The Avenger (Oppenheim)/Chapter 26
CHAPTER XXVI
MADAME DE MELBAIN
Punctually at half-past seven the carriage arrived to take Wrayson to the château. A few minutes' drive along a road fragrant with the perfume of hay, and with the pleasant sound of the reaping machines in his ears, and the carriage turned into the park through the great iron gates, which opened this time without demur. By the side of the road was a clear trout stream, a little further away a herd of deer stood watching the carriage pass. The park was uncultivated but picturesque, becoming more wooded as they climbed the hill leading to the château. Wrayson smiled to himself as he remembered that this magnificent home and estate belonged to the woman who was his neighbour at Battersea, and whom he himself had been more than half inclined to put down as an adventuress.
A major-domo in quiet black clothes, who seemed to reflect in his tone and manner the subdued splendour of the place, received him at the door, passing him on at once to a footman in powdered hair and resplendent livery. Across a great hall, whose white stone floor, height, and stained-glass windows gave Wrayson the impression that he had found his way by mistake into the nave of a cathedral, he was ushered into a drawing-room, whose modernity and comparatively low ceiling were almost a relief. Here there were books and flowers and music, some exquisite water-colours upon the white walls, newspapers and magazines lying about, which gave the place a habitable air. A great semicircular window commanded a wonderful view of the park, but Wrayson had little time to admire it. A door was opened at the further end of the room, and he heard the soft rustling of a woman's gown upon the carpet. It was Louise who came towards him.
She was dressed in white muslin, unrelieved by ornament or any suggestion of colour. Her cheeks were unusually pale, and the shadows under her eyes seemed to speak of trouble. Yet Wrayson thought that he had never seen her look more beautiful. She gave him her hand with a faint smile of welcome, and permitted him to raise it to his lips.
"This is very, very foolish," she said softly, "and I know that I ought to be ashamed of myself."
"On the contrary," he answered, "I think that it is very natural. But, seriously, I feel a little overpowered. You won't want to live always in a castle, will you, Louise?"
She sighed, and smiled, and sighed again.
"I am afraid that our castle, Herbert," she murmured, "will exist only in the air! But listen. I must speak to you before the others come in."
"I am all attention," he assured her.
"It is about Madame de Melbain," she began, a little hesitatingly.
He waited for her to continue. She seemed to be in some difficulty.
"I want you to watch and do just what we others do," she said, "and not to be surprised if some of our arrangements seem a little curious. For instance, although she is the elder, do not give her your arm for dinner. She will go in first alone, and you must take me."
"I can assure you," Wrayson said, smiling, "that I shall make no difficulty about that."
"And she doesn't like to be talked to very much," Louise continued.
"I will humour her in that also," Wrayson promised. "She is a good sort to let me come here at all."
"She is very kind and very considerate," Louise said, "and her life has been a very unhappy one."
Wrayson moved his chair a little nearer.
"Need we talk about her any more?" he asked. "There is so much I want to say to you about ourselves."
She looked at him for a moment, a little sadly, a little wistfully.
"Ah! don't," she murmured. "Don't talk about definite things at all. For to-night—to-night only, let us drift!"
He smiled at her reassuringly.
"Don't be afraid," he said. "I am not going to ask you any questions. I am not going to ask for any explanations. I think that we have passed all that. It is of the future I wanted to speak."
"Don't," she begged softly. "Of the past I dare not think, nor of the future. It is only the present which belongs to us."
"The present and the future," he answered firmly.
She rose suddenly to her feet, and Wrayson instinctively followed her example. They were no longer alone. Two women, who had entered by a door at the further end of the apartment, were slowly approaching them. The foremost was tall and dark, a little slim, perhaps, but with an elegant figure, and a carriage of singular dignity. Her face was youthful, and her brown eyes were soft and clear as the eyes of a girl, but her dark hair was plentifully streaked with grey, and there was about her whole appearance an air of repressed sadness.
"This is Mr. Wrayson, is it not?" she asked, in a very sweet voice, but with a strong foreign accent. "We have so few visitors that one can scarcely make a mistake. You are very welcome."
She did not offer to shake hands, and Wrayson contented himself with a low bow.
"You are very kind," he murmured.
"Monsieur le Baron," she remarked, turning to an elderly gentleman who had just entered, "will doubtless find your coming pleasant. The entertainment of three ladies must have seemed at times a little trying. Let me make you gentlemen known to one another, Monsieur Wrayson, Monsieur le Baron de Courcelles. And Ida," she added, turning to her companion, who had moved a few steps apart, "permit that I present to you, also, Mr. Wrayson—Mademoiselle de Courcelles."
The conversation for a moment or two followed the obvious lines. Madame de Melbain and Louise had drawn a little apart; a few remarks as to the beauty of the château and its situation passed between Wrayson and the Baron. The name of its owner was mentioned, and Wrayson indicated his acquaintance with her. At the sound of her name, Madame de Melbain turned somewhat abruptly round, and seemed to be listening; but at that moment the door was thrown open, and the major-domo of the household, who had received Wrayson, announced dinner. He directly addressed Madame de Melbain.
"Madame is served," he murmured respectfully.
The little procession arranged itself as Louise had intimated. Madame de Melbain led the way, ushered by the major-domo and followed immediately by the Baron and Mademoiselle de Courcelles. Wrayson, with Louise, brought up the rear. They crossed the white flagged hall and entered an apartment which Wrayson, although his capacity for wonder was diminishing, felt himself compelled to pause and admire. It was of great height, and again the curiously shaped windows were filled with stained glass. The oak-panelled walls, black with age, were hung with portraits, sombre and yet vivid, and upon a marble pedestal at the end of the room, lifelike, and untouched by the centuries, stood a wonderful presentation of Ralph de St. Étarpe, the founder of the house, clad in the armour of his days. The dinner table, with its brilliant and modern appurtenances of flowers and plate, standing in the middle of the floor, seemed like a minute and yet startling anachronism. The brilliant patches of scarlet geranium, the deep blue livery of the two footmen, the glitter of the Venetian glass upon the table, were like notes of alien colour amongst surroundings whose chief characteristic was a magnificent restraint, and yet such dignity as it was possible to impart into the everyday business of eating and drinking was certainly manifest in the meal, which presently took its leisurely course.
Wrayson, although no one could accuse him of a lack of savoir faire, found himself scarcely at his ease. Madame de Melbain; erect; dignified, and ful, sat at the head of the table, and although she addressed a remark to each of them occasionally, she remained always unapproachable. The Baron made only formal attempts at conversation, and Mademoiselle de Courcelles was absolutely silent. Wrayson was unable to divest himself of the feeling of representing an alien presence amongst a little community drawn closely together by some mysterious tie. Louise was his only link with them, and to Louise he decided to devote himself entirely, regardless of the apparent demands of custom. His position at the table enabled him to do this, and very soon he discovered that it was precisely what was expected of him. The conversation between the others, such as it was, lapsed into German, or some kindred tongue. Wrayson found himself able presently to talk confidentially with Louise.
"Remember," he said, after a slight pause, "that I have finished altogether with the rôle of investigator. I no longer have any curiosity about anything. Still, I think that there is something which I ought to tell you."
She smiled.
"You may tell me as much as you like," she said, "as long as you don't ask questions."
"Exactly! Well, there is another Englishman staying at the Lion d'Or. He appears to be a decent fellow, and a gentleman. I am not going to talk about him. I imagine that he is harmless."
"We have heard of him," Louise murmured. "It certainly appears as though he were only an ordinary tourist. Has any one else arrived?"
"Yes!" Wrayson answered, "some one else has arrived, and I want to tell you about him."
Louise was obviously disturbed. She refused a course a little impatiently, and turned towards Wrayson anxiously.
"But the landlord," she said in a low tone, "has orders to receive no more guests."
"This man arrived to luncheon to-day," Wrayson answered. "The landlord could not refuse him that. He wished for a room and was told that he could not be taken in."
"Well, who is he, what is he like?" she demanded.
"He is a miserable sort of bounder—an imitation cockney tourist, with ready-made English clothes, a knapsack, and a camera. I should have felt suspicious about him myself, but the other fellow whom I told you about, who is staying at the inn, recognized him. He had seen him abroad, and what he told me seems decisive. I am afraid that he is a spy."
Wrayson cursed himself for a moment that he had been so outspoken, for the girl by his side seemed almost on the point of collapse. Her eyes were full of fear, and she clutched at the tablecloth as though overcome with a spasm of terror.
"Don't be alarmed," Wrayson whispered in her ear. "I am sure, I am quite sure that he is not here for what you may fear. I don't believe he is an Englishman at all."
The girl recovered herself amazingly.
"I was not thinking of myself," she said quietly; and Wrayson noticed that her eyes were fixed upon the pale, distinguished face of the woman who sat with a certain air of isolation at the head of the table.