THE STORYTELLER

Waikato Times, Volume 94, Issue 14764, 1 October 1921, Page 10 (Supplement)

THE STORYTELLER

THE CAHUSAC MYSTERY

BY K. AND HESKL'TH PRICHARD. (Authors of Roving Hearts. Don Q, Tamnier’s Duel, etc.)

CHAPTER VII—WORDS. He clisclaimod the knowledge, she coqucLtishiy affirmed it, and presently —by a hundred innuendoes —he had conveyed to her Ihc fact, that a very ugly story lay somewhere in the background of Cahusac’s life. ‘I wonder for what reason he hates Malcolm Gahusac so badly.’ reflected Lady Madesson to herself when De Sarsan had pone. ‘And he allowed me to sec it! What fools men are!’ A man is never himself save when he l s alone, and the key in which he thinks is Ihc tone-note of his mental world. At other times he is less or more than himself— momentarily baser, momentarily nobler, a thing swti>ed b> the mood of contact or of expediency, but alone with ids own memory lie cannot choose but fall into accord with the prevailing echo of his past. Malcolm Gahusac, although he had made himself a man of action, was endowed with many of the qualities that go with a strong imagination. At this period lie was overwhelmed by a wave of fatalism. For him the butterfly world around emphasised its own sadness. Events wnrking'upon the sensitive'material of his inner nature had forced hack hope and the sprin.g of voulh, and left him sick of that ancient view of life which tells us that it is all old, stale, autumnal, overhandled; that the coming and going of the leaf upon the tree, of man upon earth, is only a deadly routine without meaning, wii'hout purpose save only the temporary furnishing of a planet. He fancied that he was looking upon the world stripped of Us romance, and that he saw it as it was —a winter stubblefield alone with acold, in some squalid town suburb. About it blew a raw wind, which blighted and hold no promise of spring, and over the rag polluted waste arose a desolate wailing of dead lips. Was it a mood or a vision of truth?. He did not know it was really the cost of possessing an imagination, which is a gift P 3? or in avony. _ . , . The conversation between Bctcmn,~ and Gahusac, drifting listlessly to and fro. held somewhat of the meaning ot what had been written. Belching waited. He saw that the long apparent calm of his companion’s life had been disturbed, flic fountains of the deep had been broken up, and the tide was rising with a terrific force, and he * he was standing by as usual.^ Gahusac broke the long silence b> n question: ‘Bo you happen to know that Mrs Westaway is living in Park Lane ?’ ‘ln that house?’ ‘Yes; she has taken it furnished for the season from the Blaines, I have never been there since.’ He laughed slight.lv, ‘You were with me when I left if,' and by an odd coincidence you will be with rnc to-night when I enter its doors again. It is odd, you know, for the past is not dead, as I had lately bemm to believe.’ ‘What has happened?’ ‘Nothing very tangible. Rut there arc rumours, vague hints. I can’t tell von where they came from or how they have arisen. At present perhaps no one would notice or understand them except those "who know.’ •I’ve seen them in the Gas-Lamp principally, with copies .from L Ocil more or less. It is an unmistakalbc attack. It touches on my father’s death with cynical comments.’ ‘Nothing about Lady Gahusac? asked Botching. ‘No,’ said Cam sac sharply. Thank God not that!’ Botching stared in silence at his hoots, which rested on the edge of the mantelshelf. ‘There is a small point I have never mentioned to you. It probably has no connection with our •flairs. You might recollect that on fat night I was walking down from ic Marble Arch towards Piccadilly? It ■was very late, and there were not many people aboui. The single person whom I saw in the near neighbourhood of your house was a man like a foreigner, lighting a cigar under the lamppost next above your house.’ ‘Like a foreigner!’ repealed Gahusac. •Me would have been a foreigner.’ ‘Not necessarily. Some of us have our price too.’ ‘Botching, that is the man!’ Gahusac said with conviction. ‘lf you could lay your finger upon him you would break up the most dangerous wasps’ nest in London. In diplomatic matters there is always a leakage. Those concerned .'find It a dangerous service, and are paid on corresponding lines. Now and then a side-wind comes to us, and we take action.’ ■Diplomatic action?’ inquired Belching with some dryness. 'When a man is making off with stolen secrets in Ids pocket, if ?»ou catch him you may find diplomacy come to hand with conclusive methods,’ answered Gahusac grimly. ‘A spy is an outlaw, and has no remedy. His own people curse him, and there is no scandal,’ ‘1 see. If I can lay rny finger on the man I saw that night, you would'—Gahusac got up. ‘Do yen remember the winter we had in India? We used Ir, tie up a goat for the tiger.’ Gahusac nodd-’d and smiled. ‘Yes. 1 think there is a tiger on my trail. Keep your eves open.’ Detailing fingered his red moustache. ‘lt would he a shikar.’ tie said. Gahusac's thoughts swung away on the word |o the night-noises of the jungle, and then came back with a zest ti ilii:l. indefinable shikar in London. ‘Come along.’ he said aloud. It’s time \v ff”iv a I Mrs Weslaway's.’ CHAPTER VIIf.—AGAIN. The, music ran on as Malcolm Calmsac passed slowly up Ihc familiar staircase with the crowd. U was some time before he saw Alice l.anceley, who was sitting rather apart. Do Sarsan, standing beside her, was talking with a goud deal of animation, and evidently held the girl an interested listener. Gahusac had leisure to notice a good deal, for the rooms were very full, and it took some time to work round to the spot he desired to react). •Ah. it is M. Gahusac!’ De Sarsan turned quickly; tic had seen a suhlle change in the girl s face, and the interruption annoyed Inin profoundly—‘You are late Monsieur. Mademoiselle is already fatigued with saying “Thank yon,” “You are very kind,” to those whoso good wishes she has already received.—ls it not, so. Miss Lance ley ?' Alice blushed a little. ‘1 do not feel too tired to say one more “Thank you” to Mr Gahusac —that is, if he means to congratulate me.' ‘Mademoiselle to-day attains her majority,’ explained De Sarsan. "1 should remember that, for I had the pbvsure of giving Miss Lancotey my good wishes and —and a doll just ton years ago.' Alice laughed. ‘And Wit’s terrier ode her, don't you remember? I have pci- head stilt; nothing else was left, of hoc.’ Be Sarsan relished these ‘Don't you vcmcnihers ?’ very little-

'I hope your gifts are not always so unlucky, monsieur?' lie remarked. 'But wc have not heard your good wishes for this happy day.' 1 shall wait to offer them unlit M. De Sarsan has gone, Alice,' laughed Cahusac. 'He has heard too many, and is prepared to be critical.' 'M. Cahusac is, 1 see, an undisguised Imperialist,.' the Belgian said with vicious playfulness. 'What do you mean?' said Alice, looking from one to the oilier. 'lmperialism is your national sin. Mademoiselle, and each individual desires lo usurp according lo his opportunities, lie ousts his neighbour when he can.' 'Only in the hope of adequately replacing him,' said Cahusac goodhumouredly. 'Do they not say "Imperialism is England"?' Alice put in, using a phrase that had not much meaning in her ears, but which she hoped might somewhat serve to allay the storm. 'lmperialism is England! Exactly. De Sarsan lost his acquired deliberation of manner and spoke volubly. 'A handsome name for a crime.—Pardon, M. Cahusac! For so small a man, John Lull has been a wonderful thief!' 'M. De Sarson and L'Oeil equally disprove of us as a nation,' Cahusac said, drawing a bow at a venture. De Sarson became exceedingly grave. 'You mistake, monsieur. L'Oeil is no longer the organ of my party. It has ratted, as you call it over here. 'He resumed his air of pleasantry. And it is acknowledged that no enemies are so embittered as those who have once been friends.' •What was it all about?' Alice turned to Cahusac as the Belgian moved away. 'About nothing—the usual case of disagreements, you know.' 'You are laughing. You don't like llim? ' - ' !, 1 M„ 'Not especially perhaps. Probably a prejudice. I hope you do not mind very much?' 'I do, rather,' she replied. He is a friend of Wil's, and I am .grateful to him. He has a good influence over Wil, I am sure.' 'That is the best I have ever heard of him But now to speak of yourself. I have no doll to give yon todav, only my good wishes. What is the. best Miing I can wish you? Happiness? I will wish you happiness now and always.' 'I don't know that coming of age is a matter to be congratulated upon. J don't think it will make me particularly happy,' she said with a natural pathos which sat well upon her. 'After all, perhaps it does not matter. I was taught by my old governess that happiness is not the best thing in the world for one.' , 'I cannot at this minute recall a better thing, or I would wisli you that also.' . As he spoke Lady Madesson crossed the room in front of them with Wilford. She was plainly very bored: her brows wore a little frown, and she was looking listlessly about her, scarcely listening to Wilford's laughing talk. \lice watched them pass, and an unwonted hardness settled, about her mouth. 'Happiness and prosperity make people selfish.' she said. 'Love is better even if it demands self-sacri-fice' , . , i 'Then I wish you love also, but not the love which asks for self-sacrifice. That is not a satisfactory sort, in rny opinion.' 'But it is the highest. \ou know, I have often thought'— 'What were you going to say?' He took a seat at her side, for her low replies scarcely reached him. She gave him a half-timid glance. 'I have thought that you knew something of self-sacrifice. You arc not like other young men.' 'Do you credit me with this also, as well as a secret sorrow?' His face was looking down into hers, and she bit her lip at the expression of mocking amusement which grew out upon it. 'I wonder if you recollect our talk at Fc He rings'? I am very unwilling to upset your theories, but I cannot pretend to a virtue not my own. I can assure you that love has never had anything to do with me; therefore selfsacrifice —in your reading of it —has no concern with me either.' •You hurt me when you laugh at me like that.' He puzzled her with these transformations —at one moment kind, his real sell'; the next mocking, far off, incomprehensible. She could only retire upon her own simpleness of heart, and working outward from that point, she occasionally sent her answer home. 'Why do you sometimes try to pretend to me?' Cahusac knew her too well to be taken by surprise. She interested him by her curious mingling of simplicity willi a natural power of insight. He acknowledged that, in spite of her gifts of heart, she lacked the mental strength to use them to advantage; and yet lie knew, had fate allowed, how dearly one man at least could have loved her. 'What do you want me to be?' he asked. He had mean!, to say something very different, but the question came involuntarily. •I only want you to be your real self always—with me,' she answered. '1 do not ask you to —to tell me anything >ou don't wish to confide in me. Wil says girls are not of much use in that sort of way. because they don't understand. Very likely it is so. I hardly know how I am to make, you see what I should like you lo do. I dare say it would seem small and silly lo you. Bui I know you are lonely in yourself, and [—l am lonely too. Perhaps you will laugh at. me tor saying this, but I thought it would help us both lo understand one. another. I should see when you were sorry, and you would know if I'—She stopped with a quick intake, of the breath. 'Don't laugh! What is there in your laugh that hurts me so?' Iter appeal -hook him. The suggestion, girlish as it was. touched and attracted him. She was very young for her age, but youth has infinite possibilities. What a woman she might become! He could not allow- himself to dwell upon the thought. That shadow out of the past, inighl yel overtake him. He must ask no woman to share his unstable fortunes. [f his stepmother had believed that vile story, would the world be less credulous? 'I am a brute if I have ever hurl you in any way, for you have always been a'— tie chose out a term with difficulty —'a rest and restorative to roe. You have given me back some part of my faith in'goodness. Von cannot know how much you have done for me by that alone. But I dare not lake your kindness, because it would become indispensable to me. Once [ had it. t could never do without it again. In one point ynii have guessed Ihe froth. 1 are solitary, and must always remain so. [ cannot accepl friendship.' Alice sighed rather wist folly. While arms, white garments, and fair face in its sort halo of eurls: 100 good and pure and sweet for any man. he thought, as he looked at her. •You know best.' she -aid at last. 'But I am glad you told me just a little even of your real thoughts. I can he sorry for you: though why we —• But you know best' 'i am afraid it is not best- -for roe at any rate; but It is needful.'

'I was right about you in one thing! Was I not right, too, in Raying that you sacrifice yourself?' 'lf I do,' he said more lightly, 'my vows are none of rny making. They were made for me. perhaps, at my baptism.' Wilford came up as he spoke, and, with a cool word or two to Cahusac, took Iris sister away. Cahusac strolled about the rooms, speaking to one and another. He was a little absent, but no one could have guessed that the past and the present were raging furiously in his mind. \fter midnight he made his way downstairs. He would not leave the house wi'hout seeing again the four wills within which he had spent that \pril night six years ago. Yet. when he reached the closed door he stopped. While his hand lingered on the handle he jerked a look back over his shoulder with the instinctive feelins that some eyes were fixed upon him. Dctching, who was descending the staircase, nodded down to turn, and Lh'en turned anil went up again. Cahusac opened the door. From behind a screen which stood Immediately inside, and similar to one which' had stood there in his recollection, came a murmur of voices. 'But you do not understand, Witford ' It was Alice Lanceley's voice. 'I promised. I actually signed Ihe paper you brought me.' Wilford laughed discordantly. 'You are a little goose! Do you suppose a man'binds himself by his signature? Lord I hope I may be damned for no worse! It is only a form, my dear girl: it means nothing.' it is a promise,' Alice urged rather hopelesslv. i must keep a promise.' 'Oh I say, look here, De Sarsan; just listen to her!—My good child, we were taught lo think so when we were young, but it is not a working principle in life.—Tell her, Dc Sarsan.' 'Mademoiselle is right,' Dc Sarsan began, and stopped. The words had beer, spoken quickly as Cahusac appeared, then turned to leave Ihe room again; but he found someone behind him, who took him gently by the arm and led him forward. CHAPTER IX.—AN OFFER. The three people in the room were standing at the farther end by the window. Lady Madesson, with a mere glance in their direction, guided Cahusac to a couch that stood against the wall almost opposite to the door. Although the others continued to talk in low tones, she was well aware that she and her comnanion occupied the attention of at least two of the group. 'lt looks as if they were bullying your friend Miss Laneeley,' said Lady Madesson. i have known her since she was a small child, but I don't flatter myself that she regards me as a special friend ' replied Cahusac. 'No? Well, I gather at least you are interested in her,' was the pointed rejoinder. 'And because she interests you, I should like to be kind lo her; but she docs not in the least lake to the American element.' 'But' you like her?' Lorrie bit her lip furtively, for his tone implied not doubt but certainty. 'You rather expect rne to say "Yes' with enthusiasm,' she replied; 'but that is beyond me. Though I can see there is much in her to like —that most men would like' —• 'You don't.like her, then,' said Cahusac with equal certainty, but- evidently indifference. i don't love her,' returned Lady Madesson, with an inflection on the verb that made Cahusac smile, it implied so much; 'but I would help her, and—and O ould help her, if only somebody would take the trouble to damp out the starch. As she stands, she has the markings in her of a first-class social martyr. And I have not patience whatever with martyrs.' Wilford Laneeley crossed the room as she spoke, and threw himself into a chair which he brought close to the couch till his knee touched Lady Madcsson's skirt. She drew away With a deliberate and cold annoyance. 'Do you imagine yourself in a crowd?'' she asked. 'Because, I assure you, there is plenty of room for you elsewhere —outside the door, for example.' 'Oh, come, Lorrie. that's a trifle heavy! We're all friends here. Cahusac knows.' Wilford laughed with his charming, boyish impudence. 'What do you know, Mr Cahusac?' Lady Madesson turned upon him. 'That if I were he I should offer you an apology,' Cahusac said with point. 'Thank you.' 'My dear girl, if that's all, I apologise.' Lei's be proper, by all means: but one never knows where to have you. You arc pleased one day with precisely the thing that vexes you on the next! Come, confess you are cross to-night! And what's Ihe use of it?, lie knows' —raising an elbow towards Cahusac—'and I know, and —you know.' 'What'." The deep, full note of the ouestion almost slopped him. 'You have a beautiful voice, Lorrie.' he said. 'I love it —and you I —and all the world knows! So that we are only 'enacting a pretty little comedy, we three, for whose benefit I can't for the life of me conceive; it is a bit of make-believe. Rut' —Ihe. real ardour of Ids infatuation for her breaking through—'Lorrie, I can't stand it! I can't stand even a pretence that puts you further from me. Even a makebelieve of this sort kills rne!' Her clear eyes were on him. i almost wish it would kill you at this moment!' she said with a slight lift of the eyelids which seemed to let out a flood of blue, scornful animosity upon him. 'Cowards like you live to ruin lives and reputations. I am not afraid to sneak and call things by their blunter names. It is a comedy uml make-believe on your pari. I perfecllv understand your motive, and I am not at, all afraid of you. You are as crudely familiar as a rude boy, only you have not the excuse of hoyPood, because you wish lo give Mr Cahusac Ihe impression that 1 permit you lo be on these terms at other limes.' Wilford smiled meaningly. He believed he had a strong card left. 'Now, why in the name of all that's reasonable should I wish to give Cahusac — Cahusac. In particular—such an impression?' lie asked. Lady Madesson did not flinch from the answer, as he had expected. She meant, to win Cahusac eventually, if she found she really wanted him, of which she was not yet quite sure: bul in Ihe meantime she would not submit to be browbeaten by Wilford's insinuations. 'Because you are jealous of him,' she replied quietly. 'And because you fancy Ihis insinuation of yours is precisely the thing lo disgust •i. man of Ids character. Now at last yon know, ami I know, and he knows -—as you said a few minutes ago.' Wilford's temper col Ihe better of lorn. 'Yes, Cahusac's knowledge of the ca.se is almost as good as our own. Won't ,tatter- vein-self lhal. lie knows no more than you have wished him to see! Ife knows thai I am regarded as ; our ace pled suitor. You have had iin end of dirt.;lions: lull in spile of all your rr.ipriciousiiess, l.orr.c, you're mine. London has too many eves and i .lis: clever as yon are, you have not 1 liiwfed her! Ask Cahusac himself,' pointing lo Malcolm. "Why, you can ;.<... how n Ii the ui-oi knows by the wry lace of him! Ask him Lorrie, and see what answer you will gel if you out him on his honour. Good-nighl. beloved: You want to gel rid of me for Hie moment, hot on rev tent lon ■ jours'— Willi that lie rose, bowed,

and walked out of tbe room. Lorrie paused for a second's sc-ra-tiny of De Sanson und Alice, but they appeared to have some engrossing subject of conversation. Then she turned back to Cahusac. She was looking extraordinarily beautiful in her anger: the, grand moulding of throat and chin lent power to her expression. There was nothing petty or narrow about this woman, with her strong nature; she might sin perhaps-, bul she would sin superbly, like those black-haired Roman matrons whose beauty she shared. 'We have come to know each other pretty well,' she began, 'since we mcl at Fettcrings. I don't In the least mind teliing you that you have interested me, as many a clever and original man has interested me before. I scarcely know yet whether you are worth any stronger reeling: but you are resolute, and you can be sincere. Besides, it happens that elm nee has put us on the same side. You don't know what I mean? Well, this. You' are fighting a. battle: perhaps you don't comprehend how remorseless your enemies are. To-night Wilford Laneeley has shown me that I am in much the same case myself. You must have heard, of course, that he wants me to marry him—the news has been common property for some while past; hut he has never until now tried to force me to do so. There is some new influence at work.' 'He is a young ass; but I've known him a long time, and I do not Ihink he could have behaved like this unless he had Heen —well, not quite responsible.' Cahusac felt the awkwardness of the position far more than the lady. 'He may be rather tipsy; he usually is nowadays,' said Lady Madesson; 'but that does not account for it. No: he is acting on the advice of someone, else. The man .who is behind him, who is prompting him, is not my enemy, but is merely working towards an aim of his own. Women see so much, especially women like myself who are alone, who arc at leisure lo observe, who have no belongings to plot for, no personal advantage of any kind to work toward or gain. The man I speak of is not my enemy, but he is yours.' 'I suppose I am hated much as other men are,' Cahusac said unconcernedly. With any other women the conversation would have seemed to be growing slighfly emotional and absurd, yet somehow it was not so with this one —'but I don't know that I have any special enemy,' he ended. 'Oh, why fence with me?' She frowned impatiently at him from under her level brows. 'I am in deadly earnest, and so is—De Sarsan.' A flash came into the young man's eyes, but his voice was half-amused siill. 'De Sarsan! What about him?' His smile stung her. She had meant lo approach his confidence gently; but she believed in his danger, and was perhaps also not averse from proving the value of her opinions and her warning. 'I have a notion that he mayknow almost .as much about the tragedy of this house as you do I' The colour was struck from Cahusac's face as if by a blow. His lips kept themselves" close in a spasm of recollection. He did not speak. 'Poor boy! You are very human after all,' she said pityingly; there was much of motherhood iu her. 'Listen. You have your reputation to save, and I have minc. A We can fight belter together than apart.' 'My reputation to save? I did not know' —• 'Then you are blind, and your friends too! Have you not seen the articles in the Gas-Lamp? It is a scandalous little paper, but every one reads it. It has lately had some articles "About Foreign Office Officials Past and Present." They are still dealing with the past, yet to-night there are strange hints which seem to me to concern you. See, I have brought the cutting for you.' He took it mechanically from her Lam!. This resurrection of the past—ghosts rising on all sides of him —staggered his senses; he half lost control cf his judgment. The question he longed to ask was, where had she acquired her unaccountble knowledge? And yet to ask would be to admit. 'You want to know where I learned all this, how I found it out? You believed it to be so carefully dead and buried,' she went on softly, as if meeting his thought. 'That is easily answered. I told you that you interested me. It was this very story' about your father that gave you interest in my eyes when I first met you. Since then I have tried to hear all I could about it from one source or another. But it was he, De Sarsan, who put me on the right track. Only a close friend —or an enemy—could know so much. I arranged the facts I gathered from various people, I inferred this and that from things 1 saw and heard, and joined it all to my knowledge of you. It was quite simple. And then I recognised the wisdom of the course you have pursued in quietly carrying out your original plan of life, and giving no cause for comment or gossip. People' hart forgotten your family tragedies; but someone is making it his business lo rake them up now, and it is time you were on your guard.' 'I am very grateful,' Cahusac said, 'for your kindness.' He added no more, though she waited for it. 'Very well,' she returned; 'think over it, and remember that if I can help you, it is more than probable that you can help me. Come in on Friday evening, if you care to talk further about it." De Sarson and Alice were moving, and she rose alsc. At thai, moment the handle' of the door turned, and Dctching stood in the opening, The Belgian and his companion paused to exchange a few words with the oilier couple. There was a brightness in De Sarsan's eyes: events which pointed toward success had excited him beyond his wont. He fell, strong enough to try a fall with fortune. '. 'You will remember Ihis house, monsieur?' lie said, addressing Cahusac. Cahusac smiled, a frozen smile of distant politeness. 'Naturally I recoliee.t it very we]] indeed. And you. M. De Sarson. do you happen to recollect it also?' De Sarson's face continued still amiably imperturbable; but Detching saw the fingers of tin 1 hand which he held behind Ins back twitch suddenly. 'I enjoyed Hie pleasure of Lady Cahusac's acquaintance for some years'. Her loss occasioned a gap in her own circle which has never been filled,' be replied with an audacious relish for .Hie, under-meaning of this speech. Then lie turned with Alice Laneeley on his arm. Detching, who was still iu Ihe doorway, drew aside wilh an De Sarson stared at him as he passed, and on Ihe stairs asked bis companion if she knew who he was. •I think he is a friend of Mr Cahusac's.' she answered. 'l've seen him somewhere before,' He Sarson said half lo himself. •Very likely. He ami Mr Cahusac are about together a good deal.' 'Ah! all! that explains it. of course.' Mid not satisfactorily lo the Belgian's mind. lie, who never forgot a face, could not. succeed in placing lids one in its specific niche of memory. (To be continued nexl Saturday.)