Chapter XXIV: The End of a Journey

They were three very weary travellers who alighted from the automobile which had driven them the seven miles from the largest and nearest town to the Chateau St. Michel. It was quite dark when at length these three, Hermione, Iza, and Frank Daneham, stood outside the front door and the latter rang the bell. For the driver had not known his way to this more or less lonely part of the coast, and the three travellers were unable to help him.

Were they in time or were they not? That was the question which had rung ceaselessly in Hermione's thoughts during the latter part of the journey. And if they were, what was going to happen? What would be the result?

Frank Daneham had put his foot down against a journey by air, for neither of the two women had ever tried that experience, and, in Hermione's nervous state, he wisely thought that it would be better--for her--to arrive late than in a state of collapse through air sickness, as was more than likely to happen in her case. Moreover, he did not think they would be too late, for even if the boat arrived that evening, it was a hundred chances to one that they would not set out on a return journey until the following morning.

Anyway, they were here, and apparently likely to be kept waiting on the doorstep indefinitely, for he had rung twice and still there was no answer to their summons.

"I expect that young smuggler man is afraid we are the police," was Iza's comment. "Why the deuce don't he have a peep from one of those windows? No one in their senses would take me for a policeman, surely."

"It would certainly be difficult," replied Frank, smiling.

And then the door was opened, a light overhead flashed on, and a manservant stood in the opening.

"Monsieur desire?" he began, casting a quick glance over the three.

"I believe Monsieur Dubosc lives here," said Frank Daneham. "If I am right, would you take these three cards and ask him if he will see us on a matter of great importance?"

As he spoke, he held out his own, Hermione's and Iza's cards, and on that of Hermione the name Rodenberg had been crossed out and that of Arden substituted.

The man looked at them and hesitated.

"You are from England?" he asked quickly.

"Yes, my good man," struck in Iza, who spoke French fluently. "We are from England and come over specially to see Monsieur Dubosc on a very grave and urgent matter. Will you also mention the fact that it is a private matter--between friends, you understand."

A look of intense relief came to the man's face at the last words. "I will tell Madame, the master is out," he replied, and once more closed the door.

"One cannot blame such caution, in the circumstances," commented Iza Marsh. "Buck up, my dear child. If your boy had gone there wouldn't be all this fuss and precaution."

"That's my opinion, too," agreed Frank. But Hermione only smiled at them, anxiety had long ago rendered her beyond speech.

Five minutes passed, an interminable five minutes, and then the door swung violently open, but this time it was not the servant who stood there, but a dark-haired, white-faced and very excited woman. She gave one look at Hermione's face.

"Ah! _Mon Dieu!_" she cried, for it was the face she had seen so many times on an old faded photograph. "It is she at last! _Entre, mesdames, enter, monsieur_, I ask your pardon for the delay, but, no doubt you will understand that it is sometimes a necessity, and Monsieur Dubosc, he is not here at the moment."

As she spoke she drew aside for the others to enter, and directly they had done so she slammed to the door.

Frank Daneham turned to her instantly.

"Madame Dubosc," he said, sharply. "Tell me quickly, is there a man called Bessington here, Colonel Bessington? I know he was coming here, so we hurried off to try and intercept him."

"Ah, _mais non_," she cried. "The Colonel he has been here, but he is here no longer. He has departed these two hours or more."

And at that there was a cry from Hermione, who put her hand to her face and swayed suddenly.

"No, no!" she cried brokenly. "Not that! Don't tell me he has gone!"

The Frenchwoman, quick of understanding, put an arm about her.

"Imbecile that I am!" she cried, a great compassion in her voice. "He has gone, but he has gone alone, Madame Arden. He has gone--so my--my husband tells me, to the South of France for a long stay, and because he has no wish to return to his country just now. There is nothing to fear. Your husband he is with us, quite--quite safe."

"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" cried Hermione, and she took Leonie's hand in hers and held it. "Tell me about it, Madame Dubosc. You guessed we were coming? You knew about everything?"

"All there is to know, madame," was the reply. "And I did indeed think that perhaps you might come, or that other who was with the Colonel when they caught my--husband. For he told me that he was much distressed, that one, at what his friend was doing. But the good God knows that I am glad it is you, madame; who have come--at last."

"It's not her fault, Madame Dubosc," put in Iza, quickly, "that she was not here eight years ago. But to me, the whole thing is a complete mystery, and if you know all about it, then all I can say is that we are not so lucky. There's a good deal we want to know and have come here to find out."

"All in good time, madame," replied Leonie, with a friendly smile. "I understand how you feel, and probably what you think, which is, no doubt, very far from the truth. But now that you are here we can explain everything."

"Ah, but you don't understand," cried Hermione, eagerly. "You don't know everything either. I only heard that he was alive and where he lived two days ago. Until then I had believed him dead. And then when I heard the truth and knew that Colonel Bessington had come for him, I was nearly mad with fear. Are you sure, quite sure that he has gone? That my husband is safe?"

"Not only that he has gone, but that he has gone for good," replied Leonie. "After what he found here he said there was nothing more for him to do, but that he would not return to his country. Perhaps you, madame, may guess why. So, there is nothing to fear and nothing to reproach yourself with. For if you did not know, then you could not have come."

"But since Dominic Arden is alive," here interrupted Frank Daneham, "and apparently living in luxury and contentment with good friends, surely it is strange that he did not even write to his wife who was mourning him for dead. Surely it is strange that he did not make any attempt to find her."

"Surely it seems so," replied the Frenchwoman, with a queer smile on her face, "very strange, and will remain strange until you understand why. Remember that Colonel Bessington came here to take him back to punishment and what he called justice. And when he had seen him--he goes away alone. Perhaps that is also what Madame his wife will do when she sees him, and if she does, _ma foi!_ he will not reproach her."

"What do you mean?" There was a note of sudden terror in Hermione's voice, and she clutched Leonie's arm. "What has happened? Tell me at once. Remember that I am his wife, and that I love him, just as I loved him when he left me nine years ago. You are terrifying me, madame. Tell me, I implore you."

"_Pauvre enfant._" The elder woman took the clutching hand and patted it gently. "I did not understand. But you will have to know, and it is best for you to know from me. That poor boy, who still worships you in his heart, and to whom life without you is one long torment, remains here with us, apart from you, not only because he fears to return to his own country, and so involve you in his troubles, but because he will not spoil your life by being tied to a blind husband. That is why, madame."

"Blind!" Hermione repeated the word as though some invisible hand were strangling her throat. "My boy blind! Dominic blind! Oh, my God!" She put her hands to her head and swayed suddenly, and the next instant Frank Daneham had an arm about her and had lowered her into a chair.

"_La pauvre petite!_" said Leonie, compassionately. "It is a very terrible thing, I know, but surely, madame, it is better than that he is dead."

"Oh no. Not for him! I am only thinking of him--not my self," cried Hermione, bitterly. "He loved life so. He loved everything that he saw, sound was nothing to him. Sight everything. Tell me, madame, how is it that he is blind?"

"For seven years he has been so. One day, perhaps, he will tell you, but he has forbidden us to speak of it, and so I cannot do so, it is understood."

"But I don't understand, madame," exclaimed Daneham. "He was reported dead, his body was found. How was it that the mistake happened?"

"Ah, that was simple, and so easy to happen in a war of such horrors. When he went out of the cottage after killing that man--for which I do not blame him, I--he meant to die, to be killed. But, as often happens when one wants to die on the battlefield, one remains alive, or one is merely wounded. It is those who do not wish to die who are killed. So it was with him. He was wounded, and he knew that meant that he would be shot when he recovered. He was alone at the time, lost I think, and he tumbled over a dead body. The man was of his own build, but the head--Ah, _mon Dieu_! There was no head, monsieur. He, Dominic, was dazed, sick, but he kept his senses, and it was then that the idea arrived. That if he could not die, he might change places with one who had more fortunately achieved death. He changed into the dead man's uniform and everything that could identify him. After which he had little strength left, but enough to crawl away--as he thought--to his own lines. But what he did was to crawl instead into a German prison camp, and the rest you know. From the first I took to him as to a brother. _Enfin_, my friends, he recovered his health, and he is now a writer of some distinction. That is his one happiness. He dictates his stories and I write them down--a ray of light in his darkness. He is becoming famous, but he hides his fame under another name. But he will tell you all that when you see him. And then it will be for you, madame, to write for him--and for me--ah! _mon Dieu_! To regret that I can no longer make my poor hands ache for him. That I can no longer be his eyes--" There were great tears in her own now, and the next instant Hermione had folded her in her arms.

Frank Daneham and Iza turned and walked abruptly to the window where the plump woman stood dabbing her eyes and seeing nothing. But outside on the lighted terrace, Frank saw two figures, both those of young men, though the hair of one of them was grey at the temples. They were talking together, one seeming to be arguing, the other protesting; finally, the one who argued appeared to gain his point, for he took the arm of the grey-haired man and turning, drew him towards the door. And once more, after nine long years, Frank Daneham looked upon the face of Dominic Arden, and a burning lump welled up into his throat as he saw the unmistakeable signs of suffering on his worn face.

They came slowly along the terrace, and presently their steps sounded in the outer hall. Then Leonie put Hermione gently from her, and walking briskly up to Daneham and Iza, took them each by an arm.

"This way, if you please, madame and monsieur," she said, leading them towards a door. "There is much that I would tell you and show you, though I trust that you will make a long stay with us. Come."

And that is why there were none to hear the man's cry as he stood alone in the great hall, and none to see the look of pity, love, and joy that came to the woman's eyes as she saw him.

"Hermione!" The cry was that of a child calling to the one being in all the world whom he knows will help him, the cry of a lost soul to its mate. And the next instant the two were locked in each other's arms.

* * * * *

"It has," said Antoine Dubosc, as he walked slowly beside Frank Daneham, "been a task of the most arduous since the moment we knew his wife was here, to persuade him to go back with her to his home. These unselfish people, you know, _mon cher_, are very selfish after all. But finally I persuaded him, I--Antoine Dubosc--for I have a way of persuasion which is not to be resisted."

"Not, I trust, in the same manner that you persuaded me to keep quiet on that most memorable night, Monsieur Dubosc?" said Daneham, with a smile.

The young man flung up his head and burst into a gay laugh.

"Ah, to be sure, no, monsieur, I did not drug him with dope, but with the genius of my tongue, my words of infinite wisdom. And neither will it be necessary to drug anyone else for the same reason, for I, monsieur, have done with contraband. The final cargo of contraband that I shall do myself the honour to take to your country and dump there will be my poor friend and his most beautiful wife. And in future years, monsieur, my boat shall only be used for conveying Leonie and myself to my friend's home, which will be on occasions of the most frequent.

"But enough of that. I am glad you reminded me, monsieur, of what I did to you, for recognizing you when I saw you again, I had not the face--you call it--to refer to the subject, or to apologize as I should have liked. But to show you that I am penitent, permit that I offer you the same brandy that you drank that night. And to show that you, in turn, bear no malice, be brave enough, monsieur, to do me the honour of drinking it."

"I'm hanged if I won't risk it," said Frank Daneham, with a hearty laugh.

But as they turned towards the dining-room, Frank Daneham put a question to his companion.

"You told me," he said, "that Colonel Bessington, when he saw the true state of affairs, remembered that he was an Englishman and a gentleman and took himself off. You also told me that he was not returning to England. Do you know where he has gone?"

"_Helas, mon ami_," was the reply, which was accompanied by an expressive shrug. "I am not in a position to tell you where exactly he has gone, though, perhaps, without much strain on my imagination, I might guess. _Enfin_, he has gone upon a long journey, having--so I understood--nothing for which to return to his own country. He has no relations I take it?"

"A brother, I believe, in India."

"Ah! A brother. Perhaps he goes to join him, perhaps not. But in any case he will, you understand, be no more trouble to us."

"But when he returns, what then? Crosby will make no trouble, of course, for I shall explain everything to him at once. But what of Bessington, when he returns?"

"Ah! When--or if--he returns!" Again the young man shrugged. "I, for one, monsieur, do not think he will, and the wish, you understand, is father to the thought." And here, once more, he drew his long fingers caressingly round his neck.

THE END