The whole business had to be thought out carefully. His intent was deadly, and he planned this duel with as much wicked deliberation as if he had been planning a murder. He had lived among men who held all human life, except their own, lightly, and to whom duelling and assassination were among the possibilities of every-day existence. He thought how if he and the three other men could reach that lonely bend of the coast unobserved, they might leave the man who should fall lying on the sand, with never an indication to point how he fell.
De Cazalet felt that in Vandeleur there was a man to be trusted. He would not betray, even though his friend were left there, dead upon the low level sand-waste, for the tide to roll over him and hide him, and wrap the secret of his doom in eternal silence. There was something of the freebooter in Jack Vandeleur — an honour-among-thieves kind of spirit — which the soul of that other freebooter recognized and understood.
“We don’t want little Montagu,” thought de Cazalet. “One man will be second enough to see fair-play. The fuss and formality of the thing can be dispensed with. That little beggar’s ideas are too insular — he might round upon me.”
So meditating upon the details of to-morrow, the Baron went down the hill to the farm, where he found the Mount Royal party just setting out on their homeward journey under the shades of evening, stars shining faintly in the blue infinite above them. Leonard was not among his wife’s guests — nor had he been seen by any of them since they met him at the field-gate, an hour ago.
“He has made tracks for home, no doubt,” said Jack Vandeleur.
They went across the fields, and by the common beyond Trevalga — walking briskly, talking merrily, in the cool evening air; all except Mopsy, from whose high-heeled boots there was no surcease of pain. Alas! those Wurtemburg heels, and the boots just half a size too small for the wearer, for how many a bitter hour of woman’s life have they to answer!
De Cazalet tried in vain during that homeward walk to get confidential speech with Christabel — he was eager to urge his new plan — the departure from Bodmin Road Station — but she was always surrounded. He fancied even that she made it her business to avoid him.
“Coquette,” he muttered to himself savagely. “They are all alike. I thought she was a little better than the rest; but they are all ground in the same mill.”
He could scarcely get a glimpse of her face in the twilight. She was always a little way ahead, or a little way behind him — now with Jessie Bridgeman, now with Emily St. Aubyn — skimming over the rough heathy ground, flitting from group to group. When they entered the house she disappeared almost instantly, leaving her guests lingering in the hall, too tired to repair at once to their own rooms, content to loiter in the glow and warmth of the wood fires. It was seven o’clock. They had been out nearly nine hours.
“What a dreadfully long day it has been!” exclaimed Emily St. Aubyn, with a stifled yawn.
“Isn’t that the usual remark after a pleasure party?” demanded Mr. FitzJesse. “I have found the unfailing result of any elaborate arrangement for human felicity to be an abnormal lengthening of the hours; just as every strenuous endeavour to accomplish some good work for one’s fellow-men infallibly provokes the enmity of the class to be benefited.”
“Oh, it has all been awfully enjoyable, don’t you know,” said Miss St. Aubyn; “and it was very sweet of Mrs. Tregonell to give us such a delightful day; but I can’t help feeling as if we had been out a week. And now we have to dress for dinner, which is rather a trial.”
“Why not sit down as you are? Let us have a tailor-gown and shooting-jacket dinner, as a variety upon a calico ball,” suggested little Monty.
“Impossible! We should feel dirty and horrid,” said Miss St. Aubyn. “The freshness and purity of the dinner-table would make us ashamed of our grubbiness. Besides, however could we face the servants? No, the effort must be made. Come, mother, you really look as if you wanted to be carried upstairs.”
“By voluntary contributions,” murmured FitzJesse, aside to Miss Bridgeman. “Briareus himself could not do it single-handed, as one of our vivacious Home Rulers might say.”
The Baron de Cazalet did not appear in the drawing-room an hour later when the house-party assembled for dinner. He sent his hostess a little note apologizing for his absence, on the ground of important business letters, which must be answered that night; though why a man should sit down at eight o’clock in the evening to write letters for a post which would not leave Boscastle till the following afternoon, was rather difficult for any one to understand.
“All humbug about those letters, you may depend,” said little Monty, who looked as fresh as a daisy in his smooth expanse of shirt-front, with a single diamond stud in the middle of it, like a lighthouse in a calm sea. “The Baron was fairly done — athlete as he pretends to be — hadn’t a leg to stand upon — came in limping. I wouldn’t mind giving long odds that he won’t show till to-morrow afternoon. It’s a case of gruel and bandages for the next twenty-four hours.”
Leonard came into the drawing-room just in time to give his arm to Mrs. St. Aubyn. He made himself more agreeable than usual at dinner, as it seemed to that worthy matron — talked more — laughed louder — and certainly drank more than his wont. The dinner was remarkably lively, in spite of the Baron’s absence; indeed, the conversation took a new and livelier turn upon that account, for everybody had something more or less amusing to say about the absent one, stimulated and egged on with quiet malice by Mr. FitzJesse. Anecdotes were told of his self-assurance, his vanity, his pretentiousness. His pedigree was discussed, and settled for — his antecedents — his married life, were all submitted to the process of conversational vivisection.
“Rather rough on Mrs. Tregonell, isn’t it?” murmured little Monty to the fair Dopsy.
“Do you think she really cares?” Dopsy asked, incredulously.
“Don’t you?”
“Not a straw. She could not care for such a man as that, after being engaged to Mr. Hamleigh.”
“Hamleigh was better form, I admit — and I used to think Mrs. T. as straight as an arrow. But I confess I’ve been staggered lately.”
“Did you see what a calm queenly look she had all the time people were laughing at de Cazalet?” asked Dopsy. “A woman who cared one little bit for a man could not have taken it so quietly.”
“You think she must have flamed out — said something in defence of her admirer. You forget your Tennyson, and how Guinevere ‘marred her friend’s point with pale tranquillity.’ Women are so deuced deep.”
“Dear Tennyson,” murmured Dopsy, whose knowledge of the Laureate’s works had not gone very far beyond “The May Queen,” and “The Charge of the Six Hundred.”
It was growing late in the evening when de Cazalet showed himself. The drawing-room party had been in very fair spirits without him, but it was a smaller and a quieter party than usual; for Leonard had taken Captain Vandeleur off to his own den after dinner, and Mr. Montagu had offered to play a fifty game, left-handed, against the combined strength of Dopsy and Mopsy. Christabel had been at the piano almost all the evening, playing with a breadth and grandeur which seemed to rise above her usual style. The ladies made a circle in front of the fire, with Mr. Faddie and Mr. FitzJesse, talking and laughing in a subdued tone, while those grand harmonies of Beethoven’s rose and fell upon their half indifferent, half admiring ears.
Christabel played the closing chords of the Funeral March of a Hero as de Cazalet entered the room. He went straight to the piano, and seated himself in the empty chair by her side. She glided into the melancholy arpeggios of the Moonlight Sonata, without looking up from the keys. They were a long way from the group at the fire — all the length of the room lay in deep shadow between the lamps on the mantelpiece and neighbouring tables, and the candles upon the piano. Pianissimo music seemed to invite conversation.
“You have written your letters?” she asked lightly.
“My letters were a fiction — I did not wan
t to sit face to face with your husband at dinner, after our conversation this afternoon at the waterfall; you can understand that, can’t you Christabel. Don’t — don’t do that.”
“What?” she asked, still looking down at the keys.
“Don’t shudder when I call you by your Christian name — as you did just now. Christabel, I want your answer to my question of to-day. I told you then that the crisis of our fate had come. I tell you so again to-night — more earnestly, if it is possible to be more in earnest than I was to-day. I am obliged to speak to you here — almost within earshot of those people — because time is short, and I must take the first chance that offers. It has been my accursed luck never to be with you alone — I think this afternoon was the first time that you and I have been together alone since I came here. You don’t know how hard it has been for me to keep every word and look within check — always to remember that we were before an audience.”
“Yes, there has been a good deal of acting,” she answered quietly.
“But there must be no more acting — no more falsehood. We have both made up our minds, have we not, my beloved? I think you love me — yes, Christabel, I feel secure of your love. You did not deny it to-day, when I asked that thrilling question — those hidden eyes, the conscious droop of that proud head, were more eloquent than words. And for my love, Christabel — no words can speak that. It shall be told by-and-by in language that all the world can understand — told by my deeds. The time has come for decision; I have had news to-day that renders instant action necessary. If you and I do not leave Cornwall together to-morrow, we may be parted for ever. Have you made up your mind?”
“Hardly,” she answered, her fingers still slowly moving over the keys in those plaintive arpeggios.
“What is your difficulty, dearest? Do you fear to face the future with me?”
“I have not thought of the future.”
“Is it the idea of leaving your child that distresses you?”
“I have not thought of him.”
“Then it is my truth — my devotion which you doubt?”
“Give me a little more time for thought,” she said, still playing the same sotto voce accompaniment to their speech.
“I dare not; everything must be planned to-night. I must leave this house early to-morrow morning. There are imperative reasons which oblige me to do so. You must meet me at Bodmin Road Station at eleven — you must, Christabel, if our lives are to be free and happy and spent together. Vacillation on your part will ruin all my plans. Trust yourself to me, dearest — trust my power to secure a bright and happy future. If you do not want to be parted from your boy, take him with you. He shall be my son. I will hold him for you against all the world.”
“You must leave this house early to-morrow morning,” she said, looking up at him for the first time. “Why?”
“For a reason which I cannot tell you. It is a business in which some one else is involved, and I am not free to disclose it yet. You shall know all later.”
“You will tell me, when we meet at Bodmin Road.”
“Yes. Ah, then you have made up your mind — you will be there. My best and dearest, Heaven bless you for that sweet consent.”
“Had we not better leave Heaven out of the question?” she said with a mocking smile; and then slowly, gravely, deliberately, she said, “Yes, I will meet you at eleven o’clock to-morrow, at Bodmin Road Station — and you will tell me all that has happened.”
“What secret can I withhold from you, love — my second self — the fairer half of my soul?”
Urgently as he had pleaded his cause, certain as he had been of ultimate success, he was almost overcome by her yielding. It seemed as if a fortress which a moment before had stood up between him and the sky — massive — invincible — the very type of the impregnable and everlasting, had suddenly crumbled into ruin at his feet. His belief in woman’s pride and purity had never been very strong: yet he had believed that here and there, in this sinful world, invincible purity was to be found. But now he could never believe in any woman again. He had believed in this one to the last, although he had set himself to win her. Even when he had been breathing the poison of his florid eloquence into her ear — even when she had smiled at him, a willing listener — there had been something in her look, some sublime inexpressible air of stainless womanhood which had made an impassable distance between them. And now she had consented to run away with him: she had sunk in one moment to the level of all disloyal wives. His breast thrilled with pride and triumph at the thought of his conquest: and yet there was a touch of shame, shame that she could so fall.
Emily St. Aubyn came over to the piano, and made an end of all confidential talk.
“Now you are both here, do give us that delicious little duet of Lecocq’s,” she said: “we want something cheerful before we disperse. Good gracious Mrs. Tregonell, how bad you look,” cried the young lady, suddenly, “as white as a ghost.”
“I am tired to death,” answered Christabel, “I could not sing a note for the world.”
“Really, then we mustn’t worry you. Thanks so much for that lovely Beethoven music — the ‘Andante’ — or the ‘Pastorale’ — or the ‘Pathétique,’ was it not? So sweet.”
“Good-night,” said Christabel. “You won’t think me rude if I am the first to go?”
“Not at all. We are all going. Pack up your wools, mother. I know you have only been pretending to knit. We are all half asleep. I believe we have hardly strength to crawl upstairs.”
Candles were lighted, and Mrs. Tregonell and her guests dispersed, the party from the billiard-room meeting them in the hall.
These lighter-minded people, the drama of whose existence was just now in the comedy stage, went noisily up to their rooms; but the Baron, who was usually among the most loquacious, retired almost in silence. Nor did Christabel do more than bid her guests a brief good-night. Neither Leonard nor his friend Jack Vandeleur had shown themselves since dinner. Whether they were still in the Squire’s den, or whether they had retired to their own rooms no one knew.
The Baron’s servant was waiting to attend his master. He was a man who had been with de Cazalet in California, Mexico, and South America — who had lived with him in his bachelorhood and in his married life — knew all the details of his domestic career, had been faithful to him in wealth and in poverty, knew all that there was to be known about him — the best and the worst — and had made up his mind to hold by an employment which had been adventurous, profitable, and tolerably easy, not entirely free from danger, or from the prospect of adversity — yet always hopeful. So thorough a scamp as the Baron must always find some chance open to him — thus, at least, argued Henri le Mescam, his unscrupulous ally. The man was quick, clever — able to turn his hand to anything — valet, groom, cook, courier — as necessity demanded.
“Is Salathiel pretty fresh?” asked the Baron.
“Fit as a fiddle: he hasn’t been out since you hunted him four days ago.”
“That’s lucky. He will be able to go the pace to-morrow morning. Have him harnessed to that American buggy of Mr. Tregonell’s at six o’clock.”
“I suppose you know that it’s hardly light at six.”
“There will be quite enough light for me. Pack my smallest portmanteau with linen for a week, and a second suit — no dress-clothes — and have the trap ready in the stable-yard when the clock strikes six. I have to catch a train at Launceston at 7.45. You will follow in the afternoon with the luggage.”
“To your London rooms, Sir?”
“Yes. If you don’t find me there you will wait for further instructions. You may have to join me on the other side of the channel.”
“I hope so, Sir.”
“Sick of England already?”
“Never cared much for it, Sir. I began to think I should die of the dulness of this place.”
“Rather more luxurious than our old quarters at St. Heliers ten years ago, when you were marker at Jewson’s, whi
le I was teaching drawing and French at the fashionable academies of the island.”
“That was bad, Sir; but luxury isn’t everything in life. A man’s mind goes to rust in a place of this kind.”
“Well, there will not be much rust for you in future, I believe. How would you like it if I were to take you back to the shores of the Pacific?”
“That’s just what I should like, Sir. You were a king there, and I was your prime minister.”
“And I may be a king again — perhaps this time with a queen — a proud and beautiful queen.”
Le Mescam smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.
“The queenly element was not quite wanting in the past, Sir,” he said.
“Pshaw, Henri, the ephemeral fancy of the hour. Such chance entanglements as those do not rule a man’s life.”
“Perhaps not, Sir; but I know one of those chance entanglements made Lima unpleasantly warm for us; and if, after you winged Don Silvio, there hadn’t been a pair of good horses waiting for us, you might never have seen the outside of Peru.”
“And if a duel was dangerous in Lima, it would be ten times more dangerous in Cornwall, would it not, Henri?”
“Of course it would, Sir. But you are not thinking of anything like a duel here — you can’t be so mad as to think of it.”
“Certainly not. And now you can pack that small portmanteau, while I take a stretch. I sha’n’t take off my clothes: a man who has to be up before six should never trifle with his feelings by making believe to go to bed.”
CHAPTER XII.
“SHE STOOD UP IN BITTER CASE, WITH A PALE YET STEADY FACE.”
The silence of night and slumber came down upon the world, shadow and darkness were folded round and about it. The ticking of the old eight-day clock in the hall, of the bracket clock in the corridor, and of half a dozen other time-pieces, conscientiously performing in empty rooms, took that solemn and sepulchral sound which all clocks, down to the humblest Dutchman, assume after midnight. Sleep, peace, and silence seemed to brood over all human and brute life at Mount Royal. Yet there were some who had no thought of sleep that night.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 730
