The Isle of Unrest

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XX.

  WOUNDED.

  That night mademoiselle wrote to Denise at Fréjus, breaking at last herlong silence. That she gave the barest facts, may be safely concluded.Neither did she volunteer a thought or a conclusion. She was as discreetas she was secretive. There are some secrets which are infinitely saferin a woman’s custody than in a man’s. You may tell a man in confidencethe amount of your income, and it will go no further; but in affairs ofthe heart, and not of the pocket, a woman is safer. Indeed, you maytell a woman your heart’s secret, provided she keeps it where she keepsher own. And Mademoiselle Brun had only one thought night and day:the happiness of Denise. That, and a single memory--the secret,perhaps, which was such a standing joke at the school in the Rue duCherche-Midi--made up the whole life of this obscure woman.

  Two days later she gave Lory Susini’s message; and de Vasselot sent forthe surgeon.

  “I am going,” he said. “Patch me up for a journey.”

  The surgeon had dealt so freely with life and death that he only shruggedhis shoulders.

  “You cannot go alone,” he said--“a man with one arm and one leg.”

  Mademoiselle looked from one to the other. She was willing enough thatLory should undertake this journey, for he must needs pass throughProvence to get to Corsica. She did not attempt to lead events, but wascontent to follow and steer them from time to time.

  “I am going to the south of France,” she said. “The baron needs me nolonger since the hospital is to be moved to Paris. I can conduct Monsieurde Vasselot--a part of the way, at all events.”

  And the rest arranged itself. Five days later Lory de Vasselot was liftedfrom the railway carriage to the Baroness de Mélide’s victoria at Frejusstation.

  “Madame’s son is, no doubt, from Sedan?” said the courteousstation-master, who personally attended to the wounded man.

  “He is from Sedan--but he is not my son. I never had one,” repliedmademoiselle with composure.

  She was tired, for she had hardly slept since Lory came under her care.She sat open-eyed, with that knowledge which is given to so few--theknowledge of the gradual completion of a set purpose.

  They had travelled all night, and it was not yet midday when mademoisellefirst saw, and pointed out to Lory, the white turret of the chateau amongthe pines.

  The baroness was on the steps to greet them. Like many persons of a gayexterior, she had a kind heart and a quick sympathy. She often did, andsaid, the right thing, when cleverer people found themselves at fault.She laughed when she saw Lory lying full length across her smartcarriage--laughed, despite his white cheeks and the grey weariness ofmademoiselle’s face. She seemed part of the sunshine and the briskresinous air.

  “Ah, my cousin,” she cried, “it does the eyes good to see you! I shouldlike to carry you up these steps.”

  “In three weeks,” answered de Vasselot, “I will carry you down.”

  “His room is on the ground floor,” said the baroness to mademoiselle, inan aside. “You are tired, my dear--I see it. Your room is the same asbefore; you must lie down this afternoon. I will take care of Lory, andDenise will--but, where is Denise? I thought she was behind me.”

  She paused to guide the men who were carrying de Vasselot through thebroad doorway.

  “Denise!” she cried without looking round, “Denise! where are you?”

  Then turning, she saw Denise coming slowly down the stairs. Her face waswhiter than Mademoiselle Brun’s. Her eyes, clear and clever, were fixedon Lory’s face as if seeking something there. There was an odd silencefor a moment--such as the superstitious say, is caused by the passage ofan angel among human beings--even the men carrying Lory seemed to treadsoftly. It was he who broke the spell.

  “Ah, mademoiselle!” he said gaily, “the fortune of war, you see!”

  “But it might have been so much worse,” said the baroness in a whisper toMademoiselle Brun. “Bon Dieu, it might have been so much worse!”

  And at luncheon they were gay enough. For a national calamity is, afterall, secondary to a family calamity. Only de Vasselot and MademoiselleBrun had been close to war, and it was no new thing to them. Theirs was,moreover, that sudden gaiety which comes from re-action. The contrast oftheir present surroundings to that little hospital in a church withincannon-sound of Sedan--the quiet of this country house, the baroness,Denise herself young and grave--were sufficient to chase away the horrorof the past weeks.

  It was the baroness who kept the conversation alert, asking a hundredquestions, and, as often as not, disbelieving the answers.

  “And you assure me,” she said for the hundredth time, “that my poorhusband is well. That he does not miss me, I cannot of course believewith the best will in the world, though Mademoiselle Brun assert it withher gravest air. Now, tell me, how does he spend his day?”

  “Mostly in washing up dishes,” replied mademoiselle, looking severely atthe baron’s butler, whose hand happened to shake at that moment as heoffered a plate. “But he is not good at it. He was ignorant of theproperties of soda until I informed him.”

  “But there is no glory in that,” protested the baroness. “It was onlybecause he assured me that he would not run into danger, and wouldinevitably be made a grand commander of the Legion of Honour, that he wasallowed to go. I do not see the glory in washing up dishes, my friends, Itell you frankly.”

  “No; but it is there,” said mademoiselle.

  After luncheon Lory, using his crutches, made his way laboriously to theverandah that ran the length of the southern face of the house. It wasall hung with creepers, and shaded from the sun by a dense curtain offoliage. Here heliotrope grew like a vine on a trellis against the wall,and semi-tropical flowers bloomed in a bewildering confusion. A littlefountain trickled sleepily near at hand, in the mossy basin of which atalkative family of frogs had their habitation.

  Half asleep in a long chair, de Vasselot was already coming under theinfluence of this most healing air in the world, when the rustle of askirt made him turn.

  “It is only I, my poor Lory,” said the baroness, looking down athim with an odd smile. “You turned so quickly. Is there anything youwant--anything in my power to give you, I mean?”

  “I am afraid you have parted with that already.”

  “To that--scullery-man, you mean. Yes, perhaps you are too late. It is sowise to ask too late, mon cousin.”

  She laughed gaily, and turned away towards the house. Then she stoppedsuddenly and came back to him.

  “Seriously,” she said, looking down at him with a graveface--“seriously. My prayers should always be for any woman who becameyour wife--you, and your soldiering. Ciel! it would kill any woman whoreally cared--”

  She broke off and contemplated him as he lay at full length.

  “And she might care--a little--that poor woman.”

  “She would have to care for France as well,” said de Vasselot,momentarily grave at the thought of his country.

  “I know,” said the baroness, with a wise shake of the head. “Mon ami, Iknow all about that.”

  “I have some new newspapers from Paris,” she added, going towards thehouse. “I will send them to you.”

  And it was Denise who brought the newspapers. She handed them to him insilence. Their eyes met for an instant, and both alike had thatquestioning look which had shone in Denise’s eyes as she came downstairs.They seemed to know each other now better than they had done when theylast parted at the Casa Perucca.

  There was a chair near to his, and Denise sat down there as if it hadbeen placed on purpose--as perhaps it had--by Fate. They were silent fora few moments, gathering perhaps the threads that connected one with theother. For absence does not always break such threads, and sometimesstrengthens them. Then Lory spoke without looking at her.

  “You received the letter?” he said.

  “Which letter?” she asked hurriedly; and then closed her lips and slowlychanged colour.

  There was only one letter, of course. There co
uld be no other. For it hadnever been suggested that Lory should write to her.

  “Yes; I received it,” she answered. “Thank you.”

  “Will you answer one question?” asked Lory.

  “If it is a fair one,” she answered with a laugh.

  “And who is to decide whether it is a fair one or not?”

  “Oh! I will do that,” replied Denise with decision.

  She knew the weakness of her position, and was prepared to defend it. Hereyes were shining, and the colour had not faded from her cheeks yet. Loryheld his lip between his teeth as he looked at her. She waited for thequestion, without meeting his eyes, with a baffling little smile tiltingthe corners of her lips.

  “Well,” she said, after a pause, “I suppose you have decided not to askit?”

  “I have decided to draw conclusions instead, mademoiselle.”

  “Ah!”

  “What does ‘Ah!’ mean?”

  “It means that you will draw them wrong,” she answered; and yet the toneof her voice seemed to suggest that she would rather like to hear theconclusions.

  “One may conclude then, simply, that you changed your mind after youwrote, and claimed a woman’s privilege.”

  “Yes--”

  “That you were good enough to trust me to send the letter back unopened;and yet you would not trust me with the contents. One may conclude thatit is, therefore, also a woman’s privilege to be of two minds at thesame time.”

  “If she likes,” answered Denise. To which wise men know that there is noanswer.

  De Vasselot made a tragic gesture with his one available hand, and casthis eyes upwards in a mute appeal to the gods. He sighed heavily, and theexpression of his face seemed to indicate a hopeless despair.

  “What is the matter?” she asked, with a solicitude which was perhapsslightly exaggerated.

  “What is one to understand? I ask you that?” said Lory, turning towardsher almost fiercely.

  “What do you want to understand, monsieur?” asked Denise, quietly.

  “Mon Dieu--you!”

  “Me!”

  “Yes. I cannot understand you at all. You ask my advice, and then you actcontrary to it. You write me a letter, and you forbid me to open it. Ah!I was a fool to send that letter back. I have often thought so since--”

  Denise was looking gravely at him with an expression in her eyes whichmade him stop, and laugh, and contradict himself suddenly.

  “You are quite right, mademoiselle, I was not a fool to send it back. Itwas the only thing I could do; and yet I almost thought, just now, thatyou were not glad that I had done so.”

  “Then you thought quite wrong,” said Denise, sharply, with a gleam ofanger in her eyes. “You think that it is only I who am difficult tounderstand. You are no easier. They say in Balagna that, if you liked,you could be a sort of king in Northern Corsica, and I am quite sure youhave the manners of one.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle,” he said with a laugh.

  “Oh--I do not mean the agreeable side of the character. I meant that youare rather given to ordering people about. You send an incompetent andstupid little priest to take us by the hand, and lead us out of the CasaPerucca like two school-children, without so much as a word ofexplanation.”

  “But I had not your permission to write to you.”

  Denise laughed gaily.

  “So far as that goes you had not my permission to order me out of my ownhouse; to send a steamer to St. Florent to fetch me; to treat me as if Iwere a regiment, in a word--and yet you did it, monsieur.”

  Lory sat up in his desire to defend himself, winced and lay down again.

  “I fancy it is your Corsican blood,” said Denise, reflectively. She roseand re-arranged a very sporting dustcloth which the baroness had laidacross the wounded man’s legs, and which his movement had cast to oneside. “However, it remains for me to thank you,” she said, and did notsit down again.

  “It may have been badly done, mademoiselle,” he said earnestly, “but Istill think that it was the wisest thing to do.”

  “And still you give me no reasons,” she said without turning to look athim. She was standing at the edge of the verandah, looking thoughtfullyout at the matchless view. For the house stood above the pines which laylike a dusky green carpet between it and the Mediterranean. “And I am notgoing to ask you for them,” she added with an odd little smile, notdevoid of that deep wisdom with which it is to be presumed women areborn; for they have it when it is most useful to them, and at an age whentheir masculine contemporaries are singularly ignorant of human nature.

  “I am going,” she said after a pause. “Jane told me that I must not tireyou.”

  “Then stay,” he said. “It is only when you are not there that I find ittiring.”

  She did not answer, and did not move until a servant came noiselesslyfrom the house and approached Lory.

  “It is a man,” he said, “who will not be denied, and says he must speakto Monsieur le Comte. He is from Corsica.”

  Denise turned, and her face was quite changed. She had until that momentforgotten Corsica.