“Supposing that it is true,” he suddenly burst out, his long frame distended, his thin lips parted so that his yellow teeth almost protruded, his eyes steely—“supposing it is true that he has, say, a portion of them in his grasp—the treasures which the priests of Yun-Tse have collected through all the centuries—what are they but the emblems of self-sacrifice, the gifts of men aiming towards spirituality, denying themselves to give to some shadowy god? Think of it, Angèle—century after century, denying themselves, those poor creatures who lived with their heads bent to the land, feeding like cattle, living and dying like sheep, denying themselves for the sake of that strange vein of spirituality that runs through all so-called heathen races. Is all their self-denial, all they went through, the result of it all, to go to reinstate in luxury and prosperity a family of foreign roués and gamblers?”
“Why go into the history of the treasure?” she demanded. “What about all the treasures of Peru and Mexico, brought into the old world? Where did they come from? Who asks? Who cares? What about the adventurers all the world over, who wrenched from the new countries they risked their lives to discover, gold and gems and metals and brought them to the melting-pot of life? You were not always a sentimentalist, Ralph,” she went on, after a moment’s half-choked pause. “You know perfectly well that if the gems are there, whatever their history may be, they are no good to any one hidden and unseen. If, on the other hand, they belong to any one to-day, any one family, any one power, they belong to the family who learned of their existence and whose son went out and risked his life to acquire them.”
“You are very eloquent, Angèle,” he observed in a noncommittal manner.
“Every one who believes what they say is eloquent,” she rejoined.
He rose to his feet and walked to the further end of the room abruptly and without excuse. For several moments he looked out of the window, first across to the red brick wall bordering his domain, and then down the narrow lane at the end of which half a dozen villagers were gathered together, sluggishly gossiping. Above the roofs of the village was the sloping park, but the moon had not yet risen and here was only a sea of obscurity. On his way back he poured himself out a glass of water and drank it.
“Angèle,” he said, “our lives have lain very far apart. I have seen very little of you, understood very little of you. Did you love De Fourgenet?”
“I have loved only one man,” she replied, “and I have loved him, not, as you believe, for his unworthiness, but for his worthiness. De Fourgenet turned my head for a week—and neglected me for years. I loved Bertram from the first day we met. He knew it and never once took advantage of the knowledge.”
“I would to God I felt convinced,” he exclaimed, almost passionately, “whether you tell the truth or lie to shield the man you love.”
“I tell the truth,” she assured him with fervour. “Anything there might have been between Bertram and myself would have been at my seeking, not his. He is of the race of evil-doers, if you must call him an evil-doer—God knows they exist—to whom women are sacred.”
Endacott thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and sank almost sulkily lower into his chair. It was as though he were being convinced against his will.