Part 60 (1/2)

”I've no doubt you have,” said Westerling. ”You are my choice!”

x.x.xIX

A CHANGE OF PLAN

That day and the next Westerling had no time fix strolling in the garden. His only exercise was a few periods of pacing on the veranda.

Turcas, as tirelessly industrious as ever, developed an increasingly quiet insistence to leave the responsibility of decisions about everything of importance to a chief who was becoming increasingly arbitrary. The attack on Engadir being the jewel of Westerling's own planning, he was disinclined to risk success by delegating authority, which also meant sharing the glory of victory.

Bouchard's note, though officially dismissed as a matter of pathology, would not accept dismissal privately. In flashes of distinctness it recurred to him between reports of the progress of preparations and directions as to dispositions. At dusk of the second day, when all the guns and troops had their places for the final movement under cover of darkness and he rose from his desk, the thing that had edged its way into a crowded mind took possession of the premises that strategy and tactics had vacated. It pa.s.sed under the same a.n.a.lysis as his work. His overweening pride, so sensitive to the suspicion of a conviction that he had been fooled, put his relations with Marta in logical review.

He had fallen in love in the midst of war. This fact was something that his egoism must resent. Any woman who had struck such a response in him as she had must have great depths. Had she depths that he had not fathomed? He recalled her sudden change of att.i.tude toward war, her conversion to the cause of the Grays, and her charm in this as in all their relations.

Was it conceivable that the change was not due to a personal feeling for him? Was her charm a charm with a purpose? Had he, the chief of staff, been beguiled into making a woman his confidant in military secrets?

Just what had he told her? He could not recollect anything definite and recollection was the more difficult because he could not call to mind a single pertinent military question that she had ever asked him. Such information as he might have imparted had been incidental to their talks.

He had enveloped her in glamour; his most preciously trained mental qualities lapsed in her presence. It was time that she was regarded impersonally, as a woman, by the critical eye of the chief of staff. A cool and intense impatience possessed him to study her in the light Of his new scepticism, when, turning the path of the first terrace, he saw her watching the sunset over the crest of the range.

She was standing quite still, a slim, soft shadow between him and the light, which gilded her figure and quarter profile. Did she expect him?

he wondered. Was she posing at that instant for his benefit? And the answer, could he have searched her secret brain, was, Yes--yes, if the conscious and the subconscious mind are to be considered as one responsible intelligence. He usually came at that hour. But he had not come last night. They had not met since Bouchard's ghost hunt.

There was no firing near by; only desultory artillery practice in the distance. She heard the familiar crunch of five against three on the gravel. She knew that he had stopped at the turn of the path, and she was certain that he was looking at her! But she did not make the slightest movement. The golden light continued to caress her profile.

Then, crunch, crunch, rather slowly, the five against three drew nearer.

The delay had been welcome; it had been to her a moment's respite to get her breath before entering the lists. When she turned, her face in the shadow, the glow of the sunset seemed to remain in her eyes, otherwise without expression, yet able to detect something unusual under externals as they exchanged commonplaces of greeting.

”Well, there's a change in our official family. We have lost Bouchard--transferred to another post!” said Westerling.

Marta noted that, though he gave the news a casual turn, his scrutiny sharpened.

”Is that so? I can't say that my mother and I shall be sorry,” she remarked. ”He was always glaring at us as if he wished us out of his sight. Indeed, if he had his way, I think he would have made us prisoners of war. Wasn't he a woman-hater?” she concluded, half in irritation, half in amus.e.m.e.nt.

”He had that reputation,” said Westerling. ”What do you think led to his departure?” he continued.

”I confess I cannot guess!” said Marta, with a look at the sunset glow as if she resented the loss of a minute of it.

”There has been a leak of information to the Browns!” he announced.

”There has! And he was intelligence officer, wasn't he?” she asked, turning to Westerling, her curiosity apparently roused as a matter of courtesy to his own interest in the subject.

”Who do you think he accused? Why, _you_,” he added, with a peculiar laugh.

She noted the peculiarity of the laugh discriminatingly.

”Oh!” Her eyes opened wide in wonder--only wonder, at first. Then, as comprehension took the place of wonder, they grew sympathetic. ”That explains!” she exclaimed. ”His hateful glances were those of delusion.

He was going mad, you mean?”

”Yes,” said Westerling, ”that--that would explain it!”