Jason: A Romance

by Justus Miles Forman

  XXIII

  THE LAST ARROW

  The one birdlike eye of the old Michel regarded Ste. Marie with a glanceof mingled cunning and humor. It might have been said to twinkle.

  "To the east, Monsieur?" inquired the old Michel.

  "Precisely!" said Ste. Marie. "To the east, mon vieux." It was themorning of the fourth day after that talk with Captain Stewart besidethe rose-gardens.

  The two bore to the eastward, down among the trees, and presently cameto the spot where a certain trespasser had once leaped down from the topof the high wall and had been shot for his pains. The old Michel haltedand leaned upon the barrel of his carbine. With an air of completedetachment, an air vague and aloof as of one in a revery, he gazed awayover the tree-tops of the ragged park; but Ste. Marie went in under therow of lilac shrubs which stood close against the wall, and a passer-bymight have thought the man looking for figs on thistles, for lilacs inlate July. He had gone there with eagerness, with flushed cheeks andbright eyes; he emerged after some moments, moving slowly, with downcasthead.

  "There are no lilac blooms now, Monsieur," observed the old Michel, andhis prisoner said, in a low voice:

  "No, mon vieux. No. There are none." He sighed and drew a long breath.So the two stood for some time silent, Ste. Marie a little pale, hiseyes fixed upon the ground, his hands chafing together behind him, thegardener with his one bright eye upon his charge. But in the end Ste.Marie sighed again and began to move away, followed by the gardener.They went across the broad park, past the double row of larches, throughthat space where the chestnut-trees stood in straight, close rows, andso came to the west wall which skirted the road to Clamart. Ste. Mariefelt in his pocket and withdrew the last of the four letters--the lastthere could be, for he had no more stamps. The others he had thrown overthe wall, one each morning, beginning with the day after he had made thefirst attempt to bribe old Michel. As he had expected, twenty-four hoursof avaricious reflection had proved too much for that gnomelike being.

  One each day he had thrown over the wall, weighted with a pebble tuckedloosely under the flap of the improvised envelope, in such a manner thatit would drop but when the letter struck the ground beyond. And eachfollowing day he had gone with high hopes to the appointed place underthe cedar-tree to pick figs of thistles, lilac blooms in late July. Butthere had been nothing there.

  "Turn your back, Michel!" said Ste. Marie.

  And the old man said, from a little distance: "It is turned, Monsieur. Isee nothing. Monsieur throws little stories at the birds to amusehimself. It does not concern me."

  Ste. Marie slipped a pebble under the flap of the envelope and threw hisletter over the wall. It went like a soaring bird, whirlinghorizontally, and it must have fallen far out in the middle of the roadnear the tramway. For the third time that morning the prisoner drew asigh. He said, "You may turn round now, my friend," and the old Michelfaced him. "We have shot our last arrow," said he. "If this also fails,I think--well, I think the bon Dieu will have to help us then.--Michel,"he inquired, "do you know how to pray?"

  "Sacred thousand swine, no!" cried the ancient gnome, in somethingbetween astonishment and horror. "No, Monsieur. 'Pas mon metier, ca!" Heshook his head rapidly from side to side like one of those toys in ashop-window whose heads oscillate upon a pivot. But all at once a gleamof inspiration sparkled in his lone eye. "There is the old Justine!" hesuggested. "Toujours sur les genoux, cette imbecile la."

  "In that case," said Ste. Marie, "you might ask the lady to say onelittle extra prayer for--the pebble I threw at the birds just now.Hein?" He withdrew from his pocket the last two louis d'or, and Micheltook them in a trembling hand. There remained but the note of fiftyfrancs and some silver.

  "The prayer shall be said, Monsieur," declared the gardener. "It shallbe said. She shall pray all night or I will kill her."

  "Thank you," said Ste. Marie. "You are kindness itself. A gentle soul."

  They turned away to retrace their steps, and Michel rubbed the side ofhis head with a reflective air.

  "The old one is a madman," said he. (The "old one" meant CaptainStewart.) "A madman. Each day he is madder, and this morning he struckme--here on the head, because I was too slow. Eh! a little more of that,and--who knows? Just a little more, a small little! Am I a dog, to bebeaten? Hein? Je ne le crois pas. He!" He called Captain Stewart twounprintable names, and after a moment's thought he called him an animal,which is not so much of an anti-climax as it may seem, because to callanybody an animal in French is a serious matter.

  The gardener was working himself up into something of a quiet passion,and Ste. Marie said:

  "Softly, my friend! Softly!" It occurred to him that the man'sresentment might be of use later on, and he said: "You speak the truth.The old one is an animal, and he is also a great rascal."

  But Michel betrayed the makings of a philosopher. He said, with profoundconviction: "Monsieur, all men are great rascals. It is I who say it."

  And at that Ste. Marie had to laugh.

  * * * * *

  He had not consciously directed his feet, but without direction they ledhim round the corner of the rose-gardens and toward the rond point. Heknew well whom he would find there. She had not failed him during thepast three days. Each morning he had found her in her place, and for hisallotted hour--which more than once stretched itself out to nearly twohours, if he had but known--they had sat together on the stone bench,or, tiring of that, had walked under the trees beyond.

  Long afterward Ste. Marie looked back upon these hours with, among otheremotions, a great wonder--at himself and at her. It seemed to him thenone of the strangest relationships--intimacies, for it might well be socalled--that ever existed between a man and a woman, and he was amazedat the ease, the unconsciousness, with which it had come about.

  But during this time he did not allow himself to wonder or to examine,scarcely even to think. The hours were golden hours, unrelated, he toldhimself, to anything else in his life or in his interests. They werelike pleasant dreams, very sweet while they endured, but to be put awayand forgotten upon the waking. Only in that long afterward he knew thatthey had not been put away, that they had been with him always, that themorning hour had remained in his thoughts all the rest of the long day,and that he had waked upon the morrow with a keen and exquisite sense ofsomething sweet to come.

  It was a strange fool's paradise that the man dwelt in, and in somesmall, vague measure he must, even at the time, have known it, for it iscertain that he deliberately held himself away fromthought--realization; that he deliberately shut his eyes, held his earslest he should hear or see.

  That he was not faithless to his duty has been shown. He did his utmostthere, but he was for the time helpless save for efforts to communicatewith Richard Hartley, and those efforts could consume no more than tenminutes out of the weary day.

  So he drifted, wilfully blind to bearings, wilfully deaf to Sound ofwarning or peril, and he found a companionship sweeter and fuller andmore perfect than he had ever before known in all his life, though thatis not to say very much, because sympathetic companionships between menand women are very rare indeed, and Ste. Marie had never experiencedanything which could fairly be called by that name. He had had, as hasbeen related, many flirtations, and not a few so-called love-affairs,but neither of these two sorts of intimacies are of necessity trueintimacies at all; men often feel varying degrees of love for womenwithout the least true understanding or sympathy or real companionship.

  He was wondering, as he bore round the corner of the rose-gardens onthis day, in just what mood he would find her. It seemed to him that intheir brief acquaintance he had seen her in almost all the moods thereare, from bitter gloom to the irrepressible gayety of a little child. Hehad told her once that she was like an organ, and she had laughed at himfor being pretentious and high-flown, though she could upon occasion bequite high-flown enough herself for all ordinary purposes.

  He reached the cleared margin of the rond poi
nt, and a little cold fearstirred in him when he did not hear her singing under her breath, as shewas wont to do when alone, but he went forward and she was there in herplace upon the stone bench. She had been reading, but the book layforgotten beside her and she sat idle, her head laid back against thethick stems of shrubbery which grew behind, her hands in her lap. It wasa warm, still morning, with the promise of a hot afternoon, and the girlwas dressed in something very thin and transparent and cool-looking,open in a little square at the throat and with sleeves which came onlyto her elbows. The material was pale and dull yellow, with very vaguelydefined green leaves in it, and against it the girl's dark and clearskin glowed rich and warm and living, as pearls glow and seem to throbagainst the dead tints of the fabric upon which they are laid.

  She did not move when he came before her, but looked up to him gravelywithout stirring her head.

  "I didn't hear you come," said she. "You don't drag your left leg anymore. You walk almost as well as if you had never been wounded."

  "I'm almost all right again," he answered. "I suppose I couldn't run orjump, but I certainly can walk very much like a human being. May I sitdown?"

  Mlle. O'Hara put out one hand and drew the book closer to make a placefor him on the stone bench, and he settled himself comfortably there,turned a little so that he was facing toward her.

  It was indicative of the state of intimacy into which the two had grownthat they did not make polite conversation with each other, but indeedwere silent for some little time after Ste. Marie had seated himself. Itwas he who spoke first. He said:

  "You look vaguely classical to-day. I have been trying to guess why, andI cannot. Perhaps it's because your--what does one say: frock, dress,gown?--because it is cut out square at the throat."

  "If you mean by classical, Greek," said she, "it wouldn't be square atthe neck at all; it would be pointed--V-shaped. And it would be verydifferent in other ways, too. You are not an observing person, afterall."

  "For all that," insisted Ste. Marie, "you look classical. You look likesome lady one reads about in Greek poems--Helen or Iphigenia or Medea orsomebody."

  "Helen had yellow hair, hadn't she?" objected Mlle. O'Hara. "I shouldthink I probably look more like Medea--Medea in Colchis before Jason--"

  She seemed suddenly to realize that she had hit upon an unfortunateexample, for she stopped in the middle of her sentence and a wave ofcolor swept up over her throat and face.

  For a moment Ste. Marie did not understand, then he gave a lowexclamation, for Medea certainly had been an unhappy name. He rememberedsomething that Richard Hartley had said about that lady a long timebefore. He made another mistake, for to lessen the moment'sembarrassment he gave speech to the first thought which entered hismind. He said:

  "Some one once remarked that you look like the young Juno--beforemarriage. I expect it's true, too."

  She turned upon him swiftly.

  "Who said that?" she demanded. "Who has ever talked to you about me?"

  "I beg your pardon," he said. "I seem to be singularly stupid thismorning. A mild lunacy. You must forgive me, if you can. To tell youwhat you ask would be to enter upon forbidden ground, and I mustn't dothat."

  "Still, I should like to know," said the girl, watching him with sombreeyes.

  "Well, then," said he, "it was a little Jewish photographer in theBoulevard de la Madeleine."

  And she said, "Oh!" in a rather disappointed tone and looked away.

  "We seem to be making conversation chiefly about my personalappearance," she said, presently. "There must be other topics if oneshould try hard to find them. Tell me stories. You told me storiesyesterday; tell me more. You seem to be in a classical mood. You shallbe Odysseus, and I will be Nausicaa, the interesting laundress. Tell meabout wanderings and things. Have you any more islands for me?"

  "Yes," said Ste. Marie, nodding at her slowly. "Yes, Nausicaa, I havemore islands for you. The seas are full of islands. What kind do youwant?"

  "A warm one," said the girl. "Even on a hot day like this I choose awarm one, because I hate the cold."

  She settled herself more comfortably, with a little sigh of content thatwas exactly like a child's happy sigh when stories are going to be toldbefore the fire.

  "I know an island," said Ste. Marie, "that I think you would likebecause it is warm and beautiful and very far away from troubles of allkinds. As well as I could make out, when I went there, nobody on theisland had ever even heard of trouble. Oh yes, you'd like it. The peoplethere are brown, and they're as beautiful as their own island. They wearhibiscus flowers stuck in their hair, and they very seldom do any work."

  "I want to go there!" cried Mlle. Coira O'Hara. "I want to go there now,this afternoon, at once! Where is it?"

  "It's in the South Pacific," said he, "not so very far from Samoa andFiji and other groups that you will have heard about, and its name isVavau. It's one of the Tongans. It's a high, volcanic island, not aflat, coral one like the southern Tongans. I came to it, one evening,sailing north from Nukualofa and Haapai, and it looked to me like asingle big mountain jutting up out of the sea, black-green against thesunset. It was very impressive. But it isn't a single mountain, it's alot of high, broken hills covered with a tangle of vegetation and setround a narrow bay, a sort of fjord, three or four miles long, and atthe inner end of this are the village and the stores of the few whitetraders. I'm afraid," said Ste. Marie, shaking his head--"I'm afraid Ican't tell you about it, after all. I can't seem to find the words. Youcan't put into language--at least, I can't--those slow, hot, island daysthat are never too hot because the trades blow fresh and strong, or theisland nights that are more like black velvet with pearls sewed on itthan anything else. You can't describe the smell of orange groves andthe look of palm-trees against the sky. You can't tell about the sweet,simple, natural hospitality of the natives. They're like little,unsuspicious children. In short," said he, "I shall have to give it up,after all, just because it's too big for me. I can only say that it'sbeautiful and unspeakably remote from the world, and that I think Ishould like to go back to Vavau and stay a long time, and let the restof the world go hang."

  Mlle. O'Hara stared across the park of La Lierre with wide and shadowyeyes, and her lips trembled a little.

  "Oh, I want to go there!" she cried again. "I want to go there--andrest--and forget everything!" She turned upon him with a sudden bitterresentment. "Why do you tell me things like that?" she cried. "Oh yes, Iknow. I asked you, but--can't you see? To hide one's self away in aplace like that!" she said. "To let the sun warm you and the trade-windsblow away--all that had ever tortured you! Just to rest and be atpeace!" She turned her eyes to him once more. "You needn't be afraidthat you have failed to make me see your island! I see it. I feel it. Itdoesn't need many words. I can shut my eyes and I am there. But it was alittle cruel. Oh, I know, I asked for it. It's like the garden of theHesperides, isn't it?"

  "Very like it," said Ste. Marie, "because there are oranges--groves ofthem. (And they were the golden apples, I take it.) Also, it is very faraway from the world, and the people live in complete and carelessignorance of how the world goes on. Emperors and kings die, wars comeand go, but they hear only a little faint echo of it all, longafterward, and even that doesn't interest them."

  "I know," she said. "I understand. Didn't you know I'd understand?"

  "Yes," said he, nodding. "I suppose I did. We--feel things rather alike,I suppose. We don't have to say them all out."

  "I wonder," she said, in a low voice, "if I'm glad or sorry." She staredunder her brows at the man beside her. "For it is very probable thatwhen we have left La Lierre you and I will never meet again. I wonder ifI'm--"

  For some obscure reason she broke off there and turned her eyes away,and she remained without speaking for a long time. Her mind, as she satthere, seemed to go back to that southern island, and to its peace andloveliness, for Ste. Marie, who watched her, saw a little smile come toher lips, and he saw her eyes half close and grow soft and tender as i
fwhat they saw were very sweet to her. He watched many differentexpressions come upon the girl's face and go again, but at last heseemed to see the old bitterness return there and struggle withsomething wistful and eager.

  "I envy you your wide wanderings," she said, presently. "Oh, I envy youmore than I can find any words for. Your will is the wind's will. You gowhere your fancy leads you, and you're free--free. We have wandered, youknow," said she, "my father and I. I can't remember when we ever had ahome to live in. But that is--that is different--a different kind ofwandering."

  "Yes," said Ste. Marie. "Yes, perhaps." And within himself he said, withsorrow and pity, "Different, indeed!"

  As if at some sudden thought the girl looked up at him quickly. "Didthat sound regretful?" she asked. "Did what I say sound--disloyal to myfather? I didn't mean it to. I don't want you to think that I regret it.I don't. It has meant being with my father. Wherever he has gone I havegone with him, and if anything ever has been--unpleasant, I was willing,oh, I was glad, glad to put up with it for his sake and because I couldbe with him. If I have made his life a little happier by sharing it, Iam glad of everything. I don't regret."

  "And yet," said Ste. Marie, gently, "it must have been hard sometimes."He pictured to himself that roving existence lived among such people asO'Hara must have known, and it sent a hot wave of anger and distressover him from head to foot.

  But the girl said: "I had my father. The rest of it didn't matter in theface of that." After a little silence she said, "M. Ste. Marie!"

  And the man said, "What is it, Mademoiselle?"

  "You spoke the other day," she said, hesitating over her words, "aboutmy aunt, Lady Margaret Craith. I suppose I ought not to ask you moreabout her, for my father quarrelled with his people very long ago and hebroke with them altogether. But--surely, it can do no harm--just for amoment--just a very little! Could you tell me a little about her, M.Ste. Marie--what she is like and--and how she lives--and things likethat?"

  So Ste. Marie told her all that he could of the old Irishwoman who livedalone in her great house, and ruled with a slack Irish hand, a sweetIrish heart, over tenants and dependants. And when he had come to an endthe girl drew a little sigh and said:

  "Thank you. I am so glad to hear of her. I--wish everything weredifferent, so that--I think I should love her very much if I might."

  "Mademoiselle," said Ste. Marie, "will you promise me something?"

  She looked at him with her sombre eyes, and after a little she said: "Iam afraid you must tell me first what it is. I cannot promise blindly."

  He said: "I want you to promise me that if anything ever shouldhappen--any difficulty--trouble--anything to put you in the position ofneeding care or help or sympathy--"

  But she broke in upon him with a swift alarm, crying: "What do you mean?You're trying to hint at something that I don't know. What difficulty ortrouble could happen to me? Please tell me just what you mean."

  "I'm not hinting at any mystery," said Ste. Marie. "I don't know ofanything that is going to happen to you, but--will you forgive me forsaying it?--your father is, I take it, often exposed to--danger ofvarious sorts. I'm afraid I can't quite express myself, only, if anytrouble should come to you, Mademoiselle, will you promise me to go toLady Margaret, your aunt, and tell her who you are and let her care foryou?"

  "There was an absolute break," she said. "Complete."

  But the man shook his head, saying:

  "Lady Margaret won't think of that. She'll think only of you--that shecan mother you, perhaps save you grief--and of herself, that in her oldage she has a daughter. It would make a lonely old woman very happy,Mademoiselle."

  The girl bent her head away from him, and Ste. Marie saw, for the firsttime since he had known her, tears in her eyes. After a long time shesaid:

  "I promise, then. But," she said, "it is very unlikely that it shouldever come about--for more than one reason. Very unlikely."

  "Still, Mademoiselle," said he, "I am glad you have promised. This is anuncertain world. One never can tell what will come with the to-morrows."

  "I can," the girl said, with a little tired smile that Ste. Marie didnot understand. "I can tell. I can see all the to-morrows--a long, longrow of them. I know just what they're going to be like--to the veryend."

  But the man rose to his feet and looked down upon her as she sat beforehim. And he shook his head.

  "You are mistaken," he said. "Pardon me, but you are mistaken. No onecan see to-morrow--or the end of anything. The end may surprise you verymuch."

  "I wish it would!" cried Mlle. O'Hara. "Oh, I wish it would!"

  * * * * *