Book: The Castle Of The Shadows

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"As they will again," finished Virginia.

They went into the room of the portrait and stood before it in silence.
Each one felt that its look was for her.

"And yet," Madeleine said, as if answering a question, "there must be
some one who thinks of us, and remembers us with kindness, giving _him_
at least the benefit of a doubt; some one who talked to you of Max and
told you the story of--of his so-called crime in such a way as not to
fill your mind with horror."

"No one has told me the story yet," hesitated Virginia. "I have only
heard hints. They said--the word--_murder_! But that is not the face of
a murderer. How could any one believe it?"

"You don't know--the story?"

Virginia shook her head.

"When you know it, you will turn away from us, as every one else has."

"No--no! Be sure I will not."

"How can I be sure? Ah, almost all the solace of hope has gone now! You
will hear the horrible details, and--that will be the end."

Virginia caught the slender, cold fingers that twisted together
nervously. "Tell me yourself," she cried. "Tell me all--you, his sister.
Then you will see how I shall bear it, and whether I shall fail you."

"I will!"

Madeleine Dalahaide's breath came unevenly. For a moment she could not
speak. Then she began, her eyes not on Virginia, but on the portrait.

"There was a woman," she said in a low, choked voice. "She was an
actress. Max was in love with her, or thought he was. She was handsome.
I have seen her on the stage. Other men besides Max were mad about her.
But she seemed to care for him. He wanted to marry her, and when father
and mother didn't approve, he quarrelled with them, for the first time in
his life. We had always been so happy before that--so united. Everything
began to go wrong with my poor Max then. He played cards at his club, and
lost a great deal of money. And as if that were not enough, father's
losses came. He could do nothing for Max. Besides, the woman Max loved
made him jealous. He suspected that she cared for somebody else. He told
me that the last time I saw him before--the terrible thing happened. But
he didn't tell the man's name. Perhaps he didn't know him. We had a long
talk, for I had been his friend and confidante through all. I didn't want
him to marry the woman; but even that would be better than to have him
miserable, as he said he must be without her. And it was the next night
that the murder was committed. But it was not known until the day
after."

"Was it--the man of whom he was jealous who was murdered?"

"No, the woman, Liane Devereux. She had been shot--in the face. Oh, it
was horrible! It is horrible now to talk to you of it. Her features were
so destroyed that she could be recognized only by her hair, which was
golden-red, and her figure--her beautiful figure which all the world
admired so much. Even her hands--she must have held them up before her
face, the poor creature, instinctively trying to save herself, to
preserve her beauty, for they, too, were shattered. Her jewels were all
gone, and she had had many jewels. Soon the police discovered that they
had been pawned. And Max was accused of pawning them, to get money to pay
gambling debts."

"How could they accuse him of that?"

"He really had pawned them, at her request. She wanted money, and would
not listen to his objections to getting it in that way. He had pawned
them on the day of the murder, and still had the tickets, which he had
forgotten to enclose with the money for the jewels, when he sent it to
Mademoiselle Devereux. She had asked him to pawn the things in his name,
so that hers could be protected, and, of course, that went dreadfully
against Max. He couldn't possibly prove, when the woman was dead, that he
had pawned the jewels for her, because the money he had raised had
disappeared. He would have taken it to her himself, but on returning to
his own flat from the pawnbroker's he received a strange letter saying
that she hated him, and never wished to see him again. It was all quite
sudden, and Max was angry. Still, he might have gone, insisting that she
should tell him what she meant by such a letter, but he had arranged a
hurried journey to England. They arrested him on the way. He was going
there in the hope of borrowing some money from his godfather, a cousin of
ours, who had told Max that if at any time he should be in difficulties
he must apply to him. But what proof had Max of his own intentions? Every
one thought that he was escaping to England to hide himself, after having
committed a cowardly murder.

"There were other bits of evidence against him, too; for instance, the
revolver with which the woman was shot was his, with a silver monogram on
it. Everybody--even the best of his friends--believed him guilty. And
father--poor father!--but I can't talk about that part. It is too cruel.
Oh, you are pale, and changed! I knew it would be so. You are like the
rest. But how could I expect anything else when you have heard such a
story? Everything against him--nothing in his favour. Even Max himself
was dazed. Over and over again he said that he had no explanation to give
of the mystery."

"There is only one explanation, since he was innocent--and I'm as sure of
that as before," said Virginia firmly. "It was a diabolically clever
plot, planned with fiendish ingenuity, to ruin your brother--all your
family, perhaps."

"Hundreds of times I have thought of that," sighed Madeleine Dalahaide.
"Many, many times I spoke of it to the man who defended Max at his trial.
But there was no one it would be reasonable to suspect. We had
absolutely no enemy. Max had none. Everybody adored him--in his happy
days."

"The man whom Liane Devereux loved better than your brother?"

"Ah, but you must see, as the advocate saw, that if she loved the other
better he had no motive either to kill the woman or ruin Max. Where there
had been no injury, there need be no revenge. And if Max knew who the man
was he never told his name."

"There was nobody--_nobody_ who had a right to think himself injured by
your brother, even long before?"

"Not by my brother, so far as we could find out. The theory of a plot was
advanced, of course, and--and I clung to it; but it fell to the ground.
There seemed nothing to support it."

"And yet, from the way you speak, I can't help thinking that you suspect
some one."

"Oh, _I_! But I am only a woman. I was a very young girl then. Every one
I spoke to--even Max--thought my idea a mad one, and said it would do our
case far more harm than good to have it mentioned."

"Tell me, won't you, what it was?"

Madeleine hesitated. "I dare not," she answered. "My reason says that the
thing is impossible. If I wrong the man, it would be shameful to create a
prejudice in your mind against one, no doubt a stranger to you, but whom
you might one day meet, and, meeting, remember my words. Besides, it can
do no good to speak. It would be hopeless to prove anything against him,
even if his hand had been in a plot."

"Yet you said that your brother had no enemy?"

"This man was _my_ enemy. It had not always been so. Once we were
friends. But--something happened, and afterward I think he hated me."

"Is it possible that you are speaking of the Marchese Loria?"

The question sprang from Virginia's lips before she had stopped to
reflect whether it were wise to ask it, and she was terrified at the
effect of her impulsive words.

Madeleine Dalahaide's pale, sad face became ashen, her great eyes
dilated, and there was something of fear, perhaps even of distrust, in
the look she turned upon Virginia.

"You know him?" she exclaimed, her voice suddenly sharp.

"Yes," admitted the American girl.

"Then I think that you and I cannot be friends."

"Not friends? But if I give up the Marchese Loria for you?"

"I do not ask or wish you to do that."

"If he is your enemy he shall not be my friend."

"I have not said he was my enemy."

"I have heard that he loved your brother dearly."

"Perhaps."

"And yesterday----"

"What of yesterday?"

"He was with us when we rode into the valley. He turned pale, and begged
not to come, because the place, he said, was connected with a great
sorrow in his life."

"He would not meet me face to face! Did _he_ suggest that you should try
to save my brother?"

"No, he did not speak his name before me. He does not know what is in my
mind. No one knows yet but you. It was my cousin, Roger Broom, who met
you long ago, and told me that the Marchese Loria had done much to save
your brother's life."

"It may be that he did. I don't deny it. But if you are to be my friend I
ask you this: say nothing of Maxime Dalahaide to Loria."




CHAPTER III

A MYSTERY AND A BARGAIN


Lady Gardiner stood at Virginia's door, remained for a moment undecided,
then tapped gently. The girl's voice answered "Come in!" and Kate obeyed.

Virginia sat at a small writing-table in a window reading a book; but at
sight of Lady Gardiner she snatched up a paper and hastily laid it over
the volume. "Oh, I thought it was George," she exclaimed, blushing
brilliantly. "He has asked me to take a walk."

"Now," thought Kate, "what has that book she's hiding from me to do with
the mystery that's been going on for the past three days?" but aloud, she
said, without appearing to notice the hurried movement or the tell-tale
blush: "I came to ask if you would go down to town with me for a little
shopping."

"I'm afraid I can't," Virginia answered. "You see--er--I promised
George."

"Perhaps he wouldn't mind if we arranged for him to meet us in about an
hour; and we might all three have tea together at Rumpelmayer's."

Virginia looked embarrassed, which was unusual for her. "We didn't think
of going into Mentone," she said. "We shall just stroll about, for the
fact is, we've business to talk over."

"You seem to have had a great deal of business to talk over these last
few days, you and Mr. Trent and Sir Roger. Would it be indiscreet to ask,
dear child, if there has been any hitch about the purchase of your new
toy? Oh, don't look vexed--your chateau, then?"

"No, there's been no hitch. What made you think that?"

"Well, business talks are so new for you. A little while ago you fled
from the first hint of business. But now--you are very much changed these
last few days, since we went to the chateau, Virginia. I've been wanting
to speak to you about it. However, you are going out to walk, and I must
wait."

Virginia met her eyes firmly; yet the violet gaze was not quite as
frankly open and childlike as it used to be. "You needn't wait, if your
shopping can," she said. "Do sit down. I dare say it may be twenty
minutes before George comes for me. He's with Roger--somewhere."

"Yes, I saw them. Virginia, do you know, I've been rather unhappy for
several days?"

"I didn't know. I'm very sorry. Is it anything I've done?"

"Yes and no." Kate did not sit down, but perched on the arm of a big
cushioned chair between the writing-desk and the dressing-table. "You
see, dear," she went on in her softest voice, to which she could give a
pretty, tearful _tremolo_ at will, "I'm in rather a peculiar position.
You have been so sweet all this year and more that we've been together,
that I suppose you've spoilt me. I've forgotten often that I'm only a
paid chaperon, and have felt like a friend and confidante."

"Why, so you are," returned Virginia.

"Wait, dear; let me finish. I've told you my various troubles, and you've
told me things, too. Now, suddenly, everything is changed. Why, you even
sit in your bedroom, instead of in our sitting-room, or on the balcony
with me, as you used. You don't seem to want my society; you make excuses
if I suggest going anywhere. You and your brother and cousin are
continually getting away by yourselves and talking in whispers. Oh, I'm
not hurt. It isn't that. I'm not so thin-skinned and stupid. But I've
been thinking that perhaps I'd offended you, or you were simply tired of
me, and, being kind-hearted, didn't like to send me about my business.
You know, dear, if you would rather have any one else----"

"Oh, Kate, you _are_ stupid!" cried Virginia. "Of course I'm not tired of
you. We really have had business--not about the chateau. I--didn't mean
to tell you until things were more settled, but since you've been talking
like this, I will. I've discovered lately that I'm tired of the Riviera,
heavenly as it is here. We've been a month now----"

"I always told you that Monte Carlo was more amusing, while as for
Cannes----"

"But I've seen enough of the Riviera for a while."

"What about your chateau, then--your chateau in the olive woods that you
so adore?"

"That won't be ready until next winter. There's lots to be done.
And--I've set my heart on a yachting trip."

Kate Gardiner's face fell. She was a wretched sailor, and Virginia knew
it. Even the crossing from Dover to Calais was torture to her on a calm
day.

"A _long_ yachting trip?" she asked, controlling her voice.

"I don't quite know yet. Some weeks, perhaps. The only difficulty is
about you."

Kate did not answer for a moment. _Was_ this an excuse to get rid of her,
and if so, why? Could it be that Roger Broom had been warning Virginia
that her half-brother was in danger of making a fool of himself about a
woman many years his senior? A short time ago she might have believed
that this was the explanation, for Roger Broom knew a good deal about
Lady Gardiner. He was aware that her dead husband was but a city man,
knighted when he was sheriff; that she had been governess to the gruff
old widower's one daughter; that she had married him for his money, and
spent it freely until what remained was lost in a great financial panic;
that since then she had lived as she could, trading upon her own
aristocratic connections to chaperon girls, chiefly Americans, who wished
to see "English society from the inside." Roger knew her real age, or
something near it; he knew that she had been in debt when she had got
this chance with Virginia, to whom she had been recommended by an
American duchess; and as there was nothing against her character, he had
been too good-natured--as she would have expressed it--to "put a spoke in
her wheel." However, if he suspected designs upon George, he might not
have continued to be as discreet; but during these last three days of
mysterious confabs, George Trent had appeared as much changed toward her
as his half-sister had, so that Roger need have had no new fears for him.
George had never ceased to be courteous, but there was a subtle
difference in his manner, in his way of looking at her. He appeared
preoccupied; he no longer sought her out. And this alteration had only
come about since the day when they had visited the Chateau de la Roche.

Perhaps, then, it was George who was tired of her. He had never been the
same since he had seen that girl in black, with the tragic eyes and the
dead-white face, with no more life in it than a marble statue. Maybe he
was planning to attach that girl to the party in some way, and would find
the society of the woman with whom he had flirted a constraint.

At this thought Kate Gardiner felt her blood grow hot. It was unbearable
that she should be sent out of George Trent's life to make room for a
younger woman. She would not have it--she would not! If it killed her to
go on this hateful yachting trip she would go; she would not be whistled
down the wind.

"Oh, if the difficulty is only about me," she said sweetly, "it needn't
be a difficulty at all. I dare say I shall be ill for a few days, but it
can't last forever. I shall simply stop in my stateroom until I am fit
to lie in a deck-chair and be a more or less interesting invalid."

As she spoke she watched Virginia's face through half-lowered lashes, and
was certain that it changed. There could no longer be any doubt on that
subject. For some reason Virginia did not want her on the yacht.

"I should hate you to be a martyr," said the girl uncomfortably. "Roger
and I have been thinking it over, and I was wondering, in case we went
(nothing is actually decided yet), whether you would like to wait here. I
would keep on your room and the sitting-room, and the victoria, and you
should have my maid and your own horse. Your income would be the same as
always, of course; and you have a lot of friends here, so you wouldn't be
lonely."

"How sweet and thoughtful you are, dearest child!" exclaimed Kate
gratefully; while within she was saying, "Oh, so this is the game, is it?
Come now; at least you're showing your hand. Roger and you have been
'talking things over?' You seem to have thought out the details pretty
well; and I'm to be bribed. But it won't work, my love, it won't work."
She rose, and going to Virginia, took her hand, looking affectionately
down at the beautiful face. "You are always ready to sacrifice yourself
for me. But what would you do for a chaperon if I stopped behind?"

"Oh, you see, George and Roger and I would be all the party on board.
Surely George is chaperon enough?"

"Poor Marchese!" murmured Kate. "I'm afraid he also is suffering from an
eclipse."

"I don't know what you mean," said Virginia, her colour deepening. "Why
should he expect an invitation to go with us?"

"Ah! why? Unless, indeed, he had hopes that he was soon to be given some
rights over you. Only the other day I used to fancy that you and he were
half engaged."

"We never were. I--I found him rather interesting. But I don't think I
have behaved very badly. I really meant--oh, I don't know _what_ I meant
then; but I know I don't mean it now. The Marchese Loria is the _last_
person I should wish to have go on this yachting trip, and as it's only
us three, we'll chaperon each other."

"Can it be that she means to marry Roger Broom after all?" Kate Gardiner
asked herself. "To my certain knowledge, she's refused him. I heard him
reminding her of it the other night. But one never knows how many times a
girl may change her mind. The more I think of it the more determined I am
to be of the party on that yacht."

"Unless I should be one too many, I'd really love to go," said she aloud.
"I must get over my horror of the sea. Mayn't I be with you, dear, if you
have really made up your mind? I've grown so fond of you. I should feel
deserted here."

"Even for a few weeks?"

"Even for a few weeks. When you marry, or go home to the States, I must
lose you, but do let me be with you as long as I can."

"You shall go if you really wish to so much," said Virginia, trying in
vain not to appear constrained. "Only I warn you, you may find that
you've made a mistake."

"Why, how seriously you speak. One would think you meditated a voyage to
the North Pole. Probably, though, you'll simply linger about in the
Mediterranean; go to Naples, Greece, perhaps, and Egypt?"

"Something of the sort, I suppose," Virginia answered, dropping her eyes
and playing with the paper she had used to conceal her book. "It's rather
vague at present. Roger and George are looking for a yacht. We'll talk of
it again later. I only mentioned it now to show you that we've really had
business. And by the way, Kate, I'd rather you didn't say anything about
it yet to people outside. It seems like making it of so much importance
and I'd hate being asked three times a day: 'Well, when do you start on
that yachting trip?'"

"I shall be discreet, never fear," replied Kate, more sure than ever that
some mystery which she could not fathom hid itself under this new plan of
Virginia's. "And now for something else I wanted to ask you. Do, like a
dear, good girl, lend me ten pounds. You know how stupidly hard up I
always am. I'll pay it back in a few days."

Virginia was on her feet in an instant and at the dressing-table,
rummaging among scented laces and pretty odds and ends for the
gold-netted purse with "V. B." on it in brilliants. For a moment her back
was turned, and during that moment Kate Gardiner, standing close to the
desk which the girl had left noiselessly, raised a corner of the paper
and peeped underneath. The book which Virginia had been reading lay open.
It was French, and at the top of the page Kate saw the word "Noumea." She
dared look no longer, but let the paper drop, and had wheeled round with
her back to the desk just as Virginia found the purse.

"Thank you _so_ much," purred Lady Gardiner, who knew from experience
that Virginia would beg her not to give back the money, and that, with a
grateful kiss, and perhaps a tear or two, she would allow herself to be
persuaded.

At this instant there came a knock at the door leading into the
sitting-room, which Kate had left half-open on entering, and George Trent
appeared, looking excited and eager. His eyes fell upon Virginia, and he
began to speak before he had seen Lady Gardiner, standing at a little
distance and out of his view at the door.

"I say, Virgie," he exclaimed, "the most ripping piece of luck. We can
get hold of a steam yacht with four cannon--toys, but fit for work--only
you'll have to buy, not hire----"

He stopped short, a look passing between him and Virginia, quick as a
flash of light, yet not too quick to be seen by Kate.

"Good!" said the girl. "Well, we'll talk about it as we walk. Kate's
going shopping." Evidently she intended to change the subject, but Lady
Gardiner was not ready for another.

"Mercy! Are you fitting out as pirates?" she demanded, laughing.

George Trent flushed with annoyance under her unsparing eyes, but he
smiled carelessly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, you mean the cannon? They happen to be there. It wouldn't be worth
while to have the yacht dismantled. I think myself they'd give
distinction. It isn't everybody who goes yachting in such conditions."

"Indeed, no. I only wish we may have a chance to use them. Perhaps we
may, if we can get far enough up the Nile. You see, Virginia has told me
of the trip and promised that I may go. I hope you don't mind."

Of course George said that it would be charming to have her on board, and
he opened the sitting-room door when she went out, making the necessary
agreeable remarks about her shopping expedition. But when the door had
closed after Lady Gardiner, and Virginia had joined him in the
sitting-room, he was no longer smiling.

"So we're to have another passenger, are we?" he said in a low voice.

"She _says_ she wants to go, but she may change her mind. You know what a
wretched sailor she is. Perhaps even after starting she'll think better
of it and beg to be put off at the nearest port. I had to tell her about
the yacht, for she was so inquisitive concerning the business that has
occupied you and Roger and me for the past three days. But she has
promised not to say anything outside till she has permission."

"How much does she know?"

"Nothing at all, except that I'm tired of the Riviera and want to go
yachting somewhere--almost anywhere."

"Sure she doesn't suspect?"

"How could she?"

"Well, I suppose she couldn't. And as far as I'm concerned, I don't see
why we shouldn't trust her as if she were one of ourselves; a nice, jolly
little woman, with no harm in her. What motive could she possibly have
for blocking our game?"

"What, indeed? But you know I said so to Roger, and he vowed he'd have
nothing to do with it if any one knew except you and Madeleine Dalahaide
and me. He wouldn't hear of poor Kate's being told, though I assured him
one might trust her. It was all I could do to get him to promise us,
anyway."

"How _did_ you get him to, by the by? He poured whole cataracts of
ice-water on the scheme at first."

"I--I--suppose I wheedled."

"Virgie! I'll bet you said you'd marry him if he'd go in with us!"

"I didn't--exactly say I _wouldn't_."

"Poor old Roger! Shall you be cad enough to chuck him afterward?"

"Oh, I couldn't do that. I shall be so grateful to him for this, that I
shall feel no reward could be too great for him--that is, if we
_succeed_. He is a dear, kind fellow, and I have often made him unhappy.
I've always thought, somehow, that I should end by marrying him."

"Yet you've refused him three times."

"That was to put off the evil day."

"And you came jolly near accepting Loria."

"Did I really, do you think? It seems so long ago, I can hardly remember.
Anyway, everything is different now."

"I'm with you there. By Jove, what a funny world it is! What will Roger
say when he hears that Kate Gardiner is bent on going? If he consents to
her being on board, I don't see why he should go on refusing to take Miss
Dalahaide."

"That's not the same thing at all. One can never do things quite
secretly. They always leak out. Already it has got into the papers
somehow--I suppose through that stupid agent--that I have bought the
Chateau de la Roche, and interest has been revived in the Dalahaide
story. It's so unfortunate that people should begin to talk again just
now! And then if, on top of all this, should come the news that we'd
taken Madeleine Dalahaide off with us on a mysterious yachting
expedition, what would be said? Roger is quite right."

"It seems cruel that she should be left out of it."

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