Roger Broom had seen the boat coming
from afar. Already the lighters were
alongside, and the process of coaling was about
to begin. This would be got through as soon
as possible, and necessary provisions bought
from the boats plying from the town with
fresh milk, butter, eggs, meat, fowls, and
green vegetables. But Roger knew well that,
expedite their business as they might, the
Bella Cuba would not steam out of the
harbour without a challenge from the law.
The only shock of surprise he experienced
at sight of the official-looking little craft,
making straight for the yacht, was in recognizing
the Marchese Loria, the last man he
had expected to see.
As he stood on deck beside the quartermaster
near the rail, Loria hailed him by name, while
the boat came alongside, and the four rowers
shipped their dripping oars.
"Ah, Sir Roger, you are surprised to see me!"
the Marchese cried. "But, by our old friendship,
I hope you will let me come on board.
These gentlemen in the boat with me are the
United States Consul, Mr. Chandler; the French
Consul, Monsieur de Letz; and Herr Dr. Sauber,
the medical officer for the health of the port."
"Speaking for Miss Beverly as well as myself,
we shall be very pleased to see you," said Roger.
"Herr Dr. Sauber's business with us it is easy
to guess, and he is prompt in carrying it out.
Mr. Chandler and Monsieur de Letz are, no
doubt, your friends, Marchese, who have come
with you to pay us a friendly visit. We shall
be delighted to entertain them on board as well
as we can during the dreary process of coaling."
"I can't let you receive us on false pretenses,
sir," replied the United States Consul. "My
business and that of Monsieur de Letz is not
wholly friendly, unfortunately, although we
are both particularly anxious it should be carried
out in a friendly spirit. It is in this hope that
certain formalities have been waived. It is, as
you know, your duty to receive Dr. Sauber on
board, and as you fly the American colours it is
your duty to receive me as the representative
of the authority of the United States."
"Charmed, I'm sure, to see you in any
capacity," said Roger, his tone unchanged.
"Though what the authority of the United States
should have to do in procuring us the pleasure,
I——"
"The authority of the United States supports
France, as it is bound to do, in accordance with
the extradition treaty, in demanding that you
give up the fugitive convict, 1280, who came on
board your yacht at New Caledonia."
"We have no convict with us," retorted Roger.
"In that case you cannot object to search
being made," said Monsieur de Letz.
"We do most certainly object to being insulted,"
Roger replied. "Mr. Chandler, the
owner of this yacht is an American lady, Miss
Beverly. I call upon you as her Consul to
protect her interests, not to sacrifice them."
"Sir Roger," Loria broke in, before Chandler
could answer, "I beg once more that you will
let me come on board with the doctor as a friend.
I will explain why, when we can talk together.
Though I am with these gentlemen, their errand
is not mine."
"The doctor I feel bound to receive," said
Roger. "But Miss Beverly, it seems to me, has
as much right to choose who her guests shall be
on board her own yacht as in her own house. If
she were here to speak for herself——"
"She is here to speak for herself," said Virginia,
at his shoulder. "Marchese Loria, I
invite you to come on board. I invite also the
United States Consul, whose protection I claim.
But I do not choose to have other guests."
"The health officer has a right to board us,
you know, Virginia," said Roger in a loud tone;
then close to her ear: "Hang it all! we are more
or less at their mercy. We can't get away
without coaling, and they know it. Our poor
little cannon are of no use to us here. We
can't afford to defy any of the powers interested;
they've got too many gunboats in the harbour.
Bluff is our game, and we've got to play it for
all it's worth. But you're perfectly right about
the Consul. Only, if you don't want Loria,
you needn't——"
"I do want him," Virginia hastily whispered—"for
a special reason. And I want to talk
to him alone. But for heaven's sake keep the
Frenchman off! Who knows what coup he
may be planning?"
As if in answer, though he could not possibly
have heard, De Letz announced from the boat
that he did not wish to insist upon boarding the
yacht. He would trust his business in Mr.
Chandler's hands, since the lady preferred it.
This easy-going courtesy alarmed Virginia.
She felt instinctively that the enemy had a
strong trump with which to confound her
unexpectedly. Still, if she did not quite see
the enemy's game, at least they could not see
hers.
The gangway was let down. Loria, Chandler,
and the medical officer of the port came on board.
Then the gangway was drawn up, though the
French Consul and the four oarsmen sat placidly
in the boat.
The purser, who was busy receiving stores,
was sent for, to be interviewed by the doctor.
Roger, standing by, gave half his attention to
the conversation between these two, and half
to the United States Consul, who plunged at
once into the subject of the escaped convict.
Monsieur de Letz had informed him, he
announced, that if the fugitive were not given
up to justice by the American yacht, it would
be regarded by France as a direct and deliberate
affront. Meanwhile, the medical officer bombarded
the unfortunate purser with questions.
What ports had been visited? Where had the
passengers been taken on? None since Alexandria?
Humph! Alexandria was considered
an infected port at present. Any one ill on
board? No? Where, then, were the remaining
members of the party? In their cabins?
The doctor must ask, as a mere matter of form,
to see them.
Roger Broom's lips were suddenly compressed.
So this was the game. He saw it all now. The
doctor was in the plot. He meant to detain the
yacht in quarantine. If he succeeded in doing
this, Maxime Dalahaide was lost. Everything
else they had thought of, but not this.
"May I speak with you alone, Miss Beverly?"
Loria had begun to plead, the instant he had
set foot on deck. "Believe me, it is partly for
your own sake, partly for the sake of others
whose welfare is dear to you, that I ask it."
It was the thing for which Virginia had been
wishing. "Come down with me into the
saloon," she said.
"Could we not speak here, at a little distance
from the others?" urged Loria, who knew that
the doctor intended to visit the cabins.
"It is better below," the girl answered. She
was determined to be already in the saloon
before the others came down. "Come quickly,
and we can talk without being disturbed."
There was nothing for Loria to do but to
obey.
They went down the companionway; and
George Trent, on guard with his book near the
Countess de Mattos's cabin door, jumped up at
sight of Loria.
"What, you here, Marchese?" he began.
But Virginia cut him short with a look and
gesture both imploring and imperative.
"Leave us, George, I beg," she said. "Later,
there will be time for explanations."
Without a word, the young man bowed and
walked away. But he did not go farther than
his cabin. He wished to be at hand if he were
needed, as he might be, by and by.
On the other side of the stateroom door stood
the Countess, half crouching, like a splendid
tigress ready to spring.
"Marchese," George Trent had said. Who
was this Marchese? Could it be possible that
it was the one man of all others for whom her
heart had cried out? Had his soul, in some
mysterious, supernatural way, heard her soul
calling to him across the world? Had he
heard, and come to her here, to save her from
her enemies? In another moment she must
hear the voice of the newcomer whom George
had addressed as "Marchese," and then she
would know.
Even as she told herself this, schooling her
impatience, the voice spoke. "Miss Beverly—Virginia,"
it said brokenly, imploringly, "for
the love of heaven don't misjudge me. I came
with those men to-day, not to help them, but
to help you—if I can. You must know I
would give my life to serve you. My life, do I
say? I would give my soul. It was in ignorance
of what would happen that I visited Samoa.
The French Consul is an old school friend. He
told me everything—I mean, the news from
New Caledonia. He has photographs of Maxime.
I tried to get them away, without his
knowledge, but I didn't succeed. You must
not be embroiled further in this terrible affair.
The best thing is for you to give the poor fellow
up, and I swear to you that, for your sake, and
for his—even though I believe him guilty—I
will find some means of saving him. The
doctor has been promised all sorts of favours
if he will state that there is a suspicious case
of illness on board; a stateroom door locked
against him will be enough to raise suspicions
that you are hiding a case of plague. You can
do nothing. Unless you give Maxime up, and
it is seen that you have a clean bill of health,
you will be detained indefinitely in quarantine.
Further advices will arrive from New Caledonia,
representations will be made to the authorities
here, it will become an international question,
and you will be forced to surrender the escaped
prisoner. Maxime will then be lost, for I
should be unable to help him, if things had
gone so far—the hue and cry would be too
furious. De Letz is determined to thwart
you, but he doesn't know that I am a secret
ally of your plans. Trust to me. Give Maxime
up while there is time, and you will never
repent it."
"You make brave promises, Marchese," returned
Virginia. "But you do not name your
price. I suppose, like other men, you have
a price for what you say you can do?"
"I make no conditions," answered Loria.
"It hurts me that you could think of it. All
I want is a little gratitude from you—ah, no, I
cannot say that is all I want. Only, it is all
I ask. What I want more than anything on
earth, more than anything which even Heaven
could give, is the treasure of your love. For
that, I could fight my way, and Maxime Dalahaide's
way, through the place of lost spirits,
and laugh at the tortures of Hades. I dare not
ask for that treasure now. Give me what you
can, that is all, and my life's blood is yours, for
I worship you, Virginia. I dream of you night
and day. If I cannot have you for my wife,
I shall go to my grave unmarried, and the
sooner the better. There's nothing but you
in the world; no other woman but you; there
never has been for me, and never will be."
"It's false!" cried the voice of a woman,
husky with passion; and throwing open the
door of her cabin, the Countess de Mattos stood
on the threshold, not six feet distant from the
two in the saloon.
Carried away on the tide of his very real love
for Virginia Beverly, whose pale, spiritualized
beauty had gone to his head like wine, the hot-blooded
Italian was at a disadvantage. Strength
had gone out of him in his appeal. Physically
and mentally he was spent.
The passionate voice, the flaming eyes of the
woman suddenly seen in the doorway, struck
him like a double blow aimed at a drowning
man. "Liane!" he cried, before he could
regain the self-mastery which meant all the
difference between life and death.
"Yes," she flung at him in French, "I am
Liane—Liane Devereux. Come, every one,
and hear what I have to say. This man is a
traitor—traitorous friend and treacherous
lover!" She stopped for an instant, and threw
a glance round the saloon. Loria and Virginia
Beverly were no longer alone there. George
Trent, Sir Roger Broom, Kate Gardiner, and
two men who were strangers had suddenly
appeared as if by a conjuring trick. The
woman stood with her head held high, like some
magnificent wild creature of the forest at bay,
fearing nothing save loss of vengeance. She
was glad that all these people had come. The
more there were to hear the tale she meant to
tell, the more sure the stroke of her revenge.
Yes, she was glad, glad! And though she died
for it, under the knife of the guillotine, she
would ruin the man who had deceived her.
"He pretended to love me," she went on.
"But now I know that he never did, for when
he vowed love and devotion his voice did not
once sound as I have heard it now, speaking
to that white-faced girl when he did not dream
I was near.
"I am Liane Devereux, not a Portuguese
woman, not the Countess de Mattos, therefore
Maxime Dalahaide is not a murderer, since I
live. It was the Marchese Loria who arranged
everything—even my name, and credentials,
and proofs of my identity as Manuela de Mattos,
in case they were ever needed. Oh, there was
nothing neglected. But now I know that it
was not for my sake, as I thought, but to serve
his own ends, and I am willing to die to hold
him back from success.
"I will tell you the whole story from the
beginning. Five years ago I was an actress in
Paris. I made two or three failures. A powerful
dramatic critic had vowed to drive me off
the stage. He had begun his work; and at
this perilous time in my career, just as I had
quarrelled with my manager, Maxime Dalahaide
fell in love with me. I thought he was
rich. It occurred to me that if I became his
wife I could leave the stage in a blaze of glory.
Besides, he was brilliant and handsome. I
was flattered by his admiration, and felt that it
would be easy to love him. I did all I could to
win an offer of marriage from him. When it
came I accepted. But soon after our engagement
his father lost a great deal of money. I
realized that Maxime would not be as good a
match as I had counted upon making. Still,
I did not throw him over; for by that time I
cared for his handsome face, and I was of far
too jealous a nature to risk throwing him into
the arms of another woman. If we parted, I
thought I knew to what woman he would turn.
There was an English girl singing at the Opera
Comique, whose name at one time had been
coupled with Maxime Dalahaide's. She had
a good voice and a pretty enough face, but she
would not have succeeded in Paris, people
whispered, if Maxime had not helped her. I
had spoken to him of this girl, and he had denied
caring for her. She was a very ordinary,
uninteresting creature, apart from her beauty,
he said; but she had been friendless and in
hard luck, and as he was half English himself,
he had done what he could to aid a lonely and
deserving young countrywoman, that was all.
Still, I was never sure that he was not deceiving
me. Altogether, in those days, I was unhappy.
The Marchese Loria, Maxime's best friend—as
I thought—was very sympathetic. He came
often to see me, both with Maxime and alone.
One day they quarrelled in my house. It was
Loria who began it. He accused Maxime
of prejudicing his sister Madeleine against him,
and Maxime admitted that, though he loved
Loria, he did not think he would made a good
husband, and did not wish him to marry Madeleine.
With a look of jealous hatred in his
eyes, which I have never forgotten, Loria cried
out that Maxime had always taken away from
him everything he wanted most—love of
friends and women, popularity, all that a man
values in life. Then, almost before Maxime
could answer to vow that never, consciously,
had he been Loria's rival or injured him in any
way, Loria begged forgiveness, said he had
spoken in anger—that in his heart he did not
mean a word. So the quarrel—if quarrel
you could call it—was made up. But I
guessed then that Loria had never really loved
Maxime.
"It was only a few days after this that I found
myself in great trouble with my creditors. Maxime
had had too many losses to help me much,
though he lent me two or three thousand francs.
I asked him to pawn my jewels, which were
worth a good deal, and to do it in his own name.
It was Loria who put this idea into my head.
He said that by this means I should prevent the
pawn-tickets from being seized by other
creditors. Late that very afternoon, when,
against his will, Maxime had taken my jewels,
the English girl, Olive Sinclair, came to my flat,
saying that she must talk to me of an affair of
great importance to us both. I was curious,
and my jealousy was up in arms. She was
admitted by my maid, who was just going out
for the whole evening, by my permission.
"Olive Sinclair came in. We were alone
together in the flat. She began by saying that
she was going to England by the late boat that
night, and that Maxime Dalahaide was going
with her. As soon as possible, the girl went
on, they would be married at a registrar's office,
and the marriage kept secret from his family
until she came of age the next year, when she
would inherit a fortune, which she should be
only too glad to share with her beloved Maxime.
She had heard, she said, that I went about boasting
everywhere of my engagement to Maxime
Dalahaide, and that she could bear it no longer,
so she had come to tell me the real truth, and
humble my pride. Perhaps I would not have
believed her if I had not known that Maxime
did intend to go to England that night. He had
told me that he wanted to see an uncle there
on business. At once his story seemed improbable.
I believed that the girl was telling me the
truth. I have always had a hot temper, which
often escapes beyond control. A wave of rage
rushed up to my head, and made a red flame
leap before my eyes. As the girl talked on,
smiling insolently, I struck her in my passion.
She staggered, and fell on the floor, her head
pressed up against the fender in a curious way.
Dear heaven, I can see her now, lying there,
her eyes staring wide open, seeming to look at
me, her lips apart! She did not cry out or
move; and as I stood watching her, frightened
at what I had done, a few drops of blood began to
ooze from her mouth.
"I went down on my knees, and shook her
by the shoulder, calling her name; but her
head fell on one side, as if she had been a horrid
dummy made of rags; and still her eyes were
staring and her blood-stained lips smiling that
foolish, awful smile. It was at this moment
that I heard a knocking at the door.
"At first I kept quite still, dazed, not knowing
what I should do. But then I thought it
might be Maxime, who had changed his mind
about selling the jewels, and come back soon
to tell me. I was in the mood to see him at
whatever cost. I called through the door to
know who was there. Loria's voice answered.
I let him in, explained confusedly what had
happened, and begged him to bring the girl
back to consciousness. Five minutes later he
told me that she was dead. In falling, and
striking against the fender, she had broken
her neck.
"'What is to become of me?' I asked. 'I
did not mean to kill her, and yet—I am a
murderess. Will they send me to the guillotine
for this?'
"'No, because I will save you,' Loria answered.
Then, quickly, he made me understand
the scheme that had come into his mind.
So cunning, so wonderfully thought out it was,
that I asked myself if he had somehow planned
all that had happened; if he had sent the girl to
me, and told her to say what she had said,
counting on my hot blood for some such sequel
as really followed. But I could not see any
motive for such plotting, and in a moment I
forgot my strange suspicions, in gratitude for
his offer to save me. Sometimes I had fancied
that, in spite of his wish to marry Madeleine
Dalahaide, he loved me; now he swore to me
the truth of this, and I was scarcely surprised.
He would give everything he had in the world
to save me, he said. What a fool I was to believe
him! All I had to do in return was to promise
that I would obey implicitly. Gladly I promised,
and I did not falter even when the full
horror of his plan was revealed. It was that
or a disgraceful, terrible death for me. Oh, I
would have done anything then to escape the
guillotine!
"First of all he made me write a letter to
Maxime, telling him that I hated him and never
wished to see him again; that I loved another
man better. I did this gladly. That was
nothing. And Loria let me go out and send
the letter, while he began the awful work which
had to come next. I thanked him for that. I
had not nerve enough left to help much after
what I had gone through.
"When I came back to the flat after sending
off the letter, Loria unlocked the door for me.
Already the worst was over.
"His idea was for me to escape and let it
seem that I had been murdered. This could
be done, because Olive Sinclair would not be
missed. She had given up her rooms to leave
for England that night. In a bag hanging
from her belt were her tickets for train and boat.
We were of much the same figure. Loria, in
speaking to me of her before, had mentioned
this slight resemblance. Her hair was brown,
while mine was red-gold. Hers would have
to be bleached, now that she lay dead. But
there was no great difficulty in that, for I
had the stuff in the house, as I used it in
very small quantities to give extra brightness
to mine.
"While I had been gone Loria had fired shot
after shot into the poor dead face, from a
revolver, which he did not show me. Afterward,
when I was far away, I heard that the
weapon was Maxime's; but, honestly, I did not
think at the time that Maxime would be implicated
in this affair. I was half mad. I
thought only of myself, and of Loria's self-sacrifice.
Already I could have worshipped
him for what he was doing to save me.
"He shot the hands, too, that they might
be shattered, for Olive Sinclair's hands were
not like mine; but before he did that, he
had slipped two or three of my rings, which
he had found on my dressing-table, upon the
dead fingers.
"All this was finished when I dragged myself
home. But together we bleached the dark hair
till it was the colour of mine, and together we
dressed the body in my clothes, Loria having
removed the gown before he used the revolver.
Oh, the horror of that scene! It is part of my
punishment that I live it over often at night.
At last we arranged the shattered hands to look
as if the girl had flung them up to protect her
face from the murderer.
"I put on her travelling dress, and her hat,
with a thick veil of my own. Meanwhile, a
knock had come at the door. I feared that the
shots had been heard, and that we would be
arrested. But Loria quieted me. He said the
revolver was small, and had made scarcely any
sound; that, as no one lived in the flat above
or just underneath, it was quite safe. We did
not answer the knock, though it came again and
again. But afterward, in the letter-box on the
door, there was a packet containing the money
which Maxime had got from the pawnbroker
for my jewels. That I took with me, and Loria
gave me more. Whether Maxime himself
brought the money, or sent it by messenger,
I did not know; but, afterward, the concierge
bore witness that he had passed into the house
before the murder must have taken place, and
gone out long afterward. And dimly I remembered,
in thinking of Loria as he had looked
in that dreadful hour, that he had worn a coat
and hat like Maxime's. How can I tell what
were the details of his scheme? But when
Maxime was accused of the murder, and Loria
made no effort to exonerate him, it took all my
faith in the Marchese as a lover to believe that
he was sacrificing his friend wholly for my sake.
As for me—why should I give myself up to
the guillotine for a man who would have betrayed
me for an Olive Sinclair—especially when
he was not condemned to death, but only to
imprisonment?
"I went to England in Olive Sinclair's place.
Fortunately for me, she had no relatives. No
one asked questions, no one cared what had
become of her. She was not a celebrity, in spite
of the way in which Maxime Dalahaide had
worked to help her. After a while I left England
for Portugal. Meanwhile I had dyed my hair,
and stained my complexion with a wonderful
clear olive stain which does not hurt the skin,
and shows the colour through. Here are the
things I use, in this bag. I keep it always
locked and ready to my hand.
"Loria bought me a little land and an old
ruined house near Lisbon, belonging to an
ancient family, of whom the last member had
died. The title went with the land. It was
supposed that I was a distant cousin, with
money, and a sentiment of love for the old
place. But really I hated it. It was dull—deadly
dull. I travelled as much as possible,
and Loria had promised that at the end of the
five years he would marry me, saying always
that he loved me well; that if he had sinned
it was for love of me, and to save me. When
the world had forgotten the affair of Maxime
Dalahaide we would be married, and live in
countries where no one had heard the story,
and nothing would remind us of the past. I
forced myself to believe him, for he was my all—all
that was left to me in exile. But now
I know him for what he is. I would swear
that he planned everything from the beginning
to ruin Maxime Dalahaide. He here to
help his old enemy! No, it is he who must have
set the bloodhounds on his track. I fight under
Loria's banner no longer. He loves Virginia
Beverly. Now that she knows him as
he is, and what he has done for hatred, let
her put her hand in his if she will."
The woman's voice fell from a shrill height
into silence. Her olive-stained face was ash-gray
with exhaustion. No one had interrupted,
or tried to check the fierce flood of the confession,
not even Loria. All had stood listening,
breathless; and Virginia had known that,
behind the door of his locked cabin, Maxime
Dalahaide must hear every clear-cadenced word
of fine, Parisian French.
Loria had stood listening with the rest, a
sneer on his lips, though his eyes burned with
a deep fire. If he had taken a step, hands
would have been thrust out to stop him. But
he did not move except, in the midst of
Liane Devereux's story, to play nervously
with an old-fashioned ring of twisted, jewel-headed
serpents on the third finger of his
left hand.
Suddenly, as the woman finished, he raised
the hand to his lips and seemed to bite the
finger with the ring. Then he dropped his
hand and looked at his accomplice with a
strained smile. But the smile froze; the lips
quivered into a slight grimace. His eyes,
glittering with agony, turned to Virginia.
"I loved you," he said, and fell forward on
his face.
"He has taken poison!" exclaimed Chandler,
the United States Consul. "It must have
been in that queer ring."
He and Roger Broom and George Trent
and the German doctor pressed round the
prostrate figure, but the woman who had
denounced him was before them all. With a cry
she rushed to the fallen man, and, flinging herself
down, caught up the hand with the ring.
They saw what she meant to do, and would
have snatched her away, but already her lips
had touched the spot where his had been, and
found the same death.
The whole situation was changed by the unexpected
developments on board the Bella Cuba.
Dr. Sauber had relinquished, indeed, almost
forgotten, the clever plan by which the yacht
was to be detained. The French Consul,
Loria's host, was hurriedly brought on board,
to be dumbfounded by a recital of what had
happened. With Loria dead, and guilty, the
fugitive concealed on the Bella Cuba innocent,
De Letz's personal motive for detaining the
prisoner disappeared. His chivalry was fired
by Virginia's beauty and the brave part she had
played. In the end, instead of making difficulties
for the party, he consented to take charge
of his friend's body and that of Liane Devereux,
which latter duty was his by right, as consul
to the country from which she came. The
dead man and dead woman would be carried
ashore in the boat which had brought the
four men out to the yacht; and De Letz would,
acting on the statement of those who had heard
the confession, make such representations to
France as would eventually obtain for Maxime
Dalahaide a free pardon with permission to
return to his own land. Meanwhile he (De
Letz) reiterated that it was as much his duty
as before to bring about the arrest of the
escaped convict, who had no more right to
break his prison bonds if innocent than if
he were guilty. To bring it about if possible!
But—was it possible? And the Frenchman
shrugged his shoulders, half smiling at Virginia.
Mr. Chandler advised him that, in the
present circumstances, it would be unwise to
make the attempt. De Letz was inclined
to agree, and, as Dr. Sauber had apparently
found a clean bill of health, the Bella Cuba
must take her own sweet way, rebel though
she was.
So when the yacht had finished coaling she
steamed out of the harbour of Samoa with
Convict 1280 still on board.
Virginia's desire was to make for America,
and to send for Madeleine, who had been living
all this time with her aunt in an old Surrey
manor-house belonging to Roger Broom. The
brother and sister should stay at her house in
Virginia until Maxime was free to return to
France, and he would grow strong and well,
and everybody concerned would be happy. It
would be madness, she urged, for Maxime to
put himself in the power of French law until
such time as his innocence was officially
acknowledged.
But Maxime thought otherwise. His innocence
had been declared, and would sooner
or later be acknowledged. The manly and
honourable thing to do was to trust to the
generosity of his adopted land. To France
he would go, and boldly throw himself upon
her mercy.
"He is right, Virginia," said Roger, fearing
the while that secret jealousy influenced his
decision.
"He is right," echoed George Trent, with no
hidden thoughts at all.
Virginia held her peace, though her heart was
full; and the ultimate destination of the Bella
Cuba was France.
France did not disappoint Maxime's trust,
but months passed before he was a free man.
Meantime hope had given him new life. His
sister was near him. Virginia Beverly was in
Paris with an elderly relative of Roger Broom's
as her chaperon-companion, instead of Kate
Gardiner. Though he was virtually a prisoner,
since the eye of the law was upon him,
and the voice of the law pronounced that he
should go so far and no farther, still he was
happy, so happy that he often awoke from
prison dreams, not daring to believe the present
reality.
Then at last the day came when he was free.
Madeleine was staying with Virginia. He
would see them together. There was heaven
in the thought. George Trent was there, but
not Roger Broom. Roger had been called to
England on business, but he was returning
that evening.
Never had there been such a dinner as that
which celebrated Maxime's release from the old
bonds. Virginia had taken a beautiful house
which had been to let furnished, near the Bois
de Boulogne.
After the dinner the two girls with their brothers
went out into the garden, the old aunt, exhausted
with over-much joy, remaining indoors.
Virginia knew what would come next, and
drew Madeleine away from the two young men
that George might have the chance of asking
Maxime for his sister. Five minutes later
Maxime was squeezing Madeleine's hand, and
telling her that no news could have made him
so happy. Then, somehow, the lovers
disappeared, and Virginia Beverly and Maxime
Dalahaide were alone together.
"Everything good comes to us from you,"
he said, his voice unsteady. "What can I do to
show you how I—how we worship you for
all you have done, all you have been?"
"There is one thing you can do," Virginia
answered softly. "A favour to me. There is
a little gift I want to make to you, on this day
of all others. I have been planning it, thinking
of it for a long time. Here is this paper.
Take it and read. You will see then what I
mean, and why I want it so much."
It was a long, folded document of legal aspect
which she thrust into his hand, and in the blue
evening light he opened it. At sight of the first
words the blood leaped to his dark face, marble
no longer, but a man's face, young, handsome,
and virile. He looked from the paper to Virginia.
"Why, it is a deed of gift!" he exclaimed.
"The château—no, Miss Beverly, you are
more than generous, but this cannot be. The
château is yours—I would rather it belonged
to you than to any one on earth, even myself—and
yours it must remain."
"I bought it for you. It will break my heart if
you refuse," said Virginia, with tears in her voice.
The sound of her pain smote him with anguish.
He lost his head and forgot the barrier
between them—that he was poor, with a dark
past and an uncertain future, that she was a
great heiress.
"Break your heart!" he repeated. "My
darling, my angel, I would give all the blood in
mine for one smile from you. I never meant to
say this. I oughtn't to say it now, but—it
said itself. You must have known before.
You are the very soul of me, though I'm not
worthy to touch your dear hand. I couldn't
take the old home from you—don't you understand?
I couldn't live there again with this
love of you in my heart, for it would make it so
much the harder. I can't forget you; I would
rather die than forget you. This love is too
sweet to live without, but I know very well that
we can never be anything to each other, and my
plans are all made. As soon as Madeleine is
married I shall go out to Africa and try for luck
as other men have tried—and found it. It is
better for me to be far away from you——"
"No, no, I love you!" cried Virginia. Then
putting him from her with a quick gesture:
"But it will be I who go far away from you.
I have no right to care. My cousin, Roger
Broom, will take me to England—anywhere—it
doesn't matter. I promised long ago to marry
him. In the winter perhaps——"
"In the winter you and Max here will be
spending your honeymoon at the Château de la
Roche," said Roger's voice, with a hard cheerfulness.
"That old promise—why, I never meant
to hold you to it, dear. I don't take bribes,
and—I saw this coming long ago. I'm quite
content it should be so. You'll forgive me for
overhearing, won't you, girlie? I didn't mean
to give you such a surprise, but I'm not sorry
now. Give me your hand, Max, old man, and
you, Virginia. There! I'm glad it should be the
old cousin-guardian who joins them together."
"You mean it, Roger?" panted Virginia.
"Of course I mean it."
The two hands joined under his. And the
man and the girl were too happy to read anything
save kindness in its nervous pressure.
