The Master Mummer Part 13

The woman crossed herself.

"There is but one life," she said. "We wish to prepare Isobel for it."

"Madame," I said, "as to that, argument between us is impossible. I shall consult with my friends. Your messenger shall bring back word as to our decision."

The face of the woman grew darker.

"But surely," she protested, "you will not dare to keep the child?"

"Madame," I answered, "humanity makes sometimes strange claims upon us.

Isobel is as yet a child. She came into my keeping by the strangest of chances. I did not seek the charge of her. It was, to tell the truth, an embarra.s.sment to me. Yet she is under my care to-day, and I shall do what I believe to be the right thing."

"Monsieur," she said, "you are interfering in matters greater than you have any knowledge of."

"It is in your power," I reminded her, "to enlighten me."

"It is not a power which I am able to use," she answered.

"Then I will not detain you further, Madame," I said.

As I pa.s.sed out she leaned over towards me. She had already rung a bell, and outside I could hear the shuffling footsteps of the old servant who had admitted me.

"Monsieur," she said, "if you keep the child you make enemies--very powerful enemies. It is long since I lived in the world, but I think that the times have not changed very much. Of the child's parentage I may not tell you, but as I hope for salvation I will tell you this. It will be better for you, and better for the child, that she comes back here, even to embrace what you have called the living death."

"Madame," I said, "I will consider all these things."

"It will be well for you to do so, Monsieur," she said with meaning. "An enemy of those in whose name I have spoken must needs be a holy man, for he lives hand in hand with death."

CHAPTER X

So I was driven back to Argueil, the red-tiled, sleepy old town, with its great gaunt church, whose windows, as the lumbering cart descended the hill, were stained blood-red by the dying sunset. Behind, on the hillside, was the convent, with its avenue of stunted elms, its close-barred windows, its terrible prison-like silence. As I looked behind, holding on to the sides of the springless cart to avoid being jostled into the road, I found myself s.h.i.+vering. The convent boarding-schools which I had heard of had been very different sort of places. Even after my brief visit there this return into the fresh country air, the smell of the fields, the colour and life of the rolling landscape, were blessed things. I was more than ever satisfied with my decision. It was not possible to send the child back to such a place.

Across a great vineyard plain, through which the narrow white road ran like a tightly drawn band of ribbon, I came presently to the village of Argueil. The street which led to the inn was paved with the most abominable cobbles, and I was forced to hold my hat with one hand and the side of the cart with the other. My blue-smocked driver pulled up with a flourish in front of the ancient gateway of the _Leon d'Or_, and I was very nearly precipitated on to the top of the broad-backed horse.

As I gathered myself together I was conscious of a soft peal of laughter--a woman's laughter, which came from the arched entrance to the inn. I looked up quickly. A too familiar figure was standing there watching me,--Lady Delahaye, trim, elegant, a trifle supercilious. By her side stood the innkeeper, white-ap.r.o.ned and obsequious.

I clambered down on to the pavement, and Lady Delahaye advanced a little way to meet me. She held out a delicately gloved hand, and smiled.

"You must forgive my laughing, Arnold," she said. "Really, you looked too funny in that terrible cart. What an odd meeting, isn't it? Have you a few minutes to spare?"

"I believe," I answered, "that I cannot get away from this place till the evening. Shall we go in and sit down?"

She shook her head.

"The inn-parlour is too stuffy," she answered. "I was obliged to come out myself for some fresh air. Let us walk up the street."

I paid for my conveyance, and we strolled along the broad sidewalk. Lady Delahaye seemed inclined to thrust the onus of commencing our conversation upon me.

"I presume," I said, "that we are here with the same object?"

She glanced at me curiously.

"Indeed!" she remarked. "Then tell me why you came."

"To discover that child's parentage, if possible," I answered promptly.

"I want to discover who her friends are, who really has the right to take charge of her."

"You perplex me, Arnold," she said thoughtfully. "I do not understand your position in the matter. I always looked upon you as a somewhat indolent person. Yet I find you now taking any amount of trouble in a matter which really does not concern you at all. Whence all this good-nature?"

"Lady Delahaye----"

"Eileen," she interrupted softly.

"Lady Delahaye," I answered firmly. "You must forgive me if I remind you that I have no longer the right to call you by any other name. I am not good-natured, and I am afraid that I am still indolent. Nevertheless, I am interested in this child, and I intend to do my utmost to prevent her returning to this place."

"I am still in the dark," she said, looking at me curiously. "She is nothing to you. A more unsuitable home for her than with three young men I cannot imagine. You seem to want to keep her there. Why? She is a child to-day, it is true--but in little more than a year's time she will be a woman. The position then for you will be full of embarra.s.sments."

"I find the position now," I answered, "equally embarra.s.sing. We can only give the child up to you, send her back to the convent, or keep her ourselves. Of the three we prefer to keep her."

"You seem to have a great distaste for the convent," she remarked, "but that is because you are not a Catholic, and you do not understand these things. She would at least be safe there, and in time, I think, happy."

We were at the head of the village street now, upon a slight eminence. I pointed backwards to the prison-like building, standing grim and desolate on the bare hillside.

"I should consider myself no less a murderer than the man who shot your husband," I answered, "if I sent her there. I have made all the enquiries I could in the neighbourhood, and I have added to them my own impressions. The secular part of the place may be conducted as other places of its sort, but the great object of Madame Richard's sister is to pa.s.s her pupils from that into the religious portion. Isobel is not adapted for such a life."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders.

"Well," she said, "I am a Catholic, so of course I don't agree with you.

But why do you hesitate to give the child up to me?"

I was silent for a moment. It was not easy to put my feeling into words.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you must forgive my reminding you that on the occasion of your visit to us you did not attempt to conceal the fact that your feelings towards her were inimical. Beyond that, I was pledged not to hand her back into your husband's care, and----"

"Pledged by whom?" she asked quickly.

"I am afraid," I said, "that I cannot answer you that question."

She flashed an angry glance upon me.

"You pretend that the man who called himself Grooten was not your friend. Yet you have been in communication with him since!"

"I saw Mr. Grooten for the first time in my life on the morning of that day," I answered.

"You know where he is now?" she asked, watching me keenly.