to life now. This would be far more exciting than dodging ice-floes and freezing one's toes.
Laura told him the news. Their guests would arrive that evening in time for dinner.
It was Breitmann's habit to come down first. He would thrum a little on the piano or take down some old volume. To-night it was Heine. He had not met any of the guests yet, which he considered a piece of good fortune. But God only knew what would happen when she saw him. He dreaded the moment, dreaded it with anguish. She was a woman, schooled in acting, but a time comes when the best acting is not sufficient. If only in some way he might have warned her; but no way had opened. She would find him ready, however, ready with his eyes, his lips, his nerves. What would the others think or say if she lost her presence of mind? His teeth snapped. He read on. The lamp threw the light on the scarred side of his face.
He heard some one enter, and his gaze stole over the top of his book. This person was a woman, and her eyes traveled from object to object with a curiosity tinged with that incertitude which attacks us all when we enter an unfamiliar room. She was dressed in black, showing the white arms and neck. Her hair was like ripe wheat after a rain-storm: oh, but he knew well the color of her eyes, blue as the Adriatic. She was a woman of perhaps thirty, matured, graceful, handsome. The sight of her excited a thrill in his veins, deny it how he would.
She scanned the long rows of books, the strange weapons, the heroic and sinister flags, the cases of butterflies. With each inspection she stepped nearer and nearer, till by reaching out his hand he might have touched her. Quietly he rose. It was a critical moment.
She was startled. She had thought she was alone.
"Pardon me," she said, in a low, musical voice; "I did not know that any one was here." And then she saw his face. Her own blanched and her hands went to her heart. "Karl?"