Jason: A Romance

by Justus Miles Forman

  V

  JASON SETS FORTH UPON THE GREAT ADVENTURE

  Miss Benham stood at one of the long drawing-room windows of the housein the rue de l'Universite, and looked out between the curtains upon therather grimy little garden, where a few not very prosperous cypressesand chestnuts stood guard over the rows of lilac shrubs and thebox-bordered flower-beds and the usual moss-stained fountain. She wasthinking of the events of the past month, the month which had elapsedsince the evening of the De Saulnes' dinner-party. They were not at allstartling events; in a practical sense there were no events at all, onlya quiet sequence of affairs which was about as inevitable as the nightupon the day--the day upon the night again. In a word, this girl, whohad considered herself very strong and very much the mistress of herfeelings, found, for the first time in her life, that her strength wasas nothing at all against the potent charm and magnetism of a man whohad almost none of the qualities she chiefly admired in men. During themonth's time she had passed from a phase of angry self-scorn through aperiod of bewilderment not unmixed with fear, and from that she had comeinto an unknown world, a land very strange to her, where old standardsand judgments seemed to be valueless--a place seemingly ruled altogetherby new emotions, sweet and thrilling, or full of vague terrors as hermood veered here or there.

  That sublimated form of guesswork which is called "woman's intuition"told her that Ste. Marie would come to her on this afternoon, and thatsomething in the nature of a crisis would have to be faced. It can beproved even by poor masculine mathematics that guesswork, like othergambling ventures, is bound to succeed about half the time, and itsucceeded on this occasion. Even as Miss Benham stood at the windowlooking out through the curtains, M. Ste. Marie was announced from thedoorway.

  She turned to meet him with a little frown of determination, for in hisabsence she was often very strong, indeed, and sometimes she made up andrehearsed little speeches of great dignity and decision in which shetold him that he was attempting a quite hopeless thing, and, as awell-wishing friend, advised him to go away and attempt it no longer.But as Ste. Marie came quickly across the room toward her, the littlefrown wavered and at last fled from her face and another look camethere. It was always so. The man's bodily presence exerted an absolutespell over her.

  "I have been sitting with your grandfather for half an hour," Ste. Mariesaid. And she said:

  "Oh, I'm glad! I'm very glad! You always cheer him up. He hasn't beentoo cheerful or too well of late." She unnecessarily twisted a chairabout, and after a moment sat down in it. And she gave a little laugh."This friendship which has grown up between my grandfather and you,"said she--"I don't understand it at all. Of course, he knew your fatherand all that; but you two seem such very different types, I shouldn'tthink you would amuse each other at all. There's Mr. Hartley, forexample. I should expect my grandfather to like him very much betterthan you, but he doesn't--though I fancy he approves of him much more."

  She laughed again, but a different laugh; and when he heard it Ste.Marie's eyes gleamed a little and his hands moved beside him.

  "I expect," said she--"I expect, you know, that he just likes youwithout stopping to think why--as everybody else does. I fancy it's justthat. What do you think?"

  "Oh, I?" said the man. "I--how should I know? I know it's a greatprivilege to be allowed to see him--such a man as that. And I know weget on wonderfully well. He doesn't condescend, as most old men do whohave led important lives. We just talk as two men in a club might talk,and I tell him stories and make him laugh. Oh yes, we get on wonderfullywell."

  "Oh," said she, "I've often wondered what you talk about. What did youtalk about to-day?"

  Ste. Marie turned abruptly away from her and went across to one of thewindows--the window where she had stood earlier, looking out upon thedingy garden. She saw him stand there, with his back turned, the head alittle bent, the hands twisting together behind him, and a sudden fit ofnervous shivering wrung her. Every woman knows when a certain thing isgoing to be said to her, and usually she is prepared for it, thoughusually, also, she says she is not. Miss Benham knew what was comingnow, and she was frightened, not of Ste. Marie, but of herself. It meantso very much to her--more than to most women at such a time. It meant,if she said yes to him, the surrender of almost all the things she hadcared for and hoped for. It meant the giving up of that career which oldDavid Stewart had dwelt upon a month ago.

  Ste. Marie turned back into the room. He came a little way toward wherethe girl sat, and halted, and she could see that he was very pale. Asort of critical second self noticed that he was pale and was surprised,because, although men's faces often turn red, they seldom turnnoticeably pale except in very great nervous crises--or in works offiction; while women, on the contrary, may turn red and white twentytimes a day, and no harm done. He raised his hands a little way from hissides in the beginning of a gesture, but they dropped again as if therewas no strength in them.

  "I told him," said Ste. Marie, in a flat voice--"I told your grandfatherthat I--loved you more than anything in this world or in the next. Itold him that my love for you had made another being of me--a new being.I told him that I wanted to come to you and to kneel at your feet, andto ask you if you could give me just a little, little hope--something tolive for, a light to climb toward. That is what we talked about, yourgrandfather and I."

  "Ste. Marie! Ste. Marie!" said the girl, in a half whisper. "What did mygrandfather say to you?" she asked, after a silence.

  Ste. Marie looked away.

  "I cannot tell you," he said. "He--was not quite sympathetic."

  The girl gave a little cry.

  "Tell me what he said!" she demanded. "I must know what he said."

  The man's eyes pleaded with her, but she held him with her gaze, and inthe end he gave in.

  "He said I was a damned fool," said Ste. Marie.

  And the girl, after an instant of staring, broke into a little fit ofnervous, overwrought laughter, and covered her face with her hands.

  He threw himself upon his knees before her, and her laughter died away.An Englishman or an American cannot do that. Richard Hartley, forexample, would have looked like an idiot upon his knees, and he wouldhave felt it. But it did not seem extravagant with Ste. Marie. It becamehim.

  "Listen! Listen!" he cried to her, but the girl checked him before hecould go on.

  She dropped her hands from her face, and she bent a little forward overthe man as he knelt there. She put out her hands and took his head for aswift instant between them, looking down into his eyes. At the touch asudden wave of tenderness swept her--almost an engulfing wave; it almostoverwhelmed her and bore her away from the land she knew. And so whenshe spoke her voice was not quite steady. She said:

  "Ah, dear Ste. Marie! I cannot pretend to be cold toward you. You havelaid a spell upon me, Ste. Marie. You enchant us all, somehow, don'tyou? I suppose I'm not so different from the others as I thought I was.And yet," she said, "he was right, you know. My grandfather was right.No, let me talk, now. I must talk for a little. I must try to tell youhow it is with me--try somehow to find a way. He was right. He meantthat you and I were utterly unsuited to each other, and so, in calmmoments, I know we are. I know that well enough. When you're not withme, I feel very sure about it. I think of a thousand excellent reasonswhy you and I ought to be no more to each other than friends. Do youknow, I think my grandfather is a little uncanny. I think he hasprophetic powers. They say very old people often have. He and I talkedabout you when I came home from that dinner-party at the De Saulnes', amonth ago--the dinner-party where you and I first met. I told him that Ihad met a man whom I liked very much--a man with great charm; and thoughI must have said the same sort of thing to him before about other men,he was quite oddly disturbed, and talked for a long time about it--aboutthe sort of man I ought to marry and the sort I ought not to marry. Itwas unusual for him. He seldom says anything of that kind. Yes, he isright. You see, I'm ambitious in a particular way. If I marry at all Iought to marry a man who is work
ing hard in politics or in something ofthat kind. I could help him. We could do a great deal together."

  "I could go into politics!" cried Ste. Marie; but she shook her head,smiling down upon him.

  "No, not you, my dear. Politics least of all. You could be a soldier, ifyou chose. You could fight as your father and your grandfather and theothers of your house have done. You could lead a forlorn hope in thefield. You could suffer and starve and go on fighting. You could diesplendidly, but--politics, no! That wants a tougher shell than you have.And a soldier's wife! Of what use to him is she?"

  Ste. Marie's face was very grave. He looked up to her, smiling.

  "Do you set ambition before love, my Queen?" he asked, and she did notanswer him at once.

  She looked into his eyes, and she was as grave as he.

  "Is love all?" she said, at last. "Is love all? Ought one to think ofnothing but love when one is settling one's life forever? I wonder? Ilook about me, Ste. Marie," she said, "and in the lives of myfriends--the people who seem to me to be most worth while, the peoplewho are making the world's history for good or ill--and it seems to methat in their lives love has the second place--or the third. I wonder ifone has the right to set it first. There is, of course," she said, "themerely domestic type of woman--the woman who has no thought and nointerest beyond her home. I am not that type of woman. Perhaps I wish Iwere. Certainly they are the happiest. But I was brought up among--well,among important people--men of my grandfather's kind. All my traininghas been toward that life. Have I the right, I wonder, to give it allup?"

  The man stirred at her feet, and she put out her hands to him quickly.

  "Do I seem brutal?" she cried. "Oh, I don't want to be! Do I seem veryungenerous and wrapped up in my own side of the thing? I don't mean tobe that, but--I'm not sure. I expect it's that. I'm not sure, and Ithink I'm a little frightened." She gave him a brief, anxious smile thatwas not without its tenderness. "I'm so sure," she said, "when I'm awayfrom you. But when you're here--oh, I forget all I've thought of. Youlay your spell upon me."

  Ste. Marie gave a little wordless cry of joy. He caught her two hands inhis and held them against his lips. Again that great wave of tendernessswept her, almost engulfing. But when it had ebbed she sank back oncemore in her chair, and she withdrew her hands from his clasp.

  "You make me forget too much," she said. "I think you make me forgeteverything that I ought to remember. Oh, Ste. Marie, have I any right tothink of love and happiness while this terrible mystery is uponus--while we don't know whether poor Arthur is alive or dead? You'veseen what it has brought my grandfather to! It is killing him. He hasbeen much worse in the past fortnight. And my mother is hardly a ghostof herself in these days. Ah, it is brutal of me to think of my ownaffairs--to dream of happiness at such a time." She smiled across at himvery sadly. "You see what you have brought me to!" she said.

  Ste. Marie rose to his feet. If Miss Benham, absorbed in that warfarewhich raged within her, had momentarily forgotten the cloud of sorrowunder which her household lay, so much the more had he, to whom thesorrow was less intimate, forgotten it. But he was ever swift tosympathy, Ste. Marie--as quick as a woman, and as tender. He could notthrust his love upon the girl at such a time as this. He turned a littleaway from her, and so remained for a moment. When he faced about againthe flush had gone from his cheeks and the fire from his eyes. Onlytenderness was left there.

  "There has been no news at all this week?" he asked, and the girl shookher head.

  "None! None! Shall we ever have news of him, I wonder? Must we go onalways and never know? It seems to me almost incredible that any onecould disappear so completely. And yet, I dare say, many people havedone it before and have been as carefully sought for. If only I couldbelieve that he is alive! If only I could believe that!"

  "I believe it," said Ste. Marie.

  "Ah," she said, "you say that to cheer me. You have no reason to offer."

  "Dead bodies very seldom disappear completely," said he. "If yourbrother died anywhere there would be a record of the death. If he wereaccidentally killed there would be a record of that, too; and, ofcourse, you are having all such records constantly searched?"

  "Oh yes," she said. "Yes, of course--at least, I suppose so. My unclehas been directing the search. Of course, he would take an obviousprecaution like that."

  "Naturally," said Ste. Marie. "Your uncle, I should say, is an unusuallycareful man." He paused a moment to smile. "He makes his littlemistakes, though. I told you about that man O'Hara, and about how sureCaptain Stewart was that the name was Powers. Do you know"--Ste. Mariehad been walking up and down the room, but he halted to face her--"doyou know, I have a very strong feeling that if one could find this manO'Hara, one would learn something about what became of your brother? Ihave no reason for thinking that, but I feel it."

  "Oh," said the girl, doubtfully, "I hardly think that could be so. Whatmotive could the man have for harming my brother?"

  "None," said Ste. Marie; "but he might have an excellent motive forhiding him away--kidnapping him. Is that the word? Yes, I know, you'regoing to say that no demand has been made for money, and that is wheremy argument--if I can call it an argument--is weak. But the fellow maybe biding his time. Anyhow, I should like to have five minutes alonewith him. I'll tell you another thing. It's a trifle, and it may be ofno consequence, but I add it to my vague and--if you like--foolishfeeling, and make something out of it. I happened, some days ago, tomeet at the Cafe de Paris a man who I knew used to know this O'Hara. Hewas not, I think, a friend of his at all, but an acquaintance. I askedhim what had become of O'Hara, saying that I hadn't seen him in someweeks. Well, this man said O'Hara had gone away somewhere a couple ofmonths ago. He didn't seem at all surprised, for it appears theIrishman--if he is an Irishman--is decidedly a haphazard sort of person,here to-day, gone to-morrow. No, the man wasn't surprised, but he wasrather angry, because he said O'Hara owed him some money. I said Ithought he must be mistaken about the fellow's absence, because I'd seenhim in the street within the month--on the evening of our dinner-party,you remember--but this man was very sure that I had made a mistake. Hesaid that if O'Hara had been in town he was sure to have known it. Well,the point is here. Your brother disappears at a certain time. At thesame time this Irish adventurer disappears, too, _and_ your brother wasknown to have frequented the Irishman's company. It may be only acoincidence, but I can't help feeling that there's something in it."

  Miss Benham was sitting up straight in her chair with a little alertfrown.

  "Have you spoken of this to my uncle?" she demanded.

  "Well--no," said Ste. Marie. "Not the latter part of it--that is, not myhaving heard of O'Hara's disappearance. In the first place, I learned ofthat only three days ago, and I have not seen Captain Stewart since--Irather expected to find him here to-day; and, in the second place, I wasquite sure that he would only laugh. He has laughed at me two or threetimes for suggesting that this Irishman might know something. CaptainStewart is--not easy to convince, you know."

  "I know," she said, looking away. "He's always very certain that he'sright. Well, perhaps he is right. Who knows?" She gave a little sob."Oh!" she cried, "shall we ever have my brother back? Shall we ever seehim again? It is breaking my heart, Ste. Marie, and it is killing mygrandfather and, I think, my mother, too! Oh, can nothing be done?"

  Ste. Marie was walking up and down the floor before her, his handsclasped behind his back. When she had finished speaking the girl saw himhalt beside one of the windows, and after a moment she saw his head goup sharply and she heard him give a sudden cry. She thought he had seensomething from the window which had wrung that exclamation from him, andshe asked:

  "What is it?"

  But abruptly the man turned back into the room and came across to whereshe sat. It seemed to her that his face had a new look--a very strangeexaltation which she had never before seen there. He said:

  "Listen! I do not know if anything can be done that has not been donealready, but if there
is anything I shall do it, you may be sure."

  "_You_, Ste. Marie?" she cried, in a sharp voice. "_You?_"

  "And why not I?" he demanded.

  "Oh, my friend," said she, "you could do nothing! You wouldn't knowwhere to turn, how to set to work. Remember that a score of men who areskilled in this kind of thing have been searching for two months. Whatcould you do that they haven't done?"

  "I do not know, my Queen," said Ste. Marie, "but I shall do what I can.Who knows? Sometimes the fool who rushes in where angels have feared totread succeeds where they have failed. Oh, let me do this!" he criedout. "Let me do it for both our sakes--for yours and for mine! It is foryour sake most. I swear that! It is to set you at peace again, bringback the happiness you have lost. But it is for my sake, too, a little.It will be a test of me, a trial. If I can succeed here where so manyhave failed, if I bring back your brother to you--or, at least, discoverwhat has become of him--I shall be able to come to you with less shamefor my--unworthiness."

  He looked down upon her with eager, burning eyes, and, after a little,the girl rose to face him. She was very white, and she stared at himsilently.

  "When I came to you to-day," he went on, "I knew that I had nothing tooffer you but my faithful love and my life, which has been a lifewithout value. In exchange for that I asked too much. I knew it, and youknew it, too. I know well enough what sort of man you ought to marry,and what a brilliant career you could make for yourself in the properplace--what great influence you could wield. But I asked you to givethat all up, and I hadn't anything to offer in its place--nothing butlove. My Queen, give me a chance now to offer you more! If I can bringback your brother or news of him, I can come to you without shame andask you to marry me, because if I can succeed in that you will know thatI can succeed in other things. You will be able to trust me. You'll knowthat I can climb. It shall be a sort of symbol. Let me go!"

  The girl broke into a sort of sobbing laughter.

  "Oh, divine madman!" she cried. "Are you all mad, you Ste. Maries, thatyou must be forever leading forlorn hopes? Oh, how you are, after all, aSte. Marie! Now, at last, I know why one cannot but love you. You're theknight of old. You're chivalry come down to us. You're a ghost out ofthe past when men rode in armor with pure hearts seeking the GreatAdventure. Oh, my friend," she said, "be wise. Give this up in time. Itis a beautiful thought, and I love you for it, but it is madness--yes,yes, a sweet madness, but mad, nevertheless! What possible chance wouldyou have of success? And think--think how failure would hurt you--andme! You must not do it, Ste. Marie."

  "Failure will never hurt me, my Queen," said he, "because there are nohurts in the grave, and I shall never give over searching until Isucceed or until I am dead." His face was uplifted, and there was a sortof splendid fervor upon it. It was as if it shone.

  The girl stared at him dumbly. She began to realize that the knightlyspirit of those gallant, long dead gentlemen was indeed descended uponthe last of their house, that he burnt with the same pure fire which hadlong ago lighted them through quest and adventure, and she was a littleafraid with an almost superstitious fear. She put out her hands upon theman's shoulders, and she moved a little closer to him, holding him.

  "Oh, madness, madness!" she said, watching his face.

  "Let me do it!" said Ste. Marie.

  And after a silence that seemed to endure for a long time, she sighed,shaking her head, and said she:

  "Oh, my friend, there is no strength in me to stop you. I think we areboth a little mad, and I know that you are very mad, but I cannot sayno. You seem to have come out of another century to take up this quest.How can I prevent you? But listen to one thing. If I accept thissacrifice, if I let you give your time and your strength to this almosthopeless attempt, it must be understood that it is to be within certainlimits. I will not accept any indefinite thing. You may give yourefforts to trying to find trace of my brother for a month if you like,or for three months, or six, or even a year, but not for more than that.If he is not found in a year's time we shall know that--we shall knowthat he is dead, and that--further search is useless. I cannot say howI--Oh, Ste. Marie, Ste. Marie, this is a proof of you, indeed! And Ihave called you idle. I have said hard things of you. It is very bitterto me to think that I have said those things."

  "They were true, my Queen," said he, smiling. "They were quite, quitetrue. It is for me to prove now that they shall be true no longer." Hetook the girl's hand in his rather ceremoniously, and bent his head andkissed it. As he did so he was aware that she stirred, all at once,uneasily, and when he had raised his head he looked at her in question.

  "I thought some one was coming into the room," she explained, lookingbeyond him. "I thought some one started to come in between the portieresyonder. It must have been a servant."

  "Then it is understood," said Ste. Marie. "To bring you back yourhappiness, and to prove myself in some way worthy of your love, I am todevote myself with all my effort and all my strength to finding yourbrother or some trace of him, and until I succeed I will not see yourface again, my Queen."

  "Oh, that!" she cried--"that, too?"

  "I will not see you," said he, "until I bring you news of him, or untilmy year is passed and I have failed utterly. I know what risk I run. IfI fail, I lose you. That is understood, too. But if I succeed--"

  "Then?" she said, breathing quickly. "Then?"

  "Then," said he, "I shall come to you, and I shall feel no shame inasking you to marry me, because then you will know that there is in mesome little worthiness, and that in our lives together you need not beburied in obscurity--lost to the world."

  "I cannot find any words to say," said she. "I am feeling just now veryhumble and very ashamed. It seems that I haven't known you at all. Ohyes, I am ashamed."

  The girl's face, habitually so cool and composed, was flushed with abeautiful flush, and it had softened, and it seemed to quiver between asmile and a tear. With a swift movement she leaned close to him, holdingby his shoulder, and for an instant her cheek was against his. Shewhispered to him:

  "Oh, find him quickly, my dear! Find him quickly, and come back to me!"

  Ste. Marie began to tremble, and she stood away from him. Once he lookedup, but the flush was gone from Miss Benham's cheeks and she was paleagain. She stood with her hands tight clasped over her breast. So hebowed to her very low, and turned and went out of the room and out ofthe house.

  So quickly did he move at this last that a man who had been, for somemoments, standing just outside the portieres of the doorway had barelytime to step aside into the shadows of the dim hall. As it was, Ste.Marie, in a more normal moment, must have seen that the man was there;but his eyes were blind, and he saw nothing. He groped for his hat andstick as if the place were a place of gloom, and, because the footmanwho should have been at the door was in regions unknown, he let himselfout, and so went away.

  Then the man who stood apart in the shadows crossed the hall to a smallroom which was furnished as a library, but not often used. He closed thedoor behind him, and went to one of the windows which gave upon thestreet. And he stood there for a long time, drawing absurd invisiblepictures upon the glass with one finger and staring thoughtfully outinto the late June afternoon.

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