The Trespasser, Complete - Gilbert Parker
"This is your native Brittany, Andree," he said. She pointed far over the
sea:
"Near that light at Penmark I was born."
"Can you speak the Breton language?"
"Far worse than you speak Parisian French."
He laughed. "You are so little like these people!"
She had vanity. That had been part of her life. Her beauty had brought
trade when she was a gipsy; she had been the admired of Paris: she was
only twenty three. Presently she became restless, and shrank from him.
Her eyes had a flitting hunted look. Once they met his with a wild sort
of pleading or revolt, he could not tell which, and then were continually
turned away.
If either could have known how hard the little dwarf of sense and memory
was trying to tell her something.
This new phase stunned him. What did it mean? He touched her hand. It was
hot, and withdrew from his. He put his arm around her, and she shivered,
cringed. But then she was a woman, he thought. He had met one unlike any
he had ever known. He would wait. He would be patient. Would she
come--home? She turned passively and took his arm. He talked, but he knew
he was talking poorly, and at last he became silent also. But when they
came to the steep steps leading to the chateau, he lifted her in his
arms, carried her to the house, and left her at their chamber-door.
Then he went to the pavilion to smoke. He had no wish to think--at least
of anything but the girl. It was not a time for retrospect, but to accept
a situation. The die had been cast. He had followed what--his nature, his
instincts? The consequence?
He heard Andree's voice. He went to her.
The next morning they were in the garden walking about. They had been
speaking, but now both were silent. At last he turned again to her.
"Andree, who was the other man?" he asked quietly, but with a strange
troubled look in his eyes.
She shrank away confused, a kind of sickness in her eyes.
"What does it matter?" she said.
"Of course, of course," he returned in a low, nerveless tone.
They were silent for a long time. Meanwhile, she seemed to beat up a
feverish cheerfulness. At last she said:
"Where do we go this afternoon, Gaston?"
"We will see," he replied.
The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was
impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned,
entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion to
redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much.
They rode, they took excursions in fishing-boats and little sail-boats.
Andree entered into these with zest: talked to the sailors, to Jacques,
caressed children, and was not indifferent to the notice she attracted in
the village; but was obviously distrait. Gaston was patient--and unhappy.
So, this was the merchandise for which he had bartered all! But he had a
will, he was determined; he had sowed, he would reap his harvest to the
useless stubble.
"Do you wish to go back to your work?" he said quietly, once.
"I have no work," she answered apathetically. He said no more just then.
The days and weeks went by. The situation was impossible, not to be
understood. Gaston made his final move. He hoped that perhaps a forced
crisis might bring about a change. If it failed--he knew not what! She
was sitting in the garden below--he alone in the window, smoking. A
bundle of letters and papers, brought by the postman that evening, were
beside him. He would not open them yet. He felt that there was trouble in
them--he saw phrases, sentences flitting past him. But he would play this
other bitter game out first. He let them lie. He heard the bells in the
church ringing the village commerce done--it was nine o'clock. The
picture of that other garden in Paris came to him: that night when he had
first taken this girl into his arms. She sat below talking to Annette and
singing a little Breton chanson:
"Parvondt varbondt anan oun,
Et die don la lire!
Parvondt varbondt anan oun,
Et die don la, la!"
He called down to her presently. "Andree!"
"Yes."
"Will you come up for a moment, please?"
"Surely."
She came up, leaving the room door open, and bringing the cub with her.
He called Jacques.
"Take the cub to its quarters, Jacques," he said, quietly.
She seemed about to protest, but sat back and watched him. He shut the
door--locked it. Then he came and sat down before her.
"Andree," he said, "this is all impossible."
"What is impossible?"
"You know well. I am not a mere brute. The only thing that can redeem
this life is love."
"That is true," she said, coldly. "What then?"
"You do not redeem it. We must part."
She laughed fitfully. "We must--?"
She leaned towards him.
"To-morrow evening you will go back to Paris. To-night we part, however:
that is, our relations cease."
"I shall go from here when it pleases me, Gaston!"
His voice came low and stern, but courteous:
"You must go when I tell you. Do you think I am the weaker?"
He could see her colour flying, her fingers lacing and interlacing.
"Aren't you afraid to tell me that?" she asked.
"Afraid? Of my life--you mean that? That you will be as common as that?
No: you will do as I tell you."
He fixed his eyes on hers, and held them. She sat, looking. Presently she
tried to take her eyes away. She could not. She shuddered and shrank.
He withdrew his eyes for a moment. "You will go?" he asked.
"It makes no difference," she answered; then added sharply: "Who are you,
to look at me like that, to--!"
She paused.
"I am your friend and your master!"
He rose. "Good-night," he said, at the door, and went out.
He heard the key turn in the lock. He had forgotten his papers and
letters. It did not matter. He would read them when she was gone--if she
did go. He was far from sure that he had succeeded. He went to bed in
another room, and was soon asleep.
He was waked in the very early morning by feeling a face against his,
wet, trembling.
"What is it, Andree?" he asked. Her arms ran round his neck.
"Oh, mon amour! Mon adore! Je t'aime! Je t'aime!"
In the evening of this day she said she knew not how it was, but on that
first evening in Audierne there suddenly came to her a strange terrible
feeling, which seemed to dry up all the springs of her desire for him.
She could not help it. She had fought against it, but it was no use; yet
she knew that she could not leave him. After he had told her to go, she
had had a bitter struggle: now tears, now anger, and a wish to hate. At
last she fell asleep. When she awoke she had changed, she was her old
self, as in Paris, when she had first confessed her love. She felt that
she must die if she did not go to him. All the first passion returned,
the passion that began on the common at Ridley Court. "And now--now," she
said, "I know that I cannot live without you."
It seemed so. Her nature was emptying itself. Gaston had got the
merchandise for which he had given a price yet to be known.
"You asked me of the other man," she said. "I will tell you."
"Not now," he said. "You loved him?"
"No--ah God, no!" she answered.
An hour after, when she was in her room, he opened the little bundle of
correspondence.--A memorandum with money from his bankers. A letter from
Delia, and also one from Mrs. Gasgoyne, saying that they expected to meet
him at Gibraltar on a certain day, and asking why he had not written;
Delia with sorrowful reserve, Mrs. Gasgoyne with impatience. His letters
had missed them--he had written on leaving Paris, saying that his plans
were indefinite, but he would write them definitely soon. After he came
to Audierne it seemed impossible to write. How could he? No, let the
American journalist do it. Better so. Better himself in the worst light,
with the full penalty, than his own confession--in itself an insult. So
it had gone on. He slowly tore up the letters. The next were from his
grandfather and grandmother--they did not know yet. He could not read
them. A few loving sentences, and then he said:
"What's the good! Better not." He tore them up also. Another--from his
uncle. It was brief:
You've made a sweet mess of it, Cadet. It's in all the papers
to-day. Meyerbeer telegraphed it to New York and London. I'll
probably come down to see you. I want to finish my picture on the
site of the old City of Ys, there at Point du Raz. Your girl can
pose with you. I'll do all I can to clear the thing up. But a
British M.P.--that's a tough pill for Clapham!
Gaston's foot tapped the floor angrily. He scattered the pieces of the
letter at his feet. Now for the newspapers. He opened Le Petit Journal,
Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it was
there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation.
Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all
unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand:
There was a previous friend of the lady, unknown to the public, called
Zoug-Zoug.
He remembered that day at the Hotel St. Malo! Well, the bolt was shot:
the worst was over. Quid refert? Justify himself?
Certainly, to all but Delia Gasgoyne.
Thousands of men did the same--did it in cold blood, without one honest
feeling. He did it, at least under a powerful influence. He could not
help but smile now at the thought of how he had filled both sides of the
equation. On his father's side, bringing down the mad record from Naseby;
on his mother's, true to the heathen, by following his impulses--sacred
to primitive man, justified by spear, arrow, and a strong arm. Why sheet
home this as a scandal? How did they--the libellers--know but that he had
married the girl? Exactly. He would see to that. He would play his game
with open sincerity now. He could have wished secrecy for Delia Gasgoyne,
and for his grandfather and grandmother,--he was not wilfully
brutal,--but otherwise he had no shame at all; he would stand openly for
his right. Better one honest passion than a life of deception and
miserable compromise. A British M.P.?--He had thrown away his reputation,
said the papers. By this? The girl was no man's wife, he was no woman's
husband!
Marry her? Yes, he would marry her; she should be his wife. His people?
It was a pity. Poor old people--they would fret and worry. He had been
selfish, had not thought of them? Well, who could foresee this outrage of
journalism? The luck had been dead against him. Did he not know plenty of
men in London--he was going to say the Commons, but he was fairer to the
Commons than it, as a body, would be to him--who did much worse? These
had escaped: the hunters had been after him. What would he do? Take the
whip? He got to his feet with an oath. Take the whip? Never--never! He
would fight this thing tooth and nail. Had he come to England to let them
use him for a sensation only--a sequence of surprises, to end in a
tragedy, all for the furtive pleasure of the British breakfast-table? No,
by the Eternal! What had the first Gaston done? He had fought--fought
Villiers and others, and had held up his head beside his King and Rupert
till the hour of Naseby.
When the summer was over he would return to Paris, to London. The
journalist--punish him? No; too little--a product of his time. But the
British people he would fight, and he would not give up Ridley Court. He
could throw the game over when it was all his, but never when it was
going dead against him.
That speech in the Commons? He remembered gladly that he had contended
for conceptions of social miseries according to surrounding influences of
growth and situation. He had not played the hypocrite.
No, not even with Delia. He had acted honestly at the beginning, and
afterwards he had done what he could so long as he could. It was
inevitable that she must be hurt, even if he had married, not giving her
what he had given this dompteuse. After all, was it so terrible? It could
not affect her much in the eyes of the world. And her heart? He did not
flatter himself. Yet he knew that it would be the thing--the fallen
idol--that would grieve her more than thought of the man. He wished that
he could have spared her in the circumstances. But it had all come too
suddenly: it was impossible. He had spared, he could spare, nobody. There
was the whole situation. What now to do?--To remain here while it pleased
them, then Paris, then London for his fight.
Three days went round. There were idle hours by the sea, little
excursions in a sail-boat to Penmark, and at last to Point du Raz. It was
a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze, and the point was glorified. The
boat ran in lightly between the steep dark shore and the comb of reef
that looked like a host of stealthy pumas crumbling the water. They
anchored in the Bay des Trepasses. An hour on shore exploring the caves,
and lunching, and then they went back to the boat, accompanied by a
Breton sailor, who had acted as guide.
Gaston lay reading,--they were in the shade of the cliff,--while Andree
listened to the Breton tell the legends of the coast. At length Gaston's
attention was attracted. The old sailor was pointing to the shore, and
speaking in bad French.
"Voila, madame, where the City of Ys stood long before the Bretons came.
It was a foolish ride."
"I do not know the story. Tell me."
"There are two or three, but mine is the oldest. A flood came--sent by
the gods, for the woman was impious. The king must ride with her into the
sea and leave her there, himself to come back, and so save the city."
The sailor paused to scan the sea--something had struck him. He shook his
head. Gaston was watching Andree from behind his book.
"Well, well," she said, impatiently, "what then? What did he do?"
"The king took up the woman, and rode into the water as far as where you
see the great white stone--it has been there ever since. There he had a
fight--not with the woman, but in his heart. He turned to the people, and
cried: 'Dry be your streets, and as ashes your eyes for your king!' And
then he rode on with the woman till they saw him no more--never!" Andree
said instantly:
"That was long ago. Now the king would ride back alone."
She did not look at Gaston, but she knew that his eyes were on her. He
closed the book, got up, came forward to the sailor, who was again
looking out to sea, and said carelessly over his shoulder:
"Men who lived centuries ago would act the same now, if they were here."
Her response seemed quite as careless as his: "How do you know?"
"Perhaps I had an innings then," he answered, smiling whimsically.
She was about to speak again, but the guide suddenly said:
"You must get away. There'll be a change of wind and a bad cross-current
soon."
In a few minutes the two were bearing out--none too soon, for those pumas
crowded up once or twice within a fathom of their deck, devilish and
devouring. But they wore away with a capricious current, and down a
tossing sea made for Audierne.
CHAPTER XVII
THE MAN AND THE WOMAN FACE THE INTOLERABLE
In a couple of hours they rounded Point de Leroily, and ran for the
harbour. By hugging the quay in the channel to the left of the bar, they
were sure of getting in, though the tide was low. The boat was docile to
the lug-sail and the helm. As they were beating in they saw a large yacht
running straight across a corner of the bar for the channel. It was
Warren Gasgoyne's Kismet.
The Kismet had put into Audierne rather than try to pass Point du Raz at
night. At Gibraltar a telegram had come telling of the painful sensation,
and the yacht was instantly headed for England; Mrs. Gasgoyne crossing
the Continent, Delia preferring to go back with her father--his sympathy
was more tender. They had seen no newspapers, and they did not know that
Gaston was at Audierne. Gasgoyne knowing, as all the world knew, that
there was a bar at the mouth of the harbour, allowed himself, as he
thought, sufficient room, but the wind had suddenly drawn ahead, and he
was obliged to keep away. Presently the yacht took the ground with great
force.
Gasgoyne put the helm hard down, but she would not obey. He tried at once
to get in his sails, but the surf was running very strong, and presently
a heavy sea broke clean over her. Then came confusion and dismay: the
flapping of the wet, half-lowered sails, and the whipping of the slack
ropes, making all effort useless. There was no chance of her-holding.
Foot by foot she was being driven towards the rocks. Sailors stood
motionless on the shore. The lifeboat would be of little use: besides, it
could not arrive for some time.
Gaston had recognised the Kismet. He turned to Andree.
"There's danger, but perhaps we can do it. Will you go?"
She flushed.
"Have I ever been a coward, Gaston? Tell me what to do."
"Keep the helm firm, and act instantly on my orders."
Instead of coming round into the channel, he kept straight on past the
lighthouse towards the yacht, until he was something to seaward of her.
Then, luffing quickly, he dropped sail, let go the anchor, and unshipped
the mast, while Andree got the oars into the rowlocks. It was his idea to
dip under the yacht's stern, but he found himself drifting alongside, and
in danger of dashing broadside on her. He got an oar and backed with all
his strength towards the stern, the anchor holding well. Then he called
to those on board to be ready to jump. Once in line with the Kismet's
counter, he eased off the painter rapidly, and now dropped towards the
stern of the wreck.
Gaston was quite cool. He did not now think of the dramatic nature of
this meeting, apart from the physical danger. Delia also had recognised
him, and guessed who the girl was. Not to respond to Gaston's call was
her first instinct. But then, life was sweet. Besides, she had to think
of others. Her father, too, was chiefly concerned for her safety and for
his yacht. He had almost determined to get Delia on Gaston's boat, and
himself take the chances with the Kismet; but his sailors dissuaded him,
declaring that the chances were against succour.
The only greetings were words of warning and direction from Gaston.
Presently there was an opportunity. Gaston called sharply to Delia, and
she, standing ready, jumped. He caught her in his arms as she came. The
boat swayed as the others leaped, and he held her close meanwhile. Her
eyes closed, she shuddered and went white. When he put her down, she
covered her face with her hands, trembling. Then, suddenly she came
huddling in a heap, and burst into tears.
They slipped the painter, a sailor took Andree's place at the helm, the
oars were got out, and they made over to the channel, grazing the bar
once or twice, by reason of the now heavy load.
Warren Gasgoyne and Gaston had not yet spoken in the way of greeting. The
former went to Delia now and said a few cheery words, but, from behind
her handkerchief, she begged him to leave her alone for a moment.
"Nerves, all nerves, Mr. Belward," he said, turning towards Gaston. "But,
then, it was ticklish-ticklish."
They did not shake hands. Gaston was looking at Delia, and he did not
reply.
Mr. Gasgoyne continued:
"Nasty sea coming on--afraid to try Point du Raz. Of course we didn't
know you were here."
He looked at Andree curiously. He was struck by the girl's beauty and
force. But how different from Delia!
He suddenly turned, and said bluntly, in a low voice: "Belward, what a
fool--what a fool! You had it all at your feet: the best--the very best."
Gaston answered quietly:
"It's an awkward time for talking. The rocks will have your yacht in half
an hour."
Gasgoyne turned towards it.
"Yes, she'll get a raking fore and aft." Then, he added, suddenly: "Of
course you know how we feel about our rescue. It was plucky of you."
"Pluckier in the girl," was the reply. "Brave enough," the honest
rejoinder.
Gaston had an impulse to say, "Shall I thank her for you?" but he was
conscious how little right he had to be ironical with Warren Gasgoyne,
and he held his peace.
While the two were now turned away towards the Kismet, Andree came to
Delia. She did not quite know how to comfort her, but she was a woman,
and perhaps a supporting arm would do something.
"There, there," she said, passing a hand round her shoulder, "you are all
right now. Don't cry!"
With a gasp of horror, Delia got to her feet, but swayed, and fell
fainting--into Andree's arms.
She awoke near the landing-place, her father beside her. Meanwhile Andree
had read the riddle. As Mr. Gasgoyne bathed Delia's face, and Gaston her
wrists, and gave her brandy, she sat still and intent, watching. Tears
and fainting! Would she--Andree-have given way like that in the same
circumstances? No. But this girl--Delia--was of a different order: was
that it? All nerves and sentiment! At one of those lunches in the grand
world she had seen a lady burst into tears suddenly at some one's
reference to Senegal. She herself had only cried four times, that she
remembered; when her mother died; when her father was called a thief;
when, one day, she suffered the first great shame of her life in the
mountains of Auvergne; and the night when she waked a second time to her
love for Gaston. She dared to call it love, though good Annette had
called it a mortal sin.
What was to be done? The other woman must suffer.
The man was hers--hers for ever. He had said it: for ever. Yet her heart
had a wild hunger for that something which this girl had and she had not.
But the man was hers; she had won him away from this other.
Delia came upon the quay bravely, passing through the crowd of staring
fishermen, who presently gave Gaston a guttural cheer. Three of them,
indeed, had been drinking his health. They embraced him and kissed him,
begging him to come with them for absinthe. He arranged the matter with a
couple of francs.
Then he wondered what now was to be done. He could not insult the
Gasgoynes by asking them to come to the chateau. He proposed the Hotel de
France to Mr. Gasgoyne, who assented. It was difficult to separate here
on the quay: they must all walk together to the hotel. Gaston turned to
speak to Andree, but she was gone. She had saved the situation.
The three spoke little, and then but formally, as they walked to the
hotel. Mr. Gasgoyne said that they would leave by train for Paris the
next day, going to Douarnenez that evening. They had saved nothing from
the yacht.
Delia did not speak. She was pale, composed now. In the hotel Mr.
Gasgoyne arranged for rooms, while Gaston got some sailors together, and,
in Mr. Gasgoyne's name, offered a price for the recovery of the yacht or
of certain things in her. Then he went into the hotel to see if he could
do anything further. The door of the sitting-room was open, and no answer
coming to his knock, he entered.
Delia was standing in the window. Against her will her father had gone to
find a doctor. Gaston would have drawn back if she had not turned round
wearily to him.
Perhaps it were well to get it over now. He came forward. She made no
motion.
"I hope you feel better?" he said. "It was a bad accident."
"I am tired and shaken, of course," she responded. "It was very brave of
you."
He hesitated, then said:
"We were more fortunate than brave."
He was determined to have Andree included. She deserved that; the wrong
to Delia was not hers.
But she answered after the manner of a woman: "The girl--ah, yes, please
thank her for us. What is her name?"
"She is known in Audierne as Madame Belward." The girl started. Her face
had a cold, scornful pride. "The Bretons, then, have a taste for
fiction?"
"No, they speak as they are taught."
"They understand, then, as little as I."
How proud, how ineffaceably superior she was!
"Be ignorant for ever," he answered quietly.
"I do not need the counsel, believe me."
Her hand trembled, though it rested against the window-trembled with
indignation: the insult of his elopement kept beating up her throat in
spite of her.
At that moment a servant knocked, entered, and said that a parcel had
been brought for mademoiselle. It was laid upon the table. Delia,
wondering, ordered it to be opened. A bundle of clothes was
disclosed--Andree's! Gaston recognised them, and caught his breath with
wonder and confusion.
"Who has sent them?" Delia said to the servant. "They come from the
Chateau Ronan, mademoiselle."
Delia dismissed the servant.
"The Chateau Ronan?" she asked of Gaston. "Where I am living."
"It is not necessary to speak of this?" She flushed.
"Not at all. I will have them sent back. There is a little shop near by
where you can get what you may need."
Andree had acted according to her lights. It was not an olive-branch, but
a touch of primitive hospitality. She was Delia's enemy at sight, but a
woman must have linen.
Mr. Gasgoyne entered. Gaston prepared to go. "Is there anything more that
I can do?" he said, as it were, to both.
The girl replied. "Nothing at all, thank you." They did not shake hands.
Mr. Gasgoyne could not think that all had necessarily ended. The thing
might be patched up one day yet. This affair with the dompteuse was mad
sailing, but the man might round-to suddenly and be no worse for the
escapade.