The Unspeakable Gentleman Part 20

Mademoiselle, whose eyes had never left his face, smiled and shook her head.

"I know what you are thinking," she said. "No, no, captain. It is not the beginning of a melodramatic speech. I am not offering pity to the villain in the story. Even the first night I met you, I was sorry for you, captain. I was sorry as soon as I saw your eyes. I knew then that something had happened, and when I heard you speak, I told myself you were not to blame for it. I still believe you were not to blame. You see, I know your story now."

"Indeed?" said my father. "And you still are sorry. Mademoiselle, you disappoint me."

"Yes," said Mademoiselle, "I heard the story, and I believe she was to blame, not you. After all, she took you for better or worse."

And then a strange thing happened. In spite of himself he started. His race flushed, and his lips pressed tight together. It seemed almost as though a spasm of pain had seized him, which he could not conceal in spite of his best efforts. With an unconscious motion, he grasped his wine gla.s.s and the color ebbed from his cheeks.

"Mademoiselle is mistaken," said my father. "Another wine gla.s.s, Brutus."

The stem of the one he was holding had snapped in his hand.

"Nonsense," said Mademoiselle shortly.

My father cleared his throat, and glanced restlessly away, his face still set and still lined with the trace of suffering.

"Mademoiselle," he said finally, "you deal with a subject which is still painful. Pray excuse me if I do not discuss it. Anything which you may have heard of my affairs is entirely a fault of mine. You understand?"

"Yes," said Mademoiselle, "I understand, and we shall continue to discuss it, no matter how painful it is to you. Who knows, captain; perhaps I can bring you to your senses, or are you going to continue to ruin your life on account of a woman?"

"Be silent, Mademoiselle," said my father sharply.

But she disregarded his interruption.

"So she believed that you had filled your s.h.i.+p with fifty bales of shavings. She believed it, and called you a thief. She believed you were as gauche as that. I can guess the rest of the story."

But my father had regained his equanimity.

"Five hundred bales of shavings," he corrected. "You are misinformed even about the merest details."

"And for fifteen years, you have been roving about the world, trying to convince her she was right. Ah, you are touched? I have guessed your secret. Can anything be more ridiculous!"

He half started from his chair, and again his face grew drawn and haggard.

"She _was_ right," he said, a little hoa.r.s.ely. "Believe me, she was always right, Mademoiselle."

"Nonsense," said Mademoiselle. "I do not believe it."

My father turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders.

"It is pleasant to remember, is it not, my son, that your mother had a keener discernment, and did not give way to the dictates of a romantic imagination?"

"Sir," I said, "there is only one reason why I ever came here, and that was because my mother requested it. She wanted you to know, sir, that she regretted what she said almost the moment you left the house. If you had ever written her, if you had ever sent a single word, you could have changed it all. In spite of all the evidence, she never came fully to believe it."

"Ah, but you believe it," said my father quickly.

I do not think he ever heard my answer. He had turned unsteadily in his chair, and was facing the dying embers of the fire, his left hand limp on the table before him. Again the spasm of pain crossed his face.

Mademoiselle still watched him, but without a trace of triumph. Indeed, she seemed more kindly and more gentle than I had ever known her.

"Five hundred bales of shavings," she softly. "Ah, captain, there are not many men who would do it. Not any that I know, save you and the Marquis."

"Brutus," said my father, "a gla.s.s of rum."

With his eyes still on the fire, he drank the spirits, and sighed. "And now, Brutus," he continued, "my volume of Rabelais."

But when it was placed beside him, he left it unopened, and still continued to study the s.h.i.+fting scenes in the coals.

XII

Was it possible that I cared? There she was leaning toward him, the flames from the fire dancing softly before her face, giving her dark hair a hundred new lights and shadows. Her lips were parted, and in her eyes was silent entreaty. I felt a sudden unaccountable impulse to s.n.a.t.c.h up the volume of Rabelais, to face my father again, weapon or no weapon, to show her--

"Come, captain," said Mademoiselle gently. "Must you continue this after it has turned into a farce? Must you continue acting from pique, when the thing has been over for more years than you care to remember? Must you keep on now because of a whim to make your life miserable and the lives of others? Will you threaten fifty men with death and ruin, because you once were called a thief? It is folly, sir, and you know it, utter useless folly! Pray do not stare at me. It was easy enough to piece your story together. I guessed it long ago. I have listened too often to you and the Marquis at wine. Come, captain, give me back the paper."

With his old half smile, my father turned to her and nodded in pleasant acknowledgment.

"Mademoiselle," he observed evenly, "I have gone further through the world than most men, though to less purpose, and I have met many people, but none of them with an intuition like yours."

He paused long enough to refill his gla.s.s.

"You are right, Mademoiselle. Indeed, it is quite wonderful to meet a woman of your discernment. Yes, you are right. My wife called me a rogue and a scoundrel--mind you, I am not saying she was mistaken--but my temper was hotter then than it is now. I have done my best to convince her she was not in error. And now, Mademoiselle, it has become as much of a habit with me as strong drink, a habit which even you cannot break. I have been a villain too long to leave off lightly. No, Mademoiselle, I have the paper, and I intend to dispose of it as I see fit. Your mother, my son, need have had no cause for regret. She was right in everything she said. Brutus, tell Mr. Aiken I am ready to see him."

He must have been in the hall outside, for he entered the morning room almost as soon as my father had spoken, dressed in his rusty black sea cloak. At the sight of Mademoiselle, he bowed ceremoniously, and blew loudly on his fingers.

"Wind's s.h.i.+fted southwest," he said. "But we're ready to put out."

"Sit down, Mr. Aiken," said my father. "My son, pour him a little refreshment."

"Ah," said Mr. Aiken, selecting a chair by the fire, "pour it out, my lad--fill her up. It's a short life and little joy 'less we draw it from the bottle. And long life and much joy to you, sir, by the same token,"

he added, raising his gla.s.s and tossing the spirits adroitly down his throat. Then, with a comfortable sigh, he drew out his pipe and lighted it on an ember.

"Yes, she'll be blowing before morning."

"You don't mean," inquired my father, with a glance out of the window, "that I can't launch a small boat from the beach?"

"You could, captain, if you'd a mind to," said Ned Aiken, tamping down his tobacco, "but there's lots who couldn't."

"Then I shall," said my father languidly. "Brutus and I will board the _Sea Tern_ at eight o'clock tonight. You will stand off outside and put on your running lights."

"Yes," said Mr. Aiken, "it's time we was going."

"You mean they are taking steps?"

"A frigate's due in at midnight," said Mr. Aiken, grinning.