Petticoat Rule

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  HUSBAND AND WIFE

  Monsieur Achille was waiting in the vestibule of the Queen'sapartments. As soon as Lord and Lady Eglinton appeared his majesticfigure detached itself from the various groups of flunkeys, who stoodabout desultorily pending the breaking up of Her Majesty's Court; hehad a cloak over his arm, and, at a sign from his master he approachedand handed him the cloak which milor then placed round his wife'sshoulders.

  "Do you desire to sleep in Versailles to-night, Madame?" he asked, "mycoach is below in case you wished to drive to Chateau d'Aumont."

  "I thank you, milor," she said, "I would wish to remain inVersailles."

  Then she added with a pathetic sigh of bitterness:

  "My father would prefer it, I think. He is not prepared for my visit.And I do not interfere with your lordship's arrangements. . . ."

  "Not in the least, Madame," he rejoined quietly. "The corridors areinterminable; would you like a chair?"

  "No. . . . Let us walk," she said curtly.

  Without further comment he once more offered her his arm. She took itand together they descended the monumental staircase and then turnedalong the endless, vast corridors which lead to the West Wing.Monsieur Achille followed at a respectful distance, and behind himwalked two flunkeys, also in the gorgeous scarlet and gold Eglintonlivery, whilst two more bearing torches preceded Monsieur le Marquisand Madame, lighting them on their way.

  On the way to the West Wing, milor talked lightly of many things: ofMonsieur de Voltaire's latest comedy, and the quaint new fashion inheadgear, of His Majesty the King of Prussia and of the pictures ofMonsieur Claude Gelee. He joked about the Duchesse de Pontchartrain'sattempts at juvenility and Monsieur Crebillon's pretensions to a placeamong the Immortals. Lydie answered in monosyllables; she could notbring herself to speak, although she quite appreciated milor's desireto appear natural and unconcerned before his own lacqueys.

  A great resolution was taking root in her mind, and she only wantedthe privacy and the familiarity of her own apartments to put it intoexecution. Thus they reached the West Wing.

  Arrived in the antechamber whence her rooms branched off to the rightand milor's to the left, Lord Eglinton stopped, disengaged her armfrom his and was about to bid her an elaborate good-night, when shesaid abruptly:

  "May I speak with you privately and in your own study, milor?"

  "Certainly, Madame," he replied seemingly a little astonished at herrequest.

  He dismissed all the flunkeys with the exception of Monsieur Achille,who led the way through the reception rooms toward milor's privatesuite. Lord and Lady Eglinton followed in silence now. The roomsseemed strangely silent and deserted, ghostlike too, for there was noartificial light, and the moon peered in through the tall windows,throwing patches of pale mauve and weird, translucent greens on theparquet floor and the brocade coverings of the chairs.

  In milor's study, Monsieur Achille lighted the candles in two massivecandelabra, which stood on the secretaire, then, at a nod from hismaster, he walked backward out of the room.

  The heavy portiere fell back with a curious sound like a moan, and forthe third time to-day husband and wife stood face to face alone. Thegaucherie of his manner became at once apparent now: yet he seemed inno way bashful or ill as ease, only very stiff and awkward in hismovements, as he drew a chair for her at a convenient angle, and whenshe had sat down, placed a cushion to her back and a footstool at herfeet. He himself remained standing.

  "I pray you sit, milor," she said with a quick sigh, that trembled asit escaped her lips, "and if I have not angered you beyond the boundsof your patience, I earnestly ask you to bear with me, for if I havebeen at fault I have also suffered much and . . ."

  "Madame," he said quite gently if somewhat coldly, "might I entreat ofyou not to insist on this interview if it distresses you very much; asto a fault . . . on my honour, Madame, the very thought ofself-accusation on your part seems to me wildly preposterous."

  He did not sit as she had asked him to do, but stood looking down ather and thinking--thinking alas!--that she never had been quite sobeautiful. She was almost as white as her gown, the powder still clungto her hair, which, in the dim light of the candles, chose to hide theglory of its ardent colour beneath the filmy artificial veil. She woresome exquisite pearls, his gift on the day of her marriage: row uponrow of these exquisite gems fell on her throat and bosom, both aswhite, as glittering and pure as the priceless treasures from thedeep.

  The chair in which she sat was covered with damask of a rich dullgold, and against this background with its bright lights andimpenetrably dark shadows, the white figure stood out like what he hadalways pictured her, a cold and unapproachable statue.

  But to-night, though so still and white, the delicate marble had takenunto itself life: the life which means sorrow. All the haughtiness ofthe look had vanished; there were deep shadows under the eyes andlines of suffering round the perfectly chiselled lips.

  Henry Dewhyrst, Marquis of Eglinton, was not yet thirty: he loved thisexquisitely beautiful woman with all his heart and soul, and she hadnever been anything more to him than a perfectly carved image would beon the high altar of a cathedral. She had been neither helpmate norwife, only an ideal, an intangible shadow which his love had notsucceeded in materializing.

  As he looked at her now, he wondered for the first time in the courseof their married life, if it had been his own fault that they hadremained such complete strangers: this was because for the first timeto-day a great sorrow, a still greater shame had breathed life intothe marble-like statue.

  All at once he felt deeply, unutterably sorry for her; he had nothought of her wrongs toward him, only of those done to herself by herpride and the faults of the epoch in which she lived.

  "Milor," she said trying to steady her voice, "it would ease me alittle--and ease the painfulness of this interview--if you were totell me at what precise moment you entered Her Majesty's throne-roomto-night."

  "I cannot say, Madame," he replied with the ghost of a smile; "I didnot look at the clock, but I was in attendance on His Majesty andtherefore . . ."

  "You heard what passed between Madame la Comtesse de Stainville andmyself?" she interrupted hastily.

  "Every word."

  Somehow she felt relieved. She would have hated to recapitulate thatvulgar scene, the mutual recriminations, the insults, culminating inHer Majesty's contemptuous exit from the room. She could not now seeher husband's face, for he had contrived to stand so as to allow thelight from the candelabra to fall full upon her, whilst he himself,silhouetted against the light, remained in the shadow; but there was acertain dignified repose about the whole figure, the white, slenderhand resting lightly on the bureau, the broad shoulders square andstraight, suggesting physical strength, and the simple, somewhat soberstyle and cut of the clothes.

  The room too appeared as a complete contrast to the other apartmentsof the palace of Versailles, where the mincing fancies of Watteau andthe artificialities of Boucher had swept aside the nobler conceptionsof Girardon and Mansard. It was quite plainly furnished, withstraight-back chairs and hangings of dull gold, and the leathercovering of the bureau gave ample signs of wear.

  The turmoil in Lydie's heart subsided, yielding itself to peace in themidst of these peaceful surroundings. She was able to conquer thetremor of her voice, the twitch of her lips, and to swallow down theburning tears of humiliation which blinded her eyes and obscured herjudgment.

  "Then, milor, it will indeed be easier for me. You understand of whatI am charged, the awful load of disgrace and shame which by my ownfolly I have placed upon my shoulders . . . you understand," and hervoice, though steady, sunk to a whisper, "that I have proved unworthyof the confidence which the unfortunate Stuart prince, who was yourfriend, placed in me as well as in you?"

  He did not reply, waiting for her to continue. Her head had droopedand a heavy tear fell from her sunken lids upon her hands. To him wholoved her, and whom she had so deeply wrong
ed, there was a strange yetpainful joy in watching her cry.

  "What Madame de Stainville said to-night is true," she addedtonelessly. "I gave into Monsieur de Stainville's hands the map, withfull marginal notes and description of the place where the Stuartprince is hiding; I also gave him a letter written and signed by me,addressed to Prince Charles Edward Stuart, begging him to trustimplicitly his own royal person and that of his friends to the bearerof my note. That letter and the plan are even now in the hands of HisMajesty, who purposes to accept the proposals of His Grace the Duke ofCumberland, and to sell the Stuart prince to his foes for the sum offifteen million livres. And that is all true."

  Knowing men, the men of her world, she fully expected that thisconfession of hers would cause her husband's just wrath to breakthrough that barrier of courteous good-breeding and self-restraint,imposed on all men of honour when in the presence of women, and whichshe firmly believed had alone prevented him from interfering betweenherself and Irene. She would not have been astonished if he hadstormed and raged, loudly accused and condemned her, nay!--she hadheard of such things--if he had laid hands on her. But when, hearingnothing, she looked up, she saw that he had scarcely moved, only thehand which still rested on the secretaire trembled a little. Perhapsher look made him conscious of that, for he withdrew it, and thenseemed to pull himself together, and draw himself up, straight andrigid like a soldier on parade.

  "Having told you this, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, "Ishould like to add that I am fully aware that in your eyes there canbe no excuse possible for what I did, since in doing it I havesacrificed the life of a man who trusted us--you and me, milor--moreeven than he did France. He and his friends, by my act, will leave theshelter of their retreat, and will be delivered into the hands ofthose who cannot do aught, for political and self-protective reasons,but send them to the scaffold. You see, milor, I do not palliate myoffence, nor do I seek your pardon--although I know that you will lookon what I have done as a disgrace brought by your wife upon your name.I deserve no pardon, and I ask for none. But if there is no excuse formy conduct, at least do I owe you an explanation, and for this I craveyour attention if you would care to listen."

  "Nay, Madame, you do but jest," he rejoined, "you owe me nothing . . .not even an explanation."

  "Yet you will listen?" she urged.

  "It would be only painful to us both, Madame."

  "You prefer to think of me as ignoble, treacherous and base," she saidwith sudden vehemence, "you do not wish to know for certain and frommy own lips that Gaston de Stainville . . ."

  She paused abruptly and bit her lips, he watching her keenly, she notknowing that she was watched.

  This was going to be a fight and he knew it, a dire conflict betweendistress and pride. At first he had hoped that she was prepared toyield, that she had sought this interview because the load of sorrowand of humiliation being more than she could bear, she had turnedinstinctively to the only man in the world who could ease and comforther: whose boundless, untiring love was ready to share the presentpain, as it had shrunk from participating in the glories of the past.But as she spoke, as she sat there before him now, white, passive,disdainful even in her self-abasement, he knew that his hour--Love'shour--had not yet struck. Pride was not yet conquered.

  The dominant ruler of a lifetime will not abdicate very readily, andthough distress and sorrow are powerful opponents, they are moretransient, more easily cast aside than Pride.

  "As you say, milor," she now said more quietly, "the matter is onlypainful to us both. I understand that your estimate of me is not anexalted one. You despise--you probably hate me! Well! so be it. Let usnot think of our own feelings in this matter, milor! I entreat you toignore my very existence for the time being, only thinking of theStuart prince and of his dire peril!

  "'Tis because of him I have begged for this interview," she resumedwith just a thought of that commanding manner, which she was wont toassume whenever matters of public import were discussed: "I need notreiterate the fact that he is in deadly danger. _Le Levantin_, a fastbrigantine, milor, is even now being equipped by His Majesty for thenefarious expedition. _Le Levantin_ or perhaps _Le Monarque_--thelatter is quite ready to sail at any time, and with the map and myletter it will be easy . . . oh! so easy! . . . Oh!" she added with asudden uncontrollable outburst of passionate appeal, "milor, he wasyour friend . . . can nothing be done? . . . can nothing be done?"

  "I do not know, madame," he replied coldly, "how should I?"

  "But surely, surely you remember your promise to him, milor," she saidimpatient at his coldness, unable to understand this lack ofenthusiasm. "You remember that night, in the Chateau d'Aumont--thebanquet . . . his farewell to you . . . his trust, his confidence. . . the assurance you gave him . . ."

  "So much has occurred since then, Madame," he said simply. "Theguidance of affairs has been in your hands. . . . I have lost whatlittle grasp I ever had of the situation. . . . As you know, I amneither clever nor strong--and I have only too gladly relied on ablerwits than mine own. . . ."

  "But your promise," she urged, with real passion ringing in her voice,"your promise to him. . . ."

  "I made a far more solemn one to you, madame, never to interfere inmatters of State."

  "I'll release you of that," she cried impulsively; "think, milor . . .I entreat you to think! . . . there must be some way out of thisterrible labyrinth . . . there must be some one whom you can trust. . ."

  She checked herself, and a quick hot blush rose to her cheeks. Shethought that she had detected a quick flash in his eyes at these lastwords of hers, a flash which had caused that sudden rush of blood toher temples, but which was extinguished almost as soon as it arose: hesaid quite naturally and tonelessly:

  "There is no one. How could there be?"

  "But surely, surely," she repeated with growing, obstinate vehemence,"you can think of something to do . . . you have the means . . . youare rich . . . have you no enthusiasms, milor?"

  "Oh! . . ." he said deprecatingly, "so few! . . . they are scarceworthy of the name. . . ."

  "No thought how to help your friend who is in fear and peril of hislife? . . . Heavens above us, what are the men of France? Wooden dollsor . . ."

  "That what the women of France have made them, Madame," he saidquietly.

  "Then you have no thought, or initiative how to help your friend?" sheretorted.

  He had noted the ring of scorn in her voice, the return of thathaughty and obstinate self-will, which would for ever stand betweenher and happiness. His expression suddenly hardened, as he looked ather flashing eyes and the contemptuous curl of the exquisite lips, allthe gentleness went out of his face, the latent tenderness which shehad wilfully ignored, and his voice, no longer softly mocking, becamehard and bitter in its tones.

  "I?" he said with a slight uplifting of his brow and aself-deprecating droop of the lip, "surely, Madame, you are pleased tojest. I am no statesman, no politician, I scarce have a sufficiencyof brains to be a figure head in an administration. I have never beentaught to think."

  "You are mocking me, milor," she said haughtily.

  "Nothing is further from my thoughts. I have far too much respect foryour ladyship to venture on either mockery or individual thought."

  She paused awhile, frowning and impatient, angered beyond bounds, too,at his attitude, which she was quite clever enough to see did notrepresent the true state of his mind. No doubt he desired to punishher for her contempt of him that morning. She would have liked to readthe expression in his face, to know something of what was going onbehind that straight, handsome brow, and the eyes always so gentle,yet so irritating now in this semblance of humility. She thoughtcertainly that the outline of the jaw suggested obstinacy--theobstinacy of the inherently weak. If she had not wanted his help somuch, she would have left him then and there, in scorn and in wrath,only too glad that sentiment had not led her into more excuses orexplanations--a prayer for forgiveness mayhap. She was not a littleirritated with herself t
oo, for she felt that she had made a wrongstart: she was quite sure that his supineness, at any rate with regardto the fate of the Stuart prince, was assumed. There must be a way ofappealing to that loyalty which she knew he cherished for his friend,some means of breaking down that barrier of resentment which he hadevidently set up against her.

  Oh! if it had been a few months ago, when he still loved her, beforeIrene de Stainville. . . She paused in this train of thought, her mindnot daring to travel further along it; it was such a wide, such aglorious possibility that that one little "if" suggested, that herheart quivered with renewed agony, and the weak tears, of which shewas so ashamed, insisted on coming to her eyes.

  If only his love for her was not dead, how easy her task would havebeen! It would have fired him to enthusiasm now, caused him to forgethis resentment against her in this great work yet to be accomplished,and instead of asking him for passive help she could have incited himto a deed of loyalty and of courage. But now she was too proud tocontinue her appeal: she thought that she had done her best, and hadnot even succeeded in breaking through the icy reserve and resentmentwhich in his heart had taken the place of silent and humble worship.

  "Milor," she said with sudden determination, and in the authoritativemanner which was more habitual to her than the more emotional,passionately appealing mood, "with your leave we'll cease theseunworthy bickerings. I may have been hasty in my actions this morning.If so I pray you not to vent your anger against your friend. If I havewronged you by taking you at your word, when a year ago you told methat you would never wish to interfere in my official work, well! Ihumbly beg you pardon, and again entreat you not to allow your friendto expiate the sins of your wife. You say that the men of France arewhat the women have made them; there I think that you are wrong--atleast in this: that in your mind the word woman stands for those ofthe sex who are pure and loyal as well as those for who are not. It isnot the women of France who have made the men, milor, rather it is themen who--looking to the Pompadours, the Irene de Stainvilles, not onlyfor companionship and for pleasure, but also, heaven help them! forideals--have made the women what they are! But enough of this. You nodoubt think me wordy and tedious, and neither understand, nor wish tounderstand that there may be honour and chivalry in a far greaterdegree in the heart of a woman, than in that of the more selfish sex.I have asked for your advice in all simplicity and loyalty,acknowledging the sin I have committed and asking you to help me inatoning for it, in a way useful to your friend. This appeal for adviceyou have met with sneers and bitter mockery: on my soul, milor if Icould now act without your assistance I would do so, for in all thehumiliation which I have had to endure to-day, none has been moregalling or more hard to bear believe me, than that which I must nowendure through finding myself, in a matter essentially vital to myheart and even to my reason, dependent upon your help."

  He could hear her voice trembling a little in spite of her efforts atself-control. He knew quite well that at this moment she spoke thetruth, and these last words of hers, which for many a long dayafterward rang persistently in his ears, represented to him everafterward the very acme of mental--aye! and physical--pain which onehuman being could inflict on another. At the time it absolutely seemedunendurable: it seemed to him that under the blow, thus coldly dealtby those same beautiful lips, for which his own ached with anintensity of passionate longing, either his life or his reason mustgive way. The latter probably, for life is more tenacious and morecruel in its tenacity: yet if reason went, then Heaven alone couldhelp him, for he would either kill her or outrage her beyond the hopeof pardon.

  "Therefore, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, unconsciousevidently of the intense cruelty of her words, "I will beg of you notto make it harder for me than need be. I must ask this help from you,in order to succeed, if humanly possible, in outwitting the infamouswork of a gang of traitors. Will you, at least, give me this help Ineed?"

  "If it lies within my power," he replied; "I pray you to commandMadame."

  "I am thinking of sending a messenger post haste to the commander of_Le Monarque_ with orders to set sail at once for Scotland," shecontinued in matter-of-fact tones. "I should want a fresh copy of themap where Prince Charles Edward is in hiding, and to make assurancedoubly sure a letter from you to the prince, asking him to trustCaptain Barre implicitly. _Le Monarque_ I know can reach Scotland longere _Le Levantin_ is ready for sea, and my idea had been originally tocommission her to take the prince and his friends on board, and thento skirt the west coast of Ireland, reaching Brittany or mayhap thePyrenees by a circuitous route. I have firm belief that it is not toolate to send this messenger, milor, and thus to put my original planinto execution. And if you will give me a new map and full directionsand your signet ring for the prince, I feel confident that I can findsomeone whom I could thoroughly trust . . ."

  "There is no one whom you could thoroughly trust with such an errand,Madame!" he said drily.

  "I must risk that, milor. The crisis has become so acute that I mustdo something to avert that awful catastrophe."

  "Betrayal would be the inevitable result."

  "I entreat you to leave that to me," she urged firmly. "I know I canfind someone, all I ask is for the map, and a word and signet ringfrom you."

  She was leaning forward now, eager and enthusiastic again, self-willedand domineering, determined that he should do what she wished. Hereyes were glowing, the marble was indeed endowed with life; shegleamed like a jewel, white and fragile-looking, in this dull andsombre room, and he forgetting for the moment her cruelty of awhileago was loth to let her go, to speak the harsh words which anon wouldhave to be said, and which would send her resentful, contemptuous,perhaps heartbroken, out of his sight again.

  Would it not have been ten thousand times more simple to throw pride,just anger, reason to the winds, to fall at those exquisite feet, toencircle that glittering marble with passionately tremulous arms, toswear fealty, slavery, obedience to her whims.

  How she would smile, and how softly and tenderly would the flush ofvictory tinge those pale cheeks with delicate rose! to see itgradually chase away the pearl-like tone of her skin, to see her eyesbrighten at his word, to feel perhaps the tiny hand tremble with joyas it lay for sheer gratitude a few brief seconds in his, was not thatwell worth the barren victory of a man's pride over a woman'sself-will?

  She had thought that he would have yielded at her first word, would atonce have fawned at her feet, kissing her hand, swearing that he washer slave. He had done it once . . . a year ago, and why not nowagain? Then she had smiled on him, had allowed him to kneel, to kissher gown, anon had yielded her cold fingers to his kiss; he had reapeda year of misery for that one moment's joy, and now, just for thespace of a few seconds he was again assailed with an awful temptationto throw prudence and pride away, to enjoy one golden hour--lessperhaps--but glorious and fulsome whilst it lasted, until it gave wayonce more to humiliation, far worse to bear than heretofore.

  The temptation for those few brief seconds was overwhelming, and 'twasfortunate that he stood in shadow, else she had seen signs of an awfulconflict in that young and handsome face which she had been wont tosee so gentle and so placid. But he knew that in her, pride had by nowabsolutely got the upper hand: sorrow had laid down her arms andconstituted herself a prisoner of war, following meekly behind thetriumphal chariot of her conquering rival.

  And because of that, because he knew that there was not one spark yetin her heart which Love had kindled, that Love itself was still lyingdormant within her, gagged and bound even in his sleep, kept insubjection thus pinioned and helpless by masterful self-will and byobstinate pride, he would not yield to the temptation of culling theDead Sea fruit, that would inevitably turn to ashes, even as his lipsfirst tasted its fleeting, if intoxicating savour.

  She had half risen from her chair leaning across the bureau, eager,excited, tremulous, sure of victory. Paper and pen lay close to herhand, smiling she pointed to these:

  "Oh! I pray you, milor," she
said with passionate fervour, "do notdelay! Every hour, every minute is precious . . . I swear to you thatI'll find a messenger. He'll not know the purport of his errand. . . .Oh! I assure you I'll play the part of indifference to perfection!. . . The packet to the commander of _Le Monarque_ will seem of themost insignificant kind. . . . I'll not even order the messenger tohurry . . . just to guard the packet as inviolate as any secret ofState. . . . Nay! hundreds of such messages have to be trusted toindifferent hands, in the course of a single transaction of thenation's business. Believe me, milor, there is not cause for fear! _LeMonarque_ can put to sea within an hour of receiving my orders, andPrince Charles Edward Stuart and his friends will be safely out ofreach, ere _Le Levantin_ unfurls her sails, and pins to her mastheadthe pennant of traitors. . . ."

  "But you do not speak, milor," she said suddenly changing the tone ofher voice, all eagerness gone from her manner, a strange, namelessanxiety gripping her heart, "will you not do this little I ask? . . ."

  "It is impossible, Madame," he said curtly.

  "Impossible? . . . Why? . . ."

  Her voice now was harsh, trenchant, as it had been when she hurled aloud insult at Gaston de Stainville through his wife. She was on herfeet, tall and erect; a statue once more, white to the lips, cold andhaughty, rigid too, save for the slight trembling of her hands and thetremulous quiver of her mouth when she spoke.

  As he did not reply to her question, she said impatiently:

  "Will you give me a reason for this unexplainable refusal, milor?"

  "No. I refuse, that is all."

  "This is not your last word?"

  "It is my last word."

  "Would you have me think that you are at one with the treacherousscheme, milor? and that you do not desire the safety of the Stuartprince?"

  She had raised her voice, boldly accusing him, inwardly knowing thatthe accusation was groundless, yet wishing to goad him now intopassion, into explanation, above all into acquiescence if it still layin her power to force it.

  But he took the insult with apparent calm, shrugged his shoulders andsaid quietly:

  "As you please."

  "Or is it . . . is it that you do not trust me? . . . that you think I. . . ?"

  She could not finish the sentence, nor put into words the awfulsuggestion which had sprung like a stinging viper straight across thetrain of her thoughts. Her eyes dazed and burning tried to pierce thegloom wherein he stood, but the flickering light of the candles onlythrew weird, fantastic gleams upon his face, which suddenly seemedstrange, unknown, incomprehensible to her. His figure appearedpreternaturally tall, the sober gray of his coat looked like the pallof an avenging ghost. He was silent and had made no sign of protest,when she framed the terrible query.

  A bitter, an awful humiliation overwhelmed her. She felt as if rightwithin her heart something had snapped and crumbled, which nothing onearth could ever set up again.

  She said nothing more, but she could not altogether repress aheartbroken moan, which rose from the intensity of her mental agony.

  Then she turned and with head thrown back, with silent, trembling lipsand half-closed eyes she walked slowly out of the room.