XIX
THE INVALID TAKES THE AIR
When O'Hara, the next morning, went through the formality of looking inupon his patient, and after a taciturn nod was about to go away again,Ste. Marie called him back. He said, "Would you mind waiting a moment?"and the Irishman halted inside the door. "I made an experimentyesterday," said Ste. Marie, "and I find that, after a poor fashion, Ican walk--that is to say, I can drag myself about a little without anygreat pain if I don't bend the left leg."
O'Hara returned to the bed and made a silent examination of the bulletwound, which, it was plain to see, was doing very well indeed. "You'llbe all right in a few days," said he, "but you'll be lame for a weekyet--maybe two. As a matter of fact, I've known men to march half a daywith a hole in the leg worse than yours, though it probably was notquite pleasant."
"I'm afraid I couldn't march very far," said Ste. Marie, "but I canhobble a bit. The point is, I'm going mad from confinement in this room.Do you think I might be allowed to stagger about the garden for an hour,or sit there under one of the trees? I don't like to ask favors, but, sofar as I can see, it could do no harm. I couldn't possibly escape, yousee. I couldn't climb a fifteen-foot wall even if I had two good legs;as it is, with a leg and a half, I couldn't climb anything."
The Irishman looked at him sharply, and was silent for a time, as ifconsidering. But at last he said: "Of course there is no reason whateverfor granting you any favors here. You're on the footing of a spy--acaptured spy--and you're very lucky not to have got what you deservedinstead of a trumpery flesh wound." The man's face twisted into a heavyscowl. "Unfortunately," said he, "an accident has put me--put us in asunpleasant a position toward you as you had put yourself toward us. Weseem to stand in the position of having tried to poison you, and--well,we owe you something for that. Still, I'd meant to keep you locked up inthis room so long as it was necessary to have you at La Lierre." Hescowled once more in an intimidating fashion at Ste. Marie, and it wasevident that he found himself embarrassed. "And," he said, awkwardly, "Isuppose I owe something to your father's son.... Look here! If you're tobe allowed in the garden, you must understand that it's at fixed hoursand not alone. Somebody will always be with you, and old Michel will beon hand to shoot you down if you try to run for it or if you try tocommunicate with Arthur Benham. Is that understood?"
"Quite," said Ste. Marie, gayly. "Quite understood and agreed to. Andmany thanks for your courtesy. I sha'n't forget it. We differ ratherwidely on some rather important subjects, you and I, but I must confessthat you're very generous, and I thank you. The old Michel has my fullpermission to shoot at me if he sees me trying to fly over afifteen-foot wall."
"He'll shoot without asking your permission," said the Irishman, grimly,"if you try that on, but I don't think you'll be apt to try it for thepresent--not with a crippled leg." He pulled out his watch and looked atit. "Nine o'clock," said he. "If you care to begin to-day you can go outat eleven for an hour. I'll see that old Michel is ready at that time."
"Eleven will suit me perfectly," said Ste. Marie. "You're very good.Thanks once more!" The Irishman did not seem to hear. He replaced thewatch in his pocket and turned away in silence. But before he left theroom he stood a moment beside one of the windows, staring out into themorning sunshine, and the other man could see that his face had oncemore settled into the still and melancholic gloom which wascharacteristic of it. Ste. Marie watched, and for the first time the manbegan to interest him as a human being. He had thought of O'Hara beforemerely as a rather shady adventurer of a not very rare type, but helooked at the adventurer's face now and he saw that it was the face of aman of unspeakable sorrows. When O'Hara looked at one, one saw only apair of singularly keen and hard blue eyes set under a bony brow. Whenthose eyes were turned away, the man's attention relaxed, the facebecame a battle-ground furrowed and scarred with wrecked pride and withbitterness and with shame and with agony. Most soldiers of fortune havefaces like that, for the world has used them very ill, and they havelost one precious thing after another until all are gone, and they havetasted everything that there is in life, and the flavor which remains isa very bitter flavor--dry, like ashes.
It came to Ste. Marie, as he lay watching this man, that the story ofthe man's life, if he could be made to tell it, would doubtless be oneof the most interesting stories in the world, as must be the tale of theadventurous career of any one who has slipped down the ladder ofrespectability, rung by rung, into that shadowy no-man's-land where thefurtive birds of prey foregather and hatch their plots. It was plainenough that O'Hara had, as the phrase goes, seen better days. Withoutquestion he was a villain, but, after all, a generous villain. He hadbeen very decent about making amends for that poisoning affair. Acheaper rascal would have behaved otherwise. Ste. Marie suddenlyremembered what a friend of his had once said of this mysteriousIrishman. The two had been sitting on the terrace of a cafe, and asO'Hara passed by Ste. Marie's friend pointed after him and said: "Theregoes some of the best blood that ever came out of Ireland. See what ithas fallen to!"
Seemingly it had fallen pretty low. He would have liked very much toknow about the downward stages, but he knew that he would never hearanything of them from the man himself, for O'Hara was clad, as it were,in an armor of taciturnity. He was incredibly silent. He wore mail thatnothing could pierce.
The Irishman turned abruptly away and left the room, and Ste. Marie,with all the gay excitement of a little girl preparing for her firstnursery party, began to get himself ready to go out. The old Michel hadalready been there to help him bathe and shave, so that he had only todress himself and attend to his one conspicuous vanity--the painstakingarrangement of his hair, which he wore, according to the fashion of theday, parted a little at one side and brushed almost straight back, sothat it looked rather like a close-fitting and incredibly glossyskullcap. Richard Hartley, who was inclined to joke at his friend'sgrave interest in the matter, said that it reminded him ofpatent-leather.
When he was dressed--and he found that putting on his left boot was nomean feat--Ste. Marie sat down in a chair by the window and lighted acigarette. He had half an hour to wait, and so he picked up the volumeof _Bayard_, which Coira O'Hara had not yet taken away from him, andbegan to read in it at random. He became so absorbed that the oldMichel, come to summon him, took him by surprise. But it was a pleasantsurprise and very welcome. He followed the old man out of the room witha heart that beat fast with eagerness.
The descent of the stairs offered difficulties, for the wounded legprotested sharply against being bent more than a very little at theknee. But by the aid of Michel's shoulder he made the passage in safetyand so came to the lower story. At the foot of the stairs some oneopened a door almost in their faces, but closed it again with greathaste, and Ste. Marie gave a chuckle of laughter, for, though it wasalmost dark there, he thought he had recognized Captain Stewart.
"So old Charlie's with us to-day, is he?" he said, aloud, and Michelqueried:
"Comment, Monsieur?" because Ste. Marie had spoken in English.
They came out upon the terrace before the house, and the fresh, sweetair bore against their faces, and little flecks of live gold danced andshivered about their feet upon the moss-stained tiles. The gardenerstepped back for an instant into the doorway, and reappeared bearingacross his arms the short carbine with which Ste. Marie had already madeacquaintance. The victim looked at this weapon with a laugh, and the oldMichel's gnomelike countenance distorted itself suddenly and a weirdcackle came from it.
"It is my old friend?" demanded Ste. Marie, and the gardener cackledonce more, stroking the barrel of the weapon as if it were a faithfuldog.
"The same, Monsieur," said he. "But she apologizes for not doingbetter."
"Beg her for me," said the young man, "to cheer up. She may get anotherchance."
Old Michel's face froze into an expression of anxious and ratherfrightened solicitude, but he waved his arm for the prisoner to precedehim, and Ste. Marie began to limp down across the littered and
unkemptsweep of turf. Behind him, at the distance of a dozen paces, he heardthe shambling footfalls of his guard, but he had expected that, and itcould not rob him of his swelling and exultant joy at treading once moreupon green grass and looking up into blue sky. He was like a man newlyreleased from a dungeon rather than from a sunny and by no meansuncomfortable upper chamber. He would have liked to dance and sing, torun at full speed like a child until he was breathless and red in theface. Instead of that he had to drag himself with slow pains and somediscomfort, but his spirit ran ahead, dancing and singing, and hethought that it even halted now and then to roll on the grass.
As he had observed a week before, from the top of the wall, a double rowof larches led straight down away from the front of the house, making awide and long vista interrupted half-way to its end by a rond point, inthe centre of which were a pool and a fountain. The double row of treeswas sadly broken now, and the trees were untrimmed and uncared for. Oneof them had fallen, probably in a wind-storm, and lay dead across theway. Ste. Marie turned aside toward the west and found himself presentlyamong chestnuts, planted in close rows, whose tops grew in so thick acanopy above that but little sunshine came through, and there was noturf under foot, only black earth, hard-trodden, mossy here and there.
From beyond, in the direction he had chanced to take, and a littletoward the west, a soft morning breeze bore to him the scent of roses soconstant and so sweet, despite its delicacy, that to breathe it was likean intoxication. He felt it begin to take hold upon and to sway hissenses like an exquisite, an insidious wine.
"The flower-gardens, Michel?" he asked, over his shoulder. "They arebefore us?"
"Ahead and to the left, Monsieur," said the old man, and he took up oncemore his slow and difficult progress.
But again, before he had gone many steps, he was halted. There began toreach his ears a rich but slender strain of sound, a golden thread ofmelody. At first he thought that it was a 'cello or the lower notes of aviolin, but presently he became aware that it was a woman singing in ahalf-voice without thought of what she sang--as women croon to a child,or over their work, or when they are idle and their thoughts are farwandering.
The mistake was not as absurd as it may seem, for it is a fact that thevoice which is called a contralto, if it is a good and clear and fairlyresonant voice, sounds at a distance very much indeed like a 'cello orthe lower register of a violin. And that is especially true when thevoice is hushed to a half-articulate murmur. Indeed, this is but one ofthe many strange peculiarities of that most beautiful of all humanorgans. The contralto can rarely express the lighter things, and it isquite impossible for it to express merriment or gayety, but it canthrill the heart as can no other sound emitted by a human throat, and itcan shake the soul to its very innermost hidden deeps. It is the soft,yellow gold of singing--the wine of sound; it is mystery; it is shadowy,unknown, beautiful places; it is enchantment. Ste. Marie stood still andlistened. The sound of low singing came from the right. Withoutrealizing that he had moved, he began to make his way in that direction,and the old Michel, carbine upon arm, followed behind him. He had nodoubt of the singer. He knew well who it was, for the girl's speakingvoice had thrilled him long before this. He came to the eastern marginof the grove of chestnuts and found that he was beside the open rondpoint, where the pool lay within its stone circumference, unclean andchoked with lily-pads, and the fountain--a naked lady holding aloft ashell--stood above. The rond point was not in reality round; it was anoval with its greater axis at right angles to the long, straight avenueof larches. At the two ends of the oval there were stone benches withbacks, and behind these, tall shrubs grew close and overhung, so thateven at noonday the spots were shaded.
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Jason: A Romance Page 19