CHAPTER XXVII
THE END OF THE INTERVIEW
THE declaration, although no news to Alexia, was, coming as it did, startlingly unexpected. It was, moreover, as she instinctively realized, a cunning move which forced her into an embarrassing position. But she gave no sign that she was already aware of the crucial fact. “Yours?” she exclaimed in a tone of horror which was not altogether affected. “You killed Captain Martindale?”
Gastineau nodded. His face bore a look almost of sympathetic amusement at her concern. “By what was practically an accident,” he answered; “although it might be hard to prove that. It is due to myself now to tell you exactly how it happened. Do sit down,” he continued, with an easy smile, as he pushed a chair towards her. “You need not be afraid of me; on the contrary, it is I who might fear you.”
He moved away from her chair, and she sat down.
“Of course,” he began, “you remember the night of the Vaux House ball, and, perhaps, what had passed between us just before. I will not inflict upon you a description of my state of mind at that time, except to say that I was mad for love of you. I have nothing if not strength of will, yet it all shrivelled to naught where you were concerned; strive as I would, I could not overcome the love which tortured me a million times more than, as I felt to my shame and grief, it troubled and offended you.”
He spoke, urged by present rather than past passion; eagerly as he was watching for it, he could detect no sign that his burning words touched her.
“I went,” he continued, “to Vaux House that night desperately determined to make one last effort for—no, not for your love, that I knew to be a miracle beyond that night’s working—but for your toleration; for a kind look, a smile, a dance, the touch of your hand, the sound of your voice; just a crumb, even to the mocking of my hunger.”
He paused. Alexia sat with averted face, motionless as a statue, yet with the suggestion of being keenly attentive. If he expected her to speak, her attitude never flattered him that she would break her silence.
“I little knew,” he resumed, “to what fate I was going. That the racking torture I suffered could be heightened was inconceivable. Ah! I never imagined then the depths of despair, and worse, to which love can lead a man. Up to the moment I entered Vaux House I had suffered, Heaven knows how greatly, from your coldness, from your rejection of all my advances, from, as I flattered myself, your misjudgment of me, but, except negatively, I had been free from the hell’s torture of jealousy. Now you can comprehend something of my mind on that fateful night?”
She made, almost indifferently, a slight inclination of the head; not looking towards him, or giving any further sign of sympathy.
He proceeded. “My story shall not be long now. I saw you, and watched you dancing, watched you enviously, longingly. Still there was just a spark left in the ashes of my hopes, which at our first meeting had blazed up so brightly. I was awaiting my opportunity, and presently it seemed to have come. I had seen you leave the ball-room; I slipped out by another door intending to make my way round and meet you; anticipating, hoping that, by biding my time, I might find you alone. Accordingly I worked my way round by the outer suite of rooms till I came to the point where I calculated we might meet. I was not wrong. I saw you in the room beyond with two men, one of whom was Captain Martindale. The other man went away; you and Martindale spoke together, and then, evidently at his suggestion, you and he strolled towards an inner room, a flirtation corner. You remember?”
Again she nodded gravely, speaking no word. “You did not notice me,” Gastineau resumed. “Your talk with Martindale was too engrossing; confidential enough to make me burn with jealousy. At the door of the inner room you hesitated. It was natural, having regard to your partner’s reputation. He laid his hand upon your arm, urging you to go in. You shook off his grasp—there was a thrill of satisfaction to me in that,—he went on a pace, persuading you to follow. I watched anxiously for the result, meaning to accost you should you turn back. But he prevailed, and you went slowly after him into the room. Ah! how I hated him! How I tried to think the worse of you for yielding. I quietly crossed the room to the doorway through which you had disappeared, my mad jealousy making me careless of what I did. At the door I stopped and listened. I could hear your voices in the room beyond, but not your words. Making a slight change in my position, my foot touched something hard on the carpet. It was the little jewelled sword, the hair ornament. Instantly I recognized it as yours; you may be sure that every detail of your appearance was familiar to me. I took it up eagerly. At last, Countess, you have the solution of that element in the mystery.”
“Yes.” The monosyllable sounded cold, almost resentful.
“Chance,” he continued, as coolly now as though he were opening a case in Court, “had given me an excuse for breaking in upon your flirtation, of spoiling Martindale’s opportunity, but jealousy kept me back; hurry would spoil my chance of appearing at the critical moment. I tried to catch a glimpse of you, but could not; to have passed through the doorway would have meant to show myself. But I saw in my difficulty that there seemed to be another entrance to the room. If I could get round that way I might hear what Martindale was saying. The thought uppermost in my mind was to protect you from him, a man of notoriously bad principles where women were concerned; you may believe me, Countess, when I say that jealousy did not altogether account for my resolve to intervene. It was bad enough to fail to win you; to lose you to a man of Martindale’s character was not to be endured. I went quickly back and through another room which I knew must lead from that in which you stayed. I opened the communicating door quietly; as luck would have it a portière hung beyond it; behind this I could stand, in the room, yet unseen. I am telling you everything, Countess, exactly as it happened; palliating nothing, excusing nothing, save on the ground of the devouring love that had possession of me.”
If he looked for a softening of her attitude, none was visible; it was simply attentive without a sign of feeling. “I stood there,” he resumed, as though now desirous to make an end quickly, “listening with jealous ears. Your voices were so low that I could hear little of your talk, which was all the worse for my state of mind. But presently a word reached my ears like a stab. It stung me out of my restraint. I pulled aside the curtain and looked into the room. I saw—the kiss.”
“Without knowing what led up to it.” Alexia spoke in a level voice, as though forced to suggest in her justification another than the obvious reason.
Gastineau continued. “You left him then quickly; and, to my surprise, he did not follow. I could just see the self-satisfied look on his face as he stood looking after you. It was that look that kept me there till he noticed me. I suppose he gathered from my expression what I had heard and seen; anyhow he began to abuse and insult me—after the manner of an empty-headed Guardsman who had been caught playing a disreputable game. I replied hotly enough; my rage and jealous hate were beyond restraint; as to being an eavesdropper, I had as much right there as he; he, a dishonourable Philander, had everything to be ashamed of; I nothing. I waited for a break in the somewhat sharp sarcasm with which he assailed me, and then began, in the most stinging language my profession had taught me, to paint his character, his reputation as I then saw it. I dare say he had never before had such taunts flung at him. I stung him into a state of speechless rage; the few retorts he had attempted were feeble and simply furnished me with fresh turns of recrimination. As his temper rose, mine fell; for I began to enjoy the castigation I was giving him. At last the cutting slashes of my tongue whipped him beyond endurance.
“‘You——!’ he cried, choking with rage. ‘I’ll teach you to insult me; I’ll show you the difference between a soldier and a wretched limb of the law; I’ll shake the miserable life out of you.’
“He came up and took me by the throat. I am not a physically weak man, and he found me stronger than he had imagined. I released myself from his grip without much difficulty. This enraged him still more; he was one of those stupid men who cannot bear to have their self-constituted superiority put in question. With insulting words, he attacked me again, but our first encounter had brought to my recollection that I still held in my hand your little sword. I had no wish for a further contest, so retreated a few steps as he advanced upon me.”
“‘Keep off, you great bully!’ I said. ‘If you lay hands on me again it will be the worse for you. A pity you cannot behave yourself towards either women or men.’
“Following me up with a vicious look in his eyes, Martindale made a sudden rush forward and seized me again by the throat, this time with both hands. ‘I’ll teach you to spy upon me, you skunk: I’ll spoil your game before you get the chance of spoiling mine again.’ His big, strong hands encircled my throat, one from the front and the other from behind; the clutch became so vicious that I could not breathe; the man was, I knew, mad with rage; honestly I thought he would strangle me. Against the terrible grip I could do nothing; all power was leaving me with my breath; the agony became intense, it was that of death; my mind became suddenly clear as a dying man’s, and, with the sudden flash of hyper-consciousness, I remembered again the little weapon I still clutched. On the instant I struck out at him with it, in a last despairing effort, with all the strength that was left me. So little did I count on the effectiveness of the stroke, that it was with surprise I felt the grip round my throat almost simultaneously relax. Martindale gave a kind of choking sigh, and fell forward upon me. Reeling with faintness, I had just strength enough to break his fall to the floor; he slid down through my arms and lay there, dead. That is all; the rest is known to the world. It is good of you to have listened so patiently to my long story. But I owe it to myself, if not to you, to convince you that I am not quite a murderer, and at the same time to give you the true account of how Martindale came by his death.”
He waited for her response. “Yes,” she said, breaking at last the tenseness of her attitude; “I am glad to know how it really happened.” For the first time she let her eyes rest on his face, but, though his own seemed to search for it, there was no suggestion of tenderness or invitation in them.
He took a step towards her. “I hope,” he said, “it may make all the difference in our relations to each other.”
The grey eyes hardened now. “If you mean that we should be more than comparative strangers, that cannot be.”
She spoke boldly, and he wondered whether her spirit could be as brave as her words.
“Indeed,” he returned, with a smile of underlying resolve, “we must be more than that.”
“Must?” She repeated the word with a little scornful laugh. Then with more dignity, “You surely forget yourself to say that to me.”
“Shall I tell you,” he spoke more humbly, “why I used the word?”
Her only answer was a shrug of impatience, indifference.
“It was,” he continued, “because I feel certain, am absolutely convinced that you and I, united, would be a great power in this world of ours. That there are no two people living to-day whose alliance would lead to a more splendid position. When I speak of power, I mean intellectual, social, political; a power in everything that could work for the good we should choose; in a very few years our influence would be unbounded, our wealth and position more than sufficient for every aim. This is not the mere vapouring of a man’s vanity. I know and feel my power, it would be absurd affectation to shut my eyes to what I have already accomplished. Take but one instance. When lately I was lying half-dead on a couch from which I never thought to rise, I made another man’s career, young Herriard’s; pushed him, without an effort, in a whim of mere gratitude for a slight service rendered me, pushed him into a brilliant position, as easily as I could move a piece on a chess-board. You know that?”
“Yes; I understand that,” she answered, almost mechanically.
“So I am justified,” Gastineau resumed, his pleading growing more urgent, “in saying that, now my health is restored, nothing can stop me; the force that drives me through the throng of my fellows is irresistible. If only you were by my side, the world would be at our feet; since, allied, we should represent the great forces that have ever moved, will ever move it. Countess—Alexia, forgive my boldness when I tell you that we, you and I, have no right, it would be an act of short-sighted folly, to throw ourselves away on inferior mates. You must know this, you who are so clever, who can read men and the world; I cannot imagine that you can be blind to the hideous mistake you would commit in allying yourself to a mere puppet, a weakling, the simulacrum of a man, such as Geoffrey Herriard.”
“Mr. Gastineau,” Alexia interrupted him with scarcely restrained indignation. “I can listen to this language no longer.”
“But you must, Countess,” he returned insistently. “I am bound to put the question, the chance of your future with its unparalleled prospects, before you plainly, even at the risk of offence. I have in this touched only on the worldly reasons for our alliance, intruding no word of love; of mine which fills my whole being, making me your slave, your adoring worshipper; of yours which I feel in my heart will come to be mine one day. Countess, can you reject me now? Have I not been frank, and laid bare my heart and very soul and the terrible secret of my life before you? Alexia, put away all these vain fancies and prejudices; accept the power, the empire which I cast at your feet, and tell me you will be my wife.” As the note of passion deepened he tried, making a swift approach, to clasp her in his arms, but she drew herself up proudly and repulsed him.
“Alexia,” he urged, desperately intent, “I will give you power beyond every other woman in the kingdom, I will raise you to a height more dazzling than you dream of. It shall be my one object in life, I swear it. Don’t, don’t reject me. Think what you refuse. Oh,” he cried, almost savagely, as her attitude grew even more repelling, “tell me what it is that makes you hate me so. Have I not confessed the truth to you, and purged the taint of blood-guiltiness from my soul? Alexia,” he demanded, with passionate fierceness, “tell me! You shall tell me.”
But she gave no sign of faltering before the tempest of his insistence.
“Mr. Gastineau,” she said, as coldly as the situation permitted, and with more than a touch of decision, “this interview has lasted long enough, too long. Let it come to an end now. No good purpose can be served by my listening to you any longer. Understand once, and for all time, that under no circumstances can I accept your proposal, which is made dishonourable by the very fact of my engagement to Mr. Herriard. That is all I have to say to you. Please go.”
Gastineau’s face had been dark with a strong man’s repressed anger; now it lightened strangely as with the anticipation of a premeditated stroke. “Then you reject my offer, Countess, absolutely?” he demanded quietly.
“Absolutely.” The grey eyes met his steadily, without a sign of compromise. And in his there was no acceptance of defeat, but rather a challenge.
“I have asked you to do nothing dishonourable, Countess,” he said calmly, “knowing, as I do, that your engagement with Herriard will come to nothing.”
More than a challenge now; it was a threat.
“I cannot discuss that with you,” Alexia returned.
“If,” he said, with a cold deliberateness that was significant of a purpose, “you have any regard for Geoffrey Herriard, you will best show it by accepting me.”
“You have had my answer,” she said, moving towards the bell.
“Given in ignorance,” he retorted, “in wilful blindness as to what the future may hold for you.” He moved nearer to her, his face resolute and threatening. “If Herriard is not already dead, he will never live to be your husband.”
She gave an instant’s upward glance at the face, whose expression of sinister power beat back the contempt she tried to show in hers. Without a word she put her hand to the bell. Before, however, she could ring, the door opened, and the butler came in with a telegram. Alexia took it, and turned as though to dismiss Gastineau.
“You had better open it, Countess,” he said quietly, “before I go. It probably confirms my news of Herriard.”
Alexia was in two minds; but in her desire above all things not to show fear, she tore open the telegram.
“Yes,” she said, with a supreme effort to hide her sickening terror, “it confirms what you have told me. Good-night.”