Flower of the Gorse

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER IX

  SHOWING HOW HARVEY RAYMOND BEGAN THE ATTACK

  Raymond had too many irons in the fire that day to permit of therelaxation of mental and bodily energies that his condition demanded.

  It was essential to the success of a scheme now taking definite shape inhis mind that he should seem to avoid Rupert Fosdyke's prying whilemaintaining a close surveillance on his movements. Thus, owing to thechance that he occupied a bedroom overlooking the Place, he knew whenFosdyke went out after changing the garments of ceremony worn thatmorning, and guessed quite accurately that an afternoon stroll wouldlead the younger man past Madeleine's cottage. He watched for thearrival of the solicitor's clerk from London, and witnessed Fosdyke'sreturn soon after five o'clock. Then, realizing that the first of manyformalities with regard to Carmac's will was in progress, he quitted hispost, meaning to sit on the terrace until Fosdyke reappeared.

  The weather, however, had turned cold, and he found an overcoatnecessary. With the help of a servant he buttoned the coat in such wisethat the empty right sleeve dangled as though he had lost a limb. As aconsequence he was not instantly recognizable. Harry Jackson, seatedpatiently at the window behind the sycamores, failed to make out theidentity of that small, ungainly figure until it had paced to and froseveral times across the top of the small square.

  A remarkable feature of a day rich in events fated to exercise a maleficinfluence on the lives of four people was provided by the fact that twomen so opposite in characteristics as Harvey Raymond and Harry Jacksonshould have spent some hours in staring out from their respectiveapartments at the normal if picturesque panorama presented by the mainthoroughfare of the village. Each was unaware of the other's vigil, eachwholly unconscious of the part he was destined to play in a drama oflove and death.

  The secretary, of course, was nursing a project that could hardly failto raise his fortunes to a height hitherto undreamed of; whereas thecheery-hearted steward, though his puzzled thoughts at times would havebothered Raymond far more than an occasional twinge of a broken arm didhe but know their nature, was actually concerned about little else thanhis own future and the welfare of a mother dependent on his earnings.Still, it was odd that the sight of Raymond seldom failed to bring aperplexed frown to Jackson's face. The two had never met until theStella sailed from Southampton Water. They had not exchanged a wordbeyond the commonplaces of existence on board a yacht. Yet Jacksondisliked Raymond, and, if minds were mirrors, the quasi-gentleman wouldhave seen in the civil-spoken steward a mortal enemy; though none wouldbe more surprised by the fact than the sturdy little Cockney himself.

  Jackson felt rather lonely just then. Popple was occupied with anEnglish-speaking representative of the Brest marine salvors, from whomhe had hired a diver and a tug. Tollemache had vanished, being milesaway at Moelan with Yvonne and her father, and the changeful showbeneath had lost some of its novelty in the eyes of the lively Londoner.He resented enforced inactivity. He wanted to be up and doing, bustlingabout like Popple; but that wretched ankle of his anchored him securelyin bed or easy chair.

  Thus there was nothing to distract his attention from Raymond's slowpromenade beneath; and he speculated idly as to whom the secretary wasawaiting--evidently someone from the annex, judging by the frequentglances cast that way.

  * * * * *

  At last Jackson's harmless curiosity was gratified. Rupert Fosdyke,walking rapidly, hove in sight. The main door of the annex was notvisible from the onlooker's window; but Raymond's unflagging patrol toldhim where the expected one would come from, and a close family likenessbetween uncle and nephew--notably in the dark, lustrous eyes, ravenblack hair, and pink and white skin--served as an effectual label. Nocumbrous Brittany cart happened to be creaking noisily over the roughcobbles of the square. The gale had subsided. The window was open.Jackson could hear every word that passed. These were brief, and much tothe point.

  "Ah, Mr. Fosdyke!" said Raymond, affecting a pleased interest because oftheir chance meeting. "I'm glad I've run across you. What did you wishto say when we came back from Nizon?"

  Fosdyke, staring with uncomprehending eyes at first, seemed to awakesuddenly to the fact that his late uncle's secretary barred the way."I've forgotten," he said slowly. "At present I want only to tell you togo to the devil!"

  "Indeed!" Raymond jerked his head backward, as if he had been flickedwith a whip on the cheek.

  "Yes, truly."

  "But what grounds for quarrel exist between us?"

  "Quarrel? I'm not quarreling. I simply curse you."

  "But why?"

  "I feel like that, and you are a suitable object."

  "Yet no man breathing could be better disposed toward you personallythan myself."

  "To blazes with you and your disposition!" was the amiable comment, andFosdyke strode off into the gloom.

  Raymond remained stock still until the tall, alert figure vanished roundthe bend where the houses surrounding the Place converge near thebridge. Then, with chin sunk into the collar of his coat, he went in thesame direction.

  Jackson was distinctly amused, even edified. "Well, I'm jiggered!" hechuckled. "If that ain't a nice, friendly w'y o' pawsing the time o'd'y--not 'arf! Real pire o' blighters, both of 'em!"

  * * * * *

  It was of course much later in the evening when Yvonne, a prey to deeptribulation of spirit, entered her mother's suite. Mother and daughterinvariably kissed now at meeting and parting. On this occasion each wasnervous and distrait; Yvonne because of foreboding on Madeleine'saccount, and Mrs. Carmac by force of that vague and obscuresubconsciousness which lurks ever behind the operations of the everydaymind,--that dim ghost as inseparable from the acknowledged senses as theshadow from the material body, yet impalpable as a shadow, and not to bedefined in terms of human speech.

  All day long had this specter peered over her shoulder. Its influencewas affrighting and oppressive. The woman who had regarded herconscience as dumb and deaf and blind during nearly twenty years hadsuddenly discovered that the gagged and bound prisoner had become a mostimperious master. Was it conscience, she wondered, that caused thisdisease? But conscience is a monitor that recalls past transgressionsand threatens punishment, while her inward vision was aware rather ofgloomy portents akin to that state of being fay, which is the unenviableattribute of the Celt. A Breton would understand, and dread; but, asTollemache put it, the fumes of petrol seem to have banished suchwraiths from that outer world in which Mrs. Carmac moved and had herbeing.

  Even Yvonne's presence did not banish the phantom. Singularly enough,she and her mother, each weighed down by premonition of evil, lookedmore alike than ever, and each interpreted the other's distress by thelight of her own disturbed thoughts. Yvonne, accustomed all her life tounfettered frankness, took it that her mother was saddened by herprolonged absence.

  "I'm sorry, Dear, I could not reach you earlier," she explained. "Myfather came back from Concarneau this morning, and he looked soovertaxed and worried that I resolved to take him for a long walk. Heand I and Lorry--Mr. Tollemache, you know--went miles and miles. That isour cure for the blues,--an infallible recipe. We arrived home ratherlate, but feeling ever so much better."

  "Your face shows it, Yvonne," was the answer; though the quiet cynicismwas softened by a wistful smile.

  "Honestly we were lively as crickets during the second half of ourtramp. But, where I am concerned, something that occurred during thelast few minutes undid all the good. Tell me, Dear, what sort of man isMr. Fosdyke?"

  * * * * *

  In the conditions few questions could have been more surprising. Hernephew's name was the last Mrs. Carmac expected to hear on Yvonne'slips, since the girl seldom alluded to him, and had shown by her mannerthat the handsome Rupert made slight appeal, if any.

  "Why do you ask?" she said.

  "You have heard m
e speak of Madeleine Demoret, a village girl, one of mygreatest friends?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, Mr. Fosdyke has made her acquaintance,--through me, as ithappens,--and now he is meeting her constantly. They are together atthis moment."

  "Isn't that what one rather expects in village girls?" Mrs. Carmac,borne down by her own ills, could spare scant sympathy for any flightymaiden who had fallen victim to the fascinations of her good-lookingrelative.

  "It may be so elsewhere, but not in Brittany," persisted Yvonne, who waskeen-witted enough to understand how differently she and a woman of hermother's world might view Madeleine's folly. "Here such behavior isunforgivable. A girl may not walk out with the man to whom she isengaged, far less with a stranger. I--I hardly know how to act. Youcannot imagine how completely her friends and neighbors will condemnpoor Madeleine if it is spread abroad that she was seen in Mr. Fosdyke'scompany. As for Peridot, if he knew, he would kill him!"

  "Kill Rupert?"

  "Yes."

  "Peridot may find consolation elsewhere."

  Yvonne winced; but she had a purpose in mind, and persevered bravely."Oh, please don't say such things!" she said. "I want you, Dear, to tryand look at this affair through my eyes. I know my Bretons, andMadeleine must be saved, in spite of herself. Can you persuade Mr.Fosdyke to leave Pont Aven tomorrow?"

  "He is going: not tomorrow, perhaps, but soon."

  "Are you sure--quite sure?"

  "He told me so himself today."

  "If I could be certain he would go, I shouldn't speak to Lorry."

  "How does it affect Mr. Tollemache? Is he too an admirer ofMadeleine's?"

  Then, despite her perplexities, Yvonne laughed. "No, of course not," shecried. "Didn't I imply that Peridot means to marry her?"

  "In that event why appeal to Mr. Tollemache?"

  "Oh, I see your difficulty now. When aroused Lorry is a very convincingperson indeed. He would tell Mr. Fosdyke to 'quit,'--that is exactlywhat he would say,--and if Mr. Fosdyke didn't quit he'd jolly well makehim--which is also what Lorry would say."

  Mrs. Carmac seemed to consider the point for a few seconds. "Mydifficulties, as you put it, cover a larger area," she said, with abitterness that had its pathetic side. "Don't forget, Yvonne, that I amdebarred from sharing your confidence. Dare I ask, for instance, if atsome future date you will probably become Mrs. Laurence Tollemache?"

  The girl flushed under this wholly unexpected thrust. First her father,now her mother, had voiced such a far-fetched notion! "I don't know,"she said simply.

  "The events of the last week have taught me the un-wisdom of thinkingthat we can forecast the future; but I can say now, with the utmostcandor, that I will never leave my father."

  * * * * *

  At the moment she had no other thought than a disavowal of herprospective marriage with Tollemache, or any other man; but her mothercowered as though flinching from a blow, and Yvonne was instantly awarethat the words had conveyed a meaning far beyond their intent.

  "Oh, dear!" she sighed. "How easily one can be misunderstood! Now it isstupid that you and I should be at cross purposes in a matter of thissort. Will it help if I tell you what my father said this morning? Heasked me why you had decided that Mr. Carmac should be buried here, andI gave it as my opinion that you meant to remain in Pont Aven aconsiderable time. Was I mistaken?"

  The older woman's face became a shade whiter; but she replied steadilyenough, "Something of the sort had certainly occurred to me."

  "But you must abandon it, Dear," said the girl earnestly, dropping ather mother's feet, and taking one thin hand in both hers. "If you dothat, everything will go wrong. Dad and you cannot possibly live in asmall place like this, where everybody knows everybody else, where thehistory of each family or individual is common property, and wheregossip would soon find flaws in the pretense that you and I are aunt andniece. If you continue to reside here, it means that Dad and I must go.No, you sha'n't weep, or be allowed to fret yourself into somemisleading notion as to what I really mean. Once and for all, thepossibility of that kind of lamentable thing happening must disappear.

  "Dad is a fair-minded man,--I don't think his enemies, if he had any,would deny that,--and he admits that it would be cruel to keep you andme apart, now that we have been brought together in such anextraordinary way. He will let me come and visit you often, I am sure.But, Dearest, if you drive him away from a spot he had made his own, ifhe is shut out of the one tiny bit of earth he has learned to love, Ishall go with him, and I'll feel so deeply that you have treated himharshly that I will never see you again.

  "Now isn't it better that we should examine the present position ofaffairs clearly and honestly? A great many years ago you left my fatherof your own accord. He suffered terribly,--how much I have learned onlyduring the last week,--but he gave himself up to art, to a few friends,and to me. He has taught himself to be happy in a quiet way. You, takingpart in that social whirl I have read about in books, and dimly imaginedfrom paragraphs in newspapers, can have no idea of the pleasant monotonyof life in Pont Aven. Why, an excursion to Le Faouet is an event to betalked of a whole month before and after the great day itself, and asold picture supplies a week's excitement! Existence on those linescannot possibly appeal to you.

  "Mother dear, you cannot undo the past; but you can and will leave myfather undisturbed in his work and his few joys. You must go away fromPont Aven, and never come here again. Write to me as often as you like,and I for my part will try to recite our small histories so as tointerest and amuse you. Arrange that I may stay with you sometimes, andI'll come. I promise you that Dad will never prove unreasonable if youfeel lonely and want me. But it would be unjust both to you and to himif I did not say now that I shall always put him first. I am notreproaching you. Why should I? You have never caused me any unhappiness,because it would be monstrous to charge you with responsibility for theseries of misfortunes that began with the wreck. I mean to look on youas a mother, and indeed, indeed, my love and respect will never waverunless they are brought into conflict with the greater love and duty Iowe my father!"

  Yvonne's voice broke on those concluding words. During the long walk bythe shore of the Belon she had planned the arguments she would use inurging her mother to adopt the only course that would restore serenityto her father's declining years. She had plenty of opportunity forleisured thought. The Belon rivulet gives its name to an estuary farwider than that of the Aven, and the violet light of a December eveninghad led Ingersoll into a discussion with Tollemache on the nature andlimits of realism in art. But all her carefully conned phrases had fledwhen she looked into her mother's sorrow-laden eyes, and that patheticappeal had welled forth tumultuously from her heart.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Carmac was visibly shaken. Yvonne's straightforward plea had sweptinto ruin the structure built of vain longings and fantastic dreams. Yetwhat else could she expect? She had known her own mind on thatnever-to-be-forgotten night in Paris when she deserted her husband andchild, and fled to secure "freedom." Her action was deliberate; she hadnot felt a tremor of remorse when she wrote that cruel letter to herhusband. What reason had she now to hope that the closed door mightreopen?

  She bent her graceful head over Yvonne's, and made the first realsacrifice that life had demanded from an essentially strong ifinordinately vain temperament.

  "Dear," she murmured, "why should we torture each other more? I agree toyour terms. Tell your father that when I go from Pont Aven it shall beforever."

  For a little while neither could speak. Mrs. Carmac was the first torecover some semblance of composure.

  "Don't let us endeavor tonight to peer any more deeply into the comingyears," she said, smiling wanly. "When I reach London my affairs willdemand a great deal of attention. I shall write to you every week, Dear.Sometime in the spring, when England is at its best, you shall come tome, and I'll strive to render your visit enjoyable, because
you have somuch to see, and there is so much worth seeing. Your presence will makeme young again.

  "Now I must explain why it is absolutely necessary that I should remainhere until it is ascertained whether or not anything can be recoveredfrom the wreck. I care little about the jewels and money that went downwith the yacht. Of course, if they are found, so much the better. Butthe really important thing is a despatch box full of documents that wasin one of Mr. Carmac's cabin trunks. It contains papers that I would notwish others to see. Will you, then, tell your father that I shall leavehere the day after that case is put into my hands, or, if the searefuses to disgorge, when I am assured that further effort at salvage isuseless? The local notary, as well as the people at Brest, agrees withCaptain Popple that if the remains of the Stella are lodged on the reefa close search is possible, and may yield results; but if the two partsof the hull have been washed into the tideway, we may as well abandonthe project altogether. In a word, if the weather remains fine, thematter will be settled within a week, or even less. To show my gratitudeto your father for the concession he has made with reference to you, Iam willing that he and you should go away tomorrow, should he think itadvisable. You can give me your address, and I shall let you know thedate of my departure. Of course I shall be sorry----"

  "No, Dearest, you are not to cry any more," and the strong young armswere flung impulsively round the grieving mother's neck. "You will onlymake yourself ill again. I am sure everything will work out all right inthe end. Scheme and contrive as we will, it is God who decides. All thatwe can do is but strive to act right, to atone for mistakes, to help oneanother. For the rest, the future is in God's hands."

  "Ah, my dear one," came the tremulous words, "a kindly Providence hasgiven you wisdom beyond your years! It was well for you that you werereared by a man like John Ingersoll. Some day, when present bitternessis dead, and he realizes that at least I am repentant, you must tell himthat in restoring to me a daughter such as you he has only shown me thedepth of my folly. I little dreamed that I should ever be taught such alesson. Yvonne, when you marry, marry for love. May Heaven pardon me, Idid not! I married your father because I thought I should have what wethoughtlessly call 'a good time.' I left him, not for love of anotherman, but in the hope that I might secure a wealthier husband. I havenever known what it means to love anyone but myself. Perhaps I shalllearn now--too late!"

  * * * * *

  When Yvonne went out she found Raymond awaiting her at the doorwaybeneath.

  "Miss Ingersoll," he said deferentially, "if you are going home, may Iwalk with you as far as the bridge? I would not inflict my company onyou if I had not something of importance to say."

  "Your company will be no infliction, at any rate, Mr. Raymond," sheanswered readily; though she would have vastly preferred to be alone, ifonly during the few minutes' interval that separated a very tryinginterview with her mother from the calm and smoke-laden atmosphere ofthe studio, where her father and Tollemache would surely be expectingher appearance at any moment.

  "But it must be rather a bore that you should have to accommodate yourlively pace to my slow march," said Raymond. "You see, I dare not stepout quickly over these rough stones. I----"

  "Please walk as slowly as you like," she cried, with a quick sympathywhich the man had counted on as establishing a species of comradeshipbetween them. He too, like Yvonne herself a few hours earlier, hadrehearsed every syllable of a conversation to which he attached theutmost importance; but, unlike her, he was following his "lines" withthe glib perfection of a skilled actor.

  "I hope you will pardon me also if I reach the heart of my subjectwithout preamble, as the lawyers say," he went on. "You have met Mr.Rupert Fosdyke several times of late, and I think I am not mistaken if Iassume that you are neither greatly impressed by him nor inclined toview with indifference the ridiculous flirtation he has been carrying onwith Madeleine Demoret. Am I right?"

  Yvonne was momentarily tongue-tied with surprise. The last thing sheexpected was any interference by this plausible-spoken little man in theaffairs of the two people he had named. She knew that her motherdisliked him,--that fear was now added to her dislike,--but she couldnot guess that Raymond was actually counting on her knowledge as asuccessful factor in the campaign he opened that night during the shortstroll between the Hotel Julia and the bridge.

  "Pray believe that I have intervened in this matter with the best ofmotives," he added hurriedly. "It is often the fate of meddlers to bemisunderstood--I have been an innocent victim in that respect oncealready in this very place. But I felt it was due to you that I shouldexplain the action I have taken today. You may be angry with me. Icannot help that. My own sense of right and wrong tells me that I amjustified; so I may only put the circumstances before you, and leave youto decide whether you approve or condemn. In a sentence, then, I haveventured to remonstrate most openly and emphatically with Mr. Fosdyke.You may not be aware of it, but he is tempting your friend Madeleine tomeet him secretly. Of course she is your friend because of the simpleconditions of life which obtain in Pont Aven. In America or England youand she would fall naturally into widely different social strata. Buthere--in Arcady, if I may so express myself--close intimacy between youand a peasant girl is permissible, even advantageous. The case of RupertFosdyke is wholly outside this small local circle. His association withMadeleine must inevitably lead to a grave scandal. I have tried to put astop to it: not without success. He assures me that he has seen hertonight for the last time. Now, Miss Ingersoll, I want you to tell mecandidly, first if I have done right, and in the second place if youcommend my action."

  "Mr. Raymond," cried Yvonne impulsively, "I thank you from my heart. Icannot find words to express my relief at your news. You haveaccomplished something wonderful. Really, I am more than grateful."

  "That is good to know," he said, stopping in the roadway, and bowing ashumbly as his tightly strapped arm would permit. "You have said all Iwished to hear, and more."

  "But won't you come with me to our cottage?" she said, aware only ofdeep joy because of Madeleine's salvation, since it was nothing lessthat this queer-mannered stranger had brought about. "I have not daredto speak of this matter to my father and Mr. Tollemache. I can tell themnow, and make light of it, while giving you some of the credit that isyour due. Do come!"

  "Not tonight, if you will excuse me. I am yet far from strong, andtoday's experiences have been somewhat exhausting. If you will ask me tomeet Mr. Ingersoll tomorrow, or next day, I shall feel honored."

  For a rascal--which he undoubtedly was--Harvey Raymond exhibited arestraint that marked a rare capacity for intrigue. He had notanticipated such a long stride in advance as an invitation by Yvonne tomake her father's acquaintance then and there. But a lightning flash ofclear judgment had shown that he would gain immensely by a display ofmodest reticence. The story would not suffer in its telling because hewas not present to receive congratulations from the artist and whatwould be tantamount to an apology from Tollemache.

  So he bowed again, with a murmured "Goodnight!" and, involuntarily as itwere, stretched out his left hand, which Yvonne seized and wrung warmly.Then, apparently shocked by his own boldness, he turned abruptly, andhurried back to the annex.

  * * * * *

  During a few seconds Yvonne stared after him.

  "Well," she breathed, "I have never before been so deceived inanyone--never!"

  Which shows that even the brightest and most intelligent girl ofnineteen may have a lot to learn of human nature before she can formreliable estimates of its true inwardness, because the time was not fardistant when she would as soon have thought of crediting one of thehorde of vipers then hibernating among the rocks of Brittany with anylofty conception of duty or service to mankind as Harvey Raymond withsimilarly benevolent intentions toward his fellow creatures.