A SUBSTANTIAL GHOST
MONSIEUR Jules, of the Lion d'Or, was in a state of excitement bordering upon frenzy. Events were happening indeed with him, this placid August weather. First the occupancy of the château by the mysterious lady, and the subsequent edict of the steward against all strangers; then the coming of this tourist yesterday, who had gone for an evening stroll without paying his bill, and was now a prisoner of the law, Heaven only knew on what charge! Added to this—a matter of excitement enough surely—the giant Englishman, who had been his guest for nearly three weeks—a model guest too,—had departed at a minute's notice, though not, the saints be praised, without paying his bill. And now, though the hour was yet scarcely nine o'clock, a carriage with steaming horses was standing at his door, and the beautiful young English lady was herself inside his inn. He was indeed conducting her down the grey stone passage out on to the rose-bordered garden, which was the pride of his heart, and where monsieur, the remaining Englishman, was smoking his morning cigarette.
She barely waited until Monsieur Jules had bowed himself out of hearing distance. She looked at Wrayson, at the table laid for one only, and at the empty garden.
"Where is he—your friend?" she demanded breathlessly.
"Gone," Wrayson answered. "I am sorry, but I did my best. He went away at daylight. I saw him off, but I could not keep him."
"Where to?" she asked. "You know that, at least."
He pointed towards the distant coast line.
"In that direction! That is all I know."
"He told you nothing before he went?" she asked eagerly.
"Nothing at all," he answered. "He refused to discuss what had happened. Sit down, Louise," he added firmly. "I want to talk to you."
He placed a chair for her under the trees. She sank into it a little wearily.
"A certain measure of ignorance," he said, "I am willing to put up with, but when you exhibit such extraordinary interest in another man, I really feel that my limit has been reached. Who is he, Louise? You must tell me, please!"
"I wish I could tell you," she answered. "I wish I could say that I knew. Half the night the three of us have talked and wondered. I have heard plenty of theories as to a second life on some imaginary planet, but I never heard of the dead who lived again here, in this world!"
He looked puzzled.
"Do you mean," he asked, "that he was like some one whom you believed to be dead?"
She was silent for a moment. The sun was hot even where they sat, but he fancied that he saw her shiver. She looked into his face, and something of the terror of the night before was in her eyes.
"To us," she said slowly, "to Madame de Melbain and to me, he was a ghost, an actual apparition. He spoke to us with the voice of one whom we know to be dead. He came to us, in his form."
Wrayson looked across at her with a quiet smile.
"There was nothing of the ghost about Duncan!" he remarked. "I should consider him a remarkably substantial person. Don't you think that we were all a little overwrought last night? A strong likeness and a little imagination will often work wonders."
"If it was a likeness only," she said, "why did he leave us so abruptly, why has he left this place at a moment's notice to avoid us?"
Wrayson was silent for a few seconds.
"Look here," he said, "this is a matter of common sense after all. If you were not deceived by a likeness, it was the man himself! That goes without saying. What reasons had you for supposing that he was dead?"
"The newspapers, the War Office, even the return of his effects."
"From where?" Wrayson asked.
"From South Africa. He was shot through the lungs in Natal!"
"Men have turned up before, after having been reported dead," he remarked sententiously.
"But he was in the army," she replied. "Don't you see that if he was alive now, he would be a deserter. He has never rejoined. He was certified as having died in the hospital at Ladysmith!"
Wrayson looked steadily into her agitated face.
"Supposing," he said, "that he turned out to be the man whom you have in your mind, what is he to you?"
"My brother," she answered simply.
Wrayson's first impulse was of surprise. Then he drew a long breath of relief. He looked back upon his long hours of anxiety, and cursed himself for a fool.
"What an idiot I have been!" he declared. "Of course, I know that you lost a brother in South Africa. But—but what about Madame de Melbain?"
"Madame de Melbain and my brother were friends," she said quietly. "There were obstacles or they would have been more than friends."
Wrayson nodded.
"Now supposing," he said, "that, by some miracle, your brother still lived, that this was he, is there any reason why he should avoid you both?"
She thought for a moment.
"Yes!" she said slowly, "there is."
"I suppose," he continued tentatively, "you couldn't tell me all about it?"
"I couldn't," she answered. "It isn't my secret."
Wrayson looked for a moment away from her, across the valley with its flower-spangled meadows, parted by that sinuous poplar-fringed line of silver, the lazy, slow-flowing river stealing through the quiet land to the sea. The full summer heat was scarcely yet in the air, but already a faint blue haze was rising from the lowlands. Up on the plateau, where they were sitting, a slight breeze stirred amongst the trees; Monsieur Jules had indeed some ground for his pride in this tiny sylvan paradise.
"I think," he said, "that for one day we will forget all this tangle of secrets and unaccountable doings. What do you say, Louise?" he whispered, taking her unresisting hand into his. "May I tell Monsieur Jules to serve breakfast for two in the arbour there?"
She laughed softly into his face. There was the look in her eyes which he loved to see, half wistful, half content, almost happy.
"But you are never satisfied," she declared. "If I give you a day, a whole precious day out of my valuable life——"
"They belong to me, all of them," he declared, bending over her till his lips touched her cheek. "Some day I am very sure that I shall take them all into my charge."
She disengaged herself from his embrace with a sudden start. Wrayson turned his head. Within a yard or two of them, Madame de Melbain had paused in the centre of the little plot of grass. She was looking at them from underneath her lace parasol, with faintly uplifted eyebrows, and the dawn of a smile upon her beautiful lips. Louise sprang to her feet, and Wrayson followed her example. Madame de Melbain lowered her parasol as though to shut out the sight of the two.
"May I come on?" she asked. "I want to speak to Louise, although I am afraid I am shockingly de trop."
Wrayson had an idea, and acted upon it promptly.
"Madame de Melbain," he said, "I believe that you have some influence with Louise, I am sure that you are one of those who sympathize with the unfortunate. Can't I bespeak your good offices?"
She lowered her parasol to the ground, and leaned a little forward upon it. Her eyes were fixed steadily upon Wrayson.
"Go on," she said briefly.
"I love Louise," Wrayson said, "and I believe she cares for me. Nevertheless, she refuses to marry me, and will give no intelligible reason. My first meeting with her was of an extraordinary nature. I assisted her to leave a house in which a murder had been committed, since which time I think we have both run a risk of trouble with the authorities. Louise lives always in the shadow of some mystery, and when I, who surely have the right to know her secrets, beg for her confidence, she refuses it."
"And what is it that you wish me to do?" Madame de Melbain asked softly.
"To use your influence with Louise," Wrayson pleaded. "Let her give me her confidence, and let her accept from me the shelter of my name."
Madame de Melbain was silent for several moments. She seemed to be thinking. Louise's face was expressionless. She had made one attempt to check Wrayson, but recognizing its futility she had at once abandoned it. From below in the valley came the faint whir of the reaping machines, from the rose garden a murmur of bees. But between the two women and the man there was silence—silence which lasted so long that Monsieur Jules, who was watching from a window, called softly upon all the saints of his acquaintance to explain to him of what nature was this mystery, which seemed to be developing, as it were, under his own surveillance.
At last Madame de Melbain appeared to come to a decision. She moved slowly forward, until she stood within a few feet of him. Then she raised her eyes to his and looked him long and earnestly in the face.
"You look," she said, half under her breath, "like a man who might be trusted. I will trust you. I will be kinder to you than Louise, for I will tell you all that you want to know. But when I have told you, you will have in your keeping the honour of an unfortunate woman whose name alone is great."
Wrayson looked her for a moment in the eyes. Then he bowed low.
"Madame," he said, "that trust will be to me my most sacred possession."
She smiled at him faintly, nodding her head as though to keep pace with her thoughts.
"I believe you, Mr. Wrayson," she said. "Yes, I believe you! Let me tell you this, then. I count it amongst my misfortunes that my own troubles have become in so large a manner the troubles of my friends. You will appreciate that the more, perhaps, when I tell you that Madame de Melbain is not the name by which I am generally known. I am that unfortunate woman the Queen of Mexonia!"