HERRIARD could not have told how long the tense situation lasted. Nor could he be sure whether Gastineau saw him or not. The shock of the astounding sight seemed to have deprived him of all power of speech as well as of movement. For there was something supernaturally mysterious about it, heightened by the certain occult power of will, indefinable and not to be gauged, which had always suggested itself beneath Gastineau’s more obvious characteristics. At the same time Herriard’s mind was alert enough, with the abnormal activity of a dreamer’s. He wondered why Gastineau did not speak; then whether those sharp eyes could fail to see him; all the time searching helplessly for a solution of the miracle of his being there on his feet. As in a dream, the flash of time was lengthened out, in reality Gastineau’s look into the room lasted but two or three seconds. At length Herriard, feeling sure he must be seen, and desperate to snap the intolerable tension, made an effort to speak. But before his dry tongue could utter a sound, Gastineau turned away and disappeared.
With that, the rigidity that held him under a spell of astonishment approaching to horror gradually relaxed; the power of practical speculation returned. Was it indeed Gastineau whom he had seen? He went forward a few steps into the centre of the room, and listened. Not a sound broke the stillness. Then from the street came that of a whistled tune. It dissipated instantly the atmosphere of the supernatural which seemed to fill the house. Herriard was ashamed to acknowledge the courage which that touch of outside, common-place life put into him. He passed boldly now into the outer room beyond; it was empty. He went quickly out into the hall; no one was to be seen, no movement to be heard. Had it been really Gastineau? He was now inclined to put the appearance down to an hallucination; that could be plausibly accounted for in the present perturbed state of his mind; the alternative was beyond the bounds of possibility. At least it would be easy to make sure.
Herriard ran quickly upstairs, laughing a little uncomfortably at the absurd want of balance his brain had shown. Next moment the shock and tremor returned. For, in front of him, as he reached the wide landing, the door of Gastineau’s room stood wide open. He knew that he had shut it when he left the room twenty minutes before. Who could have opened it if there were no human being in the house but Gastineau and himself? Who but one?
Then he laughed. Of course Hencher had returned earlier than was expected, and had gone into his master’s room, leaving the door open. Herriard crossed to the room and went in. Gastineau was not there; his couch was empty.
For some time Herriard stood staring at his friend’s accustomed place stupidly, dumbfoundedly, unable all at once to realize all the empty room meant. Then it came to him, vaguely, but blurred as to the details, and, following closely on that, a certain horror. The man’s real character seemed to have been revealed to him suddenly; he had known him intimately for years without learning as much about him and his nature as the last twenty-four hours had taught him. And now, with the revelation of the depths—perhaps not yet the lowest—of the man’s character and capabilities, had come the startling knowledge that the chains which had fettered that evil spirit in the flesh had been struck off. Gastineau, then, was no longer a prisoner, but a free man, free to work his will upon those who opposed him, who stood in his way.
But the real significance of the discovery came from the secrecy with which the change had been kept from him. Half an hour ago Gastineau had been lying on that couch in the manner of a hopeless paralytic; the horror of that living lie was appalling to think of. Herriard had often of late applied that epithet to himself: here was the wheel within the wheel; the deceiver himself hoodwinked; the lower depth, undreamt of, in what he had come to think the lowest.
All this passed swiftly through his mind as soon as he could bring himself to realize it; then came a more practical consideration, Gastineau must not find him there; must not know of his discovery of the secret. Could he get out of the house, unseen, unheard? In an access of consternation he stole to the door. As his hand touched it, it was pushed open from without and he fell back with a half cry as Gastineau stood before him.
The face he encountered was dark with vicious ill-humour; but, if he was more startled than Herriard by the rencontre, he, with his stronger nerves, showed it less. The expression of angry surprise changed into a sneering, evil laugh of annoyance, the laugh of a schemer who is found out.
It was characteristic of him that he waited for Herriard to speak. The explanation was due not from, but to him.
“Gastineau, you are well, you are cured?” There was contempt now in the laugh with which the other walked past him into the room.
Herriard turned and faced him. “Gastineau,” he said, wondering apprehensively what was to come, “why did you not tell me?”
Gastineau turned too; the look of surprised annoyance had given way to a smile which was not exactly reassuring. “Yes,” he replied coolly; “I have recovered the use of my limbs—no thanks to you.”
The light tone in which the last words were spoken did not disguise their intentional significance. To Herriard they were obscure, and he let them pass.
“But, Gastineau, why this secrecy?”
The other man’s mouth was drawn to one side in a sneer. “Could you expect anything else?” he returned.
“Surely,” Herriard answered quite frankly. “I don’t know whether you kept it secret to give me a pleasant surprise,” he added, with a touch of irony.
“A pleasant surprise!” Gastineau repeated the words with an incredulous drawl.
“You might have known how rejoiced I should be at your recovery.”
Gastineau laughed unpleasantly. “You know how wrong-headed I am apt to be. I might have doubted even your satisfaction.”
Herriard looked at him in wonder at the line he was taking. “You do me less than justice,” he protested.
“Do I?” the other replied meaningly. “Well, perhaps I may be excused for imagining you would just as soon that things remained as they were. It is scarcely worth discussing.”
“I think it is,” Herriard maintained.
“Oh, no,” Gastineau denied with decision. “I am ready to accept your assurance that you are pleased at my recovery,” he continued, in an off-hand tone. His manner of almost vicious irritation had disappeared. It was now easy and, but for a lurking suspicion of spite, almost pleasant.
“Of course I am,” Herriard assured him, with a show of greater conviction than perhaps he felt. “Tell me how it has come to pass?”
Gastineau took out a cigarette and lighted it. “There is nothing much to tell; I have, as you know, a strong constitution and a still stronger will. First of all, let me tell you, since you have found out what it amused me to keep secret—by the way, I thought you left the house some time ago?” He spoke sharply, as though accusing Herriard of a trick.
“I was half out of the house,” he hastened to explain, “but came back to write a note. I was in the study when you came downstairs, and could not believe my eyes when I saw you.”
“And came up here to see whether I was my own ghost or not?” Gastineau supplemented with his quick perceptiveness. Herriard nodded. “Well, there is no harm done, except, perhaps, so far as my own plan of life may be affected. Now, although the conditions are changed, I wish my being alive to be kept as close a secret as ever.”
“Of course,” Herriard responded. “You may trust me not to breathe a hint of it.”
“To any one?”
“To any one.”
“Not even to your fiancée, Countess Alexia?”
“No; not even to her.” To Alexia least of all, he thought.
Gastineau smoked in silence for a few seconds, inhaling the smoke slowly, as though formulating a plan of explanation. “I am like a man newly risen from the dead;” he spoke deliberately with a curious tenseness; “or rather, like one born in manhood instead of infancy. Life has come upon me so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that I am bewildered. I cannot look ahead yet, cannot order my existence.”
“I can understand that,” Herriard commented.
“Whether to go back to the old life,” Gastineau continued musingly, yet characteristically alert; “or to start an entirely new one, to carve out a fresh career; to conquer another world, rather than to throw myself again into the old arena with its sordid dust, its contemptible applause? That is the question,” he raised his tone, “to go back to the wrangling, the quibbling, the stench of the Courts, the knocking of sense into and prejudice out of the butchers’ skulls of twelve greasy tradesmen, the blunting of one’s wits against the Judge’s shield of complacent stupidity and short-sightedness, the disgusting obligation to win a ruffian’s or a sharper’s fight against a decent fellow; to be jostled all day by glib, shabby lawyers’ clerks, reeking of cheap cigarettes and bristling with impudence: to be at the beck and call of any swindler who wants to ply his trade with impunity, fortified by counsel’s opinion; then to go down to the House of Commons as special pleader for a bill which one knows is to rob one class in order to bribe another; to bustle through life with an axe to grind, and to cajole every useful fool into acting as a grindstone, faugh! is it worth it, all over again? No; I feel I must fill my new lungs with a fresher atmosphere.”
“You forget the rewards, Gastineau,” Herriard said, wondering how far the other was in earnest; “the rewards which were admittedly within your reach.”
“Rewards!” he burst out contemptuously. “Fancy me a Judge. How long do you think my tongue, my spirit, would let me sit on the Bench? The Woolsack, which my flatterers promised me, do you see me there? Could I school myself to prose and mouth, and stage-manage the mummery of their Lordships’ House? No, Herriard. This is a new birth of mine. I may drift back to the old trade; but if my heart was ever in it—which I doubt—it will never be there again.”
“After such an indictment of a vocation which is mine too,” Herriard observed, with a doubtful smile, “it is perhaps as well that our offensive alliance is coming to an end.”
Gastineau glanced at him sharply, as though in search of a lurking sarcasm. “The intellectual side of our profession, as it should be, is one thing,” he said quietly; “the practical scrimmage, as it is, is quite another. It has amused me to help you, to have something of the fight without any of the dust. Now——” he gave a significant shrug, and lighted another cigarette.
To Herriard it seemed unwise to pursue the delicate subject further. It was evident that his release from the partnership was forthcoming, and that was his great desire. “You have not explained the mystery of your recovery,” he said.
There was what seemed an uncalled-for sneer in Gastineau’s off-hand reply. “I scarcely thought it would interest you. However, I may tell you I owe my cure to Dr. Hallamar.”
“Dr. Hallamar?” Herriard cried in surprise. “Why, you told me he declared he could do nothing for you.” Gastineau gave a sharper’s laugh at his gull’s remonstrances. “Nor could he then,” he returned, “seeing that the work was done, the cure effected.”
“What, before I spoke of him to you?”
“Just so,” Gastineau replied mockingly, “before you spoke of him to me. When that happened my cure was on the eve of completion. If it suits you to shut your eyes, my dear friend, it is to my advantage to keep mine open.”
Herriard could not be certain whether the suggestion was meant that he had wilfully shut his eyes. He hated the thought that there was near being a grain of truth in the suspicion, if such it were. “I am glad,” he said simply, “that my stupid indifference to Hallamar’s work and fame was counteracted by your vigilance. I admit that my ignorance was inexcusable.”
“It made no difference,” Gastineau replied with cold brevity.
“Happily.”
“Now, don’t let me keep you. You are going to the Countess?”
The words were snapped out; their viciousness scarcely covered by the affectation of half-contemptuous indifference which Gastineau assumed.
“I was.”
“But my resurrection has surprised you into neglecting even that agreeable duty. I don’t wonder. My restoration to bodily activity is full of startling possibilities. By the way, I think you said you were seriously engaged to the Countess?”
“Seriously. Of course.”
“In spite of my warning.”
“Which I fear I cannot act upon.”
“Ah, well, we shall see.” Gastineau went over to a writing table, seated himself and took up a pen. “You will come and see me to-morrow evening,” he said, without turning. But for the inflection, which was interrogative, the tone suggested a command. “I may have something important and definite to say to you then. At present my plans are not formulated.”
“Very well,” Herriard replied, troubled and doubtful.
“You will not fail? Good-night.”
He looked round and nodded smilingly, then turned back to his writing. Herriard, with a strangely uncomfortable feeling, bade him good-night, and left him.