The Isle of Unrest Part 8

Where the wall of rock proved vulnerable, the masonry, by some curious chance, was invariably sound.

It had not been de Va.s.selot's intention to disturb the old gardener, who, he understood, was left in charge of the crumbling house, but to return the next day with the Abbe Susini. But he was tired, and having failed to gain an entrance, was put out and angry, when at length he found himself near the great door built in the solid wall on the north-west side of the ruin. A rusty bell-chain was slowly swinging in the wind, which was freshening again at sunset, as the mistral nearly always does when it is dying. With some difficulty he succeeded in swinging the heavy bell suspended inside the door, so that it gave two curt clangs as of a rusty tongue against moss-grown metal.

After some time the door was opened by a grey-haired man in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves. He wore a huge black felt hat, and the baggy corduroy trousers of a deep brown, which are almost universal in this country. He held the door half open and peered out. Then he slowly opened it and stood back.

"Good G.o.d!" he whispered. "Good G.o.d!"

De Va.s.selot stepped over the threshold with one quick glance at the single-barrelled gun in the man's hand.

"I am--" he began.

"Yes," interrupted the other, breathlessly. "Straight on; the door is open."

Half puzzled, Lory de Va.s.selot advanced towards the house alone; for the peasant was long in closing the door and readjusting chain and bolts. The shutters of the house were all closed, but the door, as he had said, was open. The place was neatly enough kept, and the house stood on a lawn of that brilliant green turf which is only seen in parts of England, in Ireland, and in Corsica.

De Va.s.selot went into the house, which was all dark by reason of the closed shutters. There was a large room, opposite to the front door, dimly indicated by the daylight behind him. He went into it, and was going straight to one of the windows to throw back the shutters, when a sharp click brought him round on his heels as if he had been shot. In a far corner of the room, in a dark doorway, stood a shadow. The click was that of a trigger.

Quick as thought de Va.s.selot ran to the window, s.n.a.t.c.hed at the opening, opened it, threw back the shutter, and was round again with bright and flas.h.i.+ng eyes facing the doorway. A man stood there watching him--a man of his own build, slight and quick, with close upright hair like his own, but it was white; with a neat upturned moustache like his own, but it was white; with a small quick face like his own, but it was bleached. The eyes that flashed back were dark like his own.

"You are a de Va.s.selot," said this man, quickly.

"Are you Lory de Va.s.selot?"

"Yes."

"Then I am your father."

"Yes," said Lory, slowly; "there is no mistaking it."

CHAPTER VIII.

AT Va.s.sELOT.

"The life unlived, the deed undone, the tear unshed ...

not judging those, who judges right?"

It was the father who spoke first.

"Shut that shutter, my friend," he said. "It has not been opened for thirty years."

He had an odd habit of jerking his head upwards and sideways with raised eyebrows. It would appear that a trick of thus deploring some unavoidable misfortune had crystallized itself, as it were, into a habit by long use.

And the old man rarely spoke now without this upward jerk.

Lory closed the shutter and followed his father into an adjoining room--a small, round apartment lighted by a skylight and impregnated with tobacco-smoke. The carpet was worn into holes in several places, and the boards beneath were polished by the pa.s.sage of smooth soles. Lory glanced at his father's feet, which were encased in carpet slippers several sizes too large for him, bought at a guess in the village shop.

Here again the two men stood and looked at each other. And again it was the father who broke the silence.

"My son," he said, half to himself; "and a soldier. Your mother was a bad woman, mon ami. And I have lived thirty years in this room," he concluded simply.

"Name of G.o.d!" exclaimed Lory. "And what have you done all this time?"

"Carnations," replied the old man, gravely. "There is still daylight.

Come; I will show you. Yes; carnations."

As he spoke he turned and opened the door behind him. It led out to a small terrace no larger than a verandah, and every inch of earth was occupied by the pale green of carnation-spikes. Some were budding, some in bloom. But there was not a flower among them at which a modern gardener would not have laughed aloud. And there were tears in Lory de Va.s.selot's eyes as he looked at them.

The father stood, jerking his head and looking at his son, waiting his verdict.

"Yes," was the son's reply at last; "yes--very pretty."

"But to-night you cannot see them," said the old man, earnestly.

"To-morrow morning--we shall get up early, eh?"

"Yes," said Lory, slowly; and they went back into the little windowless room.

"We will get up early," said the count, "to see the pinks. This cursed mistral beats them to pieces, but I have no other place to grow them. It is the only spot that is not overlooked by Perucca."

He spoke slowly and indifferently, as if his spirit had been bleached, like his face, by long confinement. He had lost his grip of the world and of human interests. As he looked at his son, his black eyes had a sort of irresponsible vagueness in their glance.

"Tell me," said Lory, gently, at length, as if he were speaking to a child; "why have you done this?"

"Then you did not know that I was alive?" inquired his father in return, with an uncanny, quiet laugh, as he sat down.

"No."

"No; no one knows that--no one but the Abbe Susini and Jean there. You saw Jean as you came in. He recognized you or he would not have let you in; for he is quick with his gun. He shot a man seven years ago--one of Perucca's men, of course, who was creeping up through the tamarisk trees.

I do not know what he came seeking, but he got more from Jean than he looked for. Jean was a boy when your mother went to France, and he was left in charge of the chateau. For they all thought that I had gone to France with your mother, and perhaps the police searched France for me; I do not know. There is a warrant out against me still, though the paper it is written on must be yellow enough after thirty years."

As he spoke he carefully drew up his trousers, which were of corduroy, like Jean's; indeed, the Count de Va.s.selot was dressed like a peasant--but no rustic dress could conceal the tale told by the small energetic head, the clean-cut features. It was obvious that his thoughts were more concerned in his immediate environments--in the care, for instance, to preserve his trousers from bagging at the knee--than he was in the past. He had the curious, slow touch and contemplative manner of the prisoner.

"Yes; Jean was a boy when he first came here, and now he is a grey-haired man, as you see. He picks the olives and earns a little by selling them.

Besides, I provided myself with money long ago, before--before I died. I thought I might live long, and I have, for thirty years, like a tree."

Which was nearly true, for his life must have been somewhere midway between the human and the vegetable.

"But why, my G.o.d!" cried Lory, impatiently, "why have you done it?"

"Why?" echoed the count, in his calm and suppressed way. "Why? Because I am a Corsican, and am not to be frightened into leaving the country by a parcel of Peruccas. They are no better than the Luccans you see working in the road, and the miserable Pisans who come in the winter to build the terraces. They are no Corsicans, but come from Pisa."

"But if they thought you were dead, what satisfaction could there be in living on here?"

But the count only looked at his son in silence. He did not seem to follow the hasty argument. He had the placid air of a child or a very old man, who will not argue.

"Besides, Mattei Perucca is dead."