Charles Rex Part 66

"What?" said Saltash.

Larpent paced on with bent head. "I was her husband. But I was at sea and she was on sh.o.r.e. And so I lost her. She was not made to stand against temptation. It came to her when I was on the other side of the world.

When I got back, she was gone. And I--I never followed her. The thing was hopeless. She was that sort, you understand. It was first one and then another with her. I dropped her out of my life, and let her go. I didn't realize then--what I know now--that the power to rescue and to hold her was mine. If I had, I might have gone after her. I can't say. But I was too bitter at the time to feel it was worth while. I went back to the sea and left her to work out her own d.a.m.nation."

"And yet you loved her?" Saltash said, with a queer twist of the features that was not of mirth.

"I loved her, yes. If I hadn't loved her I would never have come to her when she called. That is love--the thing that doesn't die." A sudden throb sounded in Larpent's voice. He paused for a moment in his walk, then paced on. "You may laugh at it--call it what you will--but there is a power on the earth that is stronger than anything else, and when that power speaks we have got to obey. I didn't want to come. You think me a d.a.m.n fool for coming. But I had to. That's all there is to it."

"I don't think you any sort of a fool," Saltash threw in briefly. "You did the only thing possible."

"Yes, the only thing. I came to her. If I hadn't come, she'd have died--alone. But that alone wasn't why she sent for me--it was the primary reason, but not the only one. There was another." Larpent ceased his pacing and deliberately faced the man who stood listening. "You know what happened to-night," he said. "That child--the scaramouch you picked out of the gutter at Valrosa--Toby--do you realize--have you grasped--the meaning of that yet?"

Saltash flung up his head with an arrogant gesture. "There is one thing about her you have not grasped," he said. "But go on! I may as well hear it."

Larpent went on steadily. "When I came to her yesterday she told me of a child that had been born to her--a child she had loved but had been unable to protect. It was a long story. Spentoli the Italian artist knows it from beginning to end. You know Spentoli?"

"I know him," said Saltash.

"Spentoli is a blackguard," Larpent said, "the sort that is born, not made afterwards. He has painted Rozelle over and over again. He raves about her. He may be a genius. He is certainly mad. He wanted the child for a model, and Rozelle could not prevent it. So she told me. I believe she was dependent upon him at the time. She had been ill. She has been ill for years with heart trouble. And so he had the child, but only for a time. The girl had a will of her own and broke away, joined a circus in California. He tracked her down, captured her again, tried to make a slave of her. But she was like a wild creature. She stabbed him one night and fled. That was Rozelle's trouble. She had never been able to hear of her again. She begged me to find--and save her. I promised to do my best.

But--there was no need to search very far. To-night Spentoli pulled the wires again. It was he who switched on that light. It was he who killed Rozelle. The girl in the gallery with you--Toby--was her daughter--and mine. You heard Rozelle cry out when she saw her. She never spoke again."

Larpent ceased to speak. He was no longer looking at Saltash. The far vision seemed to have caught his gaze again. He stared beyond.

Saltash watched him with working brows. "Are you wanting to lay claim to the girl?" he asked abruptly.

Larpent's face was grim. "I make no claim, my lord," he said. "But I have sworn to do my best for her. I shall keep that oath of mine."

"Meaning?" said Saltash.

The sailor's look met his squarely. "You know what I mean," he said.

Saltash began to grin. "A fight to a finish, what? I'm sorry, _mon ami_.

But I've got you beaten at the start. Shall I tell you how you can best keep that somewhat rash oath of yours?"

"Well?" The word fell brief and uncompromising. Larpent's face was as carved granite.

Saltash thrust forth a sudden hand and took him by the shoulder. "Just by effacing yourself, _mon vieux_," he said lightly. "Go back to _The Blue Moon_, take her to Fairharbour, and await my orders there!"

It was carelessly, even jestingly, spoken, but a certain authority lurked behind the words. Charles Rex knew how to a.s.sert his kings.h.i.+p upon occasion, knew also how to temper it with the touch of friends.h.i.+p.

Larpent's look did not waver, but some of the grimness went from it.

Neither anger nor indignation had any place here. He continued to look Saltash straight in the face.

"And that would be keeping my oath?" he said.

"Even so," said Saltash.

"You mean," Larpent spoke with slow emphasis, "that to leave her where she now is, is to leave her in safe and honourable keeping?"

The old mocking smile gleamed in Saltash's eyes. "Yes, I mean that," he said. "Do you believe me, Larpent?"

"Believe you, my lord?" Larpent seemed to hesitate.

The hand that held him moved with a hint of impatience. "I am asking,"

said Saltash royally, "if you consider that my protection is adequate for--my wife."

"Your--wife!" Larpent started in sharp surprise. "Your wife, did you say?"

Saltash broke into a chuckle and dropped his hand from his captain's shoulder. "Yes, just that," he said. "You are behind the times, my friend. Are you going to congratulate me? We were married four days ago."

Larpent's hand came out to him abruptly. "It's the best thing you've ever done, my lord," he said. "And you will never regret it."

"What makes you say that?" said Saltash curiously.

Their hands gripped and fell apart. Larpent answered him in the brief fas.h.i.+on of the man whose words are few. "Mainly because you loved her enough to marry her when you could have had her without."

Saltash's laugh had the old derisive ring but there was no corresponding gleam of mockery in his eyes as he turned carelessly aside. "What is this thing called love?" he said.

CHAPTER VII

THE REFUGEE

It was by no means characteristic of Jake to linger on a quest which had already proved fruitless but he was a man who possessed acquaintances in almost all parts of the world, and Paris was no exception. For the rest of the day after leaving Saltash he was philosophically occupied in seeking out old friends. Eventually he dined at a restaurant and betook himself to the station to catch the night train to Calais. It was all one to Jake whether he travelled by night or by day, so wholly accustomed was he to adapt himself to circ.u.mstances. Maud was wont to say with a smile that the luxuries of decent living were utterly thrown away upon him. He was a man who scarcely noticed physical discomfort. He could sleep under practically any conditions.

Walking solidly down the platform, carrying his own baggage, his thoughts were completely astray from his surroundings. They had reverted to the memory of the girlish figure he had seen that morning seated on a table, swinging one leg in studied nonchalance while every line was instinct with defiance. Yes, she had defied him, but deep in her heart she had feared--how she had feared!--that Saltash would fail to hold her against him. Again, a deep compa.s.sion came over Jake, stirring the very depths of him. Poor little girl, flung to and fro as flotsam in the cruel surf of life's breakers! He had done his best to deliver her, but Fate had been against him. Fate had ordained that she should be the victim of this man's caprice, the slave of impulses which might or might not be her destruction. It was as if he watched her trying to walk on a quicksand.

And he was powerless to help her. Saltash had defeated him, and he had no insight into his motives. Unstable, baffling, irresponsible as a monkey that swings from tree to tree, he had s.n.a.t.c.hed his prize, and even Jake, who knew him better than most, could only speculate as to whether he would carry it high above disaster or tire and idly fling it away. Some vagrant sense of honour seemed to have actuated him so far, but never yet had he known such a motive to last for long. The man's face was beyond him, too fantastic for comprehension. He recognized that he was capable of greatness, but very few were the occasions on which he had achieved it. If the motive power were lacking in this instance, Toby's chances were indeed small.

He found an empty carriage and threw his belongings on to a seat. The train was not a favourite one, and there would be no crowd. He had some minutes to wait, and he lighted his pipe and began to pace the platform unenc.u.mbered. A few travellers straggling by eyed him with some interest.

He was not a man to be pa.s.sed unnoticed. The ma.s.sive, thick-set shoulders had a bull-dog strength that must have marked him in any crowd. His height was unremarkable, but there was power in every dominant line of him. He had the free carriage of one accustomed to the wide places of the earth.

He took small note of his fellow-travellers, being engrossed in his own thoughts. He wondered how Maud would regard the situation, and half wished she had been with him to deal with it. For Maud possessed undoubted influence over Saltash. He reflected that she was probably the only person in the world who did.

He had strolled almost to the barrier and was in the act of turning back when something--some impulse for which he could never afterwards account--induced him to pause and take stock of the pa.s.sengers pa.s.sing through. The train was almost due to start, and there was some slight confusion and a quickening of feet on the platform. He realized that he ought to be going back to his own carriage, but something stayed him. He stood still, his keen eyes searching the hastening figures.

And so standing, in a moment his attention was focussed upon a girl in a blue cloak who came towards him at a run evidently intent upon catching the train. She pa.s.sed him swiftly without seeing him, almost brushed against him. And behind her came a dark man with black moustache and imperial, following her closely with an air of proprietors.h.i.+p.

Jake wheeled in his tracks, for a second amazed out of all composure. But an instant later he was in pursuit. He had had but a fleeting glimpse of her face, and the blue cloak was quite unfamiliar to him; but there was no mistaking the boyish freedom of her gait, the athletic swing of her as she turned and leaped into a compartment that her companion opened for her.

The black-browed Italian was in the act of following when Jake arrived.

The realization of another hand upon the door was the first intimation that reached him of the Englishman's presence. He turned and looked into a pair of red-brown eyes that regarded him with the utmost steadiness as a quiet voice made slightly drawling explanation.

"This lady is a friend of mine," said Jake Bolton. "I should like a word with her."

The Italian looked murderous for a moment, but he gave ground almost in spite of himself. Perhaps the calm insistence of the other man's bearing warned him at the outset of the futility of attempting any other course of action; Jake was actually in the carriage before he could jerk out a word of protest.