The Man from Brodney's

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE BURNING OF THE BUNGALOW

  He went in and had tiffin with them in the hanging garden. Deppinghamwas surly and preoccupied. Drusilla Browne was unusually vivacious. Atbest, she was not volatile; her greatest accomplishment lay in theability to appreciate what others had to say. This in itself is a treatso unusual that one feels like commending the woman who carries it toexcess.

  Her husband, aside from a natural anxiety, was the same blithe optimistas ever. He showed no sign of restraint, no evidence of compunction.Chase found himself secretly speculating on the state of affairs. Werethe two heirs working out a preconceived plan or were they, after all,playing with the fires of spring? He recalled several of Miss Pelham'ssocialistic remarks concerning the privileges of the "upper ten," theintolerance of caste and the snobbish morality which attaches folly tonone but the girl who "works for a living."

  Immediately after tiffin, Genevra carried Lady Deppingham off to herroom. When they came forth for a proposed stroll in the grounds, LadyAgnes was looking very meek and tearful, while the Princess had abouther the air of one who has conquered by gentleness. In the uppercorridor, where it was dark and quiet, the wife of Deppingham haltedsuddenly and said:

  "It has been so appallingly dull, Genevra, don't you understand? That'swhy. Besides, it isn't necessary for her to be so horrid about it.She--"

  "She isn't horrid about it, dear. She's most self-sacrificing."

  "Rubbish! She talks about the Puritans, and all that sort of thing. Iknow what she means. But there's no use talking about it. I'll do as yousay--command, I mean. I'll try to be a prude. Heaven alone knows what areal prude is. I don't. All this tommy-rot about Bobby and me wouldn'texist if that wretched Chase man had been a little more affable. Henever noticed us until you came. No wife to snoop after him and--why, mydear, he would have been ideal."

  "It's all very nice, Agnes, but you forget your husband," said Genevra,with a tolerant smile.

  "Deppy? Oh, my dear," and she laughed gaily once more. "Deppy doesn'tmind. He rather likes me to be nice to other men. That is, if they arenice men. Indeed, I don't forget Deppy! I shall remember him to my dyingday."

  "Your point of view is quite different from that of a Boston wife, I'dsuggest."

  "Certainly. We English have a colonial policy. We've spread out, mydear."

  "You are frivolous once more, Agnes."

  "Genevra," said Lady Agnes solemnly, "if you'd been on a barren islandfor five months as I have, with nothing to look at but your husband andthe sunsets, you would not be so hard on me. I wouldn't take Drusilla'shusband away from her for the world; I wouldn't even look at him if hewere not on the barren island, too. I've read novels in which a man andwoman have been wrecked on a desert island and lived there for months,even years, in an atmosphere of righteousness. My dear, those novelistsare ninnies. Nobody could be so good as all that without getting wings.And if they got wings they'd soon fly away from each other. Angels arethe only creatures who can be quite circumspect, and they're not real,after all, don't you know. Drusilla may not know it yet, but she's notan angel, by any means; she's real and doesn't know it, that's all. I amreal and know it only too well. That's the difference. Now, come along.Let's have a walk. I'm tired of men and angels. That's why I want youfor awhile. You've got no wings, Genevra; but it's of no consequence, asyou have no one to fly away from."

  "Or to, you might add," laughed Genevra.

  "That's very American. You've been talking to Miss Pelham. She's alwaysadding things. By the way, Mr. Chase sees quite a lot of her. She typesfor him. I fancy she's trying to choose between him and Mr. Saunders. Ifyou were she, dear, which would you choose?"

  "Mr. Saunders," said Genevra promptly. "But if I were myself, I'd chooseMr. Chase."

  "Speaking of angels, he must have wings a yard long. He has been chosenby an entire harem and he flies from them as if pursued by the devil. Iimagine, however, that he'd be rather dangerous if his wings were to getout of order unexpectedly. But he's nice, isn't he?"

  The Princess nodded her head tolerantly.

  Her ladyship went on: "I don't want to walk, after all. Let us sit herein the corridor and count the prisms in the chandeliers. It's such fun.I've done it often. You can imagine how gay it has been here, dear. Haveyou heard the latest gossip? Mr. Britt has advanced a new theory. We areto indulge in double barrelled divorce proceedings. As soon as they areover, Mr. Browne and I are to marry. Then we are to hurry up and getanother divorce. Then we marry our own husband and wife all over again.Isn't it exciting? Only, of course, it isn't going to happen. It wouldbe so frightfully improper--shocking, don't you know. You see, I shouldgo on living with my divorced husband, even after I was married toBobby. I'd be obliged to do that in order to give Bobby grounds for adivorce as soon as the estate is settled. There's a whole lot more toMr. Britt's plan that I can't remember. It's a much gentler solutionthan the polygamy scheme that Mr. Saunders proposes; I will say that forit. But Deppy has put his foot down hard. He says he had trouble enoughgetting me to marry him the first time; he won't go through it again.Besides, he loathes grass widows, as Mrs. Browne calls them. Mr. Britttold him he'll be sure to love me more than ever as soon as I become aguileless divorcee. Of course, it's utter nonsense."

  "A little nonsense now and then is--" began the Princess, and pausedamiably.

  "Is Mr. Chase to stay for lunch?" asked Lady Agnes irrelevantly.

  "How should I know? I am not his hostess."

  "Hoity-toity! I've never known you to look like that before. A littledash of red sets your cheeks off--" But Genevra threw up her hands indespair and started toward the stairway, her chin tilted high. LadyAgnes, laughing softly, followed. "It's too bad she's down to marry thathorrid little Brabetz," she said to herself, with a sudden wistfulglance at the proud, vibrant, loveable creature ahead. "She deserves abetter fate than that."

  Genevra waited for her at the head of the stairway.

  "Agnes, I'd like you to promise that you will keep your avaricious clawsoff Mrs. Browne's husband," she said, seriously.

  "I'll try, my dear," said Lady Agnes meekly.

  When they reached the garden, they found Deppingham smoking furiouslyand quite alone. Chase had left some time before, to give warning to theEnglish bank that trouble might be expected. The shadow ofdisappointment that flitted across Genevra's face was not observed bythe others. Bobby Browne and his wife were off strolling in the lowerend of the park.

  "Poor old Deppy," cried his wife. "I've made up my mind to beexceedingly nice to you for a whole day."

  "I suppose I ought to beat you," he said slowly.

  "Beat me? Why, pray?"

  "I received an anonymous letter this morning, telling me of yourgoings-on with Bobby Browne," said he easily. "It was stuck under mydoor by Bromley, who said that Miss Pelham gave it to her. Miss Pelhamreferred me to Mr. Britt and Mr. Britt urged me to keep the letter forfuture reference. I think he said it could be used as Exhibit A. Then headvised me to beat you only in the presence of witnesses."

  "The whole household must be going mad," cried Genevra with a laugh.

  "Oh, if something only would happen!" exclaimed her ladyship. "A riot, amassacre--anything! It all sounds like a farce to you, Genevra, but youhaven't been here for five months, as we have."

  As they moved away from the vine-covered nook in the garden, a handparted the leaves in the balcony above and a dark, saturnine faceappeared behind it. The two women would have felt extremelyuncomfortable had they known that a supposedly trusted servant hadfollowed them from the distant corridor, where he had heard every wordof their conversation. This secret espionage had been going on for daysin the chateau; scarcely a move was made or a word spoken by the whitepeople that escaped the attention of a swarthy spy. And, curiouslyenough, these spies were no longer reporting their discoveries toHollingsworth Chase.

  The days passed. Hollingsworth Chase now realised that he no longer hadauthority over the natives; they suffered hi
m to come and go, but gaveno heed to his suggestions. Rasula made the reports for the islandersand took charge of the statements from the bank.

  Every morning he rode boldly into the town, transacted what business hecould, talked with the thoroughly disturbed bankers, and then defiantlymade his way to the chateau. He was in love with the Princess--desperately in love. He understood perfectly--for he was a man ofthe world and cosmopolitan--that nothing could come of it. She was aprincess and she was not in a story book; she _could_ not marry him. Itwas out of the question; of that he was thoroughly convinced, even inthe beginning.

  So far as Genevra was concerned, on her part it could mean no more thana diversion, a condescension to coquetry, a simple flirtation; it meantthe passing of a few days, the killing of time, the pleasure of gentleconquest, and then--forgetfulness. All this he knew and reckoned with,for she was a princess and he but a plebeian passing by.

  At first she revolted against the court he so plainly paid to her inthese last few days; it was bold, conscienceless, impertinent. Sheavoided him; she treated him to a short season of disdain; she did allin her power to rebuke his effrontery--and then in the end shesurrendered to the overpowering vanity which confronts all women who putthe pride of caste against the pride of conquest.

  She decided to give him as good as he sent in this brief battle offolly; it mattered little who came off with the fewest scars, for in afortnight or two they would go their separate ways, no better, no worsefor the conflict. And, after all, it was very dull in these last days,and he was very attractive, and very brave, and very gallant, and, aboveall, very sensible. It required three days of womanly indecision tobring her to this way of looking at the situation.

  They rode together in the park every morning, keeping well out of rangeof marksmen in the hills. A sense of freedom replaced the naturalreserve that had marked their first encounters in this little campaignof tenderness; they gave over being afraid of each other. He was tooshrewd, too crafty to venture an open declaration; too much of agentleman to force her hand ruthlessly. She understood and appreciatedthis considerateness. Their conflict was with the eyes, the tone of thevoice, the intervals of silence; no touch of the hand--nothing, exceptthe strategies of Eros.

  What did it matter if a few dead impulses, a few crippled ideals, a fewblasted hopes were left strewn upon the battlefield at the end of thefortnight? What mattered if there was grave danger of one or both ofthem receiving heart wounds that would cling to them all their lives?What did anything matter, so long as Prince Karl of Brabetz was notthere?

  One night toward the end of this week of enchanting rencontres--thisweek of effort to uncover the vulnerable spot in the other'sarmour--Genevra stood leaning upon the rail which enclosed the hanginggarden. She was gazing abstractedly into the black night, out of which,far away, blinked the light in the bungalow. A dreamy languor lay uponher. She heard the cry of the night birds, the singing of woodlandinsects, but she was not aware of these persistent sounds; far below inthe grassy court she could hear Britt conversing with Saunders and MissPelham; behind her in the little garden, Lady Deppingham and Browne hadtheir heads close together over a table on which they were playing anewly discovered game of "solitaire"; Deppingham and Mrs. Browne leanedagainst the opposite railing, looking down into the valley. The softnight wind fanned her face, bringing to her nostrils the scent of thefragrant forest. It was the first night in a week that he had missedcoming to the chateau.

  She missed him. She was lonely.

  He had told her of the meeting that was to be held at the bungalow thatnight, at which he was to be asked to deliver over to Rasula's committeethe papers, the receipts and the memoranda that he had accumulatedduring his months of employment in their behalf. She had a feeling ofdread--a numb, sweet feeling that she could not explain, except thatunder all of it lay the proud consciousness that he was a man who hadcourage, a man who was not afraid.

  "How silly I am," she said, half aloud in her abstraction.

  She turned her gaze away from the blinking light in the hills, a queer,guilty smile on her lips. The wistful, shamed smile faded as she lookedupon the couple who had given her so much trouble a week ago. She felt,with a hot flash of self-abasement, as if she was morally responsiblefor the consequences that seemed likely to attend Lady Deppingham'sindiscretions.

  Across the garden from where she was flaying herself bitterly, LadyDeppingham's husband was saying in low, agitated tones to Bobby Browne'swife, with occasional furtive glances at the two solitaire workers:

  "Now, see here, Brasilia, I'm not saying that our--that is, LadyDeppingham and Bobby--are accountable for what has happened, but thatdoesn't make it any more pleasant! It's of little consequence _who_ istrying to poison us, don't you know. And all that. _They_ wouldn't doit, I'm sure, but _somebody_ is! That's what I mean, d'ye see? LadyDep--"

  "I _know_ my husband wouldn't--couldn't do such a thing, LordDeppingham," came from Drusilla's stiff lips, almost as a moan. She wasvery miserable.

  "Of course not, my dear Drusilla," he protested nervously. Thensuddenly, as his eye caught what he considered a suspicious movement ofBobby's hand as he placed a card close to Lady Deppingham's fingers:"Demme, I--I'd rather he wouldn't--but I beg your pardon, Drusilla! It'sall perfectly innocent."

  "Of course, it's innocent!" whispered Drusilla fiercely.

  "You know, my dear girl, I--I don't hate your husband. You may have afeeling that I do, but----"

  "I suppose you think that I hate your wife. Well, I don't! I'm very fondof her."

  "It's utter nonsense for us to suspect them of--Pray don't be so upset,Drusilla. It's all right----"

  "If you think I am worrying over your wife's _harmless_ affair with myhusband, you are very much mistaken."

  Deppingham was silent for a long time.

  "I don't sleep at all these night," he said at last, miserably. Shecould not feel sorry for him. She could only feel for herself and _her_sleepless nights. "Drusilla, do--do you think they want to get rid ofus? We're the obstacles, you know. We can't help it, but we are.Somebody put that pill in my tea to-day. It must have been a servant. Itcouldn't have been--er----"

  "My husband, sir?"

  "No; my wife. You know, Drusilla, she's not that sort. She has a horrorof death and--" he stopped and wiped his brow pathetically.

  "If the servants are trying to poison any of us, Lord Deppingham, it isreasonable to suspect that your wife and my husband are the ones theywant to dispose of, not you and me. I don't believe it was poison youfound in your tea. But if it was, it was intended for one of the heirs."

  "Well, there's some consolation in that," said Deppy, smiling for thefirst time. "It's annoying, however, to go about feeling all the timethat one is likely to pass away because some stupid ass of an assassinmakes a blunder in giving--"

  The sharp rattle of firearms in the distance brought a sudden stop tohis lugubrious reflections. Five, a dozen--a score of shots were heard.The blood turned cold in the veins of every one in the garden; facesblanched suddenly and all voices were hushed; a form of paralysis seizedand held them for a full minute.

  Then the voice of Britt below broke harshly upon the tense, still air:"Good God! Look! It is the bungalow!"

  A bright glow lighted the dark mountain side, a vivid red painted thetrees; the smell of burning wood came down with the breezes. Two orthree sporadic shots were borne to the ears of those who looked towardthe blazing bungalow.

  "They've killed Chase!" burst from the stiff lips of Bobby Browne.

  "Damn them!" came up from below in Britt's hoarse voice.