CHAPTER II
THE STORY TOLD BY TWO
Roger waited. He knew that Virginia was gathering her forces together,and that he might expect the unexpected.
"I want you to tell me all about that girl in mourning who lives at theChateau de la Roche," she said after a moment; "and what her brotherdid."
Roger was slow in answering. "It's not a pleasant story for your ears. Iwas sorry this afternoon that I had spoken even as freely as I did aboutit before you. Loria took me to task rather, after you'd gone up to thechateau, and he was right. By Jove! Virginia, I believe that if I'd saidnothing, the idea of buying the place would never have occurred to you."
"Perhaps not," she admitted. "But it _has_ occurred to me, and once Ihave an idea in my head I keep it tenaciously--as all my long-sufferingfriends know to their sorrow. Will you go to-morrow to the agent whoseaddress I have and make inquiries?"
"Certainly, if you wish."
"Oh, you think if no one thwarts me, I'll get over the fancy. But Iwon't! I'm going to have that chateau among the olive trees for mine ifit costs me fifty thousand pounds (which it won't, I know), even if Ionly live in it for one month out of five years. The thing is, to feelit's my own. So now, you see, as the place is practically my property,naturally I'd like to know something of the people who have been itsowners."
"I don't see why. When one buys a house one doesn't usually agitateoneself much about the family history of one's predecessors."
"Roger, you know this is different. I want you and no one to else tellme. Still, if you won't----"
"Oh, if you insist you must be gratified, I suppose, up to certainlimits. What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
"H'm! Rather too large an order, my child. However, to begin with, theDalahaides of the Chateau de la Roche were English in the lastgeneration, but the family is of French origin. When the last member ofthe French branch died, a banker in London was the next heir. He gave thechateau and the Dalahaide house in Paris as a wedding present to his son,who was about to be married. The bride and bridegroom came over on theirhoneymoon, and took such a fancy to the chateau that they made their homethere, or rather between it and the old house in Paris. This young couplehad in time a son, and then a daughter. Perhaps you saw the daughterto-day?"
"Yes, it was she. You didn't ask me about her before."
"No; the fact is, I thought that further conversation on the subjectwould be too painful for poor Loria. You must have seen that he wasupset."
"I couldn't help seeing. But go on."
"Well, the father and mother and their two children were a most devotedfamily. They were all handsome and clever and popular, and if they werenot millionaires, they were extravagant, for they gave delightfulentertainments here and in Paris, and their purses were open for any onewho wished to dip in his fingers.
"The son Maxime, always called Max, inherited his father's generous,reckless, extravagant ways. He was drawn into the fastest set in Paris,and lost a lot of money at baccarat. That wouldn't have mattered much,perhaps, if at the same time some large investments of the father'shadn't gone wrong and crippled the family resources. Then, as misfortunesgenerally come in crowds, there was a slight earthquake along this partof the coast, and the chateau was partly ruined, as you saw to-day, forthey were not able then to have it restored. 'Next year,' they said; butthere was no next year for the Dalahaides. Only a few months after thefirst two blows came the third, which was to crush the family for ever.Max Dalahaide was accused of murder, tried, and condemned."
"What--he is _dead_, then? I thought you said--I----" Virginia's heartgave so sudden and violent a bound that she stammered, and grew red andwhite under the revealing moonlight. She was thinking of theportrait--seeing it again, looking into the eyes which had seemed tospeak. Dead! Executed as a murderer! The thought was horrible; it stifledher.
"No, he is not dead," answered Roger gravely; "at least, if he is Ihaven't heard of it. But--if he still exists--one can't call itliving--he must have wished a hundred times a day to die and be out ofhis misery. Perhaps death has come to him. It might, and I not haveknown; for from out of the pit which has engulfed him, seldom an echoreaches the world above."
"Roger, you frighten me! What do you mean?" the girl exclaimed.
"Forgive me, child. I forgot for a moment, and was thinking aloud. Idon't often forget you, do I? I said to-day that Max Dalahaide was deadin life. That is true. Family influence, the tremendous eloquence of aman engaged to plead his cause, the fact that Max insisted upon hisinnocence, while the evidence was entirely circumstantial, saved him fromthe guillotine, which I believe he would have preferred, in hisdesperation. He was sent to that Hades upon earth, New Caledonia, aprisoner for life."
"But--he was _English_!"
"No. His parents had been English, but he, having been born in France,was a French subject. He had even served his time in the army. Naturallyhe was amenable to French law; and he is buried alive in Noumea, the mostterrible prison in the world."
"And he was innocent!"
Roger, who had been gazing out over the sea, turned a surprised look uponVirginia.
"No! He was not innocent," he said quickly. "Everything proved his guilt.It is impossible that he should have been innocent."
"His sister believed in him."
"Yes, his sister. What does that prove? The father thought him guilty,and killed himself. As for the mother--who knows? At all events, shedied--broken-hearted. Every penny the family possessed, after their greatlosses, went for Maxime's defense; but, except that his life was saved,it was in vain."
"You knew him--he was your friend--yet you believed in his guilt?"
"I hardly knew him well enough to call myself a friend. I admired him,certainly Max Dalahaide was the handsomest, wittiest, most fascinatingfellow I ever met. Neither man nor woman could resist him, if he set outto conquer. Loria and he were like brothers; yet Loria thought with therest of the world. He can't be blamed for disloyalty, either, for reallythere was nothing else to think, if one used one's reason."
"If he had been _my_ friend, I would not have used my reason!" exclaimedVirginia. "What is the use of reason, when one has instinct?--and that isnever wrong. But it is good of you to defend the Marchese, for I know youdon't like him."
"Don't I?" echoed Roger. "If I don't, I'm afraid it is because you _do_.You won't have me, dear; you've told me that, and I don't mean to botheryou again; but I'm weak enough to be jealous when I think there's dangerof your saying 'Yes' to anybody else."
"I don't know that there is any such danger in this case," said Virginia."But the Marchese is very handsome, and rather romantic, and he singslike an angel. Oh, yes, I am almost in love with him when he sings--or Iwas till yesterday. And how he dances! It's poetry. When I am waltzingwith the Marchese Loria I invariably make up my mind that I will accepthim next time he asks. Then, afterward, something holds me back. To-day,in that valley of shadows, he affected me quite differently. It was asif--as if the shadows had shut down between us. I saw him in the shadow,his features changed--repellent. As the French say, he 'made me horror.'Yet I didn't know why. Now I begin to understand. It was my preciousinstinct warning me, saying: 'This man is disloyal. Don't trust him.'"
"You are unjust," said Roger. "I should like to let you misjudge him, butI can't be a bounder, you know. He really behaved extremely well in theDalahaide affair. The man couldn't believe, against a mountain ofevidence; nevertheless, he did what he could for his friend, guilty as hethought him. All this happened four years ago, when you were a demurelittle schoolgirl--if you ever _could_ have been demure!--in your ownVirginia, not allowed even to hear of, much less read, the greatnewspaper scandals of the moment. I can't remember every detail of theaffair, but it was said to be largely through Loria's efforts that Maxwas saved from capital punishment for his crime."
"You haven't told me yet what that crime was."
"Yes. I have said it was murder."
"Ah! but that is only
a crude statement. I ask for the story."
"You won't have it from me, my child," answered Roger coolly. "I'm not asensation-monger. It was a horrid affair, and one doesn't talk of suchthings to little girls. You know all from me that you will know. Buyyour chateau, if you choose. You've money enough to squander on twentysuch toys and not miss it. No doubt poor Madeleine Dalahaide will bebenefited by the exchange--her castle for your money. Fortunate for her,perhaps, that she is the last of the French Dalahaides, and has the rightto sell the chateau."
"You will tell me nothing more?"
"Nothing."
"Then I will tell _you_ one thing. I believe that the man was innocent. Ihave seen his portrait. I have seen his sister. That is enough for me.But what you will not tell me I shall learn for myself, and then--andthen--you shall see what you shall see."
* * * * *
Virginia slept restlessly that night. In her dreams she was always in theValley of the Shadow, striving to find her way out into the sunlight; andsometimes the valley seemed but the entrance to that bottomless pit ofshame where Maxime Dalahaide was entombed. She awoke from a dreamforgotten, in a spasm of cold fear, before it was dawn, and switching onthe electric light near the bed, she drew her watch from under thepillow. It was just six o'clock; and for a few moments Virginia laystill, thinking over the events of yesterday. After all, what did theymean for her? Nothing, said Reason; everything, said a Voice to which shecould give no name.
Suddenly her heart began to beat quickly with the excitement of a strangethought that seemed to spring out of herself, and then turn to face her.It pushed the girl from her bed, and she rose, shivering; for even hereat Cap Martin it was cold in the early morning before the vivid sun hadwarmed the air.
She was used to lying in bed until a fire of fragrant pine cones andolive wood crackled on the hearth, and her own maid had filled the bathin the bathroom adjoining. But now she bathed in the cold, dressingherself in her riding-habit, and even arranging her hair without help. Byseven her toilet was made, and, turning off the electric light, she foundthat the sky was pink and golden with the winter sunrise.
The girl rang for coffee, and ordered her horse to be ready. She and KateGardiner never met before ten o'clock, at earliest; thus three hourswould pass before any one save her maid would begin to wonder where shewas; and for the maid she would leave a line of explanation, mentioningthat she had gone out on business, and that nothing was to be said unlessLady Gardiner inquired.
Virginia had a ride of nearly two hours before she could reach thedestination she had planned; but neither the fresh air, the beauty of thescene, nor the exercise which she loved, could calm the fever in herblood. It was as if some power stronger than herself pushed her on; andthough she had always been too healthy in mind and body to suffer fromsuperstition, she now believed, half fearfully, that such an influencehad possession of her.
"What is the matter with me?" she asked. "I am no longer myself. It is asif I were only an instrument in hands that use me as they will. Why do Igo this morning to the Chateau de la Roche? I don't know. I don't knowwhat I shall say to excuse myself when I am there. Yet, somehow, thewords will come to me--I feel it."
For it was to the chateau above the Valley of the Shadow that she wasgoing.
When she reached the gates, half-way up the slope of the wooded hillwhich the whole party had climbed together yesterday, suddenly thenervous exaltation that had carried her courageously so far, broke like aviolin string too tightly drawn. She was horrified at her own boldness.She half turned back; then, setting her lips together, she slipped downfrom her saddle and opened the gate.
This morning no slim, black-clad figure moved among the wilderness ofneglected flowers. Virginia tethered her mare, ascended the two or threestone steps, and struck the mailed glove of iron which formed the knockeron the oak of the door. Its echoes went reverberating through wide, emptyspaces, and for some moments she stood trembling at her audacity. Shesaid to herself that she could not knock again. If no one answered thelast summons she would take it as a sign that she ought not to havecome, and she would steal away. But just as the limit of time shementally set had passed, and she was in the act of turning from the door,it opened.
The servant who had guided Virginia and her friends through the house theday before appeared, his pale, dignified old face showing such evidentsigns of surprise that the American girl, who had never flinched beforeany one or anything, stammered and blushed as she asked for MademoiselleDalahaide.
The old man politely ushered her in, but he was unable to hide hisembarrassment. Mademoiselle should be informed at once, if she were athome, but, in fact, it was possible---- He hesitated, and Virginia sawwell that he prepared a way of escape for his young mistress in case shewished to avoid the unexpected caller.
"Pray tell mademoiselle that--that----" Virginia began. She had meant tofinish by saying that her business was urgent. But--supposing when shefound herself face to face with the girl in black, the fugitive desireswhich had dragged her here refused to be clothed in coherent words?
As the servant waited respectfully for the end of the message, a doorwhich Virginia remembered as leading into the family chapel suddenlyopened. Mademoiselle Dalahaide came slowly out, her head bent, her longblack dress sweeping the stone floor of the hall in sombre folds. She didnot see the stranger at first; but a faint ejaculation from the lips ofthe old Frenchman caused the dark head to be quickly raised.
The eyes of the two girls met. Mademoiselle Dalahaide drew back a little,her tragically arresting face unlighted by a smile. She looked thequestion that she did not speak; but she gave the American no greeting,and there was something of displeasure or distrust in her level,searching look.
The moment which Virginia had dreaded, yet sought for, had come. Allself-consciousness left her. She went to meet the other in an eager,almost childlike way.
"Do forgive me," she said in English. "I had to come. I could not sleeplast night. I got up before any one else was awake, because I--because Iwanted so much to see you, that I couldn't wait: and I wanted to come toyou alone."
Madeleine Dalahaide's faint frown relaxed. Virginia in that mood wasirresistible, even to a woman. Still the girl in black did not smile. Shehad almost forgotten that it was necessary and polite to force a smilefor strangers. She had been so much alone, she and sorrow had grown sointimate, that she had become almost primitively sincere. The ordinary,pleasant little hypocrisies of the society in which she had once livedduring what now seemed another state of existence, no longer existed forher.
Nevertheless, she was not discourteous. "You are kind to have taken thistrouble," she said. "It is something about the chateau, no doubt--somequestions which perhaps you forgot to ask yesterday?"
The old man, who understood not a word of English, had discreetly andnoiselessly retired, now that fate had taken the management of thesituation from his hands. The two girls were alone in the great hall, thechapel door still open behind Madeleine Dalahaide, giving her abackground of red and purple light from a stained-glass window.
"No," Virginia answered. "If I said that business about the chateaubrought me, it would be merely an excuse. It would make things easier forme in beginning, but--I wish to say to you only things that are reallytrue. I came because--because I want to help you."
The white oval of the other's face was suddenly suffused with scarlet.The dark head was lifted on the slender throat.
"Thank you," she said coldly. "But I am not in need of help. If that isyour reason for thinking of buying this house, I beg----"
"But it is not my reason. What can I say that you won't misunderstand?There is one whom you love. Just now you were praying for him in thatchapel. I know it. You were praying to God to help him, weren't you? Whatif I should be an instrument sent you to be used for that purpose?"
The tragic eyes stared at the eager, beautiful face, dazed andastonished.
Virginia went on, not seeming to choose her words, but l
etting them flowas they would.
"I know how you have suffered. It is only a little while that I haveknown, but it seems long, very long. I have seen _his_ portrait, andpartly I came up to tell you this morning that I believe in hisinnocence; partly that, but most of all I came to say that he must besaved."
"Saved?" echoed Madeleine Dalahaide. "But that is not possible. Onlydeath can save him now."
Neither had uttered a name; neither was aware that it had not been spokenby the other. For Madeleine always, for Virginia in this hour, one namerang through the world. There was no need to give it form. And,strangely, Madeleine was no longer surprised at Virginia's mission.Perhaps, indeed, she believed her an incarnate answer to prayer; and in amoment all conventionalities had crumbled to pieces at their feet.
"Why do you say that?" cried the American girl. "Prisoners are releasedsometimes."
"Not life-prisoners at Noumea," replied the other; and the answer felldesolately on Virginia's ear. Yet the thought, lit into life by her ownwords, as a flame is lighted by striking a match, had given her couragewhich would not die.
"Then he will be the first," she said. "I have been thinking. Oh! it hasall been very vague--a kind of dream. But now I see everything clearly.Time unravels mysteries not easily solved at first. His innocence must beproved. Powerful friends shall give all their thoughts, all theiringenuity----"
"We have no friends," Madeleine answered bitterly.
"You have one friend. You have me."
Then at last a sense of the strangeness of this scene rushed in a waveover the consciousness of the lonely dweller in the castle.
"I don't understand," she said slowly. "Yesterday we had never met. Ionly knew your name because you spoke of buying this poor, sad home ofmine. I----"
"Neither do I understand," broke in Virginia. "But I have neverunderstood myself. I only know that this seems to be the thing I was bornfor. And if I fail in what I want to do for you and yours, why, I shallhave come into the world for nothing, that is all."
"But you are wonderful!" exclaimed Madeleine Dalahaide, realizing withsudden force the other's extreme beauty and strong magnetism. "Didyou--is it possible that you ever knew my brother?"
"I never heard his name till yesterday. But I have seen you, I have seenthis house, I have heard something of the story, and--I have seen hisportrait. Nobody told me, of course, that it was his; nobody could. But Iknew at once. And I wondered how any one who had ever known him couldhave believed that--that----"
"Don't be afraid to say it. Believed that he was a murderer. Oh,friends--_friends_! Friendship is a flower that withers with the firstfrost."
"You shan't have cause to think that of me--if you are going to take mefor a friend."
"I shall thank heaven for you. Even if you can do nothing, to think thatthere is one human being in the world besides my poor aunt and me whobelieve in him, is like balm on an open wound. Come with me into the roomwhere you saw the portrait. I painted it the year before--the end. I talkto it sometimes, and for a moment I almost forget the horribletruth--when the eyes smile back at me just as they used to do when we hadsome joke together."
"As they will again," finished Virginia.
They went into the room of the portrait and stood before it in silence.Each one felt that its look was for her.
"And yet," Madeleine said, as if answering a question, "there must besome one who thinks of us, and remembers us with kindness, giving _him_at least the benefit of a doubt; some one who talked to you of Max andtold you the story of--of his so-called crime in such a way as not tofill your mind with horror."
"No one has told me the story yet," hesitated Virginia. "I have onlyheard hints. They said--the word--_murder_! But that is not the face ofa murderer. How could any one believe it?"
"You don't know--the story?"
Virginia shook her head.
"When you know it, you will turn away from us, as every one else has."
"No--no! Be sure I will not."
"How can I be sure? Ah, almost all the solace of hope has gone now! Youwill hear the horrible details, and--that will be the end."
Virginia caught the slender, cold fingers that twisted togethernervously. "Tell me yourself," she cried. "Tell me all--you, his sister.Then you will see how I shall bear it, and whether I shall fail you."
"I will!"
Madeleine Dalahaide's breath came unevenly. For a moment she could notspeak. Then she began, her eyes not on Virginia, but on the portrait.
"There was a woman," she said in a low, choked voice. "She was anactress. Max was in love with her, or thought he was. She was handsome.I have seen her on the stage. Other men besides Max were mad about her.But she seemed to care for him. He wanted to marry her, and when fatherand mother didn't approve, he quarrelled with them, for the first time inhis life. We had always been so happy before that--so united. Everythingbegan to go wrong with my poor Max then. He played cards at his club, andlost a great deal of money. And as if that were not enough, father'slosses came. He could do nothing for Max. Besides, the woman Max lovedmade him jealous. He suspected that she cared for somebody else. He toldme that the last time I saw him before--the terrible thing happened. Buthe didn't tell the man's name. Perhaps he didn't know him. We had a longtalk, for I had been his friend and confidante through all. I didn't wanthim to marry the woman; but even that would be better than to have himmiserable, as he said he must be without her. And it was the next nightthat the murder was committed. But it was not known until the dayafter."
"Was it--the man of whom he was jealous who was murdered?"
"No, the woman, Liane Devereux. She had been shot--in the face. Oh, itwas horrible! It is horrible now to talk to you of it. Her features wereso destroyed that she could be recognized only by her hair, which wasgolden-red, and her figure--her beautiful figure which all the worldadmired so much. Even her hands--she must have held them up before herface, the poor creature, instinctively trying to save herself, topreserve her beauty, for they, too, were shattered. Her jewels were allgone, and she had had many jewels. Soon the police discovered that theyhad been pawned. And Max was accused of pawning them, to get money to paygambling debts."
"How could they accuse him of that?"
"He really had pawned them, at her request. She wanted money, and wouldnot listen to his objections to getting it in that way. He had pawnedthem on the day of the murder, and still had the tickets, which he hadforgotten to enclose with the money for the jewels, when he sent it toMademoiselle Devereux. She had asked him to pawn the things in his name,so that hers could be protected, and, of course, that went dreadfullyagainst Max. He couldn't possibly prove, when the woman was dead, that hehad pawned the jewels for her, because the money he had raised haddisappeared. He would have taken it to her himself, but on returning tohis own flat from the pawnbroker's he received a strange letter sayingthat she hated him, and never wished to see him again. It was all quitesudden, and Max was angry. Still, he might have gone, insisting that sheshould tell him what she meant by such a letter, but he had arranged ahurried journey to England. They arrested him on the way. He was goingthere in the hope of borrowing some money from his godfather, a cousin ofours, who had told Max that if at any time he should be in difficultieshe must apply to him. But what proof had Max of his own intentions? Everyone thought that he was escaping to England to hide himself, after havingcommitted a cowardly murder.
"There were other bits of evidence against him, too; for instance, therevolver with which the woman was shot was his, with a silver monogram onit. Everybody--even the best of his friends--believed him guilty. Andfather--poor father!--but I can't talk about that part. It is too cruel.Oh, you are pale, and changed! I knew it would be so. You are like therest. But how could I expect anything else when you have heard such astory? Everything against him--nothing in his favour. Even Max himselfwas dazed. Over and over again he said that he had no explanation to giveof the mystery."
"There is only one explanation, since he was innocent--and I
'm as sure ofthat as before," said Virginia firmly. "It was a diabolically cleverplot, planned with fiendish ingenuity, to ruin your brother--all yourfamily, perhaps."
"Hundreds of times I have thought of that," sighed Madeleine Dalahaide."Many, many times I spoke of it to the man who defended Max at his trial.But there was no one it would be reasonable to suspect. We hadabsolutely no enemy. Max had none. Everybody adored him--in his happydays."
"The man whom Liane Devereux loved better than your brother?"
"Ah, but you must see, as the advocate saw, that if she loved the otherbetter he had no motive either to kill the woman or ruin Max. Where therehad been no injury, there need be no revenge. And if Max knew who the manwas he never told his name."
"There was nobody--_nobody_ who had a right to think himself injured byyour brother, even long before?"
"Not by my brother, so far as we could find out. The theory of a plot wasadvanced, of course, and--and I clung to it; but it fell to the ground.There seemed nothing to support it."
"And yet, from the way you speak, I can't help thinking that you suspectsome one."
"Oh, _I_! But I am only a woman. I was a very young girl then. Every oneI spoke to--even Max--thought my idea a mad one, and said it would do ourcase far more harm than good to have it mentioned."
"Tell me, won't you, what it was?"
Madeleine hesitated. "I dare not," she answered. "My reason says that thething is impossible. If I wrong the man, it would be shameful to create aprejudice in your mind against one, no doubt a stranger to you, but whomyou might one day meet, and, meeting, remember my words. Besides, it cando no good to speak. It would be hopeless to prove anything against him,even if his hand had been in a plot."
"Yet you said that your brother had no enemy?"
"This man was _my_ enemy. It had not always been so. Once we werefriends. But--something happened, and afterward I think he hated me."
"Is it possible that you are speaking of the Marchese Loria?"
The question sprang from Virginia's lips before she had stopped toreflect whether it were wise to ask it, and she was terrified at theeffect of her impulsive words.
Madeleine Dalahaide's pale, sad face became ashen, her great eyesdilated, and there was something of fear, perhaps even of distrust, inthe look she turned upon Virginia.
"You know him?" she exclaimed, her voice suddenly sharp.
"Yes," admitted the American girl.
"Then I think that you and I cannot be friends."
"Not friends? But if I give up the Marchese Loria for you?"
"I do not ask or wish you to do that."
"If he is your enemy he shall not be my friend."
"I have not said he was my enemy."
"I have heard that he loved your brother dearly."
"Perhaps."
"And yesterday----"
"What of yesterday?"
"He was with us when we rode into the valley. He turned pale, and beggednot to come, because the place, he said, was connected with a greatsorrow in his life."
"He would not meet me face to face! Did _he_ suggest that you should tryto save my brother?"
"No, he did not speak his name before me. He does not know what is in mymind. No one knows yet but you. It was my cousin, Roger Broom, who metyou long ago, and told me that the Marchese Loria had done much to saveyour brother's life."
"It may be that he did. I don't deny it. But if you are to be my friend Iask you this: say nothing of Maxime Dalahaide to Loria."