CHAPTER VII
THE SERPENT IN THE GARDEN
"Now, you old sinner! Let's hear your valuable piece of information!"Carelessly Ralph Dacre sauntered forth again into the moonlight andconfronted the tatterdemalion figure of his visitor.
The contrast between them was almost fantastic so strongly did thearrogance of the one emphasize the deep abasement of the other. Dacrewas of large build and inclined to stoutness. He had the ruddycomplexion of the English country squire. He moved with the swagger ofthe conquering race.
The man who cringed before him, palsied, misshapen, a mere wreck ofhumanity, might have been a being from another sphere--some underworldof bizarre creatures that crawled purblind among shadows.
He salaamed again profoundly in response to Dacre's contemptuous words,nearly rubbing his forehead upon the ground. "His most noble excellencyis pleased to be gracious," he murmured. "If he will deign to follow hismiserably unworthy servant up the goat-path where none may overhear, hewill speak his message and depart."
"Oh, it's a message, is it?" With a species of scornful tolerance Dacreturned towards the path indicated. "Well, lead on! I'm not comingfar--no, not for untold wealth. Nor am I going to waste much time overyou. I have better things to do."
The old man turned also with a cringing movement. "Only a little way,most noble!" he said in his thin, cracked voice. "Only a little way!"
Hobbling painfully, he began the ascent in front of the strollingEnglishman. The path ran steeply up between close-growing shrubs,following the winding of the torrent far below. In places the hillsidewas precipitous and the roar of the stream rose louder as it dashedamong its rocks. The heavy scent of the azalea flowers hung like incenseeverywhere, mingling aromatically with the smoke from Dacre's newlylighted cigar.
With his hands in his pockets he followed his guide with long, easystrides. The ascent was nothing to him, and the other's halting progressbrought a smile of contemptuous pity to his lips. What did the oldrascal expect to gain from the interview he wondered?
Up and up the narrow path they went, till at length a small naturalplatform in the shoulder of the hill was reached, and here the raggedcreature in front of Dacre paused and turned.
The moonlight smote full upon him, revealing him in every repulsivedetail. His eyes burned in their red-rimmed sockets as he lifted them.But he did not speak even after the careless saunter of the Englishmanhad ceased at his side. The dash of the stream far below rose up likethe muffled roar of a train in a tunnel. The bed of it was very narrowat that point and the current swift.
For a moment or two Dacre stood waiting, the cigar still between hislips, his eyes upon the gleaming caps of the snow-hills far away. Butvery soon the spell of them fell from him. It was not his nature toremain silent for long.
With his easy, superior laugh he turned and looked his motionlesscompanion up and down. "Well?" he said. "Have you brought me here toadmire the view? Very fine no doubt; but I could have done it withoutyour guidance."
There was no immediate reply to his carelessly flung query, and faintcuriosity arose within him mingling with his strong contempt. He pulleda hand out of his pocket and displayed a few _annas_ in his palm.
"Well?" he said again. "What may this valuable piece of information beworth?"
The other made an abrupt movement; it was almost as if he curbed somesavage impulse to violence. He moved back a pace, and there in themoonlight before Dacre's insolent gaze--he changed.
With a deep breath he straightened himself to the height of a tall man.The bent contorted limbs became lithe and strong. The cringing humilityslipped from him like a garment. He stood upright and faced RalphDacre--a man in the prime of life.
"That," he said, "is a matter of opinion. So far as I am concerned, ithas cost a damned uncomfortable journey. But--it will probably cost youmore than that."
"Great--Jupiter!" said Dacre.
He stood and stared and stared. The curt speech, the almost fiercelycontemptuous bearing, the absolute, unwavering assurance of this manwhom but a moment before he had so arrogantly trampled underfoot sentthrough him such a shock of amazement as nearly deprived him of thepower to think. Perhaps for the first time in his life he was utterlyand completely at a loss. Only as he gazed at the man before him, therecame upon him, sudden as a blow, the memory of a certain hot day morethan a year before when he and Everard Monck had wrestled together inthe Club gymnasium for the benefit of a little crowd of subalterns whohad eagerly betted upon the result. It had been sinew _versus_ weight,and after a tough struggle sinew had prevailed. He remembered theunpleasant sensation of defeat even now though he had had the grit totake it like a man and get up laughing. It was one of the very fewoccasions he could remember upon which he had been worsted.
But now--to-night--he was face to face with something of an infinitelymore serious nature. This man with the stern, accusing eyes and whollymerciless attitude--what had he come to say? An odd sensation stirred atDacre's heart like an unsteady hand knocking for admittance. There wassomething wrong here--- something wrong.
"You--madman!" he said at length, and with the words pulled himselftogether with a giant effort. "What in the name of wonder are you doinghere?" He had bitten his cigar through in his astonishment, and hetossed it away as he spoke with a gesture of returning confidence. Hesilenced the uneasy foreboding within and met the hard eyes thatconfronted him without discomfiture. "What's your game?" he said. "Youhave come to tell me something, I suppose. But why on earth couldn't youwrite it?"
"The written word is not always effectual," the other man said.
He put up a hand abruptly and stripped the ragged hair from his face,pushing back the heavy folds of the _chuddah_ that enveloped his head ashe did so. His features gleamed in the moonlight, lean and brown,unmistakably British.
"Monck!" said Dacre, in the tone of one verifying a suspicion.
"Yes--Monck." Grimly the other repeated the name. "I've had considerabletrouble in following you here. I shouldn't have taken it if I hadn't hada very urgent reason."
"Well, what the devil is it?" Dacre spoke with the exasperation of a manwho knows himself to be at a disadvantage. "If you want to know myopinion, I regard such conduct as damned intrusive at such a time. Butif you've any decent excuse let's hear it!"
He had never adopted that tone to Monck before, but he had been rudelyjolted out of his usually complacent attitude, and he resented Monck'spresence. Moreover, an unpleasant sense of inferiority had begun to makeitself felt. There was something judicial about Monck--somethinginexorable and condemnatory--something that aroused in him everyinstinct of self-defence.
But Monck met his blustering demand with the utmost calm. It was as ifhe held him in a grip of iron intention from which no struggles, howeverdesperate, could set him free.
He took an envelope from the folds of his ragged raiment. "I believe youhave heard me speak of my brother Bernard," he said, "chaplain ofCharthurst Prison."
Dacre nodded. "The fellow who writes to you every month. Well? What ofhim?"
Monck's steady fingers detached and unfolded a letter. "You had betterread for yourself," he said, and held it out.
But curiously Dacre hung back as if unwilling to touch it.
"Can't you tell me what all the fuss is about?" he said irritably.
Monck's hand remained inflexibly extended. He spoke, a jarring note inhis voice. "Oh yes, I can tell you. But you had better see for yourselftoo. It concerns you very nearly. It was written in Charthurst Prisonnearly six weeks ago, where a woman who calls herself your wife isundergoing a term of imprisonment for forgery."
"Damnation!" Ralph Dacre actually staggered as if he had received a blowbetween the eyes. But almost in the next moment he recovered himself,and uttered a quivering laugh. "Man alive! You are not fool enough tobelieve such a cock-and-bull story as that!" he said. "And you have comeall this way in this fancy get-up to tell me! You must be mad!"
Monck was still holding out the letter. "You had bette
r see foryourself," he reiterated. "It is damnably circumstantial."
"I tell you it's an infernal lie!" flung back Dacre furiously. "There isno woman on this earth who has any claim on me--except Stella. Whyshould I read it? I tell you it's nothing but damned fabrication--atissue of abominable falsehood!"
"You mean to deny that you have ever been through any form of marriagebefore?" said Monck slowly.
"Of course I do!" Dacre uttered another angry laugh. "You must be apositive fool to imagine such a thing. It's preposterous, unheard of!Of course I have never been married before. What are you thinking of?"
Monck remained unmoved. "She has been a music-hall actress," he said."Her name is--or was--Madelina Belleville. Do you tell me that you havenever had any dealings whatever with her?"
Dacre laughed again fiercely, scoffingly. "You don't imagine that Iwould marry a woman of that sort, do you?" he said.
"That is no answer to my question," Monck said firmly.
"Confound you!" Dacre blazed into open wrath. "Who the devil are you toenquire into my private affairs? Do you think I am going to put up withyour damned impertinence? What?"
"I think you will have to." Monck spoke quitely, but there was deadlydetermination in his words. "It's a choice of evils, and if you are wiseyou will choose the least. Are you going to read the letter?"
Dacre stared at him for a moment or two with eyes of gloweringresentment; but in the end he put forth a hand not wholly steady andtook the sheet held out to him. Monck stood beside him in utterimmobility, gazing out over the valley with a changeless vigilance thathad about it something fateful.
Minutes passed. Dacre seemed unable to lift his eyes from the page. Butit fluttered in his hold, though the night was still, as if a strongwind were blowing.
Suddenly he moved, as one who violently breaks free from some fetteringspell. He uttered a bitter oath and tore the sheet of paper passionatelyto fragments. He flung them to the ground and trampled them underfoot.
"Ten million curses on her!" he raved. "She has been the bane of mylife!"
Monck's eyes came out of the distance and surveyed him, coldly curious."I thought so," he said, and in his voice was an odd inflection as ofone who checks a laugh at an ill-timed jest.
Dacre stamped again like an infuriated bull. "If I had her here--I'dstrangle her!" he swore. "That brother of yours is an artist. He hassketched her to the life--the she-devil!" His voice cracked and broke.He was breathing like a man in torture. He swayed as he stood.
And still Monck remained passive, grim and cold and unyielding. "Howlong is it since you married her?" he questioned at last.
"I tell you I never married her!" Desperately Dacre sought to recoverlost ground, but he had slipped too far.
"You told me that lie before," Monck observed in his even judicialtones. "Is it--worth while?"
Dacre glared at him, but his glare was that of the hunted animal trappedand helpless. He was conquered, and he knew it.
Calmly Monck continued. "There is not much doubt that she holds proof ofthe marriage, and she will probably try to establish it as soon as sheis free."
"She will never get anything more out of me," said Dacre. His voice waslow and sullen. There was that in the other man's attitude that stilledhis fury, rendering it futile, even in a fashion ridiculous.
"I am not thinking of you." Monck's coldness had in it something brutal."You are not the only person concerned. But the fact remains--this womanis your wife. You may as well tell the truth about it as not--since Iknow."
Dacre jerked his head like an angry bull, but he submitted. "Oh well, ifyou must have it, I suppose she was--once," he said. "She caught me whenI was a kid of twenty-one. She was a bad 'un even then, and it didn'ttake me long to find it out. I could have divorced her several timesover, only the marriage was a secret and I didn't want my people toknow. The last I heard of her was that her name was among the drowned ona wrecked liner going to America. That was six years ago or more; and Iwas thankful to be rid of her. I regarded her death as one of thebiggest slices of luck I'd ever had. And now--curse her!"--he endedsavagely--"she has come to life again!"
He glanced at Monck with the words, almost as if seeking sympathy; butMonck's face was masklike in its unresponsiveness. He said nothingwhatever.
In a moment Dacre took up the tale. "I've considered myself free eversince we separated, after only six weeks together. Any man would. It wasnothing but a passing fancy. Heaven knows why I was fool enough to marryher, except that I had high-flown ideas of honour in those days, and Igot drawn in. She never regarded it as binding, so why in thunder shouldI?" He spoke indignantly, as one who had the right of complaint.
"Your ideas of honour having altered somewhat," observed Monck, withbitter cynicism.
Dacre winced a little. "I don't profess to be anything extraordinary,"he said. "But I maintain that marriage gives no woman the right to wrecka man's life. She has no more claim upon me now than the man in themoon. If she tries to assert it, she will soon find her mistake." He wasbeginning to recover his balance, and there was even a hint of hiscustomary complacence audible in his voice as he made the declaration."But there is no reason to believe she will," he added. "She knows verywell that she has nothing whatever to gain by it. Your brother seems tohave gathered but a vague idea of the affair. You had better write andtell him that the Dacre he means is dead. Your brother-officer belongsto another branch of the family. That ought to satisfy everybody and nogreat harm done, what?"
He uttered the last word with a tentative, disarming smile. He was notquite sure of his man, but it seemed to him that even Monck must seethe utter futility of making a disturbance about the affair at thisstage. Matters had gone so far that silence was the only course--silenceon his part, a judicious lie or two on the part of Monck. He did not seehow the latter could refuse to render him so small a service. As hehimself had remarked but a few moments before, he, Dacre, was not theonly person concerned.
But the absolute and uncompromising silence with which his easysuggestion was received was disquieting. He hastened to break it,divining that the longer it lasted the less was it likely to end in hisfavour.
"Come, I say!" he urged on a friendly note. "You can't refuse to do thismuch for a comrade in a tight corner! I'd do the same for you and more.And remember, it isn't my happiness alone that hangs in the balance!We've got to think of--Stella!"
Monck moved at that, moved sharply, almost with violence. Yet, when hespoke, his voice was still deliberate, cuttingly distinct. "Yes," hesaid. "And her honour is worth about as much to you, apparently, as yourown! I am thinking of her--and of her only. And, so far as I can see,there is only one thing to be done."
"Oh, indeed!" Dacre's air of half-humorous persuasion dissolved intoinsolence. "And I am to do it, am I? Your humble servant to command!"
Monck stretched forth a sinewy arm and slowly closed his fist under theother man's eyes. "You will do it--yes," he said. "I hold you--likethat."
Dacre flinched slightly in spite of himself. "What do you mean? Youwould never be such a--such a cur--as to give me away?"
Monck made a sound that was too full of bitterness to be termed a laugh."You're such an infernal blackguard," he said, "that I don't care a damnwhether you go to the devil or not. The only thing that concerns me ishow to protect a woman's honour that you have dared to jeopardize, howto save her from open shame. It won't be an easy matter, but it can bedone, and it shall be done. Now listen!" His voice rang suddenly hard,almost metallic. "If this thing is to be kept from her--as it mustbe--as it shall be--you must drop out--vanish. So far as she isconcerned you must die to-night."
"I?" Dacre stared at him in startled incredulity. "Man, are you mad?"
"I am not." Keen as bared steel came the answer. Monck's impassivity wasgone. His face was darkly passionate, his whole bearing that of a manrelentlessly set upon obtaining the mastery. "But if you imagine hersafety can be secured without a sacrifice, you are wrong. Do you think Iam going to stand tame
ly by and see an innocent woman dragged down toyour beastly level? What do you suppose her point of view would be? Howwould she treat the situation if she ever came to know? I believe shewould kill herself."
"But she never need know! She never shall know!" There was a note ofdesperation in Dacre's rejoinder. "You have only got to hush it up, andit will die a natural death. That she-devil will never take the troubleto follow me out here. Why should she? She knows very well that she hasno claim whatever upon me. Stella is the only woman who has any claimupon me now."
"You are right." Grimly Monck took him up. "And her claim is the claimof an honourable woman to honourable treatment. And so far as lies inyour power and mine, she shall have it. That is why you will do thisthing--disappear to-night, go out of her life for good, and let herthink you dead. I will undertake then that the truth shall never reachher. She will be safe. But there can be no middle course. She shall notbe exposed to the damnable risk of finding herself stranded."
He ceased to speak, and in the moonlight their eyes met as the eyes ofmen who grip together in a death-struggle.
The silence between them was more terrible than words. It heldunutterable things.
Dacre spoke at last, his voice low and hoarse. "I can't do it. There istoo much involved. Besides, it wouldn't really help. She would come toknow inevitably."
"She will never know." Inexorably came the answer, spoken with pitilessinsistence. "As to ways and means, I have provided for them. It won't bedifficult in this wilderness to cover your tracks. When the news hasgone forth that you are dead, no one will look for you."
A hard shiver went through Dacre. His hands clenched. He was as a man inthe presence of his executioner. The paralysing spell was upon himagain, constricting as a rope about his neck. But sacrifice was no partof his nature. With despair at his heart, he yet made a desperate bidfor freedom.
"The whole business is outrageous!" he said. "It is out of the question.I refuse to do it. Matters have gone too far. To all intents andpurposes, Stella is my wife, and I'm damned if any one shall comebetween us. You may do your worst! I refuse."
Defiance was his only weapon, and he hurled it with all his strength;but the moment he had done so, he realized the hopelessness of theventure. Monck made a single, swift movement, and in a moment themoonlight glinted upon the polished muzzle of a Service revolver. Hespoke, briefly, with iron coldness.
"The choice is yours. Only--if you refuse to give her--the sanctuary ofwidowhood--I will! After all it would be the safest way for allconcerned."
Dacre went back a pace. "Going to murder me, what?" he said.
Monck's teeth gleamed in a terrible smile. "You need not--refuse," hesaid.
"True!" Dacre was looking him full in the eyes with more of curiositythan apprehension. "And--as you have foreseen--I shall not refuse underthose circumstances. It would have saved time if you had put it in thatlight before."
"It would. But I hoped you might have the decency to actwithout--persuasion." Monck was speaking between his teeth, but therevolver was concealed again in the folds of his garment. "You willleave to-night--at once--without seeing her again. That is understood."
It was the end of the conflict. Dacre attempted no further resistance.He was not the man to waste himself upon a cause that he realized to behopeless. Moreover, there was about Monck at that moment a force thatrestrained him, compelled instinctive respect. Though he hated the manfor his mastery, he could not despise him. For he knew that what he haddone had been done through a rigid sense of honour and that chivalrywhich goes hand in hand with honour--the chivalry with which no womanwould have credited him.
That Monck had nought but the most disinterested regard for any woman,he firmly believed, and probably that conviction gave added strength tohis position. That he should fight thus for a mere principle, thoughincomprehensible in Dacre's opinion, was a circumstance that carriedinfinitely more weight than more personal championship. Monck was theone man of his acquaintance who had never displayed the smallest desireto compete for any woman's favour, who had never indeed shown himself tobe drawn by any feminine attractions, and his sudden assumption ofauthority was therefore unassailable. In yielding to the greater power,Dacre yielded to a moral force rather than to human compulsion. Andthough driven sorely against his will, he respected the power thatdrove. His dumb gesture of acquiescence conveyed as much as he turnedaway relinquishing the struggle.
He had fought hard, and he had been defeated. It was bitter enough, butafter all he had had his turn. The first hot rapture was alreadypassing. Love in the wilderness could not last for ever. It had beenfierce enough--too fierce to endure. And characteristically he reflectedthat Stella's cold beauty would not have held him for long. He preferredsomething more ardent, more living. Moreover, his nature demanded acertain meed of homage from the object of his desire, and undeniablythis had been conspicuously lacking. Stella was evidently one to acceptrather than to give, and there had been moments when this had slightlygalled him. She seemed to him fundamentally incapable of any deepfeeling, and though this had not begun to affect their relations atpresent, he had realized in a vague fashion that because of it she wouldnot hold him for ever. So, after the first, he knew that he would findconsolation. Certainly he would not break his heart for her or for anywoman, nor did he flatter himself that she would break hers for him.
Meantime--he prepared to shrug his shoulders over the inevitable. Thingsmight have been much worse. And perhaps on the whole it was safer toobey Monck's command and go. An open scandal would really be a good dealworse for him than for Stella, who had little to lose, and there was noknowing what might happen if he took the risk and remained. Emphaticallyhe had no desire to face a personal reckoning at some future date withthe she-devil who had been the bane of his existence. It was an unlikelycontingency but undoubtedly it existed, and he hated unpleasantness ofall kinds. So, philosophically, he resolved to adjust himself to thisburden. There was something of the adventurer in his blood and he had avast belief in his own ultimate good luck. Fortune might frown forawhile, but he knew that he was Fortune's favourite notwithstanding. Andvery soon she would smile again.
But for Monck he had only the bitter hate of the conquered. He cast amalevolent look upon him with eyes that were oddly narrowed--ameasuring, speculative look that comprehended his strength andregistered the infallibility thereof with loathing. "I wonder whathappened to the serpent," he said, "when the man and woman were thrustout of the garden."
Monck had readjusted his disguise. He looked back with baffling,inscrutable eyes, his dark face masklike in its impenetrability. But hespoke no word in answer. He had said his say. Like a mantle he gatheredhis reserve about him again, as a man resuming a solitary journeythrough the desert which all his life he had travelled alone.