The Unspeakable Gentleman Part 25

"I think there is no doubt," I told her. "I have seen him ride, Mademoiselle. It would take more than a dozen men to lay hands on him.

They should have known better than let him leave the house. Listen, Mademoiselle! I believe you can hear him now."

My ears were quicker in those days. For a minute we listened in silence, and then on the wind I heard more distinctly still the regular thud of a galloping horse. So he was coming, as I knew he would. I knew he would be methodical and accurate.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," I continued, "my father has many accomplishments, but this time even he may be surprised. Who knows, Mademoiselle? Pray step back inside the doorway until I call you."

But she did not move.

"No," said Mademoiselle, "I prefer to stay where I am. I have seen too much of you and your father to leave you alone together."

"But surely, Mademoiselle," I protested, "you forget why we have come."

"Yes," she answered quickly, "yes, you are right. I do forget. I have seen too much of this, too much of utter useless folly--too many men dying, too many suffering for a hopeless cause. I have seen three men lying dead in our hall, and as many more wounded. I have seen a strong man turned into a blackguard. I have seen a son turned against his father, and all for a bit of paper which should never have been written.

I hate it--do you hear me?--and if I forget it, it is because I choose. I forget it because--" She seemed about to tell me more, and then to think better of it. "Surely you see, surely you see you cannot. He is your father, Monsieur, the man who is coming here."

"Mademoiselle," I replied, "you are far too kind. I hardly think he or I have much reason to hold our lives of any particular value, but as you have said, my father was a gentleman once, and gentlemen very seldom kill their sons, nor gentlemen's sons their fathers. Pray rest a.s.sured, Mademoiselle, it will be a quiet interview. I beg you, be silent, for he is almost here."

I was not mistaken. A horse was on the path we followed, running hard, and cras.h.i.+ng recklessly through the bushes. Before I had sight of him I heard my father's voice.

"Ives!" he called sharply. "Where the devil are you?"

And in an instant he was at the door, his horse breathing in hard, sobbing breaths, and he had swung from the saddle as I went forward to meet him.

"Here," he said, "take it, and be off. Those fools have run me over half the state. In fact," he continued in the calm tones I remember best, "in fact, I have seldom had a more interesting evening. I was fired on before I had pa.s.sed the gate, and chased as though I carried the treasures of the Raj. I have your word never to tell where you got it. Never mind my reasons, or the thanks either. Take it Ives. It has saved me so many a dull day that it has quite repaid my trouble."

There he was, half a pace away, and yet he did not know me. I think it was that, more than anything else, which robbed me of my elation. To him the whole thing seemed an ordinary piece of business. I saw him test his girth, preparatory to mounting again, saw him slowly readjust his cloak, and then I took the paper he handed me and b.u.t.toned it carefully in my inside pocket. He turned to his horse again and laid a hand on his withers, but still he did not mount. I think he was staring into the night before him and listening, as I had been. Then he turned again slowly, and half faced me. On the wind, far off still, but nevertheless distinct, was the sound of voices.

"It is time we were going," said my father. "I only gave them the slip five minutes back. It was closer work than I had expected."

And then he started, and looked at me more intently through the darkness.

"Name of the devil!" said my father. "How did you get here?"

But that was all. He never even started. His hand still rested tranquilly on the reins and he still half faced me. Had it been so on that other night long ago, when his world crumbled to ruins about him? Did he always win and lose with the same pa.s.sive acquiescence? Did nothing ever astonish him? There was a moment's silence, and I felt his eyes on me, and suddenly became very cautious. I knew well enough he would not let it finish in such a manner, but what could he do? The game was in my hands.

"Quite simply," I told him. "My horse was in the stable."

When he spoke again his voice was still pleasantly conversational.

"And Brutus?" he asked. "Where the devil was Brutus? Surely the age of miracles is past. Or do I see before me--" he bowed with all his old courtesy--"another David?"

"Brutus," I replied, "jumped through a second story window."

"Indeed?" he said. "He always was most agile."

"He was," I replied. "Not five minutes after you left, Uncle Jason arrived."

My father removed his hand from the reins and looped them through his arm.

"Indeed?" he said. "He came in heels first, I trust?"

"No," I said, "he is alive and well."

"The devil!" said my father, and sighed. "I am growing old, my son. I know my horse spoiled my aim, and yet he fell, and I rode over him. I had hoped to be finished with your Uncle Jason. You say he entered the house?"

"And told me to stop," I said.

"And you did not?"

"No," I replied. "I succeeded in getting out of a window also."

And then, although I could not see him, I knew he had undergone a change, and I knew that I was facing a different man.

His hand fell on my shoulder, and to my surprise, it was trembling.

"G.o.d!" he cried, in a voice that was suddenly harsh and forbidding. "Do you mean to tell me you left Mademoiselle, and never struck a blow? You left her there?"

"Not entirely," I replied.

My father became very gentle.

"Will you be done with this?" he said, "The lady, where is she now?"

And then, half to himself he added.

"How was I to know they would break in the house after I had gone?"

"Mademoiselle," I replied, "is not fifteen feet away."

His hand went up to the clasp of his cloak, and again his voice became pleasantly conversational.

"Ah, that is better," said my father. "And so you got the paper after all. Yes, I am growing old, my son. I appear to have bungled badly. Do you hope to keep the paper?"

In the distance I heard a voice again, raised in a shout. Surely he understood.

"They are coming," I said. "Yes, I intend to keep the paper."

"Indeed?" said my father. "Perhaps you will explain how, my son. I have had an active evening, but you--I confess you go quite ahead of me."

"Because," I said, "you are not anxious to go back to France, father, and you are almost on your way there."

"No, not to France," he answered, and I knew he saw my meaning.

"And yet they are coming to take you. If you so much as offer to touch me again, I shall call them, father, and we shall go back together. Your horse is tired. He cannot go much further."

He was silent for a moment, and I prudently stepped back.

"You might shoot me, of course," I added, "but a pistol shot would be equally good. Listen! I can hear them on the road."