The Trespasser, Complete - Gilbert Parker
So, this was home: this church more so even than the Court hard by. Here
his ancestors--for how long he did not know, probably since the time of
Edward III--idled time away in the dust; here Gaston Belward had been
sleeping in effigy since Naseby Field. A romantic light came into his
face. Again, why not? Even in the Hudson's Bay country and in the Rocky
Mountains, he had been called, "Tivi, The Man of the Other." He had been
counted the greatest of Medicine Men--one of the Race: the people of the
Pole, who lived in a pleasant land, gifted as none others of the race of
men. Not an hour before Jacques had asked him where he got "the other."
No man can live in the North for any time without getting the strain of
its mystery and romance in him. Gaston waved his hand to the tomb, and
said half-believingly:
"Gaston Robert Belward, come again to your kingdom."
He turned to go out, and faced the rector of the parish,--a bent,
benign-looking man,--who gazed at him astonished. He had heard the
strange speech. His grave eyes rested on the stalwart stranger with
courteous inquiry. Gaston knew who it was. Over his left brow there was a
scar. He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon
Varcoe was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had
thrown a stick at his brother. It had struck the clergyman, leaving a
scar.
Gaston now raised his hat. As he passed, the rector looked after him,
puzzled; the words he had heard addressed to the effigy returning. His
eyes followed the young man to the gate, and presently, with a quick
lifting of the shoulders, he said:
"Robert Belward!" Then added: "Impossible! But he is a Belward."
He saw Gaston mount, then entered and went slowly up the aisle. He paused
beside the tomb of that other Belward. His wrinkled hand rested on it.
"That is it," he said at last. "He is like the picture of this Sir
Gaston. Strange."
He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings
with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and
affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure,
and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe
was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be
useful. As he stood musing and listening to the music of the choir, a
girl came softly up the aisle, and touched him on the arm.
"Grandfather, dear," she said, "aren't you going to the Court? You have a
standing invitation for this night in the week. You have not been there
for so long."
He fondled the hand on his arm.
"My dearest, they have not asked me for a long time."
"But why not to-night? I have laid out everything nicely for you--your
new gaiters, and your D. C. L. coat with the pretty buttons and cord."
"How can I leave you, my dear? And they do not ask you!"
The voice tried for playfulness, but the eyes had a disturbed look.
"Me? Oh! they never ask me to dinner-you know that. Tea and formal visits
are enough for Lady Belward, and almost too much for me. There is yet
time to dress. Do say you will go. I want you to be friendly with them."
The old man shook his head.
"I do not care to leave you, my dearest."
"Foolish old fatherkins! Who would carry me off?--'Nobody, no, not I,
nobody cares for me.'" Suddenly a new look shot up in her face.
"Did you see that singular handsome man who came from the church--like
some one out of an old painting? Not that his dress was so strange; but
there was something in his face--something that you would expect to find
in--in a Garibaldi. Silly, am I not? Did you see him?"
He looked at her gravely.
"My dear," he said at last, "I think I will go after all, though I shall
be a little late."
"A sensible grandfather. Come quickly, dear." He paused again.
"But I fear I sent a note to say I could not dine."
"No, you did not. It has been lying on your table for two days."
"Dear me--dear me! I am getting very old."
They passed out of the church. Presently, as they hurried to the rectory
near by, the girl said:
"But you haven't answered. Did you see the stranger? Do you know who he
is?"
The rector turned, and pointed to the gate of Ridley Court. Gaston and
Brillon were just entering. "Alice," he said, in a vague, half-troubled
way, "the man is a Belward, I think."
"Why, of course!" the girl replied with a flash of excitement. "But he's
so dark, and foreign-looking! What Belward is he?"
"I do not know yet, my dear."
"I shall be up when you come back. But mind, don't leave just after
dinner. Stay and talk; you must tell me everything that's said and
done--and about the stranger."
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH HE CLAIMS HIS OWN
Meanwhile, without a word, Gaston had mounted, ridden to the castle, and
passed through the open gates into the court-yard. Inside he paused. In
the main building many lights were burning. There came a rattle of wheels
behind him, and he shifted to let a carriage pass. Through the window of
the brougham he could see the shimmer of satin, lace, and soft white fur,
and he had an instant's glance of a pretty face.
The carriage drew up to the steps, and presently three ladies and a
brusque gentleman passed into the hall-way, admitted by powdered footmen.
The incident had a manner, an air, which struck Gaston, he knew not why.
Perhaps it was the easy finesse of ceremonial. He looked at Brillon. He
had seen him sit arms folded like that, looking from the top of a bluff
down on an Indian village or a herd of buffaloes. There was wonder, but
no shyness or agitation, on his face; rather the naive, naked look of a
child. Belward laughed.
"Come, Brillon; we are at home."
He rode up to the steps, Jacques following. A foot man appeared and
stared. Gaston looked down on him neutrally, and dismounted. Jacques did
the same. The footman still stared. Another appeared behind. Gaston eyed
the puzzled servant calmly.
"Why don't you call a groom?" he presently said. There was a cold gleam
in his eye.
The footman shrank.
"Yessir, yessir," he said confusedly, and signalled. The other footman
came down, and made as if to take the bridle. Gaston waved him back. None
too soon, for the horse lunged at him.
"A rub down, a pint of beer, and water and feed in an hour, and I'll come
to see him myself late to-night." Jacques had loosened the saddle-bags
and taken them off. Gaston spoke to the horse, patted his neck, and gave
him to the groom. Then he went up the steps, followed by Jacques. He
turned at the door to see the groom leading both horses off, and eyeing
Saracen suspiciously. He laughed noiselessly.
"Saracen 'll teach him things," he said. "I might warn him, but it's best
for the horses to make their own impressions."
"What name, sir?" asked a footman.
"You are--?"
"Falby, Sir."
"Falby, look after my man Brillon here, and take me to Sir William."
"What name, sir?"
Gaston, as if with sudden thought, stepped into the light of the candles,
and said in a low voice: "Falby, don't you know me?"
The footman turned a little pale, as his eyes, in spite of themselves,
clung to Gaston's. A kind of fright came, and then they steadied.
"Oh yes, sir," he said mechanically.
"Where have you seen me?"
"In the picture on the wall, sir."
"Whose picture, Falby?"
"Sir Gaston Belward, Sir."
A smile lurked at the corners of Gaston's mouth.
"Gaston Belward. Very well, then you know what to say to Sir William.
Show me into the library."
"Or the justices' room, sir?"
"The justices' room will do."
Gaston wondered what the justices' room was. A moment after he stood in
it, and the dazed Falby had gone, trying vainly to reconcile the picture
on the wall, which, now that he could think, he knew was very old, with
this strange man who had sent a curious cold shiver through him. But,
anyhow, he was a Belward, that was certain: voice, face, manner showed
it. But with something like no Belward he had ever seen. Left to himself,
Gaston looked round on a large, severe room. Its use dawned on him. This
was part of the life: Sir William was a Justice of the Peace. But why had
he been brought here? Why not to the library as himself had suggested?
There would be some awkward hours for Falby in the future. Gaston had as
winning a smile, as sweet a manner, as any one in the world, so long as a
straight game was on; but to cross his will with the other--he had been
too long a power in that wild country where his father had also been a
power! He did not quite know how long he waited, for he was busy with
plans as to his career at Ridley Court. He was roused at last by Falby's
entrance. A keen, cold look shot from under his straight brows.
"Well?" he asked.
"Will you step into the library, sir? Sir William will see you there."
Falby tried to avoid his look, but his eyes were compelled, and Gaston
said:
"Falby, you will always hate to enter this room." Falby was agitated.
"I hope not, sir."
"But you will, Falby, unless--"
"Yessir?"
"Unless you are both the serpent and the dove, Falby."
"Yessir."
As they entered the hall, Brillon with the saddle-bags was being taken in
charge, and Gaston saw what a strange figure he looked beside the other
servants and in these fine surroundings. He could not think that himself
was so bizarre. Nor was he. But he looked unusual; as one of high
civilisation might, through long absence in primitive countries, return
in uncommon clothing, and with a manner of distinguished strangeness: the
barbaric to protect the refined, as one has seen a bush of firs set to
shelter a wheat-field from a seawind, or a wind-mill water
cunningly-begotten flowers.
As he went through the hall other visitors were entering. They passed
him, making for the staircase. Ladies with the grand air looked at him
curiously, and two girls glanced shyly from the jingling spurs and
tasselled boots to his rare face.
One of the ladies suddenly gave a little gasping cry, and catching the
arm of her companion, said:
"Reine, how like Robert Belward! Who--who is he?"
The other coolly put up her pince-nez. She caught Gaston's profile and
the turn of his shoulder.
"Yes, like, Sophie; but Robert never had such a back, nor anything like
the face."
She spoke with no attempt to modulate her voice, and it carried
distinctly to Gaston. He turned and glanced at them.
"He's a Belward, certainly, but like what one I don't know; and he's
terribly eccentric, my dear! Did you see the boots and the sash? Why,
bless me, if you are not shaking! Don't be silly--shivering at the
thought of Robert Belward after all these years."
So saying, Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne tapped Lady Dargan on the arm, and then
turned sharply to see if her daughters had been listening. She saw that
they had; and though herself and not her sister was to blame, she said:
"Sophie, you are very indiscreet! If you had daughters of your own, you
would probably be more careful--though Heaven only knows, for you were
always difficult!"
With this they vanished up the staircase, Mrs. Gasgoyne's daughters,
Delia and Agatha, smiling at each other and whispering about Gaston.
Meanwhile the seeker after a kingdom was shown into Sir William Belward's
study. No one was there. He walked to the mantelpiece, and, leaning his
arm on it, looked round. Directly in front of him on the wall was the
picture of a lady in middle-life, sitting in an arbour. A crutch lay
against one arm of her chair, and her left hand leaned on an ebony
silver-topped cane. There was something painful, haunting, in the face--a
weirdness in the whole picture. The face was looking into the sunlight,
but the effect was rather of moonlight--distant, mournful. He was
fascinated; why, he could not tell. Art to him was an unknown book, but
he had the instinct, and he was quick to feel. This picture struck him as
being out of harmony with everything else in the room. Yet it had, a
strange compelling charm.
Presently he started forward with an exclamation. Now he understood the
vague, eerie influence. Looking out from behind the foliage was a face,
so dim that one moment it seemed not to be there, and then suddenly to
flash in--as a picture from beyond sails, lightning-like, across the
filmy eyes of the dying. It was the face of a youth, elf-like, unreal,
yet he saw his father's features in it.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. It seemed very dim. Indeed, so
delicately, vaguely, had the work been done that only eyes like Gaston's,
trained to observe, with the sight of a hawk and a sense of the
mysterious, could have seen so quickly or so distinctly. He drew slowly
back to the mantel again, and mused. What did it mean? He was sure that
the woman was his grandmother.
At that moment the door opened, and an alert, white-haired man stepped in
quickly, and stopped in the centre of the room, looking at his visitor.
His deep, keen eyes gazed out with an intensity that might almost be
fierceness, and the fingers of his fine hands opened and shut nervously.
Though of no great stature, he had singular dignity. He was in
evening-dress, and as he raised a hand to his chin quickly, as if in
surprise or perplexity, Gaston noticed that he wore a large seal-ring. It
is singular that while he was engaged with his great event, he was also
thinking what an air of authority the ring gave.
For a moment the two men stood at gaze without speaking, though Gaston
stepped forward respectfully. A bewildered, almost shrinking look came
into Sir William's eyes, as the other stood full in the light of the
candles.
Presently the old man spoke. In spite of conventional smoothness, his
voice had the ring of distance, which comes from having lived through and
above painful things.
"My servant announced you as Sir Gaston Belward. There is some mistake?"
"There is a mistake," was the slow reply. "I did not give my name as Sir
Gaston Belward. That was Falby's conclusion, sir. But I am Gaston Robert
Belward, just the same."
Sir William was dazed, puzzled. He presently made a quick gesture, as if
driving away some foolish thought, and, motioning to a chair, said:
"Will you be seated?"
They both sat, Sir William by his writing-table. His look was now steady
and penetrating, but he met one just as firm.
"You are--Gaston Robert Belward? May I ask for further information?"
There was furtive humour playing at Gaston's mouth. The old man's manner
had been so unlike anything he had ever met, save, to an extent, in his
father, that it interested him. He replied, with keen distinctness: "You
mean, why I have come--home?"
Sir William's fingers trembled on a paper-knife. "Are you-at home?"
"I have come home to ask for my heritage--with interest compounded, sir."
Sir William was now very pale. He got to his feet, came to the young man,
peered into his face, then drew back to the table and steadied himself
against it. Gaston rose also: his instinct of courtesy was
acute--absurdly civilised--that is, primitive. He waited. "You are
Robert's son?"
"Robert Belward was my father."
"Your father is dead?"
"Twelve years ago."
Sir William sank back in his chair. His thin fingers ran back and forth
along his lips. Presently he took out his handkerchief and coughed into
it nervously. His lips trembled. With a preoccupied air he arranged a
handful of papers on the table.
"Why did you not come before?" he asked at last, in a low, mechanical
voice.
"It was better for a man than a boy to come."
"May I ask why?"
"A boy doesn't always see a situation--gives up too soon--throws away his
rights. My father was a boy."
"He was twenty-five when he went away."
"I am fifty!"
Sir William looked up sharply, perplexed. "Fifty?"
"He only knew this life: I know the world."
"What world?"
"The great North, the South, the seas at four corners of the earth."
Sir William glanced at the top-boots, the peeping sash, the strong,
bronzed face.
"Who was your mother?" he asked abruptly.
"A woman of France."
The baronet made a gesture of impatience, and looked searchingly at the
young man.
All at once Gaston shot his bolt, to have it over. "She had Indian blood
also."
He stretched himself to his full height, easily, broadly, with a touch of
defiance, and leaned an arm against the mantel, awaiting Sir William's
reply.
The old man shrank, then said coldly: "Have you the
marriage-certificate?"
Gaston drew some papers from his pockets.
"Here, sir, with a letter from my father, and one from the Hudson's Bay
Company."
His grandfather took them. With an effort he steadied himself, then
opened and read them one by one, his son's brief letter last--it was
merely a calm farewell, with a request that justice should be done his
son.
At that moment Falby entered and said:
"Her ladyship's compliments, and all the guests have arrived, sir."
"My compliments to her ladyship, and ask her to give me five minutes yet,
Falby."
Turning to his grandson, there seemed to be a moment's hesitation, then
he reached out his hand.
"You have brought your luggage? Will you care to dine with us?"
Gaston took the cold outstretched fingers.
"Only my saddle-bag, and I have no evening-dress with me, else I should
be glad."
There was another glance up and down the athletic figure, a
half-apprehensive smile as the baronet thought of his wife, and then he
said:
"We must see if anything can be done."
He pulled a bell-cord. A servant appeared.
"Ask the housekeeper to come for a moment, please." Neither spoke till
the housekeeper appeared. "Hovey," he said to the grim woman, "give Mr.
Gaston the room in the north tower. Then, from the press in the same room
lay out the evening-dress which you will find there. . . . They were your
father's," he added, turning to the young man. "It was my wife's wish to
keep them. Have they been aired lately, Hovey?"
"Some days ago, sir."
"That will do." The housekeeper left, agitated. "You will probably be in
time for the fish," he added, as he bowed to Robert.
"If the clothes do not fit, sir?"
"Your father was about your height and nearly as large, and fashions have
not changed much."
A few moments afterwards Gaston was in the room which his father had
occupied twenty-seven years before. The taciturn housekeeper, eyeing him
excitedly the while, put out the clothes. He did not say anything till
she was about to go. Then:
"Hovey, were you here in my father's time?"
"I was under-parlourmaid, sir," she said.
"And you are housekeeper now--good!"
The face of the woman crimsoned, hiding her dour wrinkles. She turned
away her head.
"I'd have given my right hand if he hadn't gone, sir."
Gaston whistled softly, then:
"So would he, I fancy, before he died. But I shall not go, so you will
not need to risk a finger for me. I am going to stay, Hovey. Good-night.
Look after Brillon, please."
He held out his hand. Her fingers twitched in his, then grasped them
nervously.
"Yes, sir. Good-night, Sir. It's--it's like him comin' back, sir."
Then she suddenly turned and hurried from the room, a blunt figure to
whom emotion was not graceful. "H'm!" said Gaston, as he shut the door.
"Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! 'Voici le sabre de mon
pere!'"
CHAPTER III
HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE
Gaston Belward was not sentimental: that belongs to the middle-class
Englishman's ideal of civilisation. But he had a civilisation akin to the
highest; incongruous, therefore, to the general as the sympathy between
the United States and Russia. The highest civilisation can be
independent. The English aristocrat is at home in the lodge of a Sioux
chief or the bamboo-hut of a Fijian, and makes brothers of "savages,"
when those other formal folk, who spend their lives in keeping their
dignity, would be lofty and superior.
When Gaston looked at his father's clothes and turned them over, he had a
twinge of honest emotion; but his mind was on the dinner and his
heritage, and he only said, as he frowned at the tightness of the
waistband:
"Never mind, we'll make 'em pay, shot and wadding, for what you lost,
Robert Belward; and wherever you are, I hope you'll see it."
In twelve minutes from the time he entered the bedroom he was ready. He
pulled the bell-cord, and then passed out. A servant met him on the
stairs, and in another minute he was inside the dining-room. Sir
William's eyes flashed up. There was smouldering excitement in his face,
but one could not have guessed at anything unusual. A seat had been
placed for Gaston beside him. The situation was singular and trying. It
would have been easier if he had merely come into the drawing-room after
dinner. This was in Sir William's mind when he asked him to dine; but it
was as it was. Gaston's alert glance found the empty seat. He was about
to make towards it, but he caught Sir William's eye and saw it signal him
to the end of the table near him. His brain was working with celerity and
clearness. He now saw the woman whose portrait had so fascinated him in
the library. As his eyes fastened on her here, he almost fancied he could
see the boy's--his father's-face looking over her shoulder.
He instantly went to her, and said: "I am sorry to be late."
His first impulse had been to offer his hand, as, naturally, he would
have done in "barbaric" lands, but the instinct of this other
civilisation was at work in him. He might have been a polite casual
guest, and not a grandson, bringing the remembrance, the culmination of
twenty-seven years' tragedy into a home; she might have been a hostess
with whom he wished to be on terms: that was all.
If the situation was trying for him, it was painful for her. She had had
only a whispered announcement before Sir William led the way to dinner.
Yet she was now all her husband had been, and more. Repression had been
her practice for unnumbered years, and the only heralds of her feelings
were the restless wells of her dark eyes: the physical and mental misery
she had endured lay hid under the pale composure of her face. She was now
brought suddenly before the composite image of her past. Yet she merely
lifted a slender hand with long, fine fingers, which, as they clasped
his, all at once trembled, and then pressed them hotly, nervously. To his
surprise, it sent a twinge of colour to his cheek. "It was good of you to
come down after such a journey," she said. Nothing more.
Then he passed on, and sat down to Sir William's courteous gesture. The
situation had its difficulties for the guests--perfect guests as they
were. Every one was aware of a dramatic incident, for which there had
been no preparation save Sir William's remark that a grandson had arrived
from the North Pole or thereabouts; and to continue conversation and
appear casual put their resources to some test. But they stood it well,
though their eyes were busy, and the talk was cheerfully mechanical. So
occupied were they with Gaston's entrance, that they did not know how
near Lady Dargan came to fainting.
At the button-hole of the coat worn by Gaston hung a tiny piece of red
ribbon which she had drawn from her sleeve on the terrace twenty-seven
years ago, and tied there with the words:
"Do you think you will wear it till we meet again?" And the man had
replied:
"You'll not see me without it, pretty girl--pretty girl."
A woman is not so unaccountable after all. She has more imagination than
a man; she has not many resources to console her for disappointments, and
she prizes to her last hour the swift moments when wonderful things
seemed possible. That man is foolish who shows himself jealous of a
woman's memories or tokens--those guarantees of her womanliness.
When Lady Dargan saw the ribbon, which Gaston in his hurry had not
disturbed, tied exactly as she had tied it, a weird feeling came to her,
and she felt choking. But her sister's eyes were on her, and Mrs.
Gasgoyne's voice came across the table clearly:
"Sophie, what were Fred Bideford's colours at Sandown? You always
remember that kind of thing." The warning was sufficient. Lady Dargan
could make no effort of memory, but she replied without hesitation--or
conscience:
"Yellow and brown."
"There," said Mrs. Gasgoyne, "we are both wrong, Captain Maudsley. Sophie
never makes a mistake." Maudsley assented politely, but, stealing a look
at Lady Dargan, wondered what the little by-play meant. Gaston was
between Sir William and Mrs. Gasgoyne. He declined soup and fish, which
had just been served, because he wished for time to get his bearings. He
glanced at the menu as if idly interested, conscious that he was under
observation. He felt that he had, some how, the situation in his hands.
Everything had gone well, and he knew that his part had been played with
some aplomb--natural, instinctive. Unlike most large men, he had a mind
always alert, not requiring the inspiration of unusual moments. What
struck him most forcibly now was the tasteful courtesy which had made his
entrance easy. He instinctively compared it to the courtesy in the lodge
of an Indian chief, or of a Hudson's Bay factor who has not seen the
outer world for half a century. It was so different, and yet it was much
the same. He had seen a missionary, a layreader, come intoxicated into a
council of chiefs. The chiefs did not show that they knew his condition
till he forced them to do so. Then two of the young men rose, suddenly
pinned him in their arms, carried him out, and tied him in a lodge. The
next morning they sent him out of their country. Gaston was no
philosopher, but he could place a thing when he saw it: which is a kind
of genius.