CHAPTER II

GEORGE LAWRENCE TAKES THE STORY TO LADY BRANDON AT BRANDON ABBAS

As his hireling car sped along the country road that led to the park
gates of Brandon Abbas, George Lawrence’s heart beat like that of a boy
going to his first love-tryst.

Had she married him, a quarter of a century ago, when she was plain (but
very beautiful) Patricia Rivers, he probably would still have loved her,
though he would not have been in love with her.

As it was he had never been anything but in love with her from the time
when he had taken her refusal like the man he was, and had sought an
outlet and an anodyne in work and Central Africa.

As the car entered the gates and swept up the long, winding avenue of
Norman oaks, he actually trembled, and his bronzed face was drawn and
changed in tint. He drew off a glove and put it on again, fingered his
tie, and tugged at his moustache.

The car swept round a shrubbery-enclosed square at the back of the
house, and stopped at a big porch and a hospitably open door. Standing
at this, Lawrence looked into a well-remembered panelled hall and ran
his eye over its gleaming floor and walls, almost nodding to the two
suits of armour that stood one on each side of a big, doorless doorway.
This led into another hall, from, and round, which ran a wide staircase
and galleries right up to the top of the house, for, from the floor of
that hall one could look up to a glass roof three stories above. He
pictured it and past scenes enacted in it, and a woman with slow and
stately grace, ascending and descending.

Nothing seemed to have changed in those two and a half decades since she
had come here, a bride, and he had visited her after seven years of
exile. He had come, half in the hope that the sight of her in her own
home, the wife of another man, would cure him of the foolish love that
kept him a lonely bachelor, half in the hope that it would do the
opposite, and be but a renewal of love.

He had been perversely glad to find that he loved the woman, if
possible, more than he had loved the girl; that a callow boy’s calf-love
for a maiden had changed to a young man’s devotion to a glorious woman;
that she was to be a second Dante’s Beatrice.

Again and again, at intervals of years, he had visited the shrine, not
so much renewing the ever-burning fire at her altar, as watching it
flame up brightly in her presence. Nor did the fact that she regarded
him so much as friend that he could never be more, nor less, in any way
affect this undeviating unprofitable sentiment.

At thirty, at thirty-five, at forty, at forty-five, he found that his
love, if not unchanged, was not diminished, and that she remained, what
she had been since their first meeting, the central fact of his
life—not so much an obsession, an _idée fixe_, as his reason for
existence, his sovereign, and the audience of the play in the theatre of
his life.

And, each time he saw her, she was, to his prejudiced eye, more
desirable, more beautiful, more wonderful. . . .

Yes—there was the fifteenth-century chest in which reposed croquet
mallets, tennis rackets, and the other paraphernalia of those games. She
had once sat on that old chest, beside him, while they waited for the
dog-cart to take him to the station and back to Africa, and her hand had
rested so kindly in his, as he had tried to find something to
say—something other than what he might not say. . . .

Opposite to it was the muniment-box, into which many an abbot and holy
friar had put many a lead-sealed parchment. It would be full of garden
rugs and cushions. On that, she had sat beside him, after his dance with
her, one New Year’s Eve. . . .

Same pictures of horse and hound, and bird and beast; same antlers and
foxes’ masks and brushes; same trophies he had sent from Nigeria,
specially good heads of lion, buffalo, gwambaza, and gazelle.

From these his eye travelled to the great fire-place, on each side of
which stood a mounted Lake Tchad elephant’s foot, doing menial service,
while above its stone mantel, a fine trophy of African weapons gleamed.
One of his greatest satisfactions had always been to acquire something
worthy to be sent to Brandon Abbas—to give her pleasure and to keep him
in mind.

And now, perhaps, was his real chance of giving her pleasure and keeping
himself, for a space, very much in her mind. He pulled the quaint old
handle of a chain, and a distant bell clanged.

A footman approached, a stranger.

He would enquire as to whether her ladyship were at home. But as he
turned to go, the butler appeared in the doorway from the inner hall.

“Hallo, Burdon! How are you?” said Lawrence.

“Why, Mr. George, sir!” replied the old man, who had known Lawrence for
thirty years, coming forward and looking unwontedly human.

“This is a real pleasure, sir.”

It was—a real five-pound note too, when the visitor, a perfect gent,
departed. Quite a source of income Mr. Lawrence had been, ever since
Henry Burdon had been under-footman in the service of her ladyship’s
father.

“Her Ladyship is at the Bower, sir, if you’d like to come straight out,”
he continued, knowing that the visitor was a very old friend indeed, and
always welcome. “I will announce you.”

Burdon led the way.

“How is Lady Brandon?” enquired Lawrence, impelled to unwonted loquacity
by his nervousness.

“She enjoys very good health, sir—considering,” replied the butler.

“Considering what?” asked Lawrence.

“Everythink, sir,” was the non-committal reply.

The visitor smiled to himself. A good servant, this.

“And how is his Reverence?” he continued.

“Queer, sir, very. And gets queerer, poor gentleman,” was the answer.

Lawrence expressed regret at this bad news concerning the chaplain, as
the Reverend Maurice Ffolliot was always called in that house.

“Is Mr. Michael here?” he asked.

“No, sir, he ain’t. Nor none of the other young gentlemen,” was the
reply. Was there anything unusual in the old man’s tone? . . .

Emerging from the shrubbery, crossing a rose-garden, some lawn-tennis
courts, and a daisy-pied stretch of cedar-studded sward, the pair
entered a wood, followed a path beneath enormous elms and beeches, and
came out on to a square of velvet turf.

On two sides, the left and rear, rose the great old trees of a thickly
forested hill; on the right, the grey old house; and from the front of
this open space the hillside fell away to the famous view.

By wicker table and hammock-stand, a lady reclined in a _chaise longue_.
She was reading a book and her back was towards Lawrence, whose heart
missed a beat and hastened to make up for the omission by a redoubled
speed.

The butler coughed at the right distance and upon the right note, and,
as Lady Brandon turned, announced the visitor, hovered, placed a wicker
chair, and faded from the scene.

“_George!_” said Lady Brandon, in her soft deep contralto, with a
pleased brightening of her wide grey eyes and flash of beautiful teeth.
But she did not flush nor pale, and there was no quickening of her
breathing. It was upon the man that these symptoms were produced by the
meeting, although it was a meeting anticipated by him, unexpected by
her.

“_Patricia!_” he said, and extended both hands. She took them frankly
and Lawrence kissed them both, with a curiously gentle and reverent
manner, an exhibition of a George Lawrence unknown to other people.

“Well, my dear!” he said, and looked long at the unlined, if mature,
determined, clever face before him—that of a woman of forty years, of
strong character and of aristocratic breeding.

“Yes,” he continued.

“Yes ‘what,’ George?” asked Lady Brandon.

“Yes. You are positively as young and as beautiful as ever,” he
replied—but with no air of gallantry and compliment, and rather as a
sober statement of ascertained fact.

“And you as foolish, George. . . . Sit down—and tell me why you have
disobeyed me and come here before your wedding. . . . Or—or—are you
married, George?” was the smiling reply.

“No, Patricia, I am not married,” said Lawrence, relinquishing her hands
slowly. “And I have disobeyed you, and come here again without bringing
a wife, because I hoped you might be in need of my help. . . . I mean, I
feared you might be in trouble and in need of help, and hoped that I
might be able to give it.”

Lady Brandon fixed a penetrating gaze on Lawrence’s face—neither
startled nor alarmed, he felt, but keen and, possibly, to be described
as wary, or at least watchful.

“Trouble? In need of help, George? How?” she asked, and whatever of
wariness or watchfulness had peeped from her eyes retired, and her face
became a beautiful mask, showing no more than reposeful and
faintly-amused interest.

“Well—it is a longish story,” said Lawrence. “But I need not inflict it
on you if you’ll tell me if Beau Geste is all right and—er—the ‘Blue
Water’—er—safe and sound and—er—all that, you know.”

“_What?_” ejaculated his hearer sharply.

There was no possible doubt now, as to the significance of the look on
Lady Brandon’s face. It certainly could be called one of alarm, and her
direct gaze was distinctly watchful and wary. Had not she also paled
very slightly? Undoubtedly she frowned faintly as she asked:

“What _are_ you talking about, George?”

“Beau Geste, and the ‘Blue Water,’ Patricia,” replied Lawrence. “If I
appear to be talking through my hat, I am not really, and will produce
reason for my wild-but-not-wicked words,” he laughed. “There is method
in my madness, dear.”

“There’s madness in your method,” replied Lady Brandon a trifle tartly,
and added: “Have you seen Michael, then? Or what? Tell me!”

“No. I have not seen him—but . . .”

“Then _what_ are you talking about? What do you know?” she interrupted,
speaking hurriedly, a very sure sign that she was greatly perturbed.

“I don’t _know_ anything, Patricia, and I’m asking _you_, because I
have, most extraordinarily, come into possession of a document that
purports to be a confession by Beau that he stole the ‘Blue Water,’ ”
began Lawrence.

“Then it _was_ . . .” whispered Lady Brandon.

“Was what, Patricia?” asked Lawrence.

“Go on, dear,” she replied hastily. “How and where did you get this
confession? Tell me quickly.”

“As I said, it’s a long story,” replied Lawrence. “It was found by de
Beaujolais at a place called Zinderneuf in the French Soudan, in the
hand of a dead man . . .”

“Not _Michael_!” interrupted Lady Brandon.

“No—a Frenchman. An _adjudant_ in charge of a fort that had been
attacked by Arabs . . .”

“_Our_ Henri de Beaujolais?” interrupted Lady Brandon, again. “Who was
at school with you? . . . Rose Cary’s son?”

“Yes. He found it in this dead officer’s hand . . .” replied Lawrence.

“Er—_has_ the sapphire been stolen, Patricia, and—er—excuse the silly
question—_is_ this Beau’s writing?” and he thrust his hand into the
inner pocket of his jacket.

“But of course it isn’t,” he continued as he produced an envelope and
extracted a stained and dirty piece of paper.

Lady Brandon took the latter and looked at it, her face hard,
enigmatical, a puzzled frown marring the smoothness of her forehead, her
firm shapely mouth more tightly compressed than usual.

She read the document and then looked out into the distance, down the
coombe, and across the green and smiling plain, as though communing with
herself and deciding how to answer.

“Tell me the whole story from beginning to end, George,” she said at
length, “if it takes you the week-end. But tell me this quickly. _Do_
you know anything more than you have told me, about either Michael or
the ‘Blue Water’?”

“I know nothing whatever, my dear,” was the reply, and the speaker
thought he saw a look of relief, or a lessening of the look of alarm on
his hearer’s face, “but what I have told you. You know as much as I do
now—except the details, of course.”

George Lawrence noted that Lady Brandon had neither admitted nor denied
that the sapphire had been stolen, had neither admitted nor denied that
the handwriting was that of her nephew.

Obviously and undoubtedly there was something wrong, something queer,
and in connection with Beau Geste too.

For one thing, he was missing and she did not know where he was.

But since all questions as to him, his handwriting, and the safety of
the jewel had remained unanswered, he could only refrain from repeating
them, and do nothing more but tell his story, and, at the end of it,
say: “If the ‘Blue Water’ is not in this house, Patricia, I am going
straight to Zinderneuf to find it for you.”

She would then, naturally, give him all the information she could, and
every assistance in her power—if the sapphire had been stolen.

If it had not, she would, of course, say so.

But he wished she would be a little less guarded, a little more
communicative. It would be so very easy to say: “My dear George, the
‘Blue Water’ is in the safe in the Priests’ Hole as usual, and Michael
is in excellent health and spirits,” or, on the other hand, to admit at
once: “The ‘Blue Water’ has vanished and so has Michael.”

However, what Patricia Brandon did was right. For whatever course of
action she pursued, she had some excellent reason, and he had no earthly
cause to feel a little hurt at her reticence in the matter.

For example, if the impossible had come to pass, and Beau Geste had
stolen the sapphire and bolted, would it not be perfectly natural for
her to feel most reluctant to have it known that her nephew was a
thief—a despicable creature that robbed his benefactress?

Of course. She would even shield him, very probably—to such an extent
as was compatible with the recovery of the jewel.

Or if she were so angry, contemptuous, disgusted, as to feel no
inclination to shield him, she would at any rate regard the affair as a
disgraceful family scandal, about which the less said the better. Quite
so.

But to _him_, who had unswervingly loved her from his boyhood, and whom
she frequently called her best friend, the man to whom she would always
turn for help, since the pleasure of helping her was the greatest
pleasure he could have? Why be reticent, guarded, and uncommunicative to
him?

But—her pleasure was her pleasure, and his was to serve it in any way
she deigned to indicate. . . .

“Well, we’ll have the details, dear, and tea as well,” said Lady Brandon
more lightly and easily than she had spoken since he had mentioned the
sapphire.

“We’ll have it in my boudoir, and I’ll be at home to nobody whomsoever.
You shall just talk until it is time to dress for dinner, and tell me
every least detail as you go along. Everything you think, too;
everything that Henri de Beaujolais thought;—and everything you think
he thought, as well.”

As they strolled back to the house, Lady Brandon slipped her hand
through Lawrence’s arm, and it was quickly imprisoned.

He glowed with the delightful feeling that this brave and strong woman
(whose devoted love for another man was, now, at any rate, almost
maternal in its protecting care), was glad to turn to him as others
turned to her.

How he yearned to hear her say, when his tale was told:

“Help me, George. I have no one but you, and you are a tower of
strength. I am in great trouble.”

“You aren’t looking too well, George, my dear,” she said, as they
entered the wood.

“Lot of fever lately,” he replied, and added: “I feel as fit as six
people _now_,” and pressed the hand that he had seized.

“Give it up and come home, George,” said Lady Brandon, and he turned
quickly toward her, his eyes opening widely. “And let me find you a
wife,” she continued.

Lawrence sighed and ignored the suggestion.

“How is Ffolliot?” he asked instead.

“Perfectly well, thank you. Why shouldn’t he be?” was the reply—in the
tone of which a careful listener, such as George Lawrence, might have
detected a note of defensiveness, almost of annoyance, of repudiation of
an unwarrantable implication.

If Lawrence did detect it, he ignored this also.

“Where is the good Sir Hector Brandon?” he asked, with casual
politeness.

“Oh, in Thibet, or Paris, or East Africa, or Monte Carlo, or the South
Sea Islands, or Homburg. Actually Kashmir, I believe, thank you,
George,” replied Lady Brandon, and added: “Have you brought a suit-case
or must you wire?”

“I—er—am staying at the Brandon Arms, and have one there,” admitted
Lawrence.

“And how long have you been at the Brandon Arms, George?” she enquired.

“Five minutes,” he answered.

“You must be tired of it then, dear,” commented Lady Brandon, and added:
“I’ll send Robert down for your things.”

§2.

That evening, George Lawrence told Lady Brandon all that Major de
Beaujolais had told him, adding his own ideas, suggestions, and
theories. But whereas the soldier had been concerned with the
inexplicable events of the day, Lawrence was concerned with the
inexplicable paper and the means by which it had reached the hand of a
dead man, on the roof of a desert outpost in the Sahara.

Throughout his telling of the tale, Lady Brandon maintained an unbroken
silence, but her eyes scarcely left his face.

At the end she asked a few questions, but offered no opinion, propounded
no theory.

“We’ll talk about it after dinner, George,” she said.

And after a poignantly delightful dinner _à deux_—it being explained
that the Reverend Maurice Ffolliot was dining in his room to-night,
owing to a headache—George Lawrence found that the talking was again to
be done by him. All that Lady Brandon contributed to the conversation
was questions. Again she offered no opinion, propounded no theory.

Nor, as Lawrence reluctantly admitted to himself, when he lay awake in
bed that night, did she once admit, nor even imply, that the “Blue
Water” had been stolen. His scrupulous care to avoid questioning her on
the subject of the whereabouts of the sapphire and of her nephew,
Michael Geste, made this easy for her, and she had availed herself of it
to the full. The slightly painful realisation, that she now knew all
that he did whereas he knew nothing from her, could not be denied.

Again and again it entered his mind and roused the question, “_Why_
cannot she confide in me, and at least say whether the sapphire has been
stolen or not?”

Again and again he silenced it with the loyal reply, “For some excellent
reason. . . . Whatever she does is right.”

After breakfast next day, Lady Brandon took him for a long drive. That
the subject which now obsessed him (as it had, in a different way and
for a different reason, obsessed de Beaujolais) was also occupying her
mind, was demonstrated by the fact that, from time to time, and à propos
of nothing in particular, she would suddenly ask him some fresh question
bearing on the secret of the tragedy of Zinderneuf.

How he restrained himself from saying, “Where is Michael? _Has_ anything
happened? _Is_ the ‘Blue Water’ stolen?” he did not know. A hundred
times, one or the other of these questions had leapt from his brain to
the tip of his tongue, since the moment when, at their first interview,
he had seen that she wished to make no communication or statement
whatever.

As the carriage turned in at the park gates on their return, he laid his
hand on hers and said:

“My dear—I think everything has now been said, except one thing—your
instructions to me. All I want now is to be told exactly what you want
me to do.”

“I will tell you that, George, when you go. . . . And _thank_ you, my
dear,” replied Lady Brandon.

So he possessed his soul in patience until the hour struck.

§3.

“Come and rest on this chest a moment, Patricia,” he said, on taking his
departure next day, when she had telephoned to the garage, “to give me
my orders. You are going to make me happier than I have been since you
told me that you liked me too much to love me.”

Lady Brandon seated herself beside Lawrence and all but loved him for
his chivalrous devotion, his unselfishness, his gentle strength, and
utter trustworthiness.

“We have sat here before, George,” she said, smiling, and, as he took
her hand:

“Listen, my dear. This is what I want you to do for me. Just _nothing at
all_. The ‘Blue Water’ is not at Zinderneuf, nor anywhere else in
Africa. Where Michael is I do not know. What that paper means, I cannot
tell. And thank you so much for wanting to help me, and for asking no
questions. And now, good-bye, my dear, dear friend. . . .”

“Good-bye, my dearest dear,” said George Lawrence, most sorely puzzled,
and went out to the door a sadder but not a wiser man.

§4.

As the car drove away, Lady Brandon stood in deep thought, pinching her
lip.

“To think of that now!” she said. . . . “ ‘Be sure your sins.’ . . . The
world _is_ a very small place . . .” and went in search of the Reverend
Maurice Ffolliot.

§5.

In regard to this same gentleman, George Lawrence entertained feelings
which were undeniably mixed.

As a just and honest man, he recognised that the Reverend Maurice
Ffolliot was a gentle-souled, sweet-natured, lovable creature, a
finished scholar, a polished and cultured gentleman who had never
intentionally harmed a living creature.

As the jealous, lifelong admirer and devotee of Lady Brandon, the
rejected but undiminished lover, he knew that he hated not so much
Ffolliot himself, as the fact of his existence.

Irrationally, George Lawrence felt that Lady Brandon would long outlive
that notorious evil-liver, her husband. But for Ffolliot, he believed,
his unswerving faithful devotion would then get its reward. Not wholly
selfishly, he considered that a truer helpmeet, a sturdier prop, a
stouter shield and buckler for this lady of many responsibilities, would
be the world-worn and experienced George Lawrence, rather than this poor
frail recluse of a chaplain.

Concerning the man’s history, all he knew was, that he had been the
curate, well-born but penniless, to whom Lady Brandon’s father had
presented the living which was in his gift. With the beautiful Patricia
Rivers, Ffolliot had fallen disastrously and hopelessly in love.

Toward the young man, Patricia Rivers had entertained a sentiment of
affection, compounded more of pity than of love.

Under parental pressure, assisted by training and comparative poverty,
ambition had triumphed over affection, and the girl, after some
refusals, had married wealthy Sir Hector Brandon.

Later, and too late, she had realised the abysmal gulf that must lie
between life with a selfish, heartless, gross roué, and that with such a
man as the companion of her youth, with whom she had worked and played
and whose cleverness, learning, sweet nature, and noble unselfishness
she now realised.

Lawrence was aware that Lady Brandon fully believed that the almost
fatal nervous breakdown which utterly changed Ffolliot in body and mind,
was the direct result of her worldly and loveless marriage with a mean
and vicious man. In this belief she had swooped down upon the poor
lodgings where Ffolliot lay at death’s door, wrecked in body and
unhinged of mind, and brought him back with her to Brandon Abbas as soon
as he could be moved. From there he had never gone—not for a single
day, nor a single hour.

When he recovered, he was installed as chaplain, and as “the Chaplain”
he had been known ever since.

Almost reluctantly, George Lawrence admitted that most of what was good,
simple, kind, and happy in that house emanated from this gentle
presence. . . .

Pacing the little platform of the wayside station, it occurred to George
Lawrence to wonder if he might have more to tell the puzzled de
Beaujolais had his visit to Brandon Abbas included the privilege, if not
the pleasure, of a conversation with the Reverend Maurice Ffolliot.